Enchanted August (13 page)

I
n the days that followed her discovery of the third floor, Caroline had been through three trunks and was delighted today to find a fourth. The island seemed more quiet than ever after the commotion of the work party. Sunday really had been a day of rest, though in the afternoon, she had met up with the kids again at the assembly room.
Frozen Peter Pan
was pretty much a shambles, but the kids were having a good time, and she was too.

Today's big activity was the market boat, which she was determined not to miss this week. There were a couple of hours before she'd have to head to the dock to see what it was all about. But for now, since there was a cool breeze and the third floor was calling, she was up there again.

All the instruments must be Robert SanSouci's. She'd thought that when she first went up there and knew it now, from what Rose had told her about him. A lutenist. Who knew there even was such a profession? She wondered why he didn't need all these guitars in New York. They must be his extras.

She assessed the guitars, chose one, and lifted it down from the wall. She strummed the strings: very out of tune. And it was the lute she really wanted to play.

It was quite a strange instrument. It didn't fit right in her hands. She wasn't sure how to hold it, even. The strings were strangely quiet, but loud enough for this still room. Things were quieter back then, she guessed.

She felt a little bad playing the lute. It felt too intimate. She put it back on the wall as carefully as she could. The trunks of clothing, the furniture, the rugs—she felt entitled to disturbing them. They needed it! But the lute—that was not her domain.

The garments she had already exhumed, most of them too thin and threadbare to wear, were exquisite in their making. The pin tucks were exacting; the pleats were just so; the tiny wasp waists were taken in perfectly. She planned to try them on. She wanted to be whoever it was these clothes had belonged to.

The fourth trunk was rusted and hard to open. Caroline thought about the last time she had packed a suitcase. She'd thrown together her clothes for Maine, and now that she was here she found herself wearing about 10 percent of what she'd brought. Her suitcases had rollers and were made of material developed no doubt by someone at NASA. They were ugly: zippers and handles and made to fit in the overhead bins of commercial airlines. And even on private flights she kept her cosmetics in containers of no more than three fluid ounces. Force of habit.

These trunks were made of wood and leather. Thick, hardy leather, probably from a kind of cow they don't even have anymore. A yak, or a buffalo, maybe. Each of the trunks had brass buckles and hasps and locks. This woman, the owner of these trunks, she knew how to travel in style. The initials on the three trunks were IOM, but on the fourth they were IOS.

“Imogen Olivia Monroe?” Caroline mused. She tried on a hat with a narrow brim. “Isabelle Oona Merryweather?” A small navy wool cape came out next. Caroline fitted it onto her shoulders, freckled now from two weeks in the sun.

“And then she got married,” she said. “Isadora Osgood Saunderson.” Probably her lady's maid packed for her back then, though maybe the young and lissome Isadora did it herself. Caroline liked to think she did.

Isadora Osgood Saunderson was not a movie star. She was not in the spotlight. She had her white linen dresses and a cottage in Maine. And she had Mr. Saunderson, the man she had married. The man she loved?

It was a little after twelve forty-five, and this market boat was apparently not to be missed, so she grabbed what cash she had and headed down to the dock. She wore her sun hat and sunglasses in case anyone was filming, although by now it seemed like an unnecessary precaution.

As she arrived on the wharf she saw a two-masted boat being tied up at the dock by a couple of teenagers in pale yellow shirts that read
FAIRWEATHER FARM
. On this side of the island, the breeze had disappeared. The sun was hot and there was little shade on the dock, but a number of islanders were clustered next to the boat, talking and snapping up the blueberries, the late summer squash, and most popular, the baked goods that the floating farmers market so prettily offered for sale. Max was bringing salmon tonight, and Beverly planned to put it under the broiler with a sesame ginger marinade. Caroline thought a strawberry-rhubarb pie would be the perfect complement; there was one left. She went to pick it up when an older, statuesque woman seemed deliberately to get to it first.

“Strawberry-rhubarb is a tradition in my family,” she said to Caroline. Then she turned to a knot of women on the dock and spoke in a stage whisper. “People with new money will take over these islands if we're not careful. You would think the bylaws would have something in them about who exactly gets to rent here.”

Thanks, lady, Caroline thought.

“You're in the minority, Kay,” said another of the women. She sighed. “We've talked this one through at the Annual Meeting a number of times.”

The other woman was silent for a moment. She looked over the tomatoes on the boat, found them wanting. “Ferry was late again this morning,” she said to the others on the dock, turning her back on Caroline. “We should give island teenagers island jobs. Not these people from town.”

The kind-looking farmer who ran the market boat gave Caroline a supportive smile through his unkempt beard. “Kay van Straaten. She's a mean old biddy,” he said. “You're a movie star.”

“You're right,” she said.

“That explains it,” he said.

“Explains what?”

“She doesn't like rich people. Or people who didn't get rich the way she did.”

“She doesn't like most people, from the sound of it.”

“That was about Max, the kid who drives the ferry. Kay doesn't like him. Or really, she doesn't like that her granddaughter likes him.”

“You know a lot,” said Caroline.

“The market boat gets all the gossip,” he said, and smiled again.

Caroline looked over the lush produce and the delicious-smelling baked goods. There were some sticky buns and some biscotti, but she didn't see any more pies. “Pies all gone?” she asked.

“Kay got the last one.”

“See you next week,” she said. “Save a strawberry-rhubarb for me.”

Caroline walked past the knot of older women on the dock and the old bat continued to hold forth. “I hope it chokes you,” she said in a voice that no one except possibly Kay van Straaten could hear.

 • • • 

Jon woke late. There was no one next to him, and the smell of coffee was strong in the clear cool Maine morning air. Lottie must be making breakfast. He was glad he'd found them a new coffeemaker. They needed him here. He sat up in the crisp sheets and got up to check on Ethan in the little room adjoining theirs. Asleep. Sound asleep. Incredible.

It was Tuesday morning and he had told the office he had pneumonia and he'd be out all week. They sent a get well e-card and told him as long as he was back for the client meeting on Friday and covered his e-mails and called in for the daily scrum, he'd be fine.

Somebody's already taken my chair, I bet.

He couldn't leave Maine yet. He and Lottie were having a ball and the minute Ethan hit the island he got on some primeval sleeping schedule and slept through the fucking night. With fucking being the operative word.

He'd known Lottie would be happy to see him, but he hadn't anticipated how happy he was to see her. They'd had a blast in bed last night. He'd wanted to devour her and she'd let him. “I'm a greedy girl,” she'd said. Jesus. It made it even hotter that they had to be so quiet, with everyone just a few thin planks away. And this morning before dawn he wanted her again and again and she wanted him. He'd missed it so much he almost thought he would break her in two.

Ethan slept through it all. A miracle.

Now Lottie was making him breakfast. Could he take her as she bent over the stove? What if Caroline Dester was there, watching?

Whoa. If he hadn't had such a good time this morning he'd run with that idea. Instead he reminded himself that Caroline Dester needed an IP attorney, not an invitation to a threesome.

Ethan wandered in sleepily from his little room next door. Jon loved how much their son looked like him, especially when he was rubbing his eyes like that. Jon was a sex-machine kraken who loved his kid and had made friends with a movie star who knew how he looked with his clothes off.

Maybe he'd skip checking his e-mails in the Harbor today. Screw real life. “That's why they call it vacation, dude!” he said to Ethan and they both laughed hard. “Lottie! Heat up the griddle!” he called. “We're making pancakes.”

 • • • 

“Oh, hello,” said Rose. “I didn't know whether you were open or closed.”

Big as the cottage was, when it rained that afternoon, Rose felt restless. Lottie, Jon, and Ethan were playing bombardment chess, a game involving bombing chess pieces with other chess pieces, which she knew Ben would have enjoyed. Caroline was making a project of rearranging the furniture in the formal sitting room. When Rose had questioned whether Robert, who was scheduled to arrive soon, would want his furniture changed around, Caroline said, “This room is crying out for help and if he doesn't see it, he needs to,” and that was that. Beverly had installed himself in the kitchen, and they all knew by now not to disturb him there.

So Rose took a slicker off the peg in the hall by the stairs, pulled on a pair of short rubber boots, and headed for the door. Lottie took a break from bombarding to see her off.

“It's a nice rain,” she said.

Rose nodded. “I'll be back by suppertime,” she said. “I wouldn't miss a Beverly meal.” He was grilling swordfish tonight if the rain abated.

“Tell us if you discover anything new,” said Lottie.

“Maybe there's a Walmart here and we haven't seen it yet,” said Jon.

“Or Chuck E. Cheese's!” said Ethan. “There could be Chuck E. Cheese's and we could go.”

“I'll let you know if I find a Chuck E. Cheese's, Ethan,” said Rose. She kissed him on the head and thought of Bea and Ben. Please let them be okay.

The path from the back door led toward the north end of the island. It was true, they hadn't done much exploring there. The rain was not hard and not cold. It felt like another manifestation of the water that was all around them. She walked for some time and found herself again at the library. All roads lead here, she thought.

She had expected an elderly lady behind the desk. Or an older man, hard of hearing and peeved at being intruded upon. She saw instead a strapping redheaded teenage girl with earphones on. She hadn't heard Rose come in but then looked up, startled, as Rose walked up to the desk. “Oh, I'm sorry! I'm not supposed to wear earphones in the library. My mom will kill me. Can I help you?”

“No, I'm fine, thank you. Can I just browse a bit?'

“You can browse all you want and you can also borrow anything that's not in the reference collection. If you can tell what the reference collection is.” She looked around dolefully. “We had a flood here right before the island opened up for the summer. The roof leaked half of May and the place got pretty wrecked. They were going to close the library all summer and do a big revamp in the fall but people wanted it open, but now nobody comes. It even smells bad! And the Young LABs are supposed to do the cleanup but everybody's putting it off.”

“The young labs?”

“The Young Ladies Association for Beautification. It's a dumb name, especially now because there are guys in it. We're the next generation of Little Losters and we're supposed to take responsibility for our shared community.” She was using a lot of air quotes, but there wasn't an edge to them. “But, um, try getting everybody here on the same weekend and then when they're here try getting them to weed through mildewed books. Hashtag I don't think so.”

Rose smiled. Not everyone here on Little Lost was impervious to the outside world.

“I can help,” she said. “I actually did some sorting during the work party last Saturday. I don't think we've met. I'm Rose Arbuthnot.” She extended her hand. The girl shook, with a good, firm grip. They all had old-fashioned manners here.

“I'm Meredith Whyte. We could use some help, to tell you the truth. But the Young LABs are supposed to be doing the cleanup. I don't mean to guilt you into it.”

“You're not guilting me into it.”

Meredith checked her phone again. “I can't believe the island actually voted against Wi-Fi even in the library. I mean, come on. Actually, I can believe it. At least my phone gets a few bars at our cottage. My friends are coming over on the three o'clock ferry. This rain will make them crazy.”

“It's almost three o'clock now,” Rose said. There was an old mantel clock on top of the library fireplace.

“I'm supposed to be here till four. Committee rules.”

“I'm sure no one will mind if you go.” Rose hadn't the slightest idea whether anyone would mind or not, but with the rain still coming down, no one was leaving her cottage except a few grim souls in bright slickers who were wheeling carts down to the dock to greet the ferry before the weather got any worse. “If anyone comes in, I'll say you'll be right back. Or something.”

“If anyone comes in I'm in deep doo-doo with the Old LABs. But I'll risk it.”

“Do I need to lock up when I leave?”

“Oh no. The door doesn't lock. I mean, if you want to go through that pile over there and see if there are any books worth saving, you can do that, but you totally don't have to. Don't actually throw anything away. They hate it when you throw anything away on this island.”

Meredith came out from behind the library desk. Like everyone here, she looked as if she had been born with a tennis racket in her hand: lots of muscle, no apparent body self-consciousness, ponytail.