First Strike (53 page)

At the second-to-last hole, Daisy stared at the obstacle, nothing more than a two-by-four painted brown that led to a pile of wood.

She looked at Dewey with a quizzical look on her face, as if to say,
What is it?

Dewey shrugged.

“Last time I played there was a plastic pig lying there,” he said. “You had to hit the ball into its mouth, then it came out its—the other side. Someone must've stolen the pig.”

“Maybe we should skip this one?”

Dewey nodded. “Sure, but you sort of need it. I'm beating you by a fairly hefty margin.”

“Beating me? I didn't know we're keeping score.”

“Of course we are. Bangor Acres. You gotta keep score.”

“And where have you been keeping score, Dewey?” she asked. “I don't see any scoring sheet.”

Dewey tapped his temple. “Up here.”

“Right,” she said, laughing. “Like I would ever trust you to keep score.”

“You don't trust me? I'm offended.”

“Dewey, first of all, you're terrible. I can't believe I believed you were this great golfer. Then I find out it's miniature golf, which is a joke, and you're not even good. It took you five shots to get it around that red squirrel thing back there.”

“That was a lobster. And that was my mulligan.”

“Oh.”

They came to the last hole. After a short straightaway, a beat-up windmill spanned the end of a plywood straightaway. The mildew-covered shingles of the windmill were covered in seagull excrement.

“This is the windmill?”

“Yeah. It's kind of pretty, isn't it?”

“Very picturesque.”

A small opening was visible in the middle. The big wheel that should have been spinning around and blocking the hole every few seconds sat stationary.

Dewey stared at it for a few seconds. He looked mildly peeved.

“For chrissakes,” he said. “Twelve bucks, you'd think the one thing they could do was keep the windmill working.”

Daisy handed him her putter and walked to the windmill. She climbed around it, inspecting it, leaning close to the dollhouse-size window near the top.

“At least the squirrels like it,” she said.

She looked at Dewey and then cast her eyes toward the old man at the ticket booth, whose back was turned. Suddenly, she leaned back and kicked the windmill as hard as she could. A cacophonous
bang
rattled the air. The old man didn't so much as budge.

“What are you doing?” asked Dewey.

Daisy kicked again, harder this time. The windmill miraculously started spinning slowly around.

She walked triumphantly back to the tee.

“Fo shizzle my nizzle,” she said, taking her putter from Dewey and setting up her ball on the broken tee.

“I'm not going to ask you what that means.”

“Good, because I don't know. Now, it seems to me the fixing of your precious little windmill by yours truly means we're even. So what say we make this last little hole interesting, Andreas. Or are you … scared?”

Dewey leaned close to Daisy, his nose almost touching hers.

“Nobody has ever beaten me at the windmill,” he said. “Name your price.”

“Okay, fine. If I win, you have to kiss me. A real kiss.”

Dewey looked at her with a blank expression. Slowly, he started to nod.

“I suppose that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world,” he said. “What about if I win?”

“Name
your
price.”

“You have to kiss the old man.”

“Ewww.”

Dewey thought for a few seconds. “I win, we skinny-dip off the town dock.”

Daisy's smile vanished.

“It's late November,” she said. “Thanksgiving. Remember? We'll freeze to death. Plus you still have about a kajillion stitches and a bandage.”

“Salt water won't hurt it.”

“It's like forty-eight degrees outside!”

“Then you better make sure you sink that ball.”

Daisy shook her head and moved over the ball. She studied the windmill as it circled around and around, lifted the putter far too high, as if she was going to drive it, then hit. The ball went sailing hard to the left, banging off a board, then ricocheted and bounced wildly toward the windmill, somehow screeching into the hole below. A series of loud bangs echoed from the inside followed by a few moments of quiet and then a distinctive clinking noise.

Daisy looked at Dewey, her face beaming. She ran around the windmill and looked in.

“Hole in one!” she shouted as she jumped up and down.

“Okay, hot stuff, stand back.”

Dewey put his ball on the tee. He glanced at the spinning wheel, then hit. The ball rolled slowly toward the hole just as the windmill spun around and closed the hole. The ball escaped in just as the hole opened back up. Dewey walked casually around the windmill just as the ball struck a board at the far side, bounced back, and rolled painfully slowly toward the cup, where it stopped at the lip for a moment just as Dewey got there. He jumped in the air and came down hard. The ground shook a tiny bit. The ball trickled in.

“That was unfair,” Daisy said.

“Life is unfair.”

“Well, it looks like it's a tie,” she said. “What should we do?”

*   *   *

The table was set. The bottles of wine were open. The keg of Pumpkinhead Ale was on ice. The lamps were lit. The laughter was loud.

Reagan and Sam Andreas had built an eighteen-foot-long harvest table out of old barn boards, then hauled it out to the middle of the big lawn in front of the Andreas farmhouse. Tiki lamps surrounded the table, sending smoky orange flames up into the starry evening as the Andreas family and their friends gathered for Thanksgiving.

It was originally planned for inside the house, but this year's weather had been crazy. Tonight, the temperature in Castine was fifty-two degrees.

Just in case, a bonfire crackled the air near Margaret Andreas's garden, now put away for winter. Chairs surrounded the burning wood, each one filled with an Andreas family member or close friend. Laughter mixed with the sound of the fire, and the orange flames twisted up into a sky that was star-filled and cloudless.

The mood was that magical one, when a family and their closest friends are together, and the air is warm but not hot, and something special is about to happen, something everyone knows is going to happen, but hasn't happened yet. The anticipation of a simple thing that is to come.

There were supposed to be twenty-two people in all, but at some point during the day the size of the Thanksgiving dinner had climbed to more than fifty.

Hobey had smoked a pair of turkeys on the Big Green Egg, with assistance from Sam. Margaret had, as usual, roasted a turkey indoors.

Grey Terry, from up the road, hauled over his old wooden cider press and, with some assistance from the youngsters, made several gallons of apple cider. He'd also been kind enough to supply some rum—cheap stuff, but better than no stuff.

The ocean was visible from the hilltop perch they called Margaret Hill. It may not have been the fanciest of Castine addresses, but, as everyone knew, it was the prettiest.

Then that thing occurred, that simple thing they were all waiting for.

A blue pickup truck, a Ford F-250, with dried mud on its tires and sides, rolled slowly along the meandering dirt driveway that skirted the edge of the farm's peeling white picket fence.

It was not an exaggeration to say that every person gathered that evening turned at the same moment to see the guests who had arrived an hour and a half late.

The driver's door opened and a woman stepped down. She wore a simple white sweater and red pants. On her head was a Boston Bruins cap. Her hair was wet.

Even from 150 yards away, she stood out—sensual, elegant, above all, beautiful. She stepped to the passenger door and opened it. Slowly, a man stepped down. He was dressed in cutoff khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a striped, long-sleeve Lacoste shirt. His hair was also sopping wet.

Daisy looked at Dewey. “That was insane.”

“Yeah, but it was fun.”

She stepped closer and very gingerly touched his chest on the left side.

“Is it okay?”

“It's fine,” he said, smiling.

“So this is your home?”

“Yeah. I know it's not fancy or anything.”

“It's just what I imagined,” she said. “It's charming.”

He blushed.

“Why is everyone staring at us?” she asked, nodding across the field, where the entire table, along with everyone by the bonfire, was looking in their direction.

“They're Mainers,” said Dewey. “They like to stare. It's easier than talking.”

Daisy laughed.

“So they don't talk very much?”

“No.”

“You're kidding?” Daisy said. “A relative of yours who doesn't talk very much? I can't imagine.”

Daisy took his arm and wrapped it around her neck. Dewey grinned. It was barely perceptible, but she noticed.

“I got you,” she said.

They started walking toward the feast.

“Just find yourself a drink,” said Dewey, “and please don't steal the silverware.”

They walked slowly across the field, toward the gathering of family and friends.

Dewey's father and mother stepped across the lawn to greet them.

“Hi, Mom, Dad,” Dewey said.

John and Margaret Andreas both reached for Dewey and wrapped their arms around him. They had seen him several times since the events at Columbia, visiting him during the month he was in the ICU at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital after barely surviving the knife wound inflicted on him by a man who was now, though dead, a household name: Sirhan el-Khan. Still, they held him as if they hadn't seen him in a decade.

“This is Daisy,” Dewey said, gently pushing his parents away.

John gave Daisy a hug, followed by Margaret.

“It's so nice to meet you, Daisy,” said Dewey's mom. “We've met your father many times. A wonderful man. I heard that he's starting to walk again.”

“Yes. He's doing great. Thanks for asking, Mrs. Andreas.”

“John and Margaret, dear,” said Dewey's father.

“We're delighted to have you,” said Margaret. “Dewey has told us a great deal about you.”

Daisy looked at Dewey and smiled.

“Oh he has, has he?” she asked.

“Yes,” said John. “He said you have a law degree. Hobey has a law degree too.”

“He also said you're beautiful,” added Margaret.

Daisy looked down, blushed, and smiled at Dewey.

“That was nice of you,” said Daisy.

“He also said you two have become friends,” said John.

This time it was Dewey who turned a little red as Daisy laughed.

“Yes, we have,” she said. “Did your son tell you how he saved my life?”

Margaret looked at Dewey, then back to Daisy. She smiled with unabashed pride.

“He did?” said Margaret. She took a step closer to Daisy. “He's a very special person.”

“I know.”

Dewey rolled his eyes. “Mom.”

*   *   *

“She's just a friend,” Dewey had warned his father and mother over the phone when he called them the week before from Washington. “In fact, I'm not even sure she's a friend. She's Hector's daughter, that's all. She wanted to see Maine. She's never been. I had nothing to do so I figured I'd take her. So no comments, looks, winks. I'm not getting involved with anyone. Tell Hobey too. Same with Sam and Reagan. No shit giving. We're friends.”

“So why's she coming?” his father asked.

There was a long pause on the phone.

“I guess she wants to see Castine,” answered Dewey.

A female voice came on the line; someone had been eavesdropping.

“Why does she need
you
to do that?” asked his mother, who'd been listening in on the upstairs extension.

“When did you get on the phone?” asked John.

“Oh, hush,” said Margaret. “Dewey, I can show her around.”

Dewey was silent for several moments, trying to come up with an answer.

“I guess maybe I thought she might need a tour guide or something,” he said.

“You don't need to come all the way up here, honey, just to show someone's daughter around,” said his mother teasingly. “Especially someone you're not sure is even a friend.”

“Okay,” said Dewey, ignoring his mother, “see you next week. Maybe Hobey can make one of those smoked turkeys again?”

“I'll ask him,” said Margaret Andreas, “although he really doesn't like to go through all that effort just for someone who
might not even be a friend.
”

“Stop riding the boy, Margie,” said John Andreas. “Dewey, we'd love to have you two. We'll put you in separate bedrooms, of course. And I'm positive that Hobey would be delighted to smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“You're welcome,” he said. “And tell your girlfriend to bring a few sweaters. It's starting to get a little chilly at night.”

*   *   *

Dewey and Daisy walked to the long harvest table. Everyone stood up as they moved around the perimeter of the table, saying hello, giving hugs, meeting Dewey's guest.

Before sitting down, Dewey stood at his assigned seat, in the middle of the table, between Sam and Reagan.

“Why on God's green earth is your hair wet?” asked Aunt Boo, John Andreas's sister. “For chrissakes, it's almost winter.”

“We, ah, went swimming,” said Dewey, glancing at Daisy, who was already laughing.

“Wasn't you supposed to be here yesterday, Uncle Dewey?” asked Sam.

“Weren't,” said Dewey, correcting him.

“Weren't what?” asked Sam.

“Weren't, as in,
weren't
you supposed to be here yesterday.”