The Mystery Trip

by Helen Naismith

  Meg followed the long drive up to the house and parked beside Anne’s Mercury in the portico. When Claire opened the large oak front door, the trio followed her into the living room where, one by one, all dropped their purses and parcels on the divan and plopped into chairs, kicking off their shoes.

  Looking at the grandfather clock in the corner, Claire suggested, “It’s only nine-thirty. Are we ready for some of Anne’s trifle and a cup of coffee?”

  “Count me in,” Anne agreed. “I’ll run my things up to my room, but make mine decaf or I’ll be up all night, and I surely want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.”

  All three women laughed. They enjoyed Anne’s dry wit and admired her spirit and energy. Age had not slowed her down in the least. She’d be eighty-one next birthday and was in excellent health and physically fit. While the others kept in shape with yoga, aerobics and exercise equipment at their health clubs, Anne’s only workout was walking. She’d been an avid walker since high school, which kept her weight down and her body well-toned. She especially liked to walk alone, enjoying the peacefulness and beauty of nature.

  In Boston, she walked the famous Emerald Necklace, an urban oasis in the heart of the city. The seven-mile contiguous path took walkers along city sidewalks, bridle paths, a common, a tidal marsh, ponds, river glens, steep hills, wooded banks, groves, meadows, and gardens — all within walking distance of the Boston Common. Most of the scenic green space was designed by Frederick Law Olmstead (1822-1903), the world-famous landscape architect who worked magic with plants, trees, flowers, earth and water.

  Depending on the season, attractions along the Emerald Necklace varied from sailboats on the Charles River to ice skating on Frog Pond, from stone bridges along the River Way to swan boats in the Public Garden. The parks making up this seven-mile green ribbon are Boston landmarks and they, too, are listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

  On Cape Ann, Anne hiked its historic woodland and coastal trails with a group of walking enthusiasts every Sunday during all seasons of the year. Like the proverbial postman, “neither snow nor rain nor heat” kept them from their weekly trek. One of her best-selling books featured these legendary trails, many of which had a story of their own to tell.

  Along the coast of Rockport, for instance, a rugged pathway established long ago by early colonists, took walkers to Loblolly Cove and Emerson Point where the ocean view was stupendous. A mile out from the cove is Thachers Island, with its famous twin lights, called “Annie’s Eyes” by many trusting seafarers who have been guided away from its treacherous rocks.

  Thachers Island, spelled without the “t” in the middle, was named to honor Rev. Anthony Thacher, who, having recently arrived from England, set out with another minister, John Avery, to accept positions in Marblehead. The date was August 11, 1685. Sailing in a pinnace, a small sloop of that era, from Ipswich, the party of twenty–three was caught in a violent hurricane off the tiny island a mile from Rockport’s shore. The site of the disaster was Crackwood’s Ledge, a submerged reef about 300 feet from the island.

  Everyone, except Thacher and his wife, was drowned. Miraculously, they survived after being tossed onto the treacherous rocks surrounding the island. Throughout the night, they were battered by high winds and crashing waves. Badly bruised and exhausted, they held on until help arrived the following day. Thacher’s four children and Avery’s six were among those lost to the fury of the Great Storm, as it was known then.

  Later when he had recovered sufficiently, Thacher penned his heartbreak to his brother in London:

  “. . . Now came to my remembrance the time and manner, how and when last I saw and left my children and friends. One was severed from me sitting on the rock at my feet, the other three in the pinnace, my little babe (Ah, poor Peter!) sitting in his sister Edith’s arms, who to the uttermost of her power sheltered him from the waters; my poor William standing close unto them, all three of them looking ruefully on me on the rock, their very countenances calling unto me to help them, whom I could neither go unto neither could they come at me, neither would the merciless waves afford me space or time to use any means at all either to help them or myself. Oh, I yet see their cheeks, poor silent lambs pleading pity and help at my hands . . .”

  The heartache of that humble, sensitive father rings down through the ages. How can anyone reading his letter, even 400 years later, not cry with him at the memory of his tragic loss?

  Margaret Thatcher (she has retained the “t” in the spelling of her name), Britain’s former prime minister, is somehow connected to the family of Anthony Thacher. In keeping with Cape Anners’ avid interest in local history, a group hosted a reunion of the Thacher/Thatcher family in early 1980. More than fifty members traveled to Rockport to attend a picnic on the island. Margaret Thatcher was not among them.

  At one time during the early days of maritime travel, there were forty-five lighthouses along the European and North American Atlantic coasts, but the twin sentinels at Thachers Island, from the beginning in 1773, were considered among the most important. The others are at Eddystone Rocks in the English Channel in southwest England, and at Cape Hatteras off the North Carolina Coast. “Annie’s Eyes” are the first lights to be seen traveling from England to the Maritime Provinces.

  Many of Cape Ann’s historic trails go by the summer homes of prominent families who come from far and wide to enjoy the cool breezes off the Atlantic Ocean. One route takes walkers by an old abandoned site that had once been the summer residence of Judge J. E. Cotter, a prominent figure in the famous Lizzie Borden murder trial. His large, shingled beach house with wrap-around porch and second-floor deck had commanding views of Cape Hedge and Long Beach, Thachers Island and the ocean beyond. It later became an inn before being destroyed by fire. Today only the stone foundation remains above the rocky cliff side.

  Another interesting tale in Anne’s book doesn’t take the reader back quite that far in New England’s multi-hued history. This footpath took the group past a beautifully landscaped oceanfront home not far from the site originally owned by Judge Cotter. It was the former residence of the mother of a well-known Boston trial attorney. This flamboyant counselor was as much at ease piloting his private jet and helicopter as he was defending many of his infamous causes célèbre.

  One day after visiting his mother, he took off from the helicopter pad on her side lawn, but ascended only a few hundred feet into the air when engine trouble brought him crashing into a ravine covered with briers and poison ivy. He began to shout for help, but when neighbors saw that he wasn’t hurt, they had no desire to plunge into the briers and poison ivy to get him out. They told him, since he could get other people out of trouble, he could get himself out of his own predicament. He radioed the Coast Guard for help and eventually a second helicopter pulled him out. Because the solicitor was widely known for his massive ego and extravagant lifestyle, the neighbors took great delight in his embarrassing caper in the patch of poison ivy.

  Local residents have enjoyed Cape Ann’s famous walking trails for more than two centuries. The historic sites, personal stories, and biological information about the flora and fauna of the region made Anne’s book a best-seller the week it came off the presses.

  Now as Meg and Rosemary followed Claire into the kitchen, Meg said, “I admire that woman. She’s so ‘with-it’ in everything she says and does. I hope I’m like that when I’m her age,” adding with a slight frown, “which isn’t too far away, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh stop it,” chided Rosemary good-naturedly. “You’ve got a long way to go. Yes, Anne’s still writing books at eighty and I’m willing to bet that you’ll still be closing big real estate deals at her age.”

  “I don’t know about that, but maybe.”

  “In between your exotic world travels, I might add. How many countries have you and Tom visited with all his frequent-flyer miles and your big-buck commissions?”

  Meg laughed. “Quite a few, thanks to his travels for UE.
Almost every week he was flying off somewhere and those miles piled up fast.”

  “Anything on the horizon?”

  “No, not really. I enjoyed many of the countries we visited, including Austria, Germany and the British Isles. I especially loved England, and hope to go back sometime. If we ever do go back, we’d rent a car and tour the countryside and stay at out-of-the–way inns and B&Bs. Homey, comfortable places. Tom and I appreciate the luxury of upscale hotels and restaurants in large cities, but we both love historic places and things from the past. Every trip abroad is a course in ancient history.”

  “How about you, Ladies?” called Claire from the pantry. “Is decaf OK with you, too? I have both.”

  “Fine,” agreed Meg and Rosemary as they set the table by the bay window. A few minutes later, Anne joined them in the kitchen and pulled out the chocolate trifle from the refrigerator. When all was ready, the women joined in more friendly conversation.

  “I love this big country kitchen,” said Anne. “It reminds me of my grandmother’s farmhouse in Newburyport when we were kids, but we didn’t have a bay window. This is lovely.”

  When Claire inherited the property, it included the small white wicker dining set with table and four chairs, which her grandmother placed by the bay window.

  “She considered this the breakfast nook,” smiled Claire.

  It was a charming spot in total harmony with the warm furnishings throughout the entire house. The three-angled window brought light into the kitchen while providing an expansive view of the side flower gardens and the long tree-lined drive down to the entrance gate. The only change Claire made to the kitchen was in this area. She papered the walls with pretty yellow textured wallpaper featuring a raised faux grass weave, and replaced her mother’s colorful lightweight drapes with a white lace valance and matching café curtains which she pulled back during the daytime.

  “Ed and I enjoy eating here when we come up alone,” said Claire. “The view is pretty all seasons of the year.”

  As Anne passed her trifle around the table, Rosemary asked, “How many does that serve? We’ve each had two servings and there’s still plenty left.”

  “The recipe is for twelve, so there’s one more serving for each of us tomorrow, unless Claire wants to save the rest for Ed.”

  “Yes, please, he’d love it. I’ll put it in a small dish and wash yours to take home. It’s delicious; I can see why it’s your signature dessert, Anne.”

  “I don’t even remember where I got the recipe, but people love it so I make it often when I take something to potlucks.”

  “How about sharing it with us?” asked Claire.

  “It’s really very simple. Ingredients include a pound of chocolate cake, a large package of instant chocolate pudding, a jar of red raspberry jam, a package of frozen red raspberries, either Dream Whip or Cool Whip, whichever you prefer, and fresh red raspberries for garnish. Make the pudding the day before and let it set overnight in the refrigerator. Also the day before, mix the raspberry jam and frozen raspberries together and let that, too, set overnight in the fridge.”

  Although no one took notes, they were experienced cooks and would remember. If not, there was always e-mail.

  “The next day, cut the cake into one-inch squares and line the bottom of a trifle dish,” Anne continued. “Spread half the raspberry mixture over the cake, then half the pudding over the raspberry mixture. Repeat these three layers. Top with the Dream Whip or Cool Whip and garnish with fresh raspberries. Make sure you’re careful as you put in each layer so they make pretty rings along the side of the dish; don’t splash the pudding or raspberry mix against the glass. It makes a prettier presentation if the layers are neat. Before I add the fresh raspberries, I like to garnish first with chocolate shavings.”

  “It’s a beautiful presentation and it’s absolutely delicious,” said Claire. “Thanks for bringing it.”

  It was after eleven o’clock when the women turned in for the night. Anne went to the room across the hall from Claire’s at the top of the stairs. Meg and Rosemary were also across from each other in the rooms next to Claire’s and Anne’s.

  After a warm shower, Anne put on a soft pink nightgown and wrapped herself in a matching robe. She then put out the bedside light, crossed the room to the French doors, and stepped onto the terrace to enjoy the silence and mystery of the mountains at night. As a writer, she was sensitive to the beauty and nuances of nature. But more than that, she loved having time alone communicating with her inner spirit. As she did so tonight, she raised her eyes and whispered, “Thank you, God, for all of my blessings, especially those I know nothing about.” It was a prayer she learned as a child, and said throughout the many years of her life.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday held a day of promise when the women awoke to the morning stillness, bright sunshine, and fresh mountain air. It was the kind of day an early American writer must have sensed when he described an Indian summer.

  “The air is perfectly quiescent and all is stillness, as if Nature, after her exertions during the summer, were now at rest.”

  His description matched this weekend in Woodbridge Notch perfectly. On this day, September 27th, the weather in the valley was unseasonably warm, dry and calm. But that didn’t mean it would be the same on the summit of Mt. Washington, where the women would have lunch.

  They took Claire’s advice and dressed comfortably for their time on the mountain. Meg looked stunning in tan boot-cut pants and an ivory lace tank top with a matching ribbed cardigan. Rosemary wore white ankle jeans with a tailored white shirt and Navy swing jacket. Anne also dressed for comfort in a soft blue long sleeve Evan Picone pantsuit with a tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders.

  “You all look lovely,” said Claire when they walked into the kitchen as she was preparing breakfast. Wearing white capris and a pink scoop neck tee with matching cardigan, she, too, looked like a model for the popular Talbots chain where most North Shore women shopped.

  “I’m glad you all brought something warm, because the weather on the mountain can be brutal, even on a lovely day like today,” warned their hostess. “There’s snow on the summit every month of the year. Let’s hope there’s none today.”

  Since all three women had been up to Mt. Washington with their families when their children were young, they were fully aware of its reputation as having “the worst weather on earth.”

  “One year Harold and I went up in July and Mother Nature greeted us with a blustery white-out,” Rosemary recalled. “We couldn’t see a thing. It was windy and freezing and we had to hold onto a rope from the train platform to the administration building so we wouldn’t get blown away.”

  “We’ve had the same experience many times,” said Claire, “We’ve brought the children and grandchildren up here in the summer and had to hang onto them because the weather was so windy and cold.”

  During breakfast the women discussed the day’s activities. Although Claire had planned things she thought they’d all enjoy, she was open to any ideas they might have.

  “I made a few plans,” she said, “but it’s no problem to change them. I thought we’d take the cog railway up to Mt. Washington, have lunch and come back early enough to do something in the afternoon – see some attractions and do some shopping in the village. Then we can just go on to the Jack O’ Lantern for dinner without changing. They serve a wonderful weekend buffet, and casual dress is acceptable.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Rosemary, parroting her granddaughter’s teenage lingo.

  Meg and Anne wholeheartedly agreed. There’d be no changes in the plan of the day.

  After breakfast the women piled into Meg’s SUV and headed for the village. Finding a parking spot was usually a challenge during the foliage season, but Meg spied a car leaving one in front of the Children’s Playground, a specialty store with departments of both clothing and toys for children of all ages.

  As the women emerged from the vehicle, they were immediately surrounde
d by three excited young girls with freshly painted face art. Their pretty little faces sparkled with glitter, iridescent powder and large dabs of bright red rouge.

  “How do you like my cat face?” asked a perky, blued-eyed lass with large dark circles around her eyes and brown whiskers fanning her cheeks. “I look like my cat, Popsicle.”

  “I’m a clown,” giggled her pig-tailed friend with a big red nose and makeup that left no doubt that she was, indeed, a jolly juvenile jester.

  The third wore a neatly painted face with glittering pink circles and white stars. Her friendly personality matched her angelic look as she danced merrily around the women.

  “I’m their fairy godmother,” she sang as she twirled and waved a wand.

  “Fortunately all that coloring is water-based,” Rosemary advised. “I’ve washed enough of it off when the kids were small. They always wanted someone to paint faces at their birthday parties. Harold and I loved their little funny faces.”

  As the four women chatted with the girls, three young mothers stood by watching approvingly. One of them approached Claire and asked her to take a picture of the trio with their offspring.

  “Let me do it,” offered Meg, “I do it all the time.”

  “It’s a deal, then I’ll take one of the four of you,” laughed the mother who introduced herself as Elizabeth and handed her Canon camera to Meg. The three mothers stood behind the children, all smiling brightly as Meg took their picture. She checked the viewfinder and said, “Looks great, let’s do another, a little closer.”

  Again she checked the viewfinder and, handing the camera back to Elizabeth, said, “I think you’ll like these. You all look great.”

  As the girls crowded around to see the pictures, another mother named Norma stepped forward and reached for Meg’s Nikon.

  “I’ll do it,” she said, “My husband and I take lots of pictures. We love these digital cameras that connect to computers.”

  The queenly four stood shoulder-to-shoulder smiling broadly as their picture was snapped. Norma knew exactly what she was doing, Meg noticed. Not only did she center the group, but also adjusted the camera and angled the shot to include the flower boxes in the store windows. As a result the picture was perfect in every detail.