East Hope (21 page)

“I'm asking too many questions,” he said.

“It's okay,” she said quickly. She looked over at him. His eyes were a soft hazel. She liked their downward slant. He appeared to be thinking. “You were nice to suggest this.” Her words sounded false to her. “I've been so busy working that I've hardly left East Hope all summer.”

“Are the old cookbooks part of your work?”

“No,” she said, and explained how the cookbook for World Life Books was more of an editing job and that it was the last one of a series. She was organizing a group of recipes for the book and writing the introductory texts.

“Do you have to cook every recipe?” Will's window was open and the air lifted his hair. The traffic had lessened and the road had climbed gently as the land became hillier. Wide-open fields of rock-scrabbled blueberry barrens bordered both sides of the road.

“That's done by freelancers, so I don't have to worry about it. I do make some dishes just to get a better feel for them.” She looked back at the canvas bag in the backseat. “I've brought a few for you to sample on our picnic.”

“I'm looking forward to that,” he said. At the top of the next hill he turned right onto a side road.

“Have you always wanted to run a bookstore?” she asked.

“Exciting vocation, isn't it?” he joked. A moment later his mouth tightened. “How are you at reading maps?”

“Not great, but I'll try.”

Will pulled the car to the side of the road and stopped. He reached behind her seat and pulled out the
Maine Atlas and Gazetteer
. Suddenly she felt his proximity, the kind of closeness unavoidable between two people in a car. He smelled of a botanical shampoo and freshly pressed cotton. She sat up straighter as he opened to a page and pointed. “I think we're here,” he said, lowering the map to her lap. His fingers were long and tapered, the nails cut short and clean. Caroline forced herself to concentrate. He moved his finger across the page. If only she were younger, unencumbered.

“This is where we're heading.” He handed her a sheet of paper tucked into the book. The lettering was in a neat print, sort of architectural, all uppercase letters in blue ink. “Here are the directions from Lincolnville.”

He eased the car back onto the road and Caroline focused on the map. She didn't want to look stupid. They were expected at eleven, and because of her they were running a good twenty minutes late. Fortunately the instructions were clear and detailed. They made a left after the yellow farmhouse, went another three miles, and turned right after the bend in the road at the bank of mailboxes. Then a gray barn appeared on the right along with the drive they were looking for.

“We're here,” he said. “You did it.”

It seemed a good omen that they'd found the place without any problem. Will stopped the car in front of a large shingled Victorian house. He opened his door and stood stretching for a moment, as if trying to get a crick out of his back. She reached for her handbag and they walked together toward the front door.

Ever since Caroline had gotten in the car that morning Will couldn't stop comparing her to Mary Beth. There were the obvious physical differences, but it was more than that. Mary Beth, so sharply defined in his mind, left nothing to his imagination. His wife was a person of contrasts: her dark hair against pale skin, her strong ideas, her enthusiasms, but also her somber moods and silences that would come over her when, despite her plans and hard work, things didn't go her way.

Still, despite those few uneasy moments, there had been times of unexpected happiness, the small things that caught him by surprise. Will had particularly loved early mornings in bed with Mary Beth. He liked to read over the texts he had planned for discussion in class each day. He would quietly open his book while she dozed beside him, always some part of her touching him: an ankle across his leg, a hand on his hip, her mouth on his shoulder, as if she needed to be assured even in sleep that he was there.

She had been so passionate then, so loving, but in the last years she had grown more distant. She had certainly forgotten him this summer. When he attempted to call her, more often than not she was in meetings, and when she was in California the time difference made her even more difficult to reach. This morning's phone call had done nothing to improve the situation. Her bitter words kept surfacing in his mind.

Caroline was still unclear to him, like a faded image in an old book that might disappear altogether. When she told him about her life and the death of her husband, she remained poised and calm. She seemed to be a private person, yet being with her gave him a pleasant feeling, making him want to know more.

Will never would have thought that a tumbledown farmhouse on a backcountry road could hold such a collection of books. The door was answered by a pained-looking woman in her fifties, Mr. Earl's niece, who had come up from Boston to empty the house.

“Take anything you want,” she said. “Once you're gone I'm having the Salvation Army cart away whatever is left.” And with heavy steps she had gone to the back of the house. From the clatter of dishes that rattled from that direction, Will presumed she was working in the dining room or kitchen.

Caroline was helpful. He asked her to look for any interesting novels or poetry and, of course, any cookbooks that would appeal to her. She surveyed the shelves, pushing aside the old encyclopedias and
Reader's Digest
collections, and pulled out the volumes that might be worthwhile. The room was a true library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls. The front windows had gold brocade curtains with threadbare linings that looked weighted with dust. Will pushed them back carefully in hopes of letting in more light. The sullen woman had not turned on any lamps, and he was hesitant to do so. Caroline worked diligently without bothering to make conversation. He discovered a first-edition John Steinbeck novel and several novels by Pearl S. Buck.

“Mrs. 'Arris Goes to Paris,”
she called out, after they had been sorting for a while. “I loved that book when I was little. It's about a cleaning woman from London who goes to Paris to buy a Dior gown.”

“It's yours,” he said.

“Oh, no. I couldn't keep it.”

“I insist. Your help is making this go much faster.” He nodded toward the kitchen and whispered, “I have a feeling she's in a hurry to get rid of us.”

Caroline smiled at him and set the book aside. She smoothed back a tendril of hair that had come loose from the large barrette at her neck. He thought again of how she looked like a woman of an earlier era. The dusty library, so dimly lit, gave her the soft, muted glow of a sepia-toned photograph. He still didn't have much sense of her, of what she was really like. Not knowing her, the uncertainty of what he was doing in her company added to the adventure.

After loading the car with boxes of books, they thanked the dreary woman and set off on the winding roads on Deer Isle to look for a picnic spot. They stopped once for gas and a restroom, and now it was nearly two o'clock. Caroline looked a little pale, and more wisps of hair had come loose from the barrette. He imagined reaching across to tuck a strand behind her ear. Would she flinch? Pull back? Or smile and meet his glance with her arresting eyes?

“Here's a good spot,” she said, pointing to the right.

Will slowed the car and pulled off the road. Next to a grassy bank was a rocky beach along a stretch of water. Not the bay, but a cove offering a view of the larger bay beyond. He looked around and saw no house or sign of inhabitants. “Looks good to me.” They got out of the car. The sun was hot, but a cool breeze came off the water. He fetched the canvas bag with their lunch from the backseat and followed her down the bank.

Caroline sat on a flat rock and Will lowered himself beside her. Before removing the food, she put on a large-brimmed cotton hat that had been tucked in an outside pocket of her bag.

“I know this looks terrible,” she explained, “but I try to avoid the sun. I've already turned into one large freckle.” She pulled the strap taut under her chin. The brim shaded her face. He tried to see which eye was the more blue one. He wanted to remember.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure. Just hungry. Sorry it got so late. I didn't know there'd be so many books to look through.”

“I think there are some good ones. Certainly the first editions,” she said, while taking a thermos from the bag. “The set of botanical books is amazing.” She handed him a paper cup of cold soup. “It's a white gazpacho, one of the recipes I'm testing.”

“Pretty fancy picnic food.”

“I bet some of those books will be worth a lot.” She poured a cup of soup for herself from the thermos. “How do you know what to charge?”

“Mostly I look at catalogs to see what similar books sell for. I'm still new at it.” She seemed to be enjoying her soup. “I'm going to give Mr. Taunton half the proceeds of the sales. I don't think he had any idea what old Mr. Earl had in his collection.”

“That's nice of you.” She reached into the canvas bag again. “I have a feeling you're hungry for more than soup.” She stopped and looked at him. “Oh, God, that sounded terrible.” He could see a deep blush rising from her neck to her face. He grinned at her, and she laughed nervously while lifting a thick paper plate wrapped in foil and two plastic containers from the bag. Her hands trembled slightly as she served pieces of cold chicken, a tomato salad, and a bean salad flecked with bright pieces of corn. Everything was delicious. He noticed that Caroline ate as hungrily as he did.

“Unbelievable,” he said when she opened a foil packet containing rich chocolate brownies. “I love brownies. I'm glad you forgot the Rocks!” She had unwittingly chosen his favorite dessert. He had always requested brownie sundaes for his birthday when he was a boy. He told Caroline about some of the dishes his mother used to make: the brownies, and peach cobblers during the summer. They compared lists of favorite desserts, favorite childhood meals. Caroline made him laugh describing the dried-up meat loaf and molded salads that her mother still made.

They sipped a mixture of iced tea and lemonade that wasn't too sweet. After they finished eating, Caroline put the containers back in the canvas bag and she stretched out flat on the rock, pulling the hat forward to cover her face. “Can your assistant book buyer have a small siesta?”

“You've more than earned it,” he said, and watched as she kicked off her sandals and tucked her skirt around her legs. He extended his own legs alongside hers and leaned back on his elbows. Her feet were paler than her legs. He thought of Newland Archer, how any man from Edith Wharton's novels would be driven mad by the unexpected sight of a woman's naked foot. Seeing Caroline's bare feet, her freckled legs exposed to the sun, made him want to touch her, draw his hand along the smooth softness of her skin. He certainly couldn't pull the sun hat from her face and kiss her.
God.
He hardly knew her. He was also married, he reminded himself. He folded his sweater into a pillow and lowered himself entirely onto the rock, deciding to sleep for a while too. The warm rock felt good on his back. He savored the simple pleasure of this afternoon.

“Will?”

He felt a hand on his sleeve, a gentle pressure on his arm. He woke, momentarily disoriented, and wondered what time it was.

“Maybe we should get going?” She looked down at him.

He sat up and glanced at his watch. It was nearly four. “Sorry. I didn't mean to sleep so long.”

Caroline had poured more of the iced tea mix from its thermos. His mouth was dry. He accepted the glass and drank. She was sitting cross-legged and watching him intently. The right eye was the blue one, he decided. The sun was losing its earlier heat. She put the thermos in the bag and they gathered their belongings and walked to the car.