Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  It was the one direction Meg didn't want to look, because she couldn't see anything beyond a big, black hole where hope and joy should be. So she was taking one bizarre day at a time, crying some days, laughing others, trying hard not to think or plan.

  Today was a crying day.

  Allie was packed and in the sitting room, waiting out that awkward interval that precedes a trip to the airport. Meg had done all she could, from getting full descriptions (including everything but dental records) of Dmitri's family, to presenting her sister with a Care package that included a list of every English-speaking doctor in Europe, a collapsible cup, a box of Handi Wipes, and a pound of hard candies to suck on during takeoff and landing. ("You could burst an eardrum otherwise," she'd insisted.)

  Comfort had thought it would be nice if Allie took a jar of her blueberry chutney to Dmitri's mother, and made the mistake of suggesting that Allie leave half the candy behind to make room for it. Meg had burst into tears. The chutney stayed behind.

  "I'm sorry, everyone, oh, God, I'm being such a jerk," Meg had said, and retreated to the same rocking chair in which she used to hold Allie and tell her bedtime stories.

  That was where Meg was now as Allie explained to their Aunt Nella — not an aunt, really, but an older third or fourth cousin — the story of Dorothea Camplin's diabolical scheme.

  Meg had long since tired of telling it, preferring to let the family do the honors. With typical melodrama, Allie explained how Dorothea had planned more or less to stun Meg with the mixture from the ruby-red bottle, then go back for the kill with the contents of the galvanized bucket. How she must have used an ordinary insect repellant on herself, then overlaid it with lily-of-the-valley oil to throw Meg off the scent, so to speak. How she really did set out a tray for tea, which she no doubt would have dropped dramatically at the scene when she discovered the ... well, the body. Because, given the extreme toxicity of nicotine, Meg would have been a body very quickly.

  Aunt Nella tsked repeatedly at every pause and said, "I never; well, I never. What a brazen old hussy! But I don't understand why she didn't get rid of the red bottle?"

  "Once it became clear that Meg was going to recover, she didn't dare take that risk," Allie explained. "But she cleaned the bottle thoroughly; there was no trace of nicotine in it. That was the bad news. The good news is, the cork had traces. We figure she put the bottle through the dishwasher, but not the cork; ordinarily you wouldn't, of course."

  "She was flustered," Aunt Nella said, nodding sagely. "Now what's this about a haunted dollhouse? It's in all the papers."

  Allie rolled her eyes. "That's Uncle Billy's doing. The house isn't really haunted," she said, glancing at Meg. "But Uncle Billy's still trying to get top dollar for it. He thinks a haunted dollhouse has a more 'alluring provenance.'"

  Uncle Billy looked up from his phone conversation with Maury Povich and mouthed the words, "Damn right."

  "So, he's telling everyone that the lights go on and off by themselves. Really, the press will print anything."

  "But why did Dorothea do it?" asked Aunt Nella. "I still don't understand why she went after Meg. And what did it all have to do with the dollhouse, anyway?"

  "We're not at liberty to say. That matter is under investigation; it goes to motive," said Allie in an official voice, hinting at dark developments to come.

  Meg closed her eyes and concentrated on the gentle creak of the rocker, determined not to be drawn into the speculation. Tom had already warned her that the motive in this case was going to be considered iffy, if not downright unbelievable, to a jury. He felt reasonably sure they could prove what Dorothea did; but why she did it, that was something else again.

  And yet the motive — trying to keep Meg from backing Gordon Camplin into a corner and having him implicate his ex-wife — seemed so obvious now. Late that October afternoon in 1947, Dorothea Camplin had rushed back to Eagle's Nest, possibly to retrieve the jewelry that she told Meg she used to keep in a covered jar in her bedroom. From her sitting room she was able to hear and see everything that was going on in her husband's bedroom. Shocked — or maybe not — she simply turned the key and locked both of them inside.

  She couldn't be sure they wouldn't escape, of course; but it was worth a shot. As it turned out, Gordon Camplin, fit and athletic, did escape, probably by climbing out his window and dropping safely to the ground, leaving Meg's grandmother behind to die in the fire. Tom had speculated to Meg that her grandmother might have been mercifully dead by then. But Meg knew better. Meg had her vision.

  Could they prove any of it? Everything depended on Gordon Camplin. The police had questioned him, but of course he'd stonewalled them. The only evidence they possessed was his letter to Meg's grandmother. The handwriting had easily been verified; it was his. But all it proved was that a master had become infatuated with a servant, hardly a shocking development. The prosecutor's office had the matter under consideration, but whether the case would go to a grand jury, and whether an indictment for Margaret Atwells's murder would come out of that ...

  "Probably not," was Tom's opinion.

  So all they had, after all this, was a pretty good shot at Dorothea for attempted murder. The rape and murder that actually succeeded, those would go unpunished. It was outrageously unfair.

  And Aunt Nella, warning Allie just then about "pinchy Mediterranean men," had no idea of any of it.

  Meg opened her eyes when she heard her brother's voice. If Lloyd was here, then it was time. Feeling like a minister at an execution, she took Allie aside and said, "I'll get your carry-on bag and walk you to the truck."

  "Meg," said Allie in a heart-wrenching undertone. "We agreed. Good-byes in the parlor. No farther than that. Do you want us both to fall apart completely?"

  "Okay," Meg said, deflated. She sighed deeply and held her arms open wide to her sister. Allie let herself be engulfed, cast and all, in Meg's embrace.

  "Be careful, honey," Meg whispered in her sister's ear. "That kind of crowd is even more bored than the kids you ran around with in high school. And the stakes nowadays are so much higher."

  "I know, I know," Allie said, holding Meg tight.

  "And call me when you get there."

  "I will, I will," she said, tears beginning to roll.

  "No, better yet, call me from Heathrow—"

  "Meg."

  "If you need money, ask. And don't feel obliged to go topless just because everyone else does. Don't give in to group pressure, ever. Go with your instincts, Allie. I love you. Bye-bye." Meg squeezed her tight, one last time.

  "I love you, too, Meggie," Allie said in a desolate voice.

  She broke away from Meg and was instantly set upon by well-wishing, farewelling relations who all but carried her out to the truck on their shoulders. The last ones out of the room were the twins, bickering and slapping because Terry grabbed the big suitcase first.

  Meg went back to the Windsor rocking chair and sat in it, rocking gently. She heard the truck pull away, taking with it her sister, daughter, and best friend. Eventually it would ease, this pain, but right now it was sharp and throbbing, almost unbearable.

  The family filed back in more quietly than they left. There was a sense, felt by all, that life for the foreseeable future would be just a little more ho-hum. Timmy went up to the window and stared out at the impenetrable, melancholy fog.

  "Crete doesn't need Anty Allie," he said to no one in particular. "It has plenty of sunshine already." No one argued with him.

  Terry said sullenly, "It sure stinks." But whether he meant the lingering smell of heating oil, or life in general, was hard to say.

  The house seemed oppressive to Meg. She stood up and said, "I'm going for a walk," then grabbed a yellow nylon windbreaker to ward off the damp and chilly air.

  Outside, she turned her steps automatically toward the shore. The fog was thick and chill. It was one in the afternoon, but it looked like eight at night. She should've worn an oilskin, but it seemed easier to keep on goin
g than to return to the house, change, and start all over. Maine was in a mood today, and so was Meg; she didn't mind the wet at all.

  ****

  Wyler stumbled onto her by accident as he drove down Mount Desert Street, headed for the Inn Between. Her hands were jammed in the pockets of her windbreaker and her head was bowed in concentration. No matter. His heart leapt up at the sight of her.

  His first thought was, I am hopelessly in love with this woman.

  His second thought was, If she walks around a big city with her head down like that, she'll be mugged in two minutes.

  He slowed the Cutlass to a stop alongside her and called out her name. She looked up and broke into a surprised but heartbroken smile that made him want to give her candy, money, flowers, anything to lift her spirits.

  A diamond ring. He wished like hell he had a diamond ring in his shirt pocket. But he didn't, because the last few days had been so intensely chaotic. If anyone had told him that Bar Harbor — sleepy, touristy Bar Harbor — would be a hotbed of murder, intrigue, ghosts, and passion, he would've laughed and said yeah, right.

  In any case, things were on the way to getting straightened out — except that he couldn't wait any longer to see them through, not at the rate the wheels of justice generally turned. Tomorrow he was going back, whether he liked it or not, to Chicago. He had only this one, last chance to persuade Meg to get on that plane with him.

  If he had a diamond ring, he told himself, it'd be so much simpler.

  "Stay right there," he commanded.

  He pulled the Cutlass into a parking spot that was freeing up — a sign from God, surely — and jogged the hundred yards that separated him from her. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say, how he was going to start. She looked so tentative, as if she were teetering on some edge. And so profoundly beautiful: the fog had settled in tiny crystal droplets on her hair, on her eyebrows, even on her eyelashes. He was struck anew by how much a part of her surroundings she was.

  It reminded him of the morning with the chickadees, and the afternoon in Acadia, and the night in the woodland cabin.

  But he wanted her with him in his city condo, not left behind in Maine.

  "Hello."

  "Hello."

  Although he'd scarcely touched her since their incredible night in the cabin, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her tenderly, hoping she would understand that it meant, "Please marry me or I will wither and die."

  "You missed her," Meg said.

  He was programmed for one of two answers: yes, or no. "Missed who?" he asked, confused by her illogical response.

  "My sister. She's gone."

  The sister again; always the sister. "I didn't miss Allie," he said, disheartened that Meg hadn't understood the proposal behind the kiss. "We crossed paths as I was rushing back to town."

  "Oh, good," Meg said, relieved. "I didn't want her to think — I don't know — that you were boycotting her departure."

  He wanted to say, Are you kidding? I gave a rousing cheer when I heard the brat was leaving the country. It was the best thing for both of them — for all three of them — but how could he say so just then?

  To comfort Meg, he said, "She seemed excited; I think she's really looking forward to Greece."

  "Really?" Meg said in a stricken voice.

  Mistake; try again. "Bobby Beaufort told me he's going over there in a month or so. 'To make sure no one's doin' nothin' he shouldn't,' is how he put it."

  Meg smiled at that. "Bobby, on the isle of Crete?"

  "The possibilities are endless," Wyler agreed.

  They walked through the fog past the odd mix of exquisite and ticky-tacky shops in the cozy downtown area. The crowds were thick with disappointed beachgoers who seemed not to get it about the Maine coast: he marveled at the number of shoppers wearing bathing suits under their trendy, off-the-shoulder tops.

  Once in a while they'd stop in front of an appealing shop display. Wyler was keeping one eye open for engagement rings, because you never knew, but Meg seemed restless, and so they'd press on.

  "Do you have all your souvenirs?" she asked at one point.

  "Who for?" he responded simply.

  She gave him a sorrowful look that he didn't altogether mind; maybe she'd come back with him out of pity.

  Whatever it takes, he thought, beginning to feel a little desperate. He couldn't very well propose to her in the middle of a pottery shop or a T-shirt store. He'd already asked her if she was hungry, and she'd said no, so there went the restaurants. What was left?

  With Lydia it had been so easy. Red roses; dinner downtown; the presentation of the ring as they lingered over Irish coffee. It was all done by the book. He knew the drill, and Lydia loved it, and that was that. But Meg. She was too ... uncommon, too otherworldly, for the tried-and-true approach.

  He wanted to knock her socks off, dammit, and that was why he hadn't got a ring: he couldn't afford a ring from Saturn, and nothing else was good enough.

  They were past the shops now, on the waterfront. Meg wanted to keep walking, so they struck out along the Shore Path, a pedestrian walkway that followed the curve of the ocean, compliments of the original rich folk who owned the adjacent shorefront.

  "I wonder if her plane will get off," Meg mused. "In this mull, maybe not."

  The fog was thick, no doubt about it. They could see the few yards of rocky shore exposed by the low tide, and that was it. Where the sea began, visibility ended. From somewhere in the middle of the soup they heard the pathetic bleet of a handheld air horn. Some boater new to the game was lost and scared, Wyler figured.

  He felt for him. "Boy, the only thing worse than water you can see is water you can't see," he murmured.

  Meg laughed softly and said, "It's never going to be your thing, is it. The sea, I mean."

  He shrugged. "I think I'm a fire sign," he said, and left it at that. He didn't want to think about how well he fit or didn't fit in Maine. That wasn't the issue right now.

  They walked along at a leisurely amble, watching the kids skipping stones, laughing, screaming, exploring the tide-bared shore: little kids, middle kids, preteens and teeners, many of them bent over, fannies out, searching for treasure. A dead crab, a bit of driftwood, really icky seaweed — to them, all of it was treasure. He saw the shore, really for the first time, through their eyes.

  "I've been here for months and I still can't get over how innocent the kids all seem," he confessed to Meg. "They're a different species from what I know."

  "Because you see kids in jail, or on the way to it," Meg said. "And yet ... I truly believe that if you hauled them out here and dumped them on this beach, they'd have half a chance. Kids will stay kids a little longer if you give them someplace to play."

  An old man, huddled under a blanket on his chaise longue on the grassy strip alongside the footpath, looked up from his book at the sound of their voices and smiled a greeting, which they returned.

  "Sometimes they stay kids for a long, long time," Meg added, still smiling, after they passed him.

  Wyler plucked a slender stem of ryegrass and stuck it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully on it. There was so much going on in his mind, and his heart was so full — and time was so short. What could he say to persuade her to leave this serene and tranquil world?

  They were nearing the southeastern end of the rocky beach, approaching an enormous boulder ten feet high and wide that stood balanced on one of its rounded corners. It was a striking sight, looming up as it did from the pebble-strewn shore. At the moment a couple of small kids were trying to scale it, grabbing little niches and footholds wherever they could.

  "Their first Everest," Wyler said, wistfully envious. "How did it get here, anyway?"

  "Dumped there by a glacier," Meg explained. "It gets nudged around by the sea every blue moon or so, if the storm is furious enough."

  "And it stays on edge like that? So precarious?"

  "As far as I know. It's a solid little pebble," she said, indu
lging the Down East penchant for understatement. "It's not going anywhere. That's why it's called Balance Rock."

  "Let's climb it," he said suddenly.

  Laughing, she said, "You're kidding."

  He took her by the hand and dragged her over to it — by now the youngsters had given up — and offered her a foothold in his linked hands. But this was Meg, and she knew the easiest, fastest way up it; all he had to do was follow her. They sat down side by side on the high, unsupported edge of the boulder. Meg was right: it wasn't going anywhere.

  Meg pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her forearms around her shins, peering into the silver murkiness ahead.

  Now? he wondered. Is now the time?

  She said, "So you leave tomorrow. It hardly seems possible."

  It's time.

  "You know I can't just walk away from you," he said.

  He was watching her closely, the way he watched a defendant when the jury brought back a verdict, the way he watched a crucial witness in an interrogation: if she blinked, if she swallowed, if she winced or smiled or was determined not to react at all — he wanted to know.

  She drew in a long, slow breath, and then let it out again: not a yes; not a no. He went on.

  "I want you to come back with me, Meg. I want you to be my wife."

  She said nothing.

  He thought, Well, okay, forget the tears-of-happiness-and-arms-around-my-neck response. But some little thing would be nice.

  Instead, she turned her face and looked at him almost slyly and said, "If you stay — all this will be yours." Then she made a wide, sweeping gesture at the fog.

  A counteroffer was not what he expected. "All what, Meg?" he asked. "I can't make my living from the sea. As we know."

  Her smile was sad and anxious and dead earnest as she said, "You know what I mean. You love it here, you said so yourself. The family's taken to you; Terry dotes on you. And don't think you haven't got used to the quiet. You get annoyed if a dog barks too long. How do you think you'll do in the middle of the downtown Loop?"