Enchanted August (9 page)

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By midafternoon, Beverly had arranged his photos of Possum to his satisfaction. He had placed them just so around the unhappy-making brown box that he took with him everywhere. The room was his castle, and none of the women had been up there again to irk him. He slid his suitcase out from under the bed and removed an untidy sheaf of papers to see if he could make sense of any of it. There were so many bills overdue and yet so much money in various accounts to pay them with. If only he hadn't fired that new “manager” who'd taken over the old firm from their fusty old lawyers. It had been impulsive, but he couldn't stand the way the man's every statement sounded like a joke. And the jargon! Now it was up to Beverly to sort this out.

It was such an effort to keep up, or even to ask people to keep up for him. He vaguely remembered sending a check for some enormous amount to the heating and gas people last winter to keep them happy, but apparently that had been gone through and now more effort was required. Gorsch had been so good at money, and Beverly was so bad. Gorsch would have found them someone better to take care of their affairs by now. Beverly couldn't trust the young.

It was quite a lovely day outside. He wasn't much for the outdoors but there were some pleasant paths on this island and he thought he might as well walk down one as stare at these damnable papers. He popped a photo of Gorsch holding Possum in his pocket and went silently down his private staircase to the cottage lawn. The grass sloped down to the beach, but he had walked there yesterday and met up with Rose and Lottie gathering shards that they called sea glass, and he did not much want to see them again.

He set forth on the boardwalk. Not easy for a man of seventy-eight, he thought, but I still move well enough.

He noticed a flash of something moving in the ferns alongside the path. An animal, certainly. Too loud and big for one of those myriad brown squirrels that make so much noise all morning. Of course, he could tell nothing about the color. What if it was a cat? thought Beverly. A cat in distress?

Beverly supposed he should follow.

The boardwalk took him away from the cottages and then dissolved into a little dirt path through the soft moss under the enormous trees. It was green and quiet, and the creature had disappeared, which suited Beverly fine. He had resisted pedigreed kittens proffered by neighbors, strays in Village side streets, ASPCA giveaways in Union Square. A mangy cat from Maine, if it was a cat, would have no hold over him.

Then the cat cried.

I'll just make sure it's not injured, he thought. If I can even find it.

It was much cooler here under the trees. The moss was spongy underfoot and the trees—spruce, he thought—provided shade. He was glad he had worn his walking shoes, particularly in this spot, where twigs and even branches lay in a messy pile on the ground. Why so many here? he thought. He was never much interested in flora and fauna but this island had so much of both that it was hard not to notice. Especially as there was nothing else going on here.

Beverly leaned against the big tree and tried to catch his breath. He didn't want to sit down in this big muddle of twigs and leaves; the moss beyond was too damp. He thought he'd head back to the cottage once he'd had a bit of a breather.

He heard a loud birdcall above him.
Sweet sweet sweeet
in an upward arc. Not an urban cry. He looked up into the branches of the tree and saw that at its top there was a huge unruly mess of a nest.
Sweet sweet sweeeet sweeeet,
came the cry again. So plaintive. So raw.

Wouldn't Gorsch love to hear this bird's song? he thought. Gorsch would make it into a song. And he'd sing it to me.

Beverly allowed the tree to support him as his knees gave way.

I
t was at dinnertime when the whole thing started to unravel. Lottie had spent the afternoon exploring the island. She wasn't quite brave enough to order tea at the teahouse, which seemed such a local place, but she took the winding boardwalks into the woodsier parts at the top of the island, and got a sense of the shady cottages hidden there. She happily allowed herself to double back a couple of times when the path she thought would lead back to Hopewell took her farther from shore. But you can never really get lost on an island, she thought. Little Lost or not.

The sun, the tramping around, and the salt air had built up Lottie's appetite, so she was ravenous by dinnertime. She had collected enough blackberries and blueberries on her walk for dessert. And she'd love to make a cocktail for anyone who asked. She wasn't great in the kitchen but she really could mix a drink. She had bought ginger and Hendrick's Gin at the IGA—so convenient to have liquor in the grocery store!—and if she started infusing tonight there'd be delicious ginger tonics for them all by tomorrow.

The kitchen was empty when she got back.

“Rose?” she called. “Caroline? Beverly?”

There was a rap on the screen door to the kitchen. “Anybody home?” came a voice.

Lottie went over to the door and saw Max the ferry driver. “Max the ferry driver,” she said.

“Delivering your lobsters,” he said. She was tempted to ask him to say “lobsters” over and over but stopped herself. “And the corn.” The way he said “corn” was even better.

“Oh, we're having lobsters and corn?”

“Guess so.”

Caroline must have arranged this. “Thanks, Max,” Lottie said. Then, much as she didn't want to, she asked, “How much do we owe you?”

“The lady of the house said she'd settle up before you leave. That's fine with me,” he said.

Lottie hesitated. Rose and she had bought so much this morning at the grocery store and Rose was going to make ratatouille for dinner. Lottie hated to nickel-and-dime about food, but how much would this kind of service set them back? With the car and the gas and the liquor and the food they'd already bought, her stock certificate proceeds were burning up.

“Oh, that's fine, then,” she said—bravely, she thought. “Thanks.”

Max set a basket of corn on the floor and a brown bag on the table. Then he was out the door.

The bag moved.

“Oh, shit, they're alive,” said Lottie.

She heard Caroline's light tread on the stairs.

“Has the food arrived? I'm starved,” said Caroline.

“Me too,” said Lottie. “It'll be a little while, though—we have to cook all these things. I wonder who's going to turn out to be the cook among us.”

“God, not me,” said Caroline. “I'm hopeless in the kitchen. It will have to be you or Rose, I think. You have children, so you must cook.”

“Yes, I do cook but I'm better at Annie's mac and chicken tenders than I am at lobster. Corn I can do. And drinks. Would you like a drink?”

“Ketel One on the rocks if you have it,” said Caroline. “With a twist. I'll be up on the porch when you have it ready.”

Lottie liked people who knew how to order a drink. She had bought Grey Goose, not Ketel One, though. She bet Caroline would taste the difference.

Caroline couldn't help being the way she was, Lottie decided. She'd been brought up with servants, probably, or at least a nanny, and now that she was famous she'd had to keep her distance from ordinary people like Lottie. And Lottie was happy to get a drink order. There were a great number of glasses to choose from—jam jars, cut-glass goblets, tumblers, and old-fashioned glasses with the island's insignia imprinted on them (five giant spruce trees in a circle). She couldn't even reach whatever glasses were on the top shelf. She picked up one of the Little Lost glasses and thoughtfully placed ice cubes in it. She really did miss tending bar. It was the job that put her through college after she didn't make the cut at the pole-dancing audition. “Too short,” the manager had said. “But nice tits. Can you mix a drink?”

Vodka on the rocks with a twist wasn't too hard to make, and Lottie had gone to the trouble of lugging back a bag of ice (frozen from the inside out), so the ice cubes were pure. The lemon was fresh, and the vodka pour was generous. She found a little linen cocktail napkin in the old breakfront and brought it with the drink up to Caroline's porch.

Caroline seemed startled to see her, as if she had forgotten all about her drink request. “Thank you, Lottie,” she said, genuinely.

“You're welcome.” She saw Caroline hesitate, as if she realized good manners called for her to invite Lottie to join her. But Lottie did not want to be asked out of good manners, so she turned and headed down the stairs. “We'll call you for dinner,” she said. “I'm not exactly sure when it will be.”

She was about to head downstairs to the kitchen when she thought instead she might pop in on Beverly. Would he want a cocktail? Would he join them for dinner?

She knocked lightly on the door. There was a sound within that sounded like someone trying not to make a sound within. “Beverly, will you join us for dinner?” she asked through the door. “Would you like a cocktail? I'm good at cocktails.”

Still no answer.

“I'll be downstairs if you need anything,” Lottie said. She paused again, waited for an answer, and when none came, she headed back down toward the kitchen.

“Have you got the water on yet?” It was Beverly's voice, through the wall. “Unless you're grilling them.”

He was talking about the lobsters. She did not have the water on yet and how would you grill a lobster? Beverly must have heard the lobster discussion from up in his ivory tower. Everyone can hear everything in this place, she reminded herself. “Water's just going on now,” she said. “We'll eat in an hour or so.”

“Please see that we do,” said Beverly. Lottie was very pleased that Rose could not hear him.

Down in the kitchen, the bag was still squirming. Lottie felt certain she should put it in the refrigerator but she did not much want to touch it. She could at least husk the corn, and start that water boiling. She wasn't sure about lobsters. The only cookbook in sight was
A Little Lost in the Kitchen
and there was no boiled lobster recipe in it—everyone just knew instinctively how to boil a lobster if they had a cottage here, Lottie realized. And there was no way to get online to check. She looked in the cupboards for a pot big enough to hold the writhing creatures. Nothing in the kitchen, but in the little pantry next door there was an enormous double boiler–style pot. It had jaunty red lobsters painted on the sides! She lifted the lid and investigated. There were holes on the bottom of the top pot—aha! “You steam lobsters,” she said aloud, and she liked the way she sounded.

She took the pot into the kitchen, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. The tap water didn't look so great for boiling corn, so she used the springwater for that. Someone would have to get more soon.

All this water would take a while to boil. She fixed herself a drink—just a gin and tonic, neat, like the English (using cold tonic and squeezing in a whole lime made all the difference)—and got to work husking the corn.

As she peeled the fragrant, watery green outer leaves from the translucent white corn, she thought about Ethan. He loved corn. He was a typewriter corn eater, like his dad; she was a roller. She wished Ethan were here with her, exhausting her on exploring expeditions around the island, maybe even exhausting himself. She wished Jon liked their son better. He loved him, of course, he'd run into a burning building to save his life, but he didn't really like Ethan to be around. He didn't much like Lottie to be around either. She wondered if he was having an affair with that new lawyer at work. Carla. Carla probably looked just like her (Jon was true to type) but a younger version, and surely she had never had children. Jon didn't realize how many times he said her name aloud at home.

The lobster pot was boiling, sooner than she'd thought it would. The corn water was almost ready too. Now what? The corn would only take a few minutes, but the lobster, she had no idea. There was nothing for it but to call for help. They needed to work on this together.

At that moment, the screen door banged, and Rose walked into the kitchen, flushed from her walk.

“I found some basil and chives in the flowerpots by the dock and there was lavender planted right outside the window at the boathouse. I don't think I have time to do the ratatouille tonight but I thought I'd make up a salad for dinner and then we can call our companions.” Lottie could tell she wanted to make a fresh start with Beverly and Caroline. Soon, however, she would notice the pots boiling on the stove.

“What's in the pots?” asked Rose.

“Caroline had an idea that we should have our food delivered,” said Lottie tentatively. “So now we'll have fresh groceries every day.”

“That sounds like a great idea, but did they even ask us about it?” Lottie shook her head. “What if we don't want Max's food? What if he brings hot dogs?”

“Tonight he brought lobsters.”

“Still.” Rose went to the base of the stairs and called up. “Caroline! Beverly! Do you have a second?”

Not a sound.

“Eventually someone will come down here and we'll talk about it then. In the meantime, I'll start the salad. There are beautiful gardens here! People really put time into them.” She started running water. “I hope this is okay for washing vegetables.”

“It's supposed to be. I'm using it for the lobster water.”

“If Caroline ordered the food, Caroline might cook the food, don't you think? I know she's used to servants.”

Beverly walked into the kitchen. “I don't know if you two realize how your voices carry in this house. The walls are not insulated, you know.”

Lottie saw that Rose was not going to rise to Beverly's bait. Instead she got busy tearing lettuce and washing it splashily under the brown water coming out of the tap.

“You've spoiled my enjoyment of the sunset.” Beverly took a shallow bowl from the cupboard, filled it with water, and walked out of the kitchen. “Why don't you use a spinner?” he said as he left.

“I'm sure there's no such thing as a salad spinner in this house,” called Rose.

“Where is he going with that?” asked Lottie.

“Who knows?” said Rose. They heard a screen door slam. “Was that the front porch or the back?”

“Back, I think.”

“Have you even looked?” called Beverly. He came back into the kitchen, got his bearings, reached to open a cupboard to the left of the sink, and pulled out an aged salad spinner. “This will do,” he said. “Fresh greens can be so gritty; do wash them well.”

Lottie noticed Rose's shoulders getting closer and closer to her ears. She desperately wanted to pour oil on the troubled waters of the kitchen but was not exactly sure how. Maybe if she got started on the lobsters . . .

She approached the writhing bag. “I'll do the lobsters,” she said. “Do you just dump them in as is or—”

“You most certainly do not just dump them in as is,” said Beverly. Rose practically bashed into him as she took the carrots from the fridge. “And Rose, no need to peel those as long as you wash them well, even in this water.”

“Thanks, Beverly. I have actually prepared a carrot in my life.”

He lifted the lid on the great lobster pot. “There's not enough water here. It will boil away before the poor creatures are dead. Add some more, please, and where's the top of the pot?”

Lottie pointed. “There?”

“That's the lid, not the top.”

She wordlessly handed him the top of the pot.

“You steam lobsters,” she said.

“
I
steam lobsters, apparently,” said Beverly.

“None for me,” said Rose. “I'll just have the salad.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Beverly.

“Shall I help?” asked Caroline, gliding down the stairs. “No one's picked the wildflowers for the table. Lovely drink, Lottie.”

Beverly expertly located a pair of scissors in the overcrowded kitchen drawer and wielded them in the direction of the lobsters.

“You're not going to cut them up?” asked Lottie, both fascinated and horrified.

“I'm going to cut off the rubber bands,” said Beverly. “You don't want to steam the rubber bands as part of your food,” he told her, sounding incredulous that she had not thought of that already. He pried off the rubber bands with the rusted dull scissors. The lobsters were lively, flipping their tails, stretching their claws. “These look like they came out of a trap this morning.”

Lottie looked away. As Beverly dropped the poor struggling creatures in the pot, she thought she heard them trying to claw their way out. “Do lobsters feel pain?”

“Lobsters feel nothing.” Beverly adjusted the heat. “Electric,” he said, and sniffed.

“I'd rather like a drink of water,” said Caroline. “Do we drink this brown stuff?”

“There's water in the cooler in the pantry, Caroline,” said Lottie.

“Which Lottie replenished from the spring earlier,” said Rose.

“Thank you kindly,” said Caroline. “Oh, but this is almost gone,” she said, trying the cooler and finding nothing but a drop of water from the spring. “Did someone use it all?”

“I believe Lottie used it to boil the water for you for the lobsters that no one asked anyone else about,” said Rose. Lottie wondered if she'd realized her small dig was lost in her syntax. “Why don't you get us some more?”

“Oh, I'm happy enough with the vodka for the moment,” said Caroline. “Was it Grey Goose, Lottie?”

“Excellent tasting skills,” said Lottie.

“Also, I don't think I should take the privilege of fetching the springwater from you. I know how much you enjoy the spring.”