Seeders: A Novel (8 page)

“Well, fine, then,” Ginny muttered. “I wasn’t implying that you—”

“Certainly you were.”

She turned away with a huff.

“I might add,” Bonacelli said, “that if anyone is not returning on the charter today, it will be at your own expense, or until the next supply boat arrives in two weeks. Mrs. Maguire, you’re planning to stay with the children, correct?”

“Yes. We’ll wait for the next supply boat.”

“Miss Shufflebottom?”

“I’m certainly not leaving without my diamond.”

“What about you, Professor?”

“I’d like to look over the research George left me. However, two weeks is impossible. I have some business in London, and then a trip…” He glanced at Isabelle, who was looking out the window. “Actually, I’ll wait for the next boat as well.”

“All right. It seems everyone is staying, so I’ll show you around. We should start with the kitchen.”

*   *   *

It was a large country kitchen with oak cabinets and terra-cotta floors. It had recently been vigorously scrubbed clean and still smelled of bleach. Two stainless-steel freezers, a commercial-grade range, and a refrigerator took up half a wall. The other side held a large fireplace with a wood-burning stove and a rustic dining room table that could easily seat twenty guests.

“Don’t worry about water,” Bonacelli said, turning the faucet. “It’s pumped from an artesian well and quite safe.”

The pantry was stocked with canned vegetables, soups, and jars of spaghetti sauce. There were boxes of pasta and packages of instant everything. Isabelle wasn’t pleased with the selection, and chided herself for not bringing food to a remote island. However, the freezer turned out to be a pleasant surprise, filled with fine cuts of steak, chops, fish, and organic poultry. She browsed around the bright, fresh-looking vegetables and herbs that had been artfully sealed and frozen. The fridge as well offered an assortment of beverages, marinades, and condiments that hadn’t yet expired. There was even an impressive selection of wines in a climate-controlled cabinet.

“This is most important,” Bonacelli said, as they gathered around a two-way radio.

It was a fixed mount like the one on the boat, fastened beneath a cabinet. Bonacelli explained that it was programmed with twenty-two channels that monitored two Coast Guard stations for distress calls, and a marine channel that would alert them of any serious weather conditions. There was an antenna attached to the roof, in order to boost the range of the frequencies. “This is your only lifeline to civilization, should an emergency arise—and I do mean
emergency
. A visit from the Canadian Coast Guard to treat a jellyfish sting or investigate a shark sighting will cost you a fortune. But if anyone is seriously injured, or the power goes out, you should call at once.”

Bonacelli demonstrated how the radio worked, and just to make sure, he had Jules attempt a practice call to Captain Flannigan, waiting at the dock. He located the correct channel, called to the boat, and after a few seconds of static, the captain answered.

“Eh-yah,
Acadia
. Over.”

“This is just a demonstration,” Bonacelli spoke into the mic.

“Yer ready to shove off?”

“I’ll be at the dock in twenty minutes.” Bonacelli checked his watch impatiently. “One more stop and we’re through.”

He led them outside to the back of the house, toward an old wooden shed. They were close to the northern edge of the island and they could see the flat rocks of a seawall, where the wind blew fierce and the ocean waves roiled against a golden sky. On a clear day, a thin outline of Nova Scotia could be seen on the horizon, but presently there was too much haze.

The battered shed looked to be quite large, roomy enough to house a small family. As they approached the building, the muffled sound of an engine hummed and there was a whiff of diesel in the air. Bonacelli explained that the generator was housed in a separate, ventilated room behind the shed.

The old wooden door slid sideways, rumbling under its weight and squealing from rust. The sun was low and filled the dark interior with a golden glow. The light hit a wall and sparkled on metal objects hanging from hooks. There were farming tools: scythe, hatchet, shovel, and ax, all looking quite rusty. There were a couple of large knives, fishing poles, and a spear, as well as a crossbow and leather case filled with arrows.

Sean picked up an arrow.

“That’s strange. My father never hunted,” Isabelle said. “There’s no game on the island.”

“Target practice, I suppose,” Bonacelli replied.

Luke reached into a barrel full of cobwebs and pulled out a wet suit that looked as though it hadn’t been used in ages. “Two suits with snorkels,” he said, excited at the find.

“I wouldn’t advise swimming in these frigid waters,” Bonacelli said. “The riptides can be deadly.”

“I think it’s all right in the shallows of the cove,” Isabelle said. “I swam at the beach every summer.”

Bonacelli led them to an adjoining room, twenty paces in length that contained the monstrous generator. It was an old military model with rusted metal and flaking paint, but it was a solid workhorse and the rickety exhaust fan removed most of the diesel fumes from the room.

It clanged loudly, so the lawyer had to shout. “There used to be a battery system but it went down years ago, so George kept the generator running all the time. To save petrol, he used very little electric and the thermostat is set to about fourteen degrees Celsius at night. Not to worry; there’s a fireplace in every room to keep warm. But if anything happens, if the generator goes down, use the radio to call for help. You don’t want to be here with no heat or power.”

They were glad to leave the noisy shed and head back to the house.

Bonacelli stopped at the patio. “I have business on the other side of the Atlantic tomorrow. I’ll be in touch with you, Isabelle; more papers to sign.” He bid them farewell and headed for the woods and the boat back to Halifax.

The rest of the guests returned to the kitchen. The children explored the house as Isabelle prepared a light supper of pasta and broccoli in white wine sauce.

Ginny insisted they look for the diamond right away.

“It’s nearly dark and we’re all exhausted,” Isabelle said. “We’ll look in the morning.”

“We should at least try to figure out the riddle,” Ginny said curtly.

Isabelle sighed. “I think the best strategy is to forget the riddle and have a thorough search tomorrow.”

The house was large enough for everyone to have their own bedroom, so after supper they dragged their luggage upstairs, washed up for bed, and retired for the night.

They didn’t know it was to be their last uneventful evening.

CHAPTER 7

THE MORNING SKY WAS GRAY
and an ocean breeze shook the windowpanes. Isabelle awoke in a frigid room, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by memories. She had chosen her old bedroom for the sake of nostalgia. The white-painted furniture, stuffed animals, dollhouse, and flowery bookshelf seemed to have been waiting for her return. It was the cleanest room in the house and she was touched that George had kept it dusted.

The radiator had just come on, hissing madly. Right away she got out of bed and her feet hit the cold wooden floor. She rummaged through her suitcase, put on jeans and a thick red wool sweater that made her feel cozy, and then added wool socks and hiking boots. She had purposely left every dress behind along with her hats, heels, and husband. A navy blue peacoat lay across a chair, and she considered adding another layer, but threw on a scarf instead and headed downstairs.

Everyone was gathered in the kitchen getting warm. Ginny had started a fire in the wood stove and coffee was brewing, giving the kitchen a rich aroma. Jules and Luke were snacking on biscuits.

“Good morning,” Jules said.

Isabelle felt her cheeks blush under his gaze. His long black hair was combed back and wet from the shower and he looked especially handsome in a black cotton shirt that stretched across his shoulders and fit snugly around his arms and chest. For the first time she noticed he had a rather muscular physique, although his posture could have been improved.

Luke handed a biscuit to his mother. “These are good, and I found about a hundred in the freezer.”

Ginny and Monica found them tasteless and said so. Isabelle agreed.

“Well, I like them,” Luke said, “and Sean does too.”

Sean stuffed his mouth, putting three more on his plate.

“George always liked to experiment with food,” Ginny said. “He probably baked them himself.”

Isabelle poured a mug of coffee and wrapped her cold hands around its heat. “Anyone want to go for a stroll?

Sean raised his hand quickly.

“All right. Get the holly bush and find a big spoon.”

Sean put a biscuit in his coat pocket and rummaged through the utensil drawer, clanging forks and knives.

“Do you mind if I tag along?” Jules asked.

Isabelle flushed. “Not a bit. We’d like your company.”

Outside the rain had stopped, but the wind was relentless. Ryegrass blew in waves, flashing shades of green and yellow. The forest stood clear in the distance, tall dark pines and bare branches, their tops bending from the gale.

Jules and Isabelle walked side by side down the path, enjoying the salty breeze on their faces. She had forgotten how unusually tall he was. The top of her head reached just below his shoulders.

Sean trailed several paces behind them, kicking up pebbles and stopping to examine blades of grass. Isabelle was reminded of all the times she followed Jules around like a puppy as he gathered plant specimens along the cliffs or in the woods. How he would travel to London for a visit and she’d pine for his return, usually with a gift for her like a magnifying glass or a wooden puzzle. Sometimes he’d indulge her in checkers or chess, but Isabelle was content to stare at his handsome face while he read books in the library or wrote out notes in the lab.

“Hard to believe it’s been so many years,” she said. “I remember you were quite serious about your work.”

Jules nodded. “I recall you were a precocious little thing who knew every plant and tree by its proper name. Always running about exploring, bringing home your latest find. Not silly and bothersome like some children. No, you showed great maturity and intelligence.”

Isabelle smirked. “That’s quite a compliment coming from you.”

He put a finger to his head, squinting. “I remember one drizzly morning I was digging up toadstools in the woods. You gave me a haughty look from under your rain cap and said, ‘Mushrooms only grow where it’s damp, and that’s why they look like umbrellas.’”

She gave a reluctant smile.

He chuckled. “Another time you told me that a flower’s pistil must be its best protection against insects.”

“I’m glad you found me amusing.”

“Oh, you were clever. I figured you’d become a scientist like your father, travel the world looking for new discoveries.”

“Not even close.”

“Too bad. You showed such promise.”

The comment was unexpectedly hurtful. Jules had no idea how badly she had wanted to make something of her life. He was unaware of the burden she had carried through childhood. What had been worse—caring for her mother, moving her from chair to bath to bed, spoon-feeding her, massaging her limbs that couldn’t bend without cries of pain, or finding out there was never anything wrong with the woman? It was all a brilliant act. A never-ending theatrical performance that sprang from an obsessive need for attention. There was never any mention of a life for Isabelle, never any talk of college or travel. Running away to marry Colin had been her first chance to escape.

Isabelle quickened her stride, feeling defensive and ashamed. She scooped up a handful of ryegrass with a ripping motion, held the blades up to the sun, and exclaimed, “
Lolium perenne
.”

“Pardon?”

“
Lolium perenne.
And over there, crawling along that rock is
Euonymus fortunei,
but it’s being overtaken by
Hedera helix.
”

“Oh yes,” said Jules, catching on to the game. “Tell me—what is the genus-species of that squat evergreen over there?”

She tilted her head, thinking. “
Thuja occidentalis,
commonly known as arborvitae, or ‘tree of life.’”

“Incorrect.
Thujopsis dolabrata,
but you were very close.”

“Ah, well. I was only ten when I left.”

“But still kept up with botany.”

“A bit.”

“I see your son has the same affinity. Does he always carry around pots of shrubbery?”

“No, Sean wants to replant the holly in my father’s memory.”

“Oh, I see.”

She slowed while Sean caught up, examining a leaf as he walked past them.

“He’s the quiet sort.”

“Yes. He had an accident years ago.”

Jules said nothing, but the expression in his eyes was comforting.

They stopped at a fork in the path. To the right was the woods and to the left, the cliffs.

Isabelle looked at the trees and shivered. “Doll Head Woods.”

“Ridiculous name,” Jules replied. They stood for a moment, staring.

“To High Peak,” she said.

Together with Sean they trudged uphill, where the grass became sparse, the soil turned to rock, and the smell of heather filled the air. It was a steep climb to the top of the bluff. The wind howled loudly, as if trying to drown out the roar of the ocean.

They walked to the edge of the cliff, where a piece of yellow police tape was still tied to a thorny bush, flapping in the breeze.

Isabelle stared at the marker and spoke above the wind. “I guess this must be it.”

Jules nodded.

“Sean, you can plant the holly right here. But be careful, it’s steep.”

The boy knelt at the cliff’s edge, took his spoon from his pocket, and began stabbing the earth. The wind gusted and Jules pulled up the collar of his jacket, which had been warm enough for New York City but not a Canadian island.

Isabelle shivered too and bundled the scarf around her neck, rubbed her woolen sleeves. “It’s much colder up here.”