“Let's see, the Athertons have been married for about three years, right? And they used to spend the winters in Virginia, where Valerie lived?”
“Yes, we all thought Jim was a confirmed bachelor. He met Valerie when he was sailing someplace in the Bahamas. It was just after her husband died so tragically.”
Pix had heard the story. Valerie, Duncan, and Bernard Cowley were sailing when a sudden tropical storm hit, almost destroying the boat and sweeping Bernard overboard. Valerie had developed an understandable aversion to boats of any size or shape amounting to a phobia and refused to set foot on one. That her new husband ran a sailing camp was definitely ironic.
Pix looked over at her mother. She'd been widowed a long time. It was a prospect Pix kept firmly shoved way in the back of her mind. She sincerely hoped she and Sam would go at exactly the same moment.
“And what are you going to do with yourself while Samantha's busy making all this money?” Ursula asked.
“The usualâand maybe this year we'll tackle the attic.
Then remember, I'm overseeing the Fairchilds' new cottage.”
“I'd almost forgotten about that. Seth Marshall is building it, isn't he?”
“Yes, and tomorrow I want to go over and see how much he's done since Memorial Day.”
Faith and Tom were building a modest house on a point of land not far from the Millers. The Fairchilds had hired Seth Marshall as the architect and contractor after seeing his work. It was a very simple plan, yet Faith had still wanted Pix to keep an eye on the progress. Pix had steadfastly refused to accept any money for the job, insisting that having the Fairchilds as neighbors on Sanpere as well as in Aleford was reward enough. Besides, Pix argued, she was the one who had lured them to Sanpere in the first place, with somewhat startling results. But Faith had pressed hard. She knew the amount of time Pix would devote to the project, so finally they'd compromised on an amount. Pix grudgingly agreed, especially when Faith threatened to bar her from the site if she wouldn't take the money.
It was the kind of thing Pix loved doing, and being paid for it seemed wrong. There was nothing more exciting than watching a new house go up. She loved all the smellsâfrom the fresh concrete of the foundation to the fragrant fir of the framing. She'd miss out on the concrete. Seth would have poured the foundation long ago. They'd seen the gaping hole in May.
“It will be nice to have the Fairchilds on the island,” her mother remarked. “I'm not surprised they decided to settle here. Sanpere has a way of getting into one's blood.”
“Just think. This is your eightieth summer on the island. We should make a banner to carry in the Fourth of July parade.”
Her mother sighed. “I've lived a very long time. Maybe even too long.”
Pix was used to this sort of remark, but her heart never failed to tighten. “Don't be silly.”
“Oh, I'm not silly. I'll tell you what the funny thing is, though. Eighty years old and I still feel twenty inside. It's all gone so fast.”
Pix stood up and called Samantha to come in.
Too fast. Much too fast.
Â
The next morning proved to be another typical Maine day and Pix proposed to Samantha that they pack sandwiches and walk out to the Point to check what progress had been made at the Fairchilds' cottage. Her daughter agreed wholeheartedly. She was curious about the house, too.
“Show me the plans before we go, and let's take the dogs.”
Pix had assumed any walk they took would automatically include the golden retrievers that she regarded as canine offshoots of the Miller line: Dusty, Artie, and Henry.
“Of course we'll take the dogs.” She leaned down to stroke Dusty. “Do you think you can keep up with us, old lady?” Dusty's muzzle was turning white and she no longer raced into the mud at low tide when one of the children threw a stick, her former favorite and extremely messy pastime.
It was close to ten o'clock by the time they set off, feeling vaguely wicked about skipping church.
“We'll start next week,” Pix vowed. “Most people don't even know we're here yet.”
“Granny does,” Samantha reminded her.
“True, but look at this sky. Surely this is a day that the Lord hath made, and I'm sure both the Lord and His representative on earth would be glad we're enjoying it.”
“Hey, Mom, I don't even like going to church here. It's so boring compared to Reverend Fairchild's service. You don't have to convince me.”
Through a quirk of faith, and through Faith's quirks, the Fairchilds had managed to buy the entire forty-acre parcel of land known locally as the Point, a long finger of land stretching out toward the open sea. It had one of the only white, sandy beaches on Sanpere and was a popular spot for swimming
and picnicking. The Fairchilds had given most of the land to the Island Heritage Trust, saving a few acres for themselves at the very end. An old road had been improved and they had been able to get the power and the telephone companies to string lines out to the siteâno mean accomplishment, Pix had informed them. Faith had been surprised. “How could we possibly be out there without power or a phone?” She was even more surprised when Pix had told her that the Millers hadn't had a phone at their cottage, by choice, until the kids had started to go to sleep-away camps off-island and Pix's nerves couldn't take it. “It was wonderful. A real vacation when no one can call you.” Faith had privately thought this New England eccentricity in the extreme. No phone!
Today, Samantha and Pix were following the road straight down the spine of the Point. They'd take the shore way back, clambering over the rocks when the tide was lower. The road went through the woods, but there were openings that cut down to the sea. Judging from the number of sailboats out, local pews were pretty empty this Sunday morning. The sun sparkled on the surface of the water and the clouds in the sky were as white and billowy as the sails beneath them. Pix thought how much of their lives on Sanpere was governed by the sea. Their days were planned around the tides. When it was high, they swam. When it was low, they dug clams, gathered mussels, or simply combed the beaches for shells, peering into the jewel-like tidal pools at the starfish, sea anemones, tiny crabs, and trailing seaweed. The Millers' cottage was not on deep water, unlike The Pines. First-time visitors were always shocked at the broad expanse of pure mud revealed where a few hours before the ocean deep had beckoned. Pix had grown to prefer the change, charting the summer by the time of the tides.
She remembered suddenly what the tide had revealed to her friend Faith several summers earlier and shuddered. She stepped determinedly along and almost bumped into Samantha,
who was crouched down on the shady path leading from the road to the construction site.
“What are you looking at?”
“Someone dropped a key,” Samantha answered. “It looks like an old one. Isn't it pretty?” The cut work on the top of the key was done in intricate swirls.
“Hold on to it and I'll ask Seth next time I see him if anyone has lost it. I'd take it, but these pockets have holes in them, I'm ashamed to say.”
“If that's all you've got to be ashamed about, Mom, you're in good shape.” Samantha shoved the key in her jeans pocket. If no one claimed it, she'd wear it on a ribbon around her neck.
Pix was debating whether to follow up Samantha's comment with a veiled inquiry as to what Samantha might be ashamed of that would lead her to make a comment like this. She stepped into the sunlight; news that Samantha was running a lunch-money extortion ring at school would have been welcome compared with the news that greeted her eyes.
Seth Marshall hadn't done a thing since Memorial Day. No, she quickly took it back. An ancient cement mixer had been brought in and there were empty cans of soda and other potables on the ground, nestled next to Twinkies wrappers and squashed Mother Goose potato chip bags.
“Mom! Didn't you say they would be framing the house by now?”
Pix was speechless. She nodded dismally. The Fairchilds hoped to move in at the end of the summer. They'd be lucky if the roof was on before bad weather struck.
Her anger mounted, and she found her vocal chords worked after all. “Wait until I get hold of Seth! This is totally inexcusable!” Pix's voice, which at times like these assumed the strident tones of a sideshow barker by way of the Winsor School and Pembroke, rang out indignantly in the crisp Maine morning air. She strode to the edge of the hole where
the basement was supposed to be, the dogs following at her heels. “I know he's not dead or injured. It would have been in
The Island Crier.”
The Millers subscribed to the Sanpere weekly paper year-round. Next to
Organic Gardening,
it was Pix's favorite reading material. “He'd better have a pretty darn good excuse!”
“Look over here,” Samantha called. She was behind a stand of birches the Fairchilds had specified be left. “Aren't these the things they use to stiffen the concrete? It must mean they're going to do it soon. They wouldn't leave them here to rust.”
Pix went over to get a closer look.
“You're right. These
are
reinforcing rods, and here are some anchor bolts. But even if they pour tomorrow, we're still weeks behind schedule. And in any case, they couldn't pour any concrete without putting in the footing forms, and I don't see any sign of them.”
Samantha tried to cheer her mother up. “Come on, let's go down to the shore and eat our sandwiches. It's not like it's your fault. Mrs. Fairchild will understand.” Samantha correctly zeroed in on the thing Pix was dreadingâtelling Faith.
“I know, but I'm so mad at Seth, I could scream. Promises, promises. I should have known better and called him every day.”
“Well, scream if you want to. It will make you feel better. Tiffany Morrison says her therapist told her to, and it's awesome.”
“Why is Tiffany seeing a therapist?” Pix was suddenly sidetracked. The Morrisons owned a real estate agency in Aleford and had always seemed like the perfect apple-pie family. Maybe that was the trouble.
“Oh, you know, the eating thing. She won't eat anything, then she eats like crazy. I think she first started doing it to get her parents' attention. They're always so busy. Then it kind of got out of hand. She tells us about it in gym, and it's totally
gross. But she's doing okay now. I guess the screams worked.”
They both laughed, then Pix said, “Really, an eating disorder is no laughing matter.”
“That's not what we're laughing at,” Samantha pointed out sensibly. Sometimes she thought the term
guilt trip
had been coined for her mother.
Pix felt much better. She'd call Seth as soon as she got home. Then once she pinned him down to a firm dateâand she would tell him she would be there watchingâshe'd phone the Fairchilds and might providentially get Tom.
She called to the dogs. Dusty and Henry came running from the woods, barking happy doggy greetings as if they had been crossing the country for months, desperately trying to find their people. But the third dog did not emerge from the greenery.
“Artie! Artie! Arthur Miller! Come now! Do you see him, Samantha?”
“No, but he can't be far. He never strays from the others.”
Pix found him immediately. “Oh, naughty, naughty dog!”
Artie was down in the cellar hole, digging furiously. He glanced up at the sound of his mistress's voice, then went back to his work.
“What is he doing? He must have found an animal bone.”
Pix jumped in, landing on the soft earth. She went over to the dog and grabbed his collar. “Stop it this instant!” As she pulled the dog away, she noticed that what he had unearthed was not a bone, but a piece of fabric.
“Samantha, look what Artie's found. I think it's part of an old quilt.”
“I'll get something to dig with.”
“It's probably in tatters. Remember the beautiful Dresden Plate quilt I saw in the back of Sonny Prescott's pickup? He was using it to pile logs on, to keep the truck clean!”
“Here's a stick. It was all I could find.”
Pix took it from her and scraped away the dirt. So far, the quilt seemed to be in good shape.
“It looks like a nice one. I love the red-and-white quilts,” Sam said excitedly.
“Me, too.” Pix crouched down and tugged at the cloth. “It's Drunkard's Path. I've always meant to do one, but sewing all those curves seems much harder than straight lines.”
“Artie, sit!” The dog had come to her side, about to resume his labors. The other two were looking over the edge of the excavation, puzzled expressions on their faces. At least this was how Pix interpreted them, and she prided herself on knowing her dogs' moods.
“Look at Dusty and Henry. They're all confused. People aren't supposed to dig like this.” Dirt was flying out behind her as she dug deeper. “You pull while I dig.”