The Body in the Birches (2 page)

Which left Simon and his wife, Aunt Deirdre, plus Simon and Babs's cousin Sylvia, who might or might not be with someone at the moment. It was hard to keep track of free-spirited Sylvia's status. She had three children who were Sophie's second cousins or cousins once removed? She had never mastered these genealogical distinctions. Sylvia's oldest, Autumn (better than “Fall,” but Sophie still felt sorry for her, saddled with the name, no way to shorten it even), was only a few years younger than Sophie, but seemed much younger. Partly because Sylvia believed in “letting children be children,” a philosophy that translated to something others might call benign neglect. The last time Sophie had seen Autumn, she'd been wearing a Raggedy Ann outfit, with the striped tights and all, but very little else. The pinafore and dress
were so sheer that had she a little pink heart tattooed, it would not have been hard to spot. Autumn's brother Rory was twenty, several years younger, and Daisy was the baby at twelve. Despite the fact they all had different fathers, they looked identical—strawberry blond with china blue eyes. Sophie wondered if they'd be there “auditioning” along with their mother. Sylvia lived out on the West Coast in Marin, but she was a fixture each summer at Sanpere and had acquired a local reputation as the woman who was always first in line at any yard sale no matter how early it started.

Sandwich finished, Sophie made a quick stop at the restroom, did some yoga stretches, and got back in the car. Although she'd crossed the border into Maine—
THE WAY LIFE SHOULD BE
the billboard announced—she tried to keep herself from thinking she was almost there. The island was still a very long way away.

“I don't like it.”

Ursula Lyman Rowe; her daughter, Pix Miller; and Faith Fairchild, their friend and neighbor both on Sanpere Island and, in the inclement months, in Aleford, Massachusetts, were all sitting in Bar Harbor rockers on the front porch of The Pines, a summer retreat that had been in Ursula's family for generations. It was a grande dame of a cottage, the term a misnomer for what easily slept ten with cots on the sleeping porch for others.

From their perch overlooking the waters of Penobscot Bay, the women had not been watching the sailboats and an occasional windjammer as they tacked down the Reach, but another sort of human activity. There had been a steady stream of arrivals at The Birches, located down the hill and on the other side of a birch grove, hence the name. It was visible to the naked eye of its lofty neighbor, but for good measure, Ursula had her binoculars out.

“Don't like what?” Faith and her family had a summer cottage that really
was
a summer cottage across the causeway on Sanpere
itself. Little Sanpere and Sanpere had a year-round population of 2,400 that doubled in the summer—quite a few of the locals considered this yearly onslaught worse than that of the blackflies.

The Fairchilds—the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, Faith, fifteen-year-old Ben, and twelve-year-old Amy—were adding a much-needed extension onto the original small house they had already remodeled once and had taken Ursula up on her offer to stay at The Pines, at least until all the walls were intact.

“Sorry, dear,” Ursula said. “We were talking about something before you came and it was still on my mind. Always annoying to walk into the middle of a conversation you don't know anything about. I'll start from the beginning. Pix won't care.”

“I'll get a pitcher of iced tea,” Pix said, getting up. “Spying on the neighbors is thirsty work.”

“I hid some of the brownies I made yesterday from the kids. They're in an old Bremner Wafers tin in the pantry.” As a caterer, Faith's thoughts were never far from food. “Now, tell me everything, Ursula. When I got here, your binoculars were trained toward The Birches. Is that what this is about?”

“It is. Although Priscilla died over a year ago, Paul has waited until now to carry out her wishes regarding the property.”

This sounded intriguing, Faith thought to herself. Last wishes. Inheritance. It had all the makings of a page-turner. Aloud she said, “I was sorry to hear of her death. How is Paul doing?”

“Pretty much the way any man who is widowed does. Still inundated with food of every kind and invitations of every nature from dinner to marriage.”

Faith laughed. “It's the same way on the rare occasion I go out of town. Suddenly all Tom's handmaidens of the Lord line up to bring dinner and provide I dare not think what kind of other distractions. When he's away, it's me, the kids, and a chick flick DVD once they're asleep.”

“Paul is no fool. It would take more than tuna noodle and a Merry Widow to trap him. He adored Priscilla and she him. It
was a second marriage for her—she'd been widowed young—but a first for him, and they never had any children. Plenty of nieces and nephews, younger cousins, too. I have the feeling we'll be seeing each and every one of them before long.”

Pix emerged from the house with a tray, which she set down on a sturdy wicker table. All the furniture at The Pines was sturdy, having stood the test of time. Plus the wicker had been repainted so often the paint itself would have supported a skyscraper let alone a tray with iced tea and brownies, even brownies laden with walnuts and dried cherries.

“What did I miss?” she asked.

On Sanpere, Pix and her family lived a few coves over from the Fairchilds. In Aleford the Millers were next-door neighbors as well as parishioners at First Parish. Pix and her lawyer husband, Sam, were older than the Fairchilds, with their children, Mark, Samantha, and Dan, well positioned over the years to be Fairchild babysitters. Pix was also Faith's guide through the labyrinth known as parenthood, as well as life in the small suburb west of Boston. Faith's own childhood had been spent in the Big Apple. The more bucolic orchards of New England, her husband's native land, continued to baffle her periodically.

When Mark, the Millers' first child, was born, they decided to buy their own place on Sanpere rather than live at The Pines with its steady stream of guests. Ursula and her husband had always filled the place with friends and relatives, especially ones that sailed. Pix's late father, Arnold, considered an entire day on dry land a day wasted.

Pix handed her mother a glass of tea. Faith noted with approval that she'd gone to the garden behind the house for fresh mint.

“Thank you, dear. Perfect timing. I'd just gotten to Priscilla's last wishes. All spelled out and notarized by the way, not that Paul would have disregarded them, but she apparently didn't want him to have to deal with any objections. The long and the short of it is that Paul was to summon all those relatives interested in inheriting
The Birches to visit during or for the entire month of July, after which time he is to select the legatee. And to repeat myself: ‘I don't like it.'”

“I can see why you might not like to see him put in the position of ultimate decider—is that the word I'm looking for? It somehow rings the wrong bell. Well, judge, authority, and so forth. But other than that, why?” Faith said.

Pix put her glass down. She shook her head and sighed audibly.

“Oh, Faith, I thought after your years here—and in Aleford—you'd know what this sort of thing can lead to. At best, people stop talking to each other. At worst—”

Her mother interrupted and said grimly, “It can be murder.”

Miles away from both The Pines and The Birches and many hours later, Sophie felt as if she had been driving for days. She'd stopped in Bucksport for gas, knowing from experience that it was the last available. The convenience store with the pumps was the last anything until places opened very early in the morning—4
A.M
. on the island for the fishermen.

She bought a Coke and some granola bars. Even if the coffee sitting on the hot plate hadn't looked like something that might be found under the hood of a car, she didn't want any. She'd had so much today, it would be a while before a cup of joe would appeal to her. There was no point in pulling over for a nap. The caffeine would prevent sleep, and it was also impossible to see whether she'd be pulling onto a shoulder or into a ditch.

The radio signal had turned most broadcasts to static and she'd gotten tired of trying to find a station that wasn't a call-in or not her kind of country music. She hadn't thought to check whether her mother had CDs in the car, and now she didn't want to stop and look. After all, she had her thoughts for company. Too many. They crowded unbidden and unwelcome into her mind as she drove through the darkness. It had all started last September . . .

Meeting Ian Kendall had been a fluke. The law firm where she worked was huge, occupying many floors in the Citigroup Center on Lexington Avenue. Intellectual property, Sophie's specialty, was geographically far away from mergers and acquisitions, Ian's.

The chance encounter was a Meg Ryan movie moment. Pretty girl dashes for the elevator, the doors close in her face, and a handsome stranger appears at her side, commiserating, “I hate when this happens.” He had a warm smile, thick well-cut ash-blond hair, Paul Newman blue eyes—and a British accent. Roll credits.

By the time the next elevator arrived, they had agreed to meet after work for a drink. He didn't know the city well. Would she be willing to act as his guide? Happy to oblige, she'd responded.

Back in her office, as she'd opened her e-mail, one part of her mind was registering the fact that besides being attractive, he was significantly taller than Sophie. Everything she looked for in a man on the surface. Especially the height. In middle school she had shot up alarmingly, like Alice after sipping from the
DRINK ME
bottle in Wonderland. Sophie wasn't just the tallest girl in her class, but the tallest student period. When Babs wasn't around she slouched. In high school the boys and some of the girls caught up; at the same time Sophie's braces came off; she stood up straight and stopped feeling like the ugly duckling.

Since then she'd never lacked for male attention, but there had never been anyone who'd swept her off her feet. Maybe it was all of Priscilla's happily-ever-after books at The Birches or a penchant for movies like
The Holiday
, but Sophie was a hopeless romantic under her Armani power wardrobe. She wanted a man who would knock her socks off, not just remove them—although that was nice at times. After all, a girl well shy of thirty couldn't live like a nun.

And Ian had done both. He was in New York representing a UK company in a complicated merger with a U.S. one represented by Sophie's firm. The drink—Sophie had taken him to the St. Regis King Cole Bar for Manhattans—had turned into dinner.
That night, and every night thereafter, except for the ones both had to work, which was more often than not. It was good to be with someone on the same insane schedule. Sophie's promotion a year earlier had included her own office, albeit not a corner one. The first thing she had done was move in a couch she could sleep on. It was rare for her to leave work before midnight and often easier just to sleep there. One desk drawer held some toiletry essentials, and she kept a change of clothes in a coat closet that held an unsurprising number of her colleagues' spare outfits as well.

Despite their hectic agenda, she did manage to squeeze in tours of her NYC favorites for Ian—including a trip on the Staten Island ferry and one to the top of the Empire State Building, this last at his insistence when she confessed to never having been there. In turn he promised to take her to the Tower of London, which he hadn't gotten around to in like fashion.

Ian, like Sophie, ate everything, and they hit Michelin stars one night and hole-in-the-wall places another. He didn't send flowers but instead sent thoughtful gifts like a pair of earrings she'd admired in the museum shop after they'd seen an exhibit at the Metropolitan and funny little windup toys for her desk. And once a gorgeous rainbow silk infinity scarf he'd seen at Barneys that he told her was “her.” They loved the same music, the same books, the same artwork. And eventually they loved each other. Sophie had read
The Rules
and a bunch of other advice books for singletons, but more to the point she'd lent a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to cry on too many times after a friend had blurted out “I love you” only to hear he wasn't, in the classic phrase, “all that into her,” before departing at the speed of light. But Ian said it first. Said it and repeated it while holding Sophie in his arms. He gave her a ring that had been in his family—a Victorian flower ring, one perfect pearl surrounded by turquoise and garnet “petals.” Babs had declared it “very sweet” and suggested Sophie walk Ian, whom Babs had met and liked, past Tiffany's
windows if not for what she considered a suitable replacement for “at least, darling, something to sparkle around your neck or wrist.”

The only hitch was time. Ian would be returning to London just before Christmas. Their days—and especially their nights—took on a new intensity as November became December.

“I can't bear to leave you, my love,” Ian had said over and over. “Why doesn't your firm have a London office? Surely you can arrange one,” he'd added with that smile. That totally captivating smile.

Of course she couldn't, but what she did do was ask her boss for a leave of absence.

“I wish I could, Sophie, but we've just put a new policy into effect. I know you'd come back, but too many people haven't. Of course if there's a”—he coughed—“physical reason . . .”

Sophie had blushed furiously. “No, no maternity leave required.”

Finally, despite his admonitions—“I can't tell you in all honesty that you could walk back into your job even in a few days. You know what it's like . . . ,” as well as a strongly worded appreciation for her work and plea not to go—Sophie resigned.

That night she booked a table at The River Café on Water Street in Brooklyn and prayed for a table by the window overlooking New York harbor and the Manhattan skyline. It had all worked out, even the stroll there in unseasonably mild weather across the Brooklyn Bridge, the one very romantic and quintessential city experience she hadn't fit in so far. Over champagne and oysters she told Ian what she had done.