Читать книгу A Full House - Nadia Nichols - Страница 10

NEITHER ANNIE NOR SALLY had ever visited Maine before. Whenever Ryan wanted to spend time with his daughter, he simply flew to the city, using the opportunity to touch base with all his old friends and colleagues, as well. Although Sally had complained about having to leave the city and didn’t say an awful lot on the long ride up, preferring to keep her headphones on and listen to her CDs, Annie was sure the girl was excited. She felt the excitement herself when they crossed into Maine. It was as if they’d embarked on a rare adventure.

Ryan’s house was on the outskirts of Bangor, a modern ranch with attached garage and a lawn that looked as obsessively manicured as any golf course. Trudy was watering a circular flower garden in the middle of the lawn it when they arrived. She looked very pregnant. Annie hadn’t seen her since before the divorce and couldn’t help smiling as she noted how much weight Trudy had gained. Perhaps it was all attributable to the pregnancy, but Annie doubted that Trudy would ever return to her young and nubile sexiness. Trudy was seventeen years her junior, so Annie felt her satisfaction was completely justified.

Ryan was at the clinic, for which Annie was grateful. She helped unload Sally’s bags and carry them to the house, and stayed just long enough to give Trudy the phone number and address of the house she was renting in Blue Harbor. Sally trailed her back out to the car, scowling.

“You’re not going to dump me here when Dad’s not even home.”

“Honey, he’ll be back in an hour or so. Trudy could probably use some help in the garden after you unpack your things and get settled in. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll call you tonight.”

Sally glanced back at the house and then lowered her voice. “Can we go back home if this doesn’t work out?”

Annie gave her daughter a parting hug. “I bet you and your dad are going to have a grand old time. And you can always come and spend some time with me if you like.”

Trudy came out of the house and walked down to the car. She laid a hand on Sally’s shoulder and to Annie’s grateful surprise she said, “Your father’s coming home early today. He wants you to help him pick out a golden retriever puppy. Think you can do that?”

An hour later Annie was cruising along Route 1, entering the village of Steuben. The driving was slower than she expected and she amended the travel time between Blue Harbor and Bangor by an additional forty minutes. The drive was lovely, the afternoon sunny and cool, and the air that gusted through the open window was clean, salty and delicious.

Blue Harbor was like a place out of the past. Annie felt the tranquility flowing into her as she drove slowly through the coastal New England village. She found the Realtor’s office with no problem and met the agent who’d arranged the house rental. His name was Jim Hinkley and he was a spry, lean, seventy-nine years of age with piercing blue eyes and a lively interest in just about everything.

“I hope you like the old place,” he said, grabbing the key out of his desk drawer. “It’s one of my all-time favorite saltwater farms. I’ve known Lily Houghton, the owner, since she was a young girl. Used to court her back in high school, when she was still a Curtis. We were sweethearts for a time, but then she took a shine to that fancy-talkin’ Ruel Houghton.

“The only good thing Ruel ever gave her was his grandparents’ house, and Lily loved it. She was an artist, you see. She made a studio out of the old boathouse and did her painting there. She was good, too. Made quite a name for herself. It broke her heart when her son put her into the nursing home this spring, but he thought staying out there all by herself after she fell and broke her hip was just too risky.” He shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll take you out to the old place. It’s a ten-minute drive, just follow me and you won’t get turned around.”

The farm lay at the end of a mile-long dirt road on a high point of land overlooking the Atlantic. They passed through a gate at the entrance of the drive and Jim unlocked it. “It’s all Houghton land from here on in, all five hundred acres of it. Prime for development and worth a fortune, but Lily would never sell. Of course, now that she’s in that nursing home, I don’t know what her son will do. I’m not sure Lily has any say. I guess she gave Lester power of attorney. She hates developers, though. I do know that. They’ve been after this peninsula since Ruel died, and she’s refused to sell even the littlest piece of it.”

The first half mile of road wound through tall pine woods that gave way abruptly to a bright, greening sweep of field. Massive stone walls ran along both sides of the road, protectively enclosing an orchard on one side, rolling pasture on the other. Annie tried hard to take it all in but her senses were overwhelmed. The blue sky, the green pasture laced with wildflowers bending in the sea breeze, the gnarly old apple trees, some still blossoming, the great drifts of lupine blowing blue, purple and pink along the stone walls, the sharp ping of gravel against the undercarriage of the Explorer, all served to heighten her keen sense of anticipation as she craned for her first glimpse of the farmhouse.

She was not disappointed when at last it came into view. The stalwart boat-roofed Cape Cod was connected to a long, rambling ell, which was connected to a big old ark of a barn in a perfect example of classic New England architecture. All the buildings, including the barn, were painted white. The house and its attached string of outbuildings were oriented east to west, as most old farmhouses were, to take advantage of the sun. It was also positioned on the point of land so that it faced the magnificent harbor views to the south.

Unkempt but vigorous flower gardens flanking the south side of the house and the ell were a riotous bloom of color. Annie parked beside Jim’s car and joined him on the porch while he fished in his pocket for the key. “Wow,” she said, holding her hair away from her face in the stiff breeze and gazing out across the sparkling harbor.

“The view’s great, but if you recall, I warned you that the house was rustic,” Jim said, turning the key in the lock.

Annie drank in the spectacular scenery a few moments longer before following Jim inside. He paused for a moment to let her appreciate the kitchen. There was big cast-iron combination wood-and-gas cookstove with warming ovens above and a water jacket on the left hand side, a deep soapstone sink big enough to float a small boat, and a pitcher pump mounted to the counter beside it. The wide pumpkin-pine floorboards, the deep-silled windows with their plain cotton-tab curtains, the old farm table flanked by six sturdy chairs, the wall cupboard with its old blue paint and the kerosene lamps in their wall sconces completed the country feel of the room.

“Rustic,” Jim repeated as if bracing for some negative reaction. “I warned you.”

“It’s lovely,” Annie said with a smile. “I grew up in a house without electricity, and as far as I can tell it didn’t hurt me a bit.”

Jim cast a surprised glance at her. “England?” he said.

“Australia. A sheep station in the Outback, and I adored every moment of it. I suppose there’s a backhouse here. A loo.”

Jim laughed, relaxing. “Two, actually. One in the woodshed, the other in the barn. But Lily had a conventional bathroom installed at her son’s insistence. Flush toilet, shower, tub, sink. There’s a diesel generator in the woodshed that powers all the modern extravagances. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The tour continued, and the more she saw, the more Annie fell in love with the old homestead. Memories of her childhood home in Australia came flooding back, the sounds of children thundering down the back stairs into the kitchen, the squeak and clank of the hand pump as her mother drew water at the kitchen sink, the tang of wood smoke from the stove, the soft glow of oil lamps in the evening and the smell of good food cooking.

The entire farmhouse had a warm, friendly feel. The bedrooms were wallpapered in old-fashioned prints, the curtains were plain cotton muslin hung on wooden dowels and the floors were covered with handmade rugs of braided wool. The place was simple and clean, and Annie couldn’t believe her good fortune in being able to rent it for the summer. “Mrs. Houghton must have hated to leave here,” she said softly as Jim showed her what had been Lily’s bedroom, the queen four-poster angled so that she could prop herself up against the headboard and gaze out at the harbor as the sun rose on a Maine morning.

“Lily always hoped that she could live out her life here.”

There was a phone in the back hallway off the pantry. “It works,” Jim said as she lifted the receiver, “but no guarantees. The line just sort of lies on the ground and runs through tree branches for over a mile. Lily never wanted electricity in here, but her son insisted on a phone. Lester means well, but he can be overbearing at times. Still, he was right about the phone. Lily used it to call for help when she fell and broke her hip.”

“Where does Lester live?”

“Oh, he’s a hotshot lawyer. Went to Bowdoin College on a scholarship and took a position with one of those big Boston law firms. Makes a ton of money. Married a woman who doesn’t like Maine, so Lester doesn’t come north much. He wants to move Lily to a nursing home down near him, but she’s having none of it. Said if she couldn’t die at her farm, the very least she could do is die in Maine.”

“How sad.”

“Yes,” Jim said. “Strange, how things turn out. If she’d married me, she’d never have gone into that nursing home. But then again, she wouldn’t have had this place, either. Hard to know which would’ve made Lily happier in the long run…” Jim shrugged philosophically. “Now, about groceries…”

“I shopped in Bangor after dropping my daughter off at her father’s,” Annie said.

“Well, there’s a good store right here in town if you forgot anything. The refrigerator and stove in the kitchen run on gas. I’ll arrange for monthly propane deliveries, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“There are lots of staples in the pantry. Things like spices and sugar and flour. Some canned goods. Lily loved to cook. You’re welcome to use anything in the cupboards.”

“Thank you.”

“Well then, I guess you’re on your own.”

“I’ll be fine, Jim. And thank you so much for the tour.”

“I’ll leave my card by the phone, just in case. My home number’s on it, too. If you need anything, just give me a ring. And I’ll leave you the key to the gate. I don’t think there’ll be many busybodies driving down, but it’s summertime, after all, lots of tourists cruising about, so if you want to lock it…”

“Thank you, Jim. You can leave it open.”

She stood on the porch that spanned the south side of the ell and listened until the sound of his vehicle was drowned out by the steady rumble of the wind in the stunted pines that stood at the peninsula’s edge. The sun was hovering just above the horizon and the colors of sunset painted the granite outcroppings and the sparkling Atlantic waters.

Annie retrieved several grocery bags from the Explorer and found the one with the bottle of Australian pinot noir. She opened it, poured herself a glass and carried it outside, following the overgrown path through the grass that led toward the water. After a roundabout descending journey she came upon the boathouse, sturdily bolted to a projection of granite.

The boathouse was locked, its windows tightly shuttered, so she sat on the edge of the walkway that ran alongside it. She sipped her wine and watched the waves roll against the pier, rhythmically raising and lowering great fluxing beards of seaweed that clung to the sides of the old stones. She watched the seagulls hover in the stiff breeze and the plovers explore the tidal pools along the rocky shoreline.

For a long time she sat there, feeling the briny wind pushing cool and strong against her. Suddenly, for no reason she could have explained, she began to weep. She wept until she was exhausted, then she blew her nose, wiped her eyes, let her head tip back against the old silvery dock post, inhaled a deep, shaky breath—and smiled.

JAKE MACPHERSON used the full weight of his body in an attempt to open the unlocked but badly jammed door of the cabin after several manly kicks with his booted foot had failed. Amanda watched in silence. One heave did nothing at all to budge the door. In the movies, the door always gave on the second heave, but Jake reconsidered as he rubbed his offended shoulder and took several tentative breaths around the dull ache in his chest. It would be unwise to aggravate his wound. He never, ever, wanted to see the interior of a hospital again.

“The door’s stuck,” he reported to Amanda in case she hadn’t noticed.

His daughter nodded somberly.

The sun sank lower, the woods grew darker around them and the logs of the cabin looked solid, stoic and impenetrable. He began to doubt the wisdom of renting a place that hadn’t been used for more than three years. The Realtor had offered to drive out and open it up for them, but Jake had declined. After seeing how old Jim Hinkley was, it seemed too much to ask that he drive twenty miles just to unlock and show them a simple little cabin. So Jim had drawn them a map, given them the keys and wished them well. “Oh, one thing,” Hinkley had cautioned before they’d embarked. “If any repairs need be made, you’ll have to do them yourself or hire the job out, and the owners’ll deduct the repair bills from the rent. They’re too old to handle that stuff themselves.”

“Well, what do you think?” Jake asked Amanda. “Should I give it another try?”

Another somber nod. His stomach tightened. She was counting on him. He’d better make good. He picked up a two-by-six that someone had tucked beneath the cabin and used it to tap the edges of the door, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t. He took a breath, raised the two-by-six again and struck the door in the places that appeared to be bound tight. He put more muscle into it, and in the end was using the timber as a battering ram. When the door finally gave, it burst abruptly inward, spilling him into the dark interior with an undignified bellow. He tripped on something and landed in a face-down sprawl.

In the startled silence that followed, he heard small musical sounds behind him. Amanda, giggling behind her hands. He rolled onto his back and glared up at her. “What’s so funny, Pinch?”

“You, Daddy,” she said, convulsed in mirth.

He sat up and took stock. Not much to see through the light of the door. Two bunks against the far wall. Small gas stove on the left, along with a short run of countertop and a sink. Woodstove dead center, stovepipe rising straight up. Table and two chairs to the right of the door; squeezed in between them and the stove, nearly spanning the length of the little cabin, the promised canoe.

The first thing he did was haul the canoe outside and leave it beneath the big pines at the edge of the pond. Then he rummaged in the toolbox in the back of his truck, found a hammer and pried open the shutters while Amanda explored the cabin’s interior. “Daddy?” she asked as he worked on the last shutter. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Jake nodded toward a little structure behind the cabin. “Out back, Pinch.” He fastened the shutters back with the eye hooks and was putting the hammer away when he heard Amanda scream in fright.

“Daddy!” She had opened the outhouse door and recoiled in horror. He came up beside her and peered inside. “Spiders,” she pointed. “Big ones.”

He stared. “You’re right, Pinch, they’re huge.”

“I have to pee,” she whimpered.

“Not in here. Not until we evict these giants. C’mon. Let’s go find a handy tree.”

He took her hand and inhaled a deep breath of the woodsy air. It had been a long time. Too long. His daughter should have spent time in the outdoors the way he had as a boy. He’d been lucky. His parents were older, but they’d loved the woods and had brought him often to his grandparents’ camp. They’d taught him to appreciate the cry of the loons at dusk, the splash of a moose ambling along the shoreline, the deep authoritative hoot of a great horned owl in the midst of a moonlit night. They’d shown him how to paddle a canoe, how to tie the proper fly onto the proper weight leader, how to release a brook trout unharmed into the dark cold waters from which it came.

He needed to teach these things to Amanda. Instead he’d forgotten it all. It had been years since he’d last visited Maine. Maine. The name rolled off his tongue, sounding solid and big and just a little bit wild. It sounded like a place of tall trees, rugged mountains and rocky coastline. It sounded good.

How had he ever wound up in a place like New York City? He’d been so in love. Linda had been so beautiful, so in control, so sure of her future. Sophisticated and sharp, and so very kind to take any interest in a blue-collar boy such as himself.

He’d met her at a U-Maine party in Orono. She’d been visiting one of her friends, a girl in Jake’s physics class. They’d been introduced and the next thing he’d known he’d transferred to NYU just to be near her. While she’d studied acting at Juliard, he’d gotten his degree in political science and then picked up another degree in criminal justice, figuring that a cop could always get a job in New York City.

Linda had started making commercials, he’d walked a foot patrol and written parking tickets. They’d moved in together, a tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn. She’d won a small but steady role in a soap opera, he’d gotten his own patrol car. They’d married. When she’d landed her first movie role, he’d been working as a plainclothes detective, Amanda had been two years old and things had been looking good. But Hollywood changed Linda; the long separations had been difficult. By the time he’d made lieutenant, Linda had been nominated for an Oscar for best supporting actress in one of the most popular films of the year and their marriage was on the rocks.

Amanda was the one bright light that remained. Spending the summer with her was a gift beyond price. This place wasn’t quite as grand as his grandparents’ camp, but the important thing was that they were together. After Amanda had found the proper tree, which took some time because she wasn’t all that excited about the idea, Jake looked around the yard. “Well, Pinch, we’ve got our work cut out for us. This old cabin needs some tender loving care.”

“I’m hungry,” Amanda said.

“Me, too. That hamburger wore off a long time ago. Let’s get the truck unloaded and I’ll cook you something you won’t believe, it’ll be so good.”

“Can I watch?”

“You can supervise.”

Unfortunately, there was no propane in the tank outside the cabin, and Jake hadn’t thought to bring a jug of kerosene for the empty lamps. It was growing dark. He was about to suggest that they beat a hasty retreat to the nearest town for the night when he heard the cry of a loon wavering across the pond.

“Daddy,” Amanda breathed in awe, her hand reaching out for his. “What was that?”

“That’s a loon, Pinch. Sounds kind of crazy, doesn’t it? They can sound sad, too.”

“It’s scary,” she said.

“C’mon. Walk down to the dock with me and let’s listen for a while.” She stepped cautiously beside him and they stood on the thick cedar planking. The cry came again, long and mournful. “It’s definitely lonely this time.”

“What’s that splashing noise?” she whispered, pressing against him.

“Trout rising to a hatch of insects. See the ripples when one comes to the surface?”

Hard to see anything in the thick gloaming. A branch snapped in the woods nearby and he felt Amanda shiver. “Daddy?”

“Probably a moose coming down to the pond to drink. Sometimes they wade right out into the water and put their heads under to eat pond lily roots and grasses. We’ll see lots of moose while we’re here.”

“Are they big?” she whispered.

“As big as horses, with longer legs.”

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of. Let’s go back inside. I bet I can cook us some toasted cheese sandwiches on the woodstove. It’s getting kind of cool, and a little fire will warm the chill off the cabin. I think there are some candles, too. We’ll light a few and it’ll be real cozy, just like camping out.”

ANNIE CALLED her ex-husband that night. Ryan answered the phone himself and his voice was weary. “Sally’s fine, Annie. She picked out a cute puppy today, and between the two of them they’ve worn me out. Trudy’s been having some bad back pains and I’m a little worried about her, but she doesn’t want to call her doctor…” He rambled on distractedly for a few more minutes and then asked, “So, where are you staying? Sally told us you were renting a farmhouse up the coast.”

She gave him the phone number and address. “I told Sally she could spend some time here if she got lonely for her old mum.”

“Sure. I think it’s a good idea, you spending the summer nearby. It’ll be as good for you as it is for her, getting away from the big city. Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself already.”

“I am, actually. Very much,” she conceded.

“Annie, gotta go. Trudy just came downstairs and she looks pretty wrung out. Talk to you later.” Loud click. Dead line.

Annie replaced the receiver gently and sighed.

The old farmhouse creaked in the night the way old houses do, telling their own stories, and she sat in the kitchen for a while, reading the local paper by the light of the oil lamp. The muted thunder of the waves crashing up against the granite ledge was a constant lulling undercurrent of sound. When she looked out the window down the dark narrow bay, she could see the periodic flash from the Nash Island light. She had opened several of the old double hung windows in the kitchen and the curtains moved gently in a faint night wind. The only outdoor sounds were those of the ocean, of the light breeze through the wind-stunted evergreens that clung tenaciously to the shoreline and the distant clang of a buoy.

A far, far cry from the constant cacophony of human noise generated by a city the size of New York. It was only 9:00 p.m. and Annie thought that maybe she’d make some popcorn and curl up with one of the novels she’d brought to read, but instead she went to bed and slept better than she had in many months.

AMANDA HAD CHOSEN THE TOP bunk and just past midnight let out a shriek that woke Jake from a sound sleep and stopped his heart for a few beats. He sat up, slamming his head into the bottom of her bunk. “Amanda, what is it?” he gasped, holding his head.

“A mouse just ran across my bed,” she said, her voice quavering with fear.

“A mouse? You mean, one of those cute little creatures you were admiring while we ate supper?”

“Yes.” She sounded very close to tears.

“Amanda, that mouse isn’t going to hurt you. Go back to sleep.”

“I can’t,” she said, small-voiced. “I’m afraid it will come back.”

“Are you kidding? The way you just screamed?”

“Daddy, can I come down and sleep with you?”

“It’s a mighty narrow bunk, Pinch.”

“Please, Daddy.”

He wondered what the child experts would say about such business. Amanda was, after all, five years old. Still, she’d put up with a lot in the past twenty-four hours without complaining. She’d even eaten the burnt cheese sandwich outside on the porch while they’d waited for the smoke to clear from the cabin. “Okay,” he relented. “But just for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll get a trap for the mice so they won’t bother you anymore, and you can sleep in your own bed.”

Moments later she was snuggled up against him and almost instantly asleep. He lay in contemplative silence, listening to the loons on the pond and wondering about a certain doctor by the name of Annie Crawford. Wondering how long it would be before their paths crossed.