The Body in the Lighthouse (25 page)

Expecting another toast, people reached for glasses and moved to the chairs along the walls.

He bowed and removed his hat with a flourish. “Good folk, you see before you a man totally stunned. A man who has been in said state only once or perhaps twice before, if memory serves.” He was grinning broadly. “Some of you may have seen our modest play….”

Shouts of “Bravo” and “Hear! Hear!” greeted this remark.

“Thank you, thank you.” He bowed. “Yet, it is not as the director that I come before you, but, rather, as a messenger, a Mercury.” He was clearly enjoying himself. “You'll never guess in a trillion years what happened tonight at the end of the show.” He dropped his theatrical manner and reverted to good old Sanpere vernacular.

“We were taking a second curtain call, when Romeo—Ted Hamilton—and Juliet—Becky Prescott—stepped forward and held up their hands for silence. I blushingly admit I thought they were going to make some reference to my own poor but adequate effort, or perhaps Linda's. Instead, they asked their parents to come up onstage, which, after much hemming and hawing, they did. Becky turned to hers, holding Romeo's hand, and said, ‘Mom and Dad, Sanpere isn't someplace in Italy, and Ted and I want a happy ending. Everyone has been wicked foolish this summer, and we decided to put a stop to it. You're looking at Mrs. Theodore Hamilton. We got married last week.'”

Roland waited for the room to calm down. Hamiltons and Prescotts in name or by marriage were present and they started roaring questions; plus, there was a more general outcry of sheer surprise.

“Then Ted said something to his parents about ending the feud and the whole place was as quiet as the grave. I was thinking of ducking out to call Earl, except I remembered he'd be in no condition to enforce the law, should one get broken. Becky and Ted are both of age, so no problem there. Becky's father was as red as any makeup artist could make him, and he took a step toward Ted; likewise Ted's father toward Becky. Can't imagine what he had it in mind to do. Then the two men looked at each other, and damned if they didn't start to laugh their heads
off. Tears were running down their cheeks, and if they had slapped each other's backs any harder, they'd have broken a bone. ‘I guess they got us!' Hamilton said, and everyone headed over to Sam's place to pick up appropriate comestibles—fortunately, he never closes—and there's another marriage celebration going on down in Little Harbor right now. Mazeltov to both couples! Maestro.” He handed the baton back and the band immediately began to play “Love and Marriage.” People sang along, and Faith noticed a few duck out, obviously headed for the other party—making a doubleheader of the night. The most exotic offerings on Sam's shelves were the new Doritos Extremes, but they went well with cold Bud.

“You were right,” she said to Freeman, who came to claim a dance once the sing-along ended. “The feud ended just the way you said it would, although even you couldn't have predicted this.”

“Oh no? Who do you think drove them to Ellsworth? Course, I was going up there anyway. Didn't want anyone to know they'd been off island, so they left their cars outside the school on one of the rehearsal days.”

Between Freeman and Ursula, a girl could never get ahead, Faith conceded to herself.

“Wait a minute. What about the turpentine? Do you know about that, too? I don't see how Kenny could have gotten to it. And besides, it was before he knew about Harold. Before Harold was even dead.”

“I expect one of the Prescotts is just about drunk enough now to confess to Ted that he didn't mean any harm, thought it wouldn't hurt him, only meant to scare him away.”

Faith twirled out under Freeman's arm. She'd known she was right. It
had
been meant for Romeo.

The band packed up at eleven o'clock, right after “Good Night Ladies” and “Auld Lang Syne.” Jill threw her bouquet; Samantha caught it, and her father almost snatched it from her hands. They'd been hearing a little too much about someone named Nick on the trip. She gave him a kiss. “Don't worry, Daddy. I'll always be your little girl.”

Choked up, he called to the rest of the family that it was time to go home. At the door, Samantha turned and winked at Faith, who winked right back.

The Miller vacation had been a great success—and they'd had the best meal of the trip in Jasper. Sam had been raving all evening about the Alberta beef he'd had at a place called Becker's.

“We'd better be going, too, sweetheart,” Faith said. Ursula had left after Roland's startling news, getting a ride with the Marshalls. Lisa Prescott was sleeping over at the Fairchilds'—the first occupant of the guest room.

“The first of September. It feels like fall,” Tom said as they walked toward the meadow where the cars had been parked. “What a night.”

“I wish we could do it all over again—the dancing, the food, all those wonderful people.”

“You may get your wish. The Johnsons were talking about doing it cooperatively same time next year—‘The South Beach Dance Club.'”

A new tradition to replace all the traditions that were slipping away. The summer was over, but Faith would never forget this one. One that had brought her so close to losing her life—the life she cherished because of the people in it. She didn't want any of it to change, although it would, and for a moment she felt a stab of fear, but the full moon—no, make that almost-full moon—shining steadily overhead pulled her anxiety from her like an ebbing tide. She squeezed Tom's hand hard.

“What is it, Faith? What's wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” she said.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was driving to a neighboring town for a reason I cannot now recall. I turned on the radio and heard what I first assumed to be a review of some disaster movie, but soon realized, fighting disbelief, that it was an actual news bulletin. I stopped at once and turned around.

What I do clearly remember from the short drive is what a beautiful day it was. At the moment I heard the news, I was looking at the Flint Farm fields stretched out on one side of the narrow road, the barn and farmhouse on the other—all under a cloudless blue sky. The farm dates back to the 1640s, and Flints are farming it still. It will always be farmland; the family has given it to a trust. It will always be there. Growing up in New Jersey, approaching New York City so many times from across the river, I watched the Twin
Towers go up and become a part of the familiar skyline. We thought they would always be there, too.

Returning home, I ran into the house, unable to say anything to my husband except “Turn on the television.” We watched in horror as the second plane struck. Then, in what seemed like a very short time, we saw the towers fall to earth. Footage of two young women crouched behind a car appeared over and over again throughout the day. They were clinging to each other, looking up; then one pulled the other to her feet and they ran, shoeless, disappearing into the cloud of ash and debris. From their faces, you could tell they were screaming. There was no sound. I see their faces still.

There were no degrees of separation on September 11. Everyone knew someone affected. The first tragic news was that the mother and stepfather of one of the administrators at my son's school had been on the plane that went down in Pennsylvania. She has taken comfort from the knowledge that those passengers were able to prevent something even worse. A friend's brother didn't make it out; another friend's son did. We didn't try to make sense of it all, but we went to a town vigil; prayed at our church, open all day and night; and then finally attended the service and silent march the high school students organized. It was impossible to keep back the tears at the sight of all those youthful faces as the students quietly walked toward the bleachers at the
football field. They could not, still cannot, know how different their lives will be.

And I was writing this book. I'd started it in July and was immersed in Faith's world. I wasn't able to get back there for many weeks. I talked with writer friends, some experiencing the same difficulty, others finding solace in their work.

Instead of writing, I read, cooked, cleaned closets—and my husband, my son, and I went to Maine. Especially that first weekend, it was the place we wanted to be. Away from CNN and the other stations for a while; the three of us together. As we drove north, every car displayed a flag. Turning off the turnpike onto the back roads to “Sanpere Island,” we saw that every yard had a hand-lettered sign, more flags. It was Indian summer. We sat watching the tides, the osprey still in her nest on the opposite point, and broke bread with friends, cherishing their company.

When I got back to this book, I rewrote the few post–September 11 attempts I'd made. I'd lost the rhythm of Faith's life, just as my own had been so disturbed, but it came back. The book takes place in the summer of 2001, ending on September 1 with a wedding. I think back to that summer, and it now seems like some kind of Camelot, my own uncomplicated days very different from Faith's. As I wrote, I found myself giving her some of those moments, as well—moments removed from the plot, times when she watches her children and husband, wanting to remember the secure, serene feeling forever. Just as many of us date
things from before the Cuban missile crisis and before the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, Jr., we have another “before.” Yet, once I returned to it, this book was a joy to write, as they all are. I recalled the answer British mystery writer P. D. James gave when asked why crime fiction is so popular. She said, “These novels are always popular in ages of great anxiety. It's a very reassuring form. It affirms the hope that we live in a rational and beneficent universe.”

This hope was affirmed in countless ways immediately following September 11 and continues to be in ways large and small all over the globe. This hope is my wish for you, dear reader.

BY
Faith Sibley Fairchild

A WORK IN PROGRESS

Preheat the oven to 325°F. Mix all the ingredients together and pour into a buttered baking dish. Set it in a pan of hot water (the water halfway up the sides of the dish) and bake until firm, approximately 45 minutes. Best with fresh corn, yet still a good side dish for a winter evening, when elephant's-eye-high stalks are but a dream. Serves 4 to 6.

People have very strong feelings about crab cakes. They're like barbecue—beef or pork? Catsup-based or mustard-based sauce? With crab cakes, the debate starts with the crab—Maryland, Louisiana, and Maine devotees weighing in on one coast; Washington on the other. Faith loves all and any crab, but she is partial to Maine's peekytoe crab because she lives there. Then, breading, crackers, or potato as binding? Worcestershire sauce, Old Bay, Tabasco, or all three to complement the crustacean? Celery? Onions? The following is the recipe Faith's family prefers, after having made many happy trials. The Fairchilds like their crab cakes crabby, with as few additions as possible.

Combine the mayonnaise, egg, and mustard. Mix well, then fold in the crabmeat and saltines. Faith puts the saltines between two sheets of waxed paper and rolls them with a rolling pin to crumble them. Let the mixture stand for about 3 minutes before shaping it into patties. This recipe makes 12 patties. Put them on a baking sheet, cover with waxed paper or Saran wrap, and refrigerate for an hour.

Fry the cakes in vegetable oil, about 3 to 4 minutes on a side, until they are golden brown. Drain on a paper towel and serve. Do not fry the cakes in olive oil or any other oil with a strong taste. Faith uses canola oil.

For spicy cakes,
add ½ teaspoon of hot sauce to the first three ingredients. Faith often serves her crab cakes with a dab of mayonnaise mixed with Old Bay seasoning (to taste) on the side.

Preheat the oven to 400°F. Sift together the dry ingredients: flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, and spices. Lightly beat the eggs, milk, and melted butter together. Add this to the dry ingredients and mix. Fold the blueberries into the batter and fill each cup in the muffin tin completely, not ¾ full. Faith learned this trick from Lori Boyce, by way of Kyra Alex's cookbook,
Lily's Café
. Makes 2 dozen muffins.

Smoke the chicken on the grill, using hickory chips, apple wood, or any flavor you prefer. While the chicken is cooking, dice the vegetables and make the vinaigrette, using your own recipe or Faith's—1 part balsamic vinegar to 3 parts olive oil, plus 1/8 teaspoon Dijon mustard and a pinch of salt and pepper. Add the rosemary leaves and shake well.

Steam the vegetables with the sprig of rosemary until soft, but not mushy. Remove the rosemary and toss the vegetables with the vinaigrette. Cook the tortellini according to the instructions on the package, drain, and then add the chèvre, mixing it thoroughly.

Cut the cooked chicken into bite-size pieces and add to the tortellini. Add the vegetables and mix gently. Salt and pepper to taste.

This is a wonderful dish to take to a party, as
Faith does, garnishing it with nasturtiums from the garden. It should sit for about an hour and be served at room temperature. It can also be served over greens as a salad. Serves 8 to 10 at least.