Enchanted August (11 page)

But first.

She wanted to lie down on the rocks but there was not a single one that could accommodate her without her having to drape herself at a terribly awkward angle. Instead she sat down on one warm stone and rested her back against another. The tank top was suddenly ridiculous, so she slipped it off. The shorts will stay on, she thought; it's more respectable to be topless than to be nude as a renter on a Maine island. Or is it vice versa?

It made her smile that she was even thinking about this. She lazily moved her head from side to side and still saw no one. A loon called out its crazy cry. What a loon, she thought. The waves lapped at the shore not far below. The buoy bell tolled far in the distance. The earth breathed, and so did Rose.

And not five minutes later, when a lobster boat loudly putt-putted into her consciousness and she opened her eyes to see the lobstermen barely fifty feet away, calling and waving, she waved back.

Maybe she
would
call Fred.

B
everly could not believe his ears. He was unhappy enough being with these two provoking women, and the silent Dester as well, but if the women were inviting men—overbearing, dreary boyfriends with no manners, he was sure—it was a different proposition altogether. Women, however shrill, at least made soft cooing noises when they heard about Possum (and even more when they heard about Gorsch). It was what he needed, what he deserved right now. Men would be stupid and obtuse. They'd make him feel foolish for putting out fresh water every day, hoping that the cat he'd heard near the osprey nest would stop by. Not that he wanted another cat. It was far too soon for that. But everyone deserves fresh water. Except these boyfriends.

The more he thought about it the more he was certain that nothing had been said in the e-mails about men invading the place; if there had been he would have declined to come.

“What is his name, Lottie?” asked Beverly abruptly.

She turned to him with a slight surprise. Beverly realized it was the first time he had addressed her directly. “Jon,” she said. “Jon Mellish.”

“Mellish?”

“Yes.”

“A friend?”

“In a way.”

“A boyfriend, then.”

“Not at all. A relative.”

“A blood relative?”

“Not blood. A husband.”

God, this woman was exasperating. “A husband.” Suggesting one of many. What a way to talk. Always that faux-naive twist to everything. Or was she genuinely a naif? Why couldn't she say “my husband”? The straights took so much for granted.

Besides, Beverly had assumed Rose and Lottie were not married at all. That they were two more of those careerist women who couldn't attract a man. There had been an absence of mention of husbands in the e-mails, which would not be natural if such persons did, after all, exist. And if a husband was not a relative, who was? Gorsch had died after same-sex marriage became legal but before he and Beverly had gotten around to being legally wed. Of course, he'd often called himself the unofficial Mrs. Samuel Gorsch, a joke that Gorsch, to his credit, never ceased to be amused by—to cherish, even. What if they had made it legal? What a grand time Possum would have had at the wedding. Beverly felt his eyes burn. A relative; not blood, she'd said? What did she know?

Beverly was not going to have the place overrun by people with whom he had no acquaintance. “This is unheard of,” he said. “To invite guests to a summer cottage.” Even as the words came out of his mouth he knew they were ridiculous.

“That's ridiculous,” said Caroline, radiant from something she'd been up to that afternoon. He'd heard footsteps on the floor above him and large objects being moved around while he was napping. Doubtless she'd had a tryst with a tennis-playing islander or that handsome young Max, the caretaker. At least she was fairly discreet about it. No doubt Lottie and this Mellish would bang on the walls all night and there'd be no peace.

“It's only for the weekend,” said Rose. “He'll have to leave on the Sunday late-afternoon ferry. Or Monday morning, latest. And we don't even know he's coming for sure.”

“You see,” said Lottie, leaning across toward Caroline, “we arranged, didn't we, in New York that if any of us wanted to we could each invite one guest. So now I'm doing it.”

“I don't remember that,” said Beverly, his eyes on his plate. The chowder could have stood some fresh parsley but of course the women had forgotten to pick it, as he'd asked, from the pots on the dock.

“Oh yes, we did—didn't we, Rose?”

“Yes—I remember,” said Caroline. “Only it seemed so incredible that we'd ever want to. The whole idea was to get away from our friends.”

“And our husbands.”

“And family affection,” said Caroline.

“Or lack of family affection,” said Rose. Her voice was quiet, but not too quiet for his failing ears to hear.

“Here's the thing,” said Caroline. “Jon Mellish might be coming up. The place is big. I've actually found a room I'd rather stay in, on the third floor, so I'll go up there and then Lottie can have the turret room, which is what she wanted in the first place.”

Rose flushed even deeper.

“Oh, but Caroline, it's Rose who'd like that room. It's rose-colored, like Rose herself. And don't say you wouldn't know, Beverly, because you're color-blind; we already know you wouldn't know. But even you can see the roses in those prints on the walls, regardless of what color they are.” Beverly noticed that Caroline was still enjoying Lottie's bluntness. “If you've really found a room you'd like better, then by all means move in. But I love my little nook downstairs, and I think Jon will love it too, once he realizes that he's meant to be here. Rose, you take the turret. That will be the perfect place for you and Fred when he comes up.”

“When Fred comes up?” said Rose. “Fred is not coming up.”

“Not yet, but he will. Fred is Rose's beloved husband,” Lottie explained. “He looks like a young Franz Kafka, according to Rose.”

“Hot,” said Caroline. It did not go over well.

“And Beverly, you'll be away from us all in the other tower, which should make you perfectly happy.”

“What will make me perfectly happy,” said Beverly, “is having a friend of my own come up to the cottage. In fact, I've already mentioned the idea to Kenneth Lumley, an acquaintance of long duration.” Of course, he had done nothing of the kind. “He will be my guest. And I will choose his room.”

Beverly had not spoken with Kenneth Lumley since Gorsch's memorial, and even then they'd only exchanged a few words. Before that, it had been years since they'd met. He couldn't even have said where Kenneth lived these days. Or
if
Kenneth lived these days. But he'd be damned if these women could have friends come up and he not a soul.

“Wow, it's a friends contest,” said Caroline. “I'm sure I could scare up a few
thousand
people who'd like to spend the weekend here. Not a husband, though.” Her voice, always thrilling, had just the right note of sadness for that little speech, Beverly thought. She should have won that Oscar.

“So Hopewell is to be invaded by no less than three, and no more than a few thousand guests,” said Lottie. “I'm glad it is such a large place. There should be room for all.”

 • • • 

The Milky Way had never been a big part of Caroline's consciousness, but here on the island it stirred up the sky. She had never seen quite so many stars before, and so close, and so bright. She lay on the fainting couch in her third-floor room and was astonished at the stars' presence through the window. It made her want to see them outside.

It was only a little after eight thirty and it felt like midnight. She crept downstairs; she didn't want to wake the others. She took a dark green fleece from one of the pegs by the front door and pulled it over her head as she went outside into the sharp air. The night smelled like pine; the fleece smelled like an old friend. She looked up. The stars were dizzying. She hadn't brought a flashlight, so she had to be careful picking her way down the cottage lawn to a place where she could get a view unobstructed by trees. She wanted to lie down on the grass but it was already too wet with dew. The moon had gone down, or at least Caroline couldn't see it anymore. If she walked to a slightly higher vantage point, she might be able to see better.

The fleece had a flashlight in its pocket; its light was dim, but it led her through the path she thought would take her to an expanse of lawn outside one of the island's shared buildings. She followed it, trying and failing to pick out any constellation other than the Big Dipper, which actually did look like a gigantic ladle in the sky.

She was not alone on the upward path. Other flashlights were shining ahead of her, following the same path. As she approached the lawn she was looking for, the pitch-blackness was diminished by a blaze of lights in the public building—the assembly room. She wondered what was going on inside. Home-movie night? A bridge game? Not even two weeks into her stay and Caroline realized there were a lot of island activities that Hopewell Cottage, filled as it was with renters, was not privy to.

Whatever the activity was, it was loud.

She opened the dark green screen door, which creaked; the noise in the building stopped abruptly.

She took in the room. This one looked as if it could have been a one-room schoolhouse, with a raised platform stage at one end and wooden chairs in a neat row along the walls. Pendant lights hung down from the crossbeams, and tiny Christmas lights wound around the rafters. She wondered if they had dances there. They should, she thought.

“We're allowed to be in here till nine thirty!” said a boy. Caroline guessed he was nine or ten years old. “We can play in the assembly room even when no one's watching us as long as we don't break anything.”

“We broke something!” said a little girl, much younger. “We broke something!”

“Quiet, Paige! You didn't have to tell,” said the boy.

Caroline did not care whether the children had broken something, but the girl, Paige, red-faced and querulous, looked like she was about to collapse if she didn't confess. “What did you break? Maybe I can fix it.”

“We broke a chair. James bashed it,” said another boy. He spoke in a whisper.

“Shut up, Wills. It just kind of broke on its own,” said James. The ringleader, clearly.

Caroline was not much good at fixing things, but an adult presence in the room took the anxiety out of the kids, or seemed to.

“We had a fight about the island show,” said one of the kids. “So James broke it. The show is supposed to be next
week
! We're trying to do it and nobody wants to do it right.”

“We want to do it right; we just don't want to do
Sarah
's dumb play,” said James. “We want to do a
good
show, with pirates.”

“We'll get in trouble if there's no island play. All the kids do it every year. We can't break the tradition. My grampy will kill me if we do.”

Paige started to cry.

Caroline considered for a minute. They wanted to put on a play; she knew how to put on plays. “Usually a grown-up is in charge but Kitty used to do it with us every year and now she's too sad so she won't do it anymore.”

Someone's depressed? On Little Lost Island? At least they're not
all
fit and healthy, Caroline thought. “Why is Kitty sad?”

“Max is bad!” said a kid named Reece.

“He broke her heart,” said Paige.

Max, a heartbreaker. She would not have expected it.

“Could you do the play with us? You're a grown-up. We don't know who you are, though,” said another of the girls.

“I'm Caroline.”

“My name is Jessie. And this is Georgia, and Garrison, and Tucker. And this is Wills. He's supposed to be in bed but my mom says she needed a break so we have to be home by nine thirty. James has a watch.”

James showed off his watch. A Timex, not a Rolex.

“Please?” said Wills, in a very tiny voice.

“Okay,” she said, “but I'm not acting. Because what I really want to do is direct.” She knew no one would get the joke.

“We're doing
Peter Pan
!” said James. “And I'm Captain Hook!”

“
Frozen
!” said all the girls at once.

“Don't fight!” said Wills. He put his fingers in his ears.

No wonder that poor Kitty isn't directing this year, Caroline thought.

“We have to have princesses.”

“I hate princesses. Princesses are stupid.”

“Peter Pan is stupid.”

The argument was going nowhere.

“
You
have to decide,” said James, looking right at her.

“No,” said Caroline. “
You
guys have to decide. You decide, and I'll make everything work.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Wills shouted out, “
Frozen Peter Pan
!” and an owl hooted.

“Whoa,” said Jessie.

They all looked at Caroline.

“All in favor say aye-aye!” she said.

They were all in favor. “Aye-aye!”

R
ose was only a little envious as she watched Lottie spend all Friday morning getting ready for Jon and Ethan. They loaded up on egg noodles, strawberry yogurt, string cheese, apple juice boxes, and hot dogs for Ethan; Maker's Mark, chips and salsa, and a great-looking peach pie for Jon. It was hot and muggy on the mainland, and there wasn't enough time to stop at the library and call home. Besides, it would have been hard to talk to her family knowing that they weren't coming, while Jon and Ethan were.

The ride over to Little Lost cooled them off, just in time for the long, uphill, wheelbarrow-pushing path to Hopewell.

“I'm going to lose weight on this vacation,” Lottie said. “And get new muscles.”

Everything was working out for Lottie, just as she had said it would. It would be nice if
all
Lottie's predictions came true.

“Where is he going to sleep, Lottie?” Rose asked as they unloaded the groceries. She noticed there were fresh wildflowers on the table. “Caroline's been up, I see. Are you going to put him in that dorm room? It's kind of big for one kid.”

“I know,” said Lottie. “Ethan could never sleep there alone. But there's a little room adjoining mine. I didn't even know it was there till I was poking around yesterday. It's either supposed to be a really big closet or a really tiny bedroom. But it has a window. I'll show you.”

Rose peeked into the sweet, small room adjoining Lottie's. “This house is Castle Gormenghast,” she said.

“What's that?” Lottie asked.

“A gigantic place. In a book,” Rose said. One of Fred's old favorites.

“Maybe you can help me bring down a mattress from the dorm room?” Lottie asked.

Rose and Lottie found one that they could easily get downstairs. The room was just the right size for it. The tiny window opened easily, to their surprise; a night-light there worked when they plugged it in, and behind an old velvet curtain there was a supply of quilts and pillows.

“Ethan might actually sleep here,” said Lottie. “Which would make Jon happy.”

“I'm sure,” said Rose.

Lottie smiled. “We had a ton of fun together before we got married. We still have fun a lot of the time. He's a good guy when he lets himself be.”

“I'm sure we'll all love him,” Rose said, even though she wasn't sure at all, and she was wary of having the balance of the cottage change with a new arrival.

Lottie grinned at her. “He's really a sweetheart under all the bluff. Beverly won't want much to do with him at first—that I know—and Jon will be totally blown away by Caroline when he first meets her. I hope he doesn't show off too much.”

Yikes. “Maybe I'll go upstairs and round up some books for Ethan. I haven't gotten myself to the library yet. I keep taking the wrong path and ending up at the post office.”

Rose went back upstairs. She imagined the twins in the dorm room, having a blast with Ethan. Unlikely, she thought. She'd spend all her time making sure Ben didn't alienate the other kids and, more to the point, the other parents, and he'd be awful to Bea and then Fred would say she was too involved with them both and the whole charm of the island would be spoiled. Nice.

She went over to the bookshelf and found a pile of Dr. Seuss books that she imagined Ethan would like. When she got downstairs the alcove had aired out, and between the books and the little nest of a bed and the light streaming in from the window, it looked like a cozy spot.

“Am I crazy to think he'll sleep in his own bed here?” asked Lottie.

“I think he will,” said Rose. “I see it.”

 • • • 

The car trip from Providence to Little Lost took forever, even though Jon had started as early as he could. Ethan was a trouper in the car: the iPad was a big help there, and a long nap got him through as far as Bucksport. He was pretty whiny on the last stretch, but he perked up on the ferry. Lottie met them on the dock. Ethan flung himself into her arms as Jon lugged the bags up to the house. Jon was hot and tired from the ride. He'd had no idea it was going to be such a long walk up from the dock. If the place weren't so pretty, he'd really be steamed.

“Race you, Daddy!”

“I can't race with all your stuff.”

“You can run to the end of the boardwalk, Ethie. Then stop at the top, okay?”

“Do you seriously get water from a spring? Why isn't anybody bottling it? Lost Island Water!”

“Little Lost Island.”

“Way better name than Poland Spring.” This island could be monetized in a second. He spotted the sign for Hopewell and Grundys. “How much farther?”

“Not a whole lot. It's still uphill, though. Hold my hand, Ethan. It's rocky here.”

A few steps farther and Hopewell Cottage came into view. He could not believe Lottie was calling this giant place a cottage! This mom friend of Lottie's must be loaded. “Is this Rose Arbuthnot's place? Or Caroline Dester's?” Jon asked.

“Neither,” said Lottie.

“What do you mean, neither? If I could get even a piece of the Caroline Dester business I'd rake in the billing,” he said. “When do I meet her?”

“When she's here, Jon. Everyone wants a piece of her. Rose and I said we wouldn't be gawpers. You won't be a gawper, will you? Maybe give it a day before you talk to her about it.”

“I'm only here till Sunday night so I'll strike whenever the iron is hot. And I feel it heating up,” Jon said. “Are we upstairs?”

“No, down here.”

“What's heating up?” asked Ethan.

“The sun,” said Lottie. “Here's where Mommy and Daddy sleep.”

“I don't want to go to bed!”

“It is
so
not bedtime!” Lottie said. “I won't even show you your room till later, how about that?” She turned to Jon. “I'll take him to the rocks over by the Grundy cottage. That's where I saw the crabs, Ethie!”

“I could crush a crab!” said Ethan.

“I picked up some Shipyard ale for you, Jonnie. You can grab that and take a shower outside. Or if you want a freezing swim just follow the path out the back door.” She was always good about figuring out what he needed, and what he needed right now was to unwind from the drive so he'd be ready for the movie star.

“Crabs! Crabs! Crabs! Crabs!”

“We're going, Ethie. You can meet the others later, Jon. I'm not sure where they are. You'll find the kitchen. Oh, and you can see France from upstairs!”

Lottie was always a little hazy on geography.

He checked his e-mail. Nothing since 3:36
P.M
. There really was no service here. Luckily on a summer Friday not a lot was getting done, even at his billing-hungry firm. He'd have to go into town first thing tomorrow to see what he'd missed. He kind of hoped Carla would hold off on sending any more flirty texts till he headed back on Monday. She'd been fairly free with them while Lottie was away. They were both playing it pretty safe still—no isolated body parts—but he didn't want Lottie picking up his phone and seeing a selfie of Carla posing with his briefs (a law firm joke that never got old).

The cottage seemed to be empty. He wasn't surprised. It was a gorgeous afternoon. Every window he looked out from had a view and here on the porch the landscape kind of blew your mind. The sun, low in the sky, lit up the water: sparkling, clear, calm. It almost looked warm—could that be possible, in Maine? Jon remembered from grade school that some parts of the coast were warmed by currents from the Gulf of Mexico (thanks, Miss McCabe), but was this one of those spots?

He grabbed a little towel from the washbasin in one of the bedrooms. I won't go in the whole way.

He clomped down the stairs and pulled off his shoes and socks. He left them messily on the back porch—I'm on vacation!—then charged down toward the path. The stones were tough on his feet, unused as they were to being out of socks and shoes. When had he started wearing socks so much? The stones were bigger and warmer as he approached the sea, but the water looked a little more intimidating. And cold. Now it looked
cold
.

He put his feet in. It was really,
really
cold. But shit, it might feel good to go in after that drive. Wash off four hundred miles and unread e-mails and unpaid credit cards and the hours he had yet to bill this quarter right here in this bay or whatever it was.

He stripped off his shirt. He'd been eating lean, just in case anything did happen with Carla. His chest was pale but if he tensed up there was a pretty creditable six-pack for all to admire. The sun felt so great on his back. He could go in wearing his boxers. He took off his jeans and laid them on a rock. Or he could go in without his boxers.

Nobody was around.

He stripped down to nothing and felt fantastic. Ha! This little towel barely covers my dick, he thought, and laughed. It was possible to laugh at himself here in Maine. He wrapped it around his waist—Lottie always liked that effect; she said he had swimmer's shoulders, and she was right—and walked out a long way to the water's edge. Clearly low tide. Jon hadn't thought about tides since he was a kid.

He dropped the towel on a rock, ran through the shoals, and dived in.

“
Jesus Christ!
”

A small wave lapped at him.

“
Fuck!
It is fucking
cold
!”

He was puffing like a whale, making terrible noises. But Jesus, it was like ice. Why would anyone swim here?

“Whoo!” He ducked his head under and threw it back. Cold cold cold! But God he felt good. He splashed his arms and puffed some more. He was a sea monster in the icy water. He was a kraken. “Release the kraken!” he roared, and splashed some more. “
Release
the
kraken
!”

As Jon ducked his head in and out of the water again, he noticed someone on the shore. Not Lottie and not Ethan. A man. A man in a blazer?

The man in the blazer was sitting on Jon's jeans and shirt on the rock. He looked very comfortable. Jon had been in for two minutes and his teeth were starting to chatter. Then the blazer man spotted Jon's towel at the edge of the water. He headed deliberately toward it. “Hey!” Jon called out when he picked it up. “Hey—that's my towel!”

Either his voice didn't carry or Blazer did not care. Blazer did not let go of the towel.

“That's my
towel
!” Jon cried out with a note of alarm, which sounded babyish, even to him. He was freezing now but he kept treading water. He wanted to get out and he wanted his towel. How long till hypothermia set in? Would he die here? Would he be a dead kraken?

“Yo!” Jesus, will he ever go?

The man folded the towel neatly, put it over his arm, and placed it and the rest of Jon's clothes far from the water. Nice of him, but who gives a shit if my towel's a little wet? Blazer man turned to head back to the path and Jon started stomping out of the water. I don't give a flying fuck if the old codger sees me. It'll be the thrill of his life, I bet, even if my balls are the size of chickpeas right now.

When the water was at his knees and the towel was only twenty paces away, a figure stood up from the rocks that jutted around the corner of the cove where Jon had been swimming—or rather, splashing. Holy Christ, had she been there the whole time?

“You must be Lottie's husband, Jon,” she said in that voice of hers. It was Caroline Dester. She had a full frontal view. “Beverly!” she called to the man in the blazer. “Come back and meet our new houseguest.”

Jesus. Caroline Dester was ten feet away and he was standing there with his dick hanging out. The sun was warm on his back but he was so chilled he shook.

“Oh, that must be yours,” said the man—Beverly?—and he pointed to the towel, still some distance from Jon up the rocky beach. “I folded it for you.”

“Thank you,” said Jon. There was nothing for it now and he decided what the hell. “Jon Mellish,” he said, and boldly extended his hand to Beverly. Caroline was approaching him, getting more stunning with every step. “Lottie Wilkes is my wife. And you are?”

“I am Beverly Fisher. I've taken the house for August with your wife and the others. It's a pleasure to meet you.” He turned to Caroline as she approached, smiling broadly. “This is the lovely Caroline Dester.”

“Ms. Dester. Delighted to meet you,” said Jon. Water is dripping off my dick, and I'm shaking hands with a movie star. Shit. Fuck.

“My pleasure,” said Caroline. Christ, she was cool. Eye contact only. Meanwhile, God only knows where Beverly Fisher's eyes were looking. “Lottie has said so many wonderful things about you.” She had? “I understand that when you're not standing naked on beaches, you're an accomplished attorney.”

If Jon hadn't been so ruddy from the swim, she would have seen him blush. Good old Lottie. “Would you excuse me while I get my towel?” he asked.

Neither of them made a move, but Beverly said, “Of course.”

Of course, my ass, thought Jon as he turned up toward the house. Well, I'll give you the full show. At least I've been working out.

He took the twenty paces nice and slowly. At last he reached the towel and wrapped it around his waist. Not that it even made a difference now.

“Hope to see more of you soon!” called Caroline.

As Jon walked deliberately back to the cottage, he heard Beverly speaking to Caroline. “It has been quite some time since I've seen a naked man in the flesh.” Great. Where has he seen them? “Jon Mellish is a strapping fellow, no doubt about it. No wonder Lottie married him.”

Damn right, thought Jon.

Once he'd whipped into the outdoor shower at the back of the cottage and blasted himself with hot water, he was surprised at what he felt. He didn't blame Lottie; that was the oddest thing.

“Ha!” he yelled aloud. Caroline Dester just saw me naked and I was supposed to make such a good impression on her. She must think I am a moron, but I don't even care.