Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  Wyler's euphoria evaporated. He sat smiling at Allie, who was bubbling over the menu and the size of her appetite; but he was feeling as flat as an uncapped bottle of seltzer. He wanted it back, that high; it felt good. Right now he'd take it any way he could get it. He thought of wine.

  "How about a bottle of Chardonnay to celebrate the taking of Cadillac Mountain?" he said as the waiter stood by.

  The cheerful look on Allie's face disappeared; she became a mirror image of his own faltering mood. "Oh? Do you think so?" she asked vaguely. She glanced at her watch. "Oh — too early," she said, tapping on the crystal.

  He looked at his own. "Ten to twelve? Is it critical? We can let the bottle breathe for ten minutes. Or move our watches ahead," he said, smiling.

  But she wasn't smiling along with him. They ordered lunch and no wine. It was no big thing. And yet it was obvious to him that he wasn't going to be happy either with or without the Chardonnay, and neither was she.

  It was a quiet lunch.

  Chapter 4

  " He's getting in his car," wailed Allie, spying on Wyler through a curtain of polyester lace.

  She was in the parlor with Meg, who was cleaning up the remnants of the cocktail hour at the Inn Between. The crackers and cheese were gone, and so were the guests, off to dine at Bar Harbor's restaurants, probably the cheaper ones.

  "Now what do I do?" Allie wanted to know.

  Meg was gathering up the sample menus, returning them to the wicker basket that lay on the carved drum table.

  "What do you mean, what do you do? You wash up and then you help Comfort set the table for supper."

  "Not that," Allie said distractedly. She turned away from the window. Her face was pale. "I couldn't tell him about the drinking, Meg. It came up at lunch, and I couldn't tell him."

  Meg had a tray of empty wineglasses in her hands. She put the tray back down and said, "Come sit. Tell me."

  Meg took the Windsor chair, and Allie took the wing chair. Meg remembered how tiny and lost her sister had looked the first time she climbed up into it on her own. She still looked tiny and lost.

  "He wanted to order wine for us and I panicked. Usually I'm pretty good about saying I'm in AA. But not today."

  "Well, that's no sin, Allie. No one says you have to tell everyone you meet."

  "But I want him to know. I want him to know that I had a problem in high school — okay, a big problem — but that I'm in recovery. Meg, I'm not kidding about him. We had a wonderful time. He's so ... so droll. He's more mature than anyone else I know."

  "Because he's older than anyone else you know."

  "More than that. I felt ... I felt good around him. I felt right. Kind of the way I feel around you, only with a lot more sizzle."

  She slid her hands between her blue-jeaned thighs and hunched her shoulders together with a waifish smile. "It was a wonderful morning — until the wine. What will I do, Meg? I can't just go to breakfast with him for the rest of my life."

  "Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself?" Meg asked. Which of course was absurd. Ordinary human beings got ahead of themselves. Women like Allie merely had to whisper, "Jump," and the men around her asked how high.

  Allie gave her sister a look of one part sadness, one part longing. "You tell him."

  "What? Me? Why?"

  "Only this one time. Tell him that I ran around with a wild bunch—Bobby Beaufort and the rest of them—because I was young and didn't know any better. Tell him what it's like in Bar Harbor in the off-season, how dull, how boring it is. Tell him ... tell him about what an awful time it was for us, about Mom dying young and Paul being killed. Tell him about your miscarriages."

  "What do my problems have to do with Tom Wyler?"

  "You were depressed," Allie said simply. "First one miscarriage, and then — right after Paul died — another. Well, actually, I thought you held up amazingly well," she admitted. "But don't tell Tom that. Tell him you were too depressed to watch over me. Without you or Mom, well, drinking is what happened to me."

  "Allie! You're supposed to take responsibility for your own actions."

  "I know. I do. But just this once," she pleaded. "It won't sound like whining and excuses if you do it for me. Meg — I'm so ashamed of it all. But he has to know."

  Meg started to object, stopped, waited, shook her head. Allie was dearer to her than anyone else on earth. Ten years earlier, after Allie had begun to behave erratically, after her grades had begun to plummet — but most of all, after Meg had found a pint of vodka in Allie's clothes hamper — Meg had been forced to pull out of a downward spiral of her own, caused by Paul's death and, after that, her second miscarriage.

  Allie hadn't wanted Meg's help. The sisters had fought, cried, talked, and fought some more. The road to Allie's recovery had been filled with a thousand potholes and detours; but it became Meg's deepest desire to see her sister safely down it. As far as Meg was concerned, it was Allie who'd saved her.

  "You really don't want to tell him on your own?"

  "I can't," Allie said in a whisper. "I just can't."

  "All right, then, tell you what. I'll do it for you, if you agree to send your résumé to the White Horse Hotel here in town."

  Allie looked up sharply. "Meg, I don't want to work at —" She sighed melodramatically. "Okay. But it's a waste of time.''

  Allie returned to her stakeout of the Elm Tree Inn. But when Tom Wyler didn't come back until very late, she devised an alternate plan: she'd visit friends in Ellsworth the next day, leaving Meg plenty of time to hoe the field for her.

  The next morning it was foggy and damp, which fit right in with Allie's scheme.

  "He'll be socked in all day," Allie said. "Make an excuse; take him something."

  She began rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. "Here! Blueberry chutney. Take him this. He can't possibly have any. Ask him how he's doing. See if he needs anything. Tell him about my drinking, but try to get a feel for how he feels about me first. Tell him what a great time I had and tell him not to go seeing anything without me, only don't say it like that. Ask him back over to dinner — no, don't do that, I'll do that — but try to find out his favorite food. I think they make something out there called goowumpkee; maybe Comfort has a recipe. He's been divorced for three or four years, you know, so he's not on a rebound or anything. He has a son, Mike, who's twelve. And he wasn't raised by his parents. And his name really is Wyler; I saw it on his Visa card. And, Meg?"

  "God in heaven, what. What else?"

  "No one else would do this for me, I know that. I do love you."

  A breathless kiss, a scented hug, and Allie was off, leaving Meg in the novel position of having to sell her sister door to door.

  How hard could it be?

  All morning Meg kept an eye on Tom Wyler's Cutlass behind the Elm Tree Inn, telling herself that she'd go over there first thing with the blueberry chutney. But one crisis (a mouse in the toilet in room 4) led to another (three people showed up for a room with one bed), and by the time Meg looked up again, the sun was out and Tom Wyler was walking toward his car.

  In a panic Meg ran next door, gripping the jar of chutney as if it were the key to the city, hoping to intercept the lieutenant. As it turned out, Wyler wasn't going anywhere except back to his room with the map of Mount Desert Island that he'd retrieved from his glove compartment.

  "Oh. Well. I happened to see you, and I wanted to give you this. Before you left for the day," Meg added illogically, thrusting the jar at him.

  He stared at it blankly. "What a treat. Thank you."

  She laughed, despite herself. "You'll never eat it. It's an excuse. I wanted to talk to you about my sister."

  A careful look settled on Wyler's brow, the kind of look she was sure he got when some stoolie offered to turn in his mother. Meg didn't like it, but it was too late to back out now.

  "Why don't we have coffee in my room?" he suggested pleasantly. "You'll be my first guest."

  His room was actually a smal
l efficiency apartment that Meg found depressingly updated and charming. Everything, from the pine shutters and floors to the needlepoint rugs, was warm and cozy without being precious, just the thing for a convalescent. Behind a folding screen she saw part of a bed neatly made up with a log-cabin quilt. A small sofa, a natural-finish wicker chair, and an oak library table that doubled as desk and dining table took up the rest of the room. There were shelves for books that he was in the process of filling.

  "Julia has a wonderful knack," Meg admitted ruefully, looking around her with an innkeeper's eye.

  "It's very nice here," he agreed. "Very quiet."

  "As opposed to us, or to Chicago?" she demanded.

  He flashed her a grin. "Definitely both."

  Coffee had been freshly made. Wyler filled two mugs while they chatted about fog, a new event for him, and then they got down to the business of Allie. Meg took the chair, which left him the sofa.

  By now she thoroughly resented the errand she was on. She said, "It was Allie's idea that I come here, Mr. Wyler. My sister thinks you misinterpreted her behavior at lunch yesterday. She had a wonderful time, but she's afraid that when the subject of alcohol came up, she didn't handle it very well. There's a reason for that.

  "When she was in high school, Allie had a problem with alcohol," Meg continued. "But she got counseling, and she's been in recovery since then. Personally, I think she's put it completely behind her, but I guess they don't like you to say that. Everything with them is one day at a time."

  "Sure."

  "She's very up-front about it. Usually. But you seem to have thrown her off her stride."

  He stroked the handle of his mug thoughtfully. "I didn't mean to."

  Meg hid behind a sip of coffee, trying to assess his reaction. Tom Wyler had a heck of a poker face when he wasn't around Allie. "Anyway," she continued dutifully, "Allie is anxious to finish the grand tour with you whenever you feel up to it."

  "Great," he said easily. "I'll look forward to it."

  "And your favorite food?"

  He blinked. "Pardon me?"

  "Allie wants to know that, too," Meg said lightly. And then I'll be done with this mission, thank God.

  "Junk food, I suppose," he said with a startled laugh. "It's an occupational hazard."

  He really did have a nice laugh; too bad it took an act of Congress to wring one out of him. Allie was right: He was good-looking. Tall and square-jawed, with a good head of hair ... that take-it-or-leave-it smile ... okay, so maybe Meg was able to see why Allie was so taken with him.

  But she still had to wonder what kind of man it was who felt obliged to hang a gun on his bedpost in a town like Bar Harbor.

  "Lieutenant," she said — because that was how she thought of him since the gun business. "I know you think I mother my sister too much. But in some ways she's young for her age, whereas —"

  "— I'm old for mine?" he suggested cheerfully. "More war-weary? More cynical?"

  "Yes. All of those things," Meg said, annoyed by his flippancy.

  She stood up and tried again. "We're a very close-knit family. My mother died when Allie was three. I took care of Allie until I married, and then, after my husband died, I came back and Allie and I went through some really rough seas together. She doesn't understand this, but she saved my life. She means everything to me."

  "I can see that," he said, giving her a level look.

  His eyes were blue — not a deep, Yankee blue, but a softer shade, tinged with gray. Meg returned his look in silence; two could play the quiet game.

  "This is all wildly flattering," he said at last. "But hell, I don't know what's going to happen. I'm assuming, nothing. It's obvious that Allie feels sorry for me," he added with a good-natured, rueful smile. "I doubt if it's anything more than that. Is that the reassurance you came for?"

  "That's not why I came," Meg said instantly. "I came because Allie asked me to. I came because ... because you matter to her," she forced herself to say.

  He put aside his mug. "Look, do you mind if I say something? I think you and the rest of your family fuss too much over Allie. I suppose that's because she's so ridiculously beautiful; she's like some Ming vase you're afraid will break. But give her some credit. She's stronger than she looks."

  "You're an expert, I take it, on pottery and the human psyche?"

  "I've learned a thing or two about people along the way," he allowed, ignoring Meg's sarcasm.

  What nerve. He was talking about someone he hardly knew; someone Meg knew and loved more than anyone else in the world. "Let me be more specific, Lieutenant," she said, indignant. "When Allie was a baby, she hated to take naps. One afternoon when she was three, she was being especially contrary. My mother lay down with her, hoping to lull her to sleep. But my mother never —"

  Meg took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "My mother never woke up. She had a heart attack — a silent attack, they call it. Allie had no idea, of course. She tried everything to wake her mother. She shook her, kissed her ..."

  Meg looked away from Wyler. "Finally Allie climbed over my mother and toddled out to the yard where I was hanging laundry. She began pulling me by my skirt. She said, ‘Mommy's sick. She keeps sleeping and sleeping.' I didn't know what she meant ..."

  Meg couldn't go on. This is all none of your business, she thought, turning to face him at last. Her eyes were glistening, her heart constricting from the memory. But she had to make him understand how vulnerable Allie was.

  "So you see, Lieutenant," she said, "it's not my sister's beauty that makes her so fragile."

  Wyler was leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands locked loosely as he watched her intently.

  This is how he must be when a suspect admits that he‘s stabbed his wife, Meg realized in a flash of intuition. The thought offended her deeply. How could he sit there so impassively, as if this were all in a day's work?

  "Well," Meg said briskly. "I guess that about wraps up my speech. Thank you for the coffee." She began heading for the door.

  Behind her she heard him struggle to his feet. It must have hurt; there was a wince in his voice as he said, "I'm sorry about your mother, Meg."

  Mollified, she turned and conceded, "It was a long time ago."

  "But not to you. And not to Allie. I see that now."

  "It's just that she's not the kind of girl to be trifled with," Meg said doggedly.

  "Trifled?" he said with a hint of a smile. "People still use that word?"

  "Around here we do."

  "I should have guessed." He reached out his hand to Meg's hair, startling her as he untangled something there.

  "A burr," he said gravely. "It looked so out of place."

  The effect of his touch on Meg was electric. She blushed and stumbled over an explanation. "Oh ... I ... it ... weeding. Thank you."

  He took the thorny little ball and set it gently on one of the ruffled daisies that sat in a ginger jar on the library table. "I'll keep it to remind me what I'm in for if I'm ever tempted to play fast and loose with your sister," he said without irony.

  "Yes," Meg said in a faltering voice. "Just ... just remember that."

  ****

  By the time Allie came home, Meg was asleep, so the replay of Meg's mission had to wait until Allie came down to breakfast. By ten o'clock Meg, who liked to rise at dawn, had already answered half a dozen mail inquiries, served breakfast to the guests, talked to a town councilor about a proposed parent-built playground, outlined a piece for the B & B Newsletter, and listened, with her brother Lloyd, to a real plumber pitch the merits of installing a new furnace at the Inn Between.

  Allie, still in pajamas, headed straight for the coffee machine. "Dad says to stay out of your way because you're in a heck of a mood," she said. "What's wrong?"

  Meg had the kitchen table buried under wallpaper books and paint chips. "Nothing's wrong. Eat your cereal at the counter," she said, holding a paint chip next to a pattern swatch for Allie's inspection. "What d'you
think? Too much contrast?"

  "Cut it out, Meg," Allie warned, glancing out the window.

  "Damn," she muttered. "Gone again." She pulled out a chair for herself. "What did he say?"

  "He? Who?" Meg asked, coloring.

  Allie's violet eyes narrowed like a cat's. "Meg!"

  "Oh, all right. But I wish you'd get a life. The whole point of your coming home for the summer was to concentrate on getting a real job. You need this distraction like —"

  "— I need oxygen. That's all there is to it, Meg," Allie said, nipping her sister's nagging in the bud. "So tell me everything. He knows about the drinking?"

  "Yes."

  "And why I started?"

  "Some of the reasons. Not about my miscarriages."

  "And that I've fallen like a ton of bricks?"

  "I didn't put it that way," Meg said dryly.

  "You should have; it's true. Who would've believed it?" Allie said with a faraway look. "Love at first sight."

  "It's not love at first sight," Meg said sharply. "There's no such thing." But she was thinking of Tom's touch on her hair, how completely electrifying it was, and becoming frightened.

  "What else? What else did you find out?" demanded Allie. Meg was forced to answer a nonstop barrage of questions from her sister: what Tom was wearing (clothes), how he looked (good), how he sounded (fine), how he really sounded (fine).

  Exasperated, Meg finally said, "I don't know anything else about him! I didn't get into his life story. I did what you told me to do. You want to know more about him, ask him yourself. Now please. Get dressed. You have to pick up Comfort from the Shop ‘n Save."

  "Me? Why can't Lloyd do it?"

  "He's working on the pickup again. I guess it's an oil leak this time."

  Allie rolled her eyes. "Well, what do you expect for five hundred bucks? God. Will we ever have enough money? Ever?"

  "Get dressed."

  Allie was still off on her errand when a knock came at the screen door. Tom Wyler, waving a white bakery bag, grinned and said, "Danish. Still warm. Finest kind."