by Lisa Wingate
His little chug of laughter warmed the air even more. “Well, you know, when you get a chance to pay it forward, you should.”
Curiosity niggled, making me wonder about the rest of his story. He really did seem like a decent guy, but then again, so did Casey Turner. They had opposite views of what should happen in and around Manteo. In Casey’s version, the construction of condo towers taller than the six stories recommended by the city plan made sense. More housing meant cheaper housing, and moving upward rather than outward meant less overall acreage destroyed. Smaller footprint on the land per resident, as he put it. Increased housing in the area also created business for stores and restaurants and brought money into the local economy. For a town that had almost died in the seventies as the fishing industry waned, that was important. Given the tough economic aftermath of the hurricanes, the Outer Banks needed growth industries. Last night, Casey had warned me to be careful of Mark. He’d backhandedly hinted at something in Mark’s past, but hadn’t come right out and said what it was.
Now I found myself trying to guess. What secrets were hiding behind the smiling exterior of the Rip Shack’s owner?
He turned to leave, then hesitated a few steps away. “There’s a meeting of the folks involved in planning for our version of Seaside House … tonight. Thought you might want to come and learn a little more about it.” A slow appraisal took in the high ceilings and swept down the long hall. “This is a great space. Not right for retail, but it’d be perfect for the counseling center. We might even be able to rehab a couple rooms and use them as rentals—office space or maybe even tourist lodging. Let the place have its own source of funding, other than donations. Anyway, the meeting this evening might give you a clearer picture. Just casual. My house. Seven o’clock. We’ll do a little Old Bay boil in the backyard, eat corn and blue crab, invite some of the incomers who’ve moved here with deep pockets. They’ve got an interest in keeping up the quality of life in Manteo too. Bring your stepfather if you want.”
“Oh … I don’t … think he’d come.” I was completely at a loss for a longer response. Dealing with Mark was easier when he was a jerk. This new softer, kinder, squirrel-handling version worried me. “And I’ve … got so much to do up here.”
He looked disappointed, maybe even a little crestfallen. “Well, if you can clear a couple hours, I’m easy to find. The two-story gray Victorian with the ship’s-wheel gingerbread in the eaves. Turn by the white house with the blue trim on the way into town, then keep going until you get to the water. You can’t miss it. There’s a historical marker in the yard. The Captain’s Castle.”
Curiosity reared its stubborn head. Mark lived in a historic house? A place that carried the title castle? Maybe I could go check out the party for a little while… .
A text chimed on my cell phone, shattering the momentary temptation. One glance at the screen and the muscles in the back of my neck pulled so tight I could’ve plucked a tune on them. No way Denise would text me during the morning prep work … unless there was a problem. This was a food delivery day. She should’ve been running like crazy right now.
Call me, the message read.
The squirrel got restless, as if even she sensed the tension flooding into the room. Mark flicked a curious look toward my phone. “Well, think about it. I’d love to have you there.” His gaze captured mine, intense, compelling, filled with secrets and questions.
A strange fascination skated through me, momentarily overpowering the questions about Denise’s text.
“To meet everyone, I mean,” he added, as if he thought the extra explanation might be important. Maybe he had a girlfriend … or even a wife? That hadn’t occurred to me until now.
He started toward the door again. “By the way, Kellie’s finally back in town—downstairs in the jewelry shop. If you’re looking for information, or planning to sell some of your finds from up here, she’d be a good one to ask. Her shop deals mostly in artisan pieces, but she lists a lot of vintage stuff online. She’ll give you honest information, and she might make an offer on some of it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I stood staring at the door after he left, waiting until he was well out of earshot before I called Denise.
“We’ve got a problem.” She didn’t bother mincing words. “The range hood over the grill needs attention. The fan motor has been smoking and squealing since you left, and of course it went nuts exactly when we had an unannounced health inspector visit. The guy wrote us up for it—said if the grill isn’t properly vented, we can’t run it.”
“Oh no.” We’d been trying to limp along with the old range hood in Tazza 1. Upgrading to a new one was an eight-thousand-dollar investment. “Is it toast?”
“The repair guy was nice enough to come first thing this morning. It looks like with a cleaning and a new motor assembly, we’ll get by awhile longer. But it won’t be cheap, of course.”
Suddenly I was squarely back home, both feet planted in the mushy Michigan spring, my lungs filled with pungent scents of yeast and vinegar and garlic … and the lingering odor of smoke. “How much and when?”
“The estimate is twenty-five hundred, total. As soon as I call him, he’ll order the motor, FedEx overnight for delivery tomorrow by nine. He’ll come install it first thing even though tomorrow’s Saturday. We can probably get by without the grill today. We’ll just tell everyone it’s out of commission for now. If we cook on it, we run the risk of being written up again and shut down.”
“Do any of the employees know we got written up?” If Tagg Harper found out about this, it would be one more piece of ammo—a way to spread rumors. Our employees had families to feed, and after the shutdown of the other restaurant, they were understandably nervous.
“They know the range hood had issues, but they don’t know we actually got written up.”
“Good.” Twenty-five hundred dollars by tomorrow. Twenty-five hundred … “Order the part.”
I was already looking down the hall toward the davenport desk.
Kellie separated off the taffrail device, the captain’s book, the ruby brooch, and some silverware I’d found during a hurried sweep of the storage room. Pushing those items to one side, she positioned them near the scrimshaw and the ivory necklace. “These, you really need to take down to Hatteras. I have a feeling it’ll be worth your trip. Considering that the manifest and the taffrail log are obviously connected to a Benoit ship, I’m guessing that the rest of these are too. The museum would be your best market—not that I wouldn’t love to have them to sell, but given that your grandmother was married to one of the Benoit sons, the museum should see them first.”
Sweat beaded under my T-shirt. Hatteras was well over an hour’s drive south—if there was no traffic. It was almost lunchtime already, and I needed twenty-five hundred dollars by the end of the day. Did it show? Could Kellie tell how desperate I was?
She pointed to the tusk-shaped scrimshaw piece and the bone necklace, now lying on a square of velvet. She’d set them there as carefully as if they were made of china. “Don’t sell these two without some significant appraisals and research. There are lots of fakes of these out there, so no telling if these are the real thing and if it’s possible to determine the identity of the carver, but you can just see a maker’s mark down here beneath the woman’s dress. That’s not unusual, especially if it’s authentic. Many of the sailors who crafted these couldn’t read and write, so a maker’s mark or symbol would be typical.”
Her fingernail traced the pattern etched into the rim of the necklace before she turned over the pendant. “See? It’s here, too. This was done by the same person as the scrimshaw. Probably made around the same time … if it’s authentic. Occasionally, items were forged to look like they were by well-known artisans. In the Victorian era, ivory carvings were a moneymaker, and of course reproductions have always been popular for parlor decoration, especially in coastal homes.” Turning the pendant over again, she fingered the Maltese cross etched on the front. “I�
�d love to have it, but I just can’t do that to you. I’d rather help you to do what’s right with it. If it’s real, it’s out of my price range. Well out.”
I blinked at her, shocked and temporarily speechless. What was her price range? What kind of value were we talking about?
“Thank you, that’s … I appreciate the honest answer.” Kellie’s revelation was good news and bad news. I had a range hood to pay for. Now. “What about the other ruby necklace?” I pointed to the one Joel had found in the storeroom, thanks to Ruby-the-dog … and the squirrel.
“It’s a lovely piece.” Grabbing her jeweler’s loop, she studied the necklace under magnification. “East Indian. These are natural AAA fine rubies with only a few inclusions. The color and cut are excellent. The adornments around the pendant here are small diamonds and sapphires. Also excellent quality. It’s Victorian-era, so if it was given to your grandmother, chances are it was antique at the time. Many of these items came out of newly impoverished European homes after World War I. Anybody who was lucky enough to have money to spend could pick these up for a fraction of their actual value. It’s very nice. I won’t have any trouble selling it.”
“How much is it worth?” I’d never, ever been reduced to something like this. I had worked my way through culinary school without any real difficulty, and after that I’d always made more money than I needed to live on. I hated this. It was humiliating. I felt like a drug addict, pawning stolen treasures from my mother’s jewelry box so that I could go after my next fix.
“Today?” A worried look came my way. She was wondering about me, trying to figure out what was behind all the desperation.
“Yes.” I shouldn’t have even tried dealing with the shopkeepers right here in the building. It would only shore up the conclusion that I was squeezing whatever I could out of the Excelsior before moving on.
Kellie studied the necklace further, while I sweated and fidgeted, embarrassment crawling under my T-shirt on needle-sharp legs.
“I can give you fifteen hundred. That’s a top-dollar offer, I promise. Retail on this will probably be about twenty-three, on a good day. That gives me some room to work with.”
“I understand.” It was all I could do not to collapse onto the counter, my muscles soft with sudden relief. Over halfway there, thanks to Joel and the squirrel. “That’ll be fine.”
“Is a check okay?”
How could I get a check to Denise in less than eighteen hours? “Would it be possible for you to wire it directly to my bank? I can give you the account and routing numbers. You’d really be helping me out.” I’d never had to ask people for things, to beg for favors. I’d arranged my entire existence so that I wouldn’t need to. “I know that’s a lot of trouble. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s no problem.” Resting both palms on the counter, she tipped her head to one side, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Listen, are you in some kind of trouble? Can I help?” Her expression offered both sympathy and acceptance from beneath a trendy crocheted cap in rainbow colors.
The truth was probably a better option than anything she was imagining. “Just a malfunction with the range hood at my restaurant, back home. It’ll be expensive to fix. Not in the budget this month, you know? My cousin called me a little while ago.”
The worry lines softened on her forehead. “A family business. That’s nice. I didn’t grow up with any family. Never had one … until I found one here in Manteo.”
It was clear enough that she wanted to tell me the story. On a normal morning, I would’ve politely listened, but right now I just wanted to do this embarrassing deal and get out of here. There was still the question of traveling all the way down to Hatteras to get the rest of the money. “That’s really nice.”
She rested against the counter in a way that let me know the story was coming whether I wanted it or not. “I found out I had cancer right after I moved here. New place. Didn’t know a soul, except a few of the other shopkeepers, and I’d only just met them.”
Her revelation stung in the tender place that belonged to my mother. Kellie was a cancer survivor. Another woman who’d defeated the beast. “That must’ve been hard.” No more small talk. Just pay me. “I’m glad you made it through.”
“Your mom was a really sweet woman. She actually knitted this cap for me during my second round of chemo. I didn’t even know she was dealing with a diagnosis herself, until later.”
Stop. No more. No more. No more.
Tears needled the underside of the mask I was struggling to keep in place. I swallowed hard. “She loved to knit.”
Kellie fingered the thick brown braids hanging from the cap, perhaps reminding herself that the dark days were, for her, long over. “Sorry. I don’t know how I got off on that. Yes, I’ll wire the money. But please do something for me, okay?”
“Sure.”
She lifted the ivory necklace again. “Be very careful what happens to this. These are in the news a lot now, especially around here. I can’t tell you all the details. I don’t watch much TV, and I don’t do Internet except to take care of jewelry sales, but the museum will know. Don’t take this anywhere but there. I realize that it’s a drive down there and you’re in a bind, but you need to know who you’re dealing with on this one. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“In fact, if you’re going today, could I ask for a little favor?”
“Of course.”
She edged toward a nearby desk, as if she thought I might bolt. “Sandy’s Seashell Shop down in Hatteras Village makes all my sea glass jewelry. She’s got a box ready, so I can stock up for the season, and I hate shipping that stuff. The cartons are heavy and the pieces are delicate. Benoit House Museum is in Fairhope, so it’s not very much farther from there to Sandy’s place. If you could swing by her shop and pick up the delivery for me, that’d be awesome. It’d save me fifty bucks in rush shipping too. In fact, I’ll tack that onto the price of the necklace.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to. But you don’t have to add the shipping cost. I’m going anyway.” It felt good to do something for the woman wearing my mother’s rainbow hat.
“Awesome.” She wrote down the information and handed it to me, along with a business card bearing a photo of a little antique house by the water. Sandy’s Seashell Shop—An Ocean of Possibilities, the card read. “Grab a chai latte while you’re there. Sandy’s lattes are like little cups of heaven.”
I thanked her, shared my banking information, and we walked out of the shop together, Kellie telling me who to look for at Benoit House Museum. She thanked me again for picking up her shipment at the Seashell Shop, we shook hands, and I hurried upstairs to throw on some clean clothes.
I was in and out in ten minutes.
“I’m going down to Hatteras this afternoon” was all I said to Clyde as I crossed through the living room. “There’s a sandwich and fruit in the kitchen.”
A grunt answered.
My molars ground against one another. Why did I even bother? Why did I continue to hope that he and I could miraculously come to some sort of cooperative agreement? “There’s milk and tea in the refrigerator.”
“I ain’t blind.”
“Fine.”
A narrow-eyed look came my way, framed by the clenched chin of a military man accustomed to staring down arrogant young recruits. “Whatever you got up your sleeve, just don’t try makin’ off with anything from in here and selling it.”
“What?”
“I seen you down on the street with the hippie broad that’s got the jewelry place. You think I don’t know what you’re doin’?”
I stood gaping, dumbfounded. Finally, I grabbed my stuff and walked out.
Driving away, I did my best to leave my stepfather and all thoughts of the Excelsior behind. The bright Outer Banks day was simply too beautiful to be spoiled. The bypass lay startlingly deserted again, mile upon mile framed by silent beach houses and tourist-trap stores with only a car or two parked out front. No racks of discount merchan
dise under the awnings, no knots of women in brightly colored beach dresses strolling by, only an occasional off-season guest bicycling down the sidewalk, enjoying the drowsy shade of live oaks and the bursts of spring color. Here and there, views of the ocean and the sound peeked in from left and right.
I found myself relaxing into the scenery, sinking toward the idea that I was just another escape artist, abandoning the real world for a week in paradise before the crush of vacationers crowded onto the islands. In all our years of visiting, my mother and I had never found time to travel any farther south than Bodie Island Lighthouse. When Mom did have her half days free from the Excelsior, we usually packed a basket and went to Nags Head, where Mom told me the stories of her first trip there with my father. Romantic stories. Wonderful stories.
Stories in which she was secretly wearing Clyde’s necklace?
Driving south into unfamiliar territory, it was a relief to leave old scenery and the questions behind.
Near Pea Island preserve, massive dunes trickled onto the road, waiting for the highway department to do sand removal. I marveled at their size, their windblown shapes, their random beauty. Surely in a place like this, nothing mattered but sea and endless sky, the view only occasionally interrupted by a V of pelicans flying by. To my left, the tide roared. To my right, the Pamlico Sound whispered into quiet expanses of marsh grass. Scenes like these were made to persuade you that your problems are smaller than you think, transient in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes, even when you’ve spent years ignoring God, there are places where his fingerprint and his intentions seem absolute.
Take a breath, look around, a voice seemed to be whispering. None of this is here by accident, and neither are you.
On occasion, when thoughts like this came, when they caught me unaware, I wondered if the seeds my mother had tried to plant in me years ago weren’t completely dead after all. She’d wanted so badly for me to understand that my father’s decision to end his own life had nothing to do with me and nothing to do with God making it happen. We make our own choices, Whit, she’d told me over and over again. Sometimes we’re weak in the moment. We make the wrong choices and it’s too late to go back. More than anything, I wanted to finally take those words to heart, know them as truth. My father had a weak moment … a human moment. He made a bad choice and he couldn’t take it back. End of story.
