East Hope (12 page)

For the next several days he worked hard cleaning. He liked handling the books. Now and then bits of paper slipped from the pages: grocery receipts, ribbons, postcards. As he dusted and sorted, many of the books having apparently been set randomly on the shelves, he became more interested in the odd things that readers left behind in their books. One morning he found a pocket comb, the stub of a bus ticket, a recipe for “Mother's Johnnycakes,” written in pencil on a sheet of oily paper.

There were letters too. Setting these aside with some of his other finds, he was struck by one written on faded blue stationery. The fine ornate script was almost impossible to read, as if the ink had blurred from having been left out in the rain. Only the first few lines were legible.

The rest of the lines were impossible to decipher.

Will read this last letter a second time and suddenly longed for Mary Beth, his first love. He'd been a “dweeb of the first order” in high school, according to his brother, Rusty, and his love life reflected it. College had been better, but the stars had never lined up for him. He had been flattered by the attentions of several young women, but when the relationships moved to more serious ground he found himself wanting out. They were like the soap bubbles of his childhood, glimmering and lovely for a while and then nothing at all.

Mary Beth was a student in the small discussion section that he led once a week in the spring of her senior year at the university. The course was on the birth of the English novel. Will was in his third year of graduate school and worked as a teaching assistant to cover his tuition. He felt an instant attraction to Mary Beth, as if there were a clear thread pulled taut between them. She was unlike any of the women he'd dated as an undergraduate, silly girls who thought of college as one big party. Mary Beth was smart, an economics major, and she was grateful to be getting a college education. She was not only hardworking and serious, but also beautiful.

At the end of the year she had lingered after class. It seemed that they both had plans for the future. She was starting business school in the fall. He intended to teach while writing his dissertation. He asked her out a few days before her graduation. It had been like diving into the ocean for the first time. He loved her energy and determination. She admired his ambition to become a college professor and was thrilled to be part of his academic world. They went out frequently that summer. His life changed.

Will put the forgotten love letter inside the old book for someone else to discover. The powerful message of those words written by someone long ago lingered inside him. He decided that he'd had enough of cleaning. Dust hung in the air. He put down his rags and decided to take a break. While cool, the day was sparkling. He pulled on a fleece jacket and set off on the path behind the store that led to the water.

Penny had told him that the property behind the bookstore had been given to a land trust so that it could never be developed. Will crossed the field and started along the path into the woods. The wind grew quiet in the protection of the trees, and the ground under him was soft and fragrant from years of decomposed pine needles. Small sticks and pinecones covered the forest floor along with mosses of all kinds, some soft and rounded, others rough and tufted in all shades of greens and gray. Miniature pines along with more fragile saplings managed to grow and thrive under the taller canopy of trees in this small slice of the world. This place felt primeval, untouched by modern time.

The path widened into a clearing, and the sparkling water lay before him. Will climbed across several large granite rocks and arrived at a pebble beach. He sat on a flat boulder and took in the view. Like a small boy he thought,
This is my beach, my rock, where I stake my claim and the adventure begins.
He lay back on the rock. The stone was warm from the sun and felt good on his spine. He closed his eyes.

Summer was usually the time of year when he'd start reading for the fall semester. The best part of teaching English was that it never got old. He liked to choose different books each year for his classes. Mary Beth used to compliment him on how fast he read. On warm evenings she would wander into his study, push aside the book in his lap, and insist he come outside. They would sit on the patio, gazing at the stars, and he would tell her about the novels he planned to teach. This summer he didn't need to prepare for the fall. It was like being unmoored.

Will sat up and blinked into the sun. Mary Beth. The sharp-edged memories of their final argument in Habliston had blurred. He wasn't stuck in the past, like she said. If she could just see him here now, beginning anew. In Maine he felt like a different person. Pressing his hands to his temples, he stared at the horizon. He'd planned to work on his novel that afternoon, but the day was too beautiful. It was the air, the light, the place. His body craved being part of it. He decided to take a run.

Caroline set up her computer on the round table in Lila's living room and set to work. With the bookcases on either side of the front window, the beautifully proportioned mantel above the fireplace, and the ample light that flowed through the tall windows overlooking the back lawn, it was her favorite room in the house. The walls were painted a watery blue, and faded curtains, of the same chintz that covered the chairs and the long sofa that faced the fireplace, hung at the windows. On closer inspection she could see the pattern was of hydrangeas.

So far her only problems with the house appeared to be dust, accumulated clutter, and peeling paint. It was odd how she had so little memory of this house from her visit fifteen years before. Still, it was a long time ago, and that summer she was still in shock from Grace's death, coping with depression, all her senses deadened. On this visit Caroline was recovering from another loss, but now it was as if her senses were heightened, almost as if she'd awakened from a deep sleep to rediscover the world around her.

Caroline seemed particularly aware of her sense of smell. When she'd opened the door yesterday on her arrival, she noticed the stale scent of the house, in sharp contrast to the outdoor freshness of the day. Later she was assaulted by the damp mustiness of a linen closet when she reached in to find sheets for her bed, the faded perfume of some kind of talcum powder in Lila's bedroom; the smell of a cracked, yellowing bar of soap above the kitchen sink, floor wax, old clothing, furniture polish, moist plaster; the pinched scent of ashes in the fireplace, a hint of wood smoke, all the smells that suggested the layers of living, the closely guarded history of an old house.

Caroline liked working in this space, so different from the small nook off the kitchen where she had her writing desk in Chevy Chase. Though this room was large, it felt cozy. Everything about Lila's house was old-fashioned, even antique. The painting of the ship above the fireplace; the cream-colored jug on a side table; the threadbare Oriental rug in the front hall; the dining room furniture, a mismatched assortment all painted a pearly shade of gray; and the stacks of china in the butler's pantry—everything looked as if it had been lovingly chosen. Caroline half expected Aunt Lila to walk in the back door wearing an old cardigan against the wind, a bouquet of lilacs filling her arms. With the pleasant ticking of the clock, the house seemed to have a life of its own.

Caroline had spread her files across the table. Starting a new project was always a challenge, but knowing that she had to do this for the money and that she'd promised the first draft to Vivien by September spurred her on. Vern Simpson was coming tomorrow, and she hoped the noise of his work would not destroy her concentration. The clock in the hall struck eleven. She could taste the acid from her morning coffee and realized she hadn't eaten, so she went to the kitchen and toasted and buttered a slice of bread. She carried it to the back steps and sat outside in the sunshine.

Upon waking earlier that morning, Caroline had felt a sense of peace. Most days her first thoughts were of Harry—the shock of her loss. Today the sadness felt less intense. Being far from home and in such a beautiful spot definitely softened the pain. While she sat eating the toast, the sun warming her shoulders, she reflected on this place. Being here made her feel different. It was also a great relief to be away from Pete. That one emotionally charged night was fading from her memory.

The back steps of Lila's house were protected from the wind. Rounded pine-topped islands dotted the bay. Caroline counted seven. The sky was perfectly clear, and the islands looked enchanting in the sun-drenched water. She could picture Rob taking a kayak out to explore. His strong young arms would cut right through the sparkling water with the paddle. Caroline smiled. Rob was doing better too. She had phoned him at the camp shortly after her arrival in Maine to give him her telephone number. Hollis Moody had reactivated Lila's phone line, as cell phone coverage in East Hope was spotty. Rob told her all about the trip he was going to lead the next day. He barely drew a breath in his excitement, sounding like he used to when he came home from one of his trips out west with his father.

Harry, Richard, and Rob had started taking their “guys only” trips the summer Rob turned eight. Rob had done all the usual boy activities: soccer, baseball, years of tennis lessons. What he truly loved was time in the wilderness. Together the three males had fished, hiked, and taken river rafting trips. When Richard's arthritis had made it difficult for him to travel, Harry had continued the tradition with his son.

Caroline pulled her sweater more tightly around her and gazed at the view. These islands could appear near or far depending on the light. In the fog, they would disappear altogether.

She took another bite of toast. It was nutty and warm. The homemade bread came from a shop in the village. Caroline had been pleased to discover that a local woman brought in fresh baked goods two days a week. Her life now seemed to center so much on food, though meals during her childhood in Connecticut had been ordinary. She grew up eating roasts, chops, grilled steaks along with simple vegetables and always a starch. Her family never ate out except for an occasional meal at the country club, and that was considered a treat. For much of her life, eating had held little interest for her. In college, where the cafeteria food was truly awful, she splurged on pizza, deli sandwiches, and the Chinese takeout that kept her from starving. It was on her honeymoon in Paris with Harry that she discovered the delights of delicious meals.

They'd arrived in the French capital early in the morning after their flight. Numb and exhausted from lack of sleep, they wandered along the Left Bank before stopping at a neighborhood bistro for lunch. Caroline ordered roast chicken, fried potatoes, and salad. That first bite of chicken had tasted moist, flavorful, and different from any other chicken she had ever eaten. She marveled that something so simple could be so good. They had sipped a cool Alsatian white wine and fallen into a deep sleep that afternoon. When she awoke, she'd smiled at the pleasure of having Harry beside her, and thought about their next meal.

Harry, never one to enjoy lengthy trips to museums, had been happy to walk with her all over Paris, enjoying restaurants, bistros, and cafés of all types. Caroline came home from their trip eager to learn how to cook, and, though she didn't know it yet, also pregnant with Rob. In the hurried departure after their wedding, she had forgotten her birth control pills. When she told Harry, he told her not to worry; he would buy condoms. Caught up as she was in the food, wine, and passionate early days of their marriage, they had not been cautious enough. Harry, older and an only child, had been happy about starting a family. Caroline had barely gotten used to being a wife when she learned she was to become a mother.

During the queasy stretch of her pregnancy she forgot about the Parisian meals, and in the early years of Rob's life she couldn't seem to find the time for gourmet cooking. It was only later, after Grace, when Harry encouraged her to go out more, to get involved in something new, that she remembered her wish to learn more about cooking. She'd taken a class at the Cuisine Academy, and there she met Vivien.

Now, warmed by the Maine sun, Caroline finished her toast and walked across the lawn toward the water. The air was crisp. She turned up the collar of her sweater. The bay shimmered before her and the sun was high.

Vivien would be coming in a few weeks, and Caroline had not made much progress on the vegetable cookbook. Similar to the work for the soup book, her job included putting the recipes in order, editing the directions, and providing a few sentences of introduction for each recipe and the different sections of the book. This project appeared longer than the soup book.