Riptide (8 page)

Superficially, Bud’s Superette looked exactly as he remembered it: the green screen door that didn’t shut properly, the ancient
Coca-Cola sign, the weathered, tilting porch. He stepped inside, worn floorboards creaking under his feet, and pulled a cart
from the small rack by the door, grateful for the emptiness of the place. Moving down the narrow aisles, he began picking
up some food for the
Plain Jane,
where he’d decided to stay until the old family house could be readied for him. He poked around, dropping necessities into
the cart here and there, until at last he realized he was just delaying the inevitable. With an effort he pushed the cart
toward the front of the store and found himself face-to-face with Bud Rowell: large, bald, and cheerful, in a crisp butcher’s
apron. Many times, Hatch remembered Bud slipping him and Johnny forbidden red licorice sticks under the counter. It drove
their mother crazy.

“Afternoon,” said Bud, his glance moving over Hatch’s face and then drifting to the car parked outside, checking the plates.
It wasn’t often that a vintage Jaguar XKE pulled into the Superette’s lot. “Up from Boston?”

Hatch nodded, still uncertain how best to do this. “Yup.”

“Vacation?” Bud asked, carefully placing an artichoke into the bag, arranging it with deliberation, and ringing it up on the
old brass machine with his usual glacial slowness. A second artichoke went into the bag.

“No,” said Hatch. “Here on business.”

The hand paused. Nobody ever came to Stormhaven on business. And Bud, being the professional gossip that he was, would now
have to find out why.

The hand moved again. “Ayuh,” said Bud. “Business.”

Hatch nodded, struggling with a reluctance to drop his anonymity. Once Bud knew, the whole town would know. Shopping at Bud’s
Superette was the point of no return. It wasn’t too late to just gather up his groceries and get out, leaving Bud none the
wiser. The alternative was painful to contemplate: Hatch could hardly bear to think about the whispered revival of the old
tragedy, the shaking of heads and pursing of lips. Small towns could be brutal in their sympathy.

The hand picked up a carton of milk and inserted it into the bag.

“Salesman?”

“Nope.”

There was a silence while Bud, going even slower now, placed the orange juice next to the milk. The machine jingled with the
price.

“Just passing through?” he ventured.

“Got business right here in Stormhaven.”

This was so unheard-of that Bud could stand it no more. “And what kind of business might that be?”

“Business of a delicate nature,” Hatch said, lowering his voice. Despite his apprehensions, the consternation that gathered
on Bud’s brow was so eloquent that Hatch had to hide a smile.

“I see,” Bud said. “Staying in town?”

“Nope,” Hatch said, taking a deep breath now. “I’ll be staying over across the harbor. In the old Hatch place.”

At this Bud almost dropped a steak. The house had been shut up for twenty-five years. But the steak went in, the bags were
finally filled, and Bud had run out of questions, at least polite ones.

“Well,” said Hatch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty-one twenty-five,” Bud said miserably.

Hatch gathered up the bags. This was it. If he was going to make a home in this town, even temporarily, he had to reveal himself.

He stopped, opened one bag, and poked his hand in. “Excuse me,” he said, turning to the second bag and rummaging through it.
“Haven’t you left something out?”

“I don’t b’lieve so,” Bud said stolidly.

“I’m sure you have,” Hatch repeated, taking things back out of the bags and laying them on the counter.

“It’s all there,” Bud said, a shade of Maine truculence creeping into his voice.

“No, it’s not.” Hatch pointed at a small drawer just below the countertop. “Where’s my free licorice stick?”

Bud’s eyes went to the drawer, then followed Hatch’s arm back up to his face, and for the first time really looked at him.
Then the color drained from his face, leaving it a pale gray.

Just as Hatch tensed, wondering if he’d gone too far, the old grocer exhaled mightily. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll be
God
damned. It’s Malin Hatch.”

The color in the grocer’s cheeks quickly returned to normal, but his expression remained that of a man who has seen a ghost.

“Well,” said Hatch. “How’ve you been, Bud?”

Suddenly, the grocer lumbered around the counter and crushed Hatch’s right hand in both of his. “Look at you,” he said, grasping
Hatch’s shoulders and holding him at arm’s length, a huge grin lighting up his plump face. “To think you’ve grown up into
such a fine, big young man. I don’t know how many times I wondered what happened to you, wondered if we’d ever see you again.
And by God, here you are, plain as day.”

Hatch inhaled the grocer’s scent—a mixture of ham, fish, and cheese—and felt both relieved and embarrassed, as if he were
suddenly a boy again.

Bud gazed up at him a little longer, then glanced back at the licorice drawer. “You son of a gun,” he laughed. “You still
eating licorice? Here’s one on the house.” And he reached in, pulled one out, and slapped it down on the counter.

T
hey sat in rocking chairs on the back porch of the store, drinking birch beer pop and gazing out over a meadow to a dark row
of pines. Under Bud’s probing, Hatch had related some of his adventures as an epidemiologist in Mexico and South America.
But he had successfully steered the conversation away from his own reasons for returning. He didn’t feel quite ready to start
the explanations. He found himself anxious to get back to the boat, hang his portable grill over the taffrail, throw on a
steak, and sit back with a sinfully dry martini. But he also knew that small-town etiquette required his spending an hour
shooting the breeze with the old grocer.

“Tell me what’s happened in town since I left,” he said to stopper a gap in the conversation and forestall any probing questions.
He could tell Bud was dying to know why he’d returned, but that Maine politeness forbade him to ask.

“Well, now,” Bud began. “There’ve been some pretty big changes here.” He proceeded to relate how the new addition was built
onto the high school five years ago, how the Thibodeaux family home burned to the ground while they were vacationing at Niagara
Falls, how Frank Pickett ran his boat into Old Hump and sank it because he’d had a few too many. Finally, he asked if Hatch
had seen the nice new firehouse.

“Sure have,” said Hatch, secretly sorry that the old wooden one-berth house had been torn down and replaced with a metal-sided
monstrosity.

“And there’s new houses springing up all over the place. Summerpeople.” Bud clucked disapprovingly, but Hatch knew perfectly
well there wasn’t any complaining at the cash register. Anyway, Bud’s idea of houses springing up everywhere translated to
three or four summer houses on Breed’s Point, plus some renovated inland farmhouses and the new bed-and-breakfast.

Bud concluded with a sad shake of his head. “It’s all changed around here since you left. You’ll hardly recognize the place.”
He rocked back in his chair and sighed. “So, you here to sell the house?”

Hatch stiffened slightly. “No, I’ve come to live here. For the rest of the summer, anyway.”

“That right?” Bud said. “Vacation?”

“I already told you,” Hatch said, trying hard to keep his tone light, “I’m here on a rather delicate business matter. I promise
you, Bud, it won’t be a secret long.”

Bud sat back, slightly offended. “You know I wouldn’t have any interest in your business affairs. But I thought you said you
were a doctor.”

“I am. That’s what I’ll be doing up here.” Hatch sipped his birch beer and glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

“But Malin,” the grocer said, shifting uncomfortably, “we’ve already got a doctor in town. Dr. Frazier. He’s healthy as an
ox, could live another twenty years.”

“That’s nothing a little arsenic in his tea wouldn’t fix,” said Hatch.

The grocer looked at him in alarm.

“Don’t worry, Bud,” Hatch replied, breaking into a smile. “I’m not going into competition with Dr. Frazier.” He reminded himself
that his particular brand of wit wasn’t especially common in rural Maine.

“That’s good.” Bud gave his guest a sidelong look. “Then maybe it’s got to do with those helicopters.”

Hatch looked at him quizzically.

“Just yesterday it was. Nice, sharp, clear day. Two helicopters came by. Big things they were, too. Went right over town and
headed out toward the islands. Seen them hovering over Ragged Island for quite a spell. I thought they were from the army
base.” Bud’s look turned speculative. “But then again, maybe not.”

Hatch was spared having to reply by the creak of the screen door. He waited while Bud lumbered inside to attend to the customer.
“Business seems good,” he replied when Bud returned.

“Can’t hardly say that,” Bud replied. “Out of season, population’s down to eight hundred.”

Hatch thought to himself that this was about the size Stormhaven had always been.

“Ayuh,” Bud went on, “kids just up and leave now when they finish high school. Don’t want to stay in town. They go off to
the big cities, Bangor, Augusta. One even went so far as Boston. We’ve had five kids leave town in the last three years. If
it weren’t for the summerpeople, or that nudist camp on Pine Neck, I don’t think I’d have two extra pennies to rub together.”

Hatch merely nodded. Bud was obviously prospering, but it would have been impolite to disagree with him in his own store.
The “nudist camp” he referred to was actually an artists’ colony, located on an old estate in a pine forest some ten miles
up the coast. Hatch remembered that thirty years before, a lobsterman pulling traps had seen a nude sunbather on their beach.
The memory of a Maine seacoast town was long indeed.

“And how’s your mother?” Bud asked.

“She passed away in 1985. Cancer.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Hatch could tell Bud meant it. “She was a good woman, and she raised some fine… a fine son.” After a
short silence Bud rocked back in his chair and polished off his birch beer. “Seen Claire yet?” he asked, as nonchalantly as
possible.

Hatch waited a moment. “She still around?” he replied with equal nonchalance.

“Yup,” said Bud. “Been some changes in her life. And how about you? Any family?”

Hatch smiled. “No wife. Not yet, anyway.” He put down his empty bottle and stood. It was definitely time to go. “Bud, it’s
been great visiting with you. I think I’ll go and fix myself dinner.”

Bud nodded and clapped him on the back as Hatch pushed his way through into the store. He had his hand on the screen door
when Bud cleared his throat.

“One other thing, Malin.”

Hatch froze. He knew he’d gotten off too easily. He waited, dreading the question he knew was coming.

“You watch out with that licorice,” Bud said with great solemnity. “Those teeth won’t last forever, you know.”

H
atch emerged on the deck of the
Plain Jane,
stretched, then looked around the harbor through slitted eyes. The town of Stormhaven was quiet, almost torpid under the heavy
light of the July afternoon, and he felt grateful for the silence. The night before, he’d washed down the steak with a little
more Beefeater’s than he’d intended, and he’d woken that morning to his first hangover in almost a decade.

It had been a day of several firsts. It was the first day he had spent in the cabin of a boat since his trip down the Amazon.
He’d forgotten how peaceful it could be, alone with nothing but the gentle rocking of the waves for company. It was also the
first day he could remember without having much of anything to do. His lab was now closed down for the month of August, and
Bruce the bewildered lab assistant had been sent off to write up initial results under the care of a colleague. The Cambridge
town house was locked up, with instructions to the housekeeper that he would not be back until September. And his Jaguar was
parked, as discreetly as possible, in the vacant lot behind the old Coast to Coast hardware store.