The Penderwicks at Point Mouette (4 page)

“I’ll do great work here,” she called out to Skye on the other side of the separating shade.

“Humph” was all that came back.

Jane wasn’t surprised at Skye’s lack of enthusiasm. Getting dunked in the ocean by a small dog could be annoying, even if, as Jane thought, it was a cute small dog with a funny name. Hoover. She’d complimented his owner—the man with the beard—on the name and had also found out the man’s name. He was Alec McGrath, and he lived in the red house next door to Birches. Jane had also found out that Alec had no children, which was unfortunate, since he seemed about old enough to have some the same age as the Penderwicks.

“I wish Alec had children, don’t you, Skye?”

“Not if they were as obnoxious as his dog.”

Jane hoped that Skye would cheer up soon. If only Jeffrey had been able to come to Maine. He was always a good influence on people, unless those people happened to be his mother or stepfather. It was hard to imagine anyone being a good influence on them. They were incorrigible.

Incorrigible
was an excellent word. Jane decided to make a note of it. And maybe that thing about different beds and different dreams. She dug through her suitcase to find a pen and notebook. All this could come in handy for her new Sabrina Starr book, which would be about love no matter what Rosalind said.
Jane had touched on love in a play she’d written the previous autumn, and it was time for her to go further. It would stretch her as a writer. The problem, unfortunately, was that she knew so little about love. Not by choice but because of her age—she’d just turned eleven in June, which made her too young to have a history of serious romance. There had been a few promising episodes in the last year, like when Mateo Phelan gave her a card on Valentine’s Day and when Marcus Jefferson asked her to go bowling, but these ardors petered out before they began, and Marcus had been a terrible bowler on top of it.

Until now Jane’s biggest crushes had been on boys in books, especially Peter Pevensie, who became High King of Narnia. There’d been others—Tom Hammond from
Leepike Ridge
, Finn Taverner from
Journey to the River Sea
, and, though he was so small, Spiller from the Borrowers books, but none of these had inspired the same adoration as Peter. Many nights Jane had put herself to sleep with lovely imaginings of adventures with him. Sometimes she was a maiden of Narnia, a dryad perhaps, who fought shoulder to shoulder with Peter in his battles, and sometimes an English girl who found her way through the wardrobe with him. Once she’d been a Calormene maiden who left her people to swear true love and devotion to the High King, but Jane hadn’t liked that as much, never having understood the Calormenes.

She worried about coming up with a boy as thrilling as Peter Pevensie for Sabrina. And without someone for Sabrina to fall in love with, there could be no book to write. It was frustrating, and being frustrated with her writing was a new experience for Jane. Usually the books had just poured out of her. Sighing, she closed her notebook and tossed it onto the green cupboard.

Above the cot was a window that looked back into the house. Jane knelt and peered through to the main room, which had lots of wicker and brightly colored cushions, and big sliding glass doors that opened onto the rear deck. Off to one side was a round wooden table for meals. Batty was sitting there now, drawing with a set of new markers that Iantha had given her for the vacation. The minuscule kitchen was around the corner and out of sight, and Aunt Claire could be heard banging around in there, putting away the supplies they’d brought from Massachusetts. Soon Jane would go in and explore the kitchen, since she’d promised to help with meals.

But first to finish unpacking. Jane stuffed a pile of T-shirts into the cupboard, then paused, distracted by noises coming from the other part of the sleeping porch. Skye was muttering to herself over there, not happily, and there were thumps, too, as though she were tossing things. Jane peeked around the bamboo shade. Skye had dumped the contents of her suitcase
onto the floor and was frenziedly pawing through her clothes and, yes, tossing them from one side of the porch to the other.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jane.

“I can’t find my secret list.” Skye was now flipping through the pages of
Death by Black Hole
, forward and backward, once, twice, three times.

“What secret list?”

“Everything Rosalind, Daddy, and Iantha told me about Batty, all written down so that I could remember. I thought it was in my pocket, but I can’t find it.” Skye jammed her hand into one of the pockets of her jeans, then another, and then another. “See, nothing.”

“Those jeans are dry. What about the ones you wore into the ocean?”

“I hung them outside on the—Oh, no.” Skye whirled around and crashed out through the screen door. A moment later, she was back with a pair of sopping jeans in one hand and a sodden wad of paper in the other.

“Now we really are doomed,” she said, looking sick.

Jane wasn’t in the mood for doom. She took the wad from Skye and tried to gently separate the pages, but where the paper didn’t rip, the ink had run so badly that nothing was legible. But wait, here were a few blurry words.

“Blow up,”
she read. “I wonder what that means. Maybe that Batty could blow up, with hives or something?”

“We’re sure to find out, since we can’t read what we’re supposed to do or not do about it! This is a nightmare. What was everyone thinking, Jane? I make a terrible OAP.”

“Daddy thinks you’ll grow into it. I heard him tell Iantha so.”

Skye looked like she’d been thrown a lifeline. “He really said that?”

“Yes, he really did.” Jane was telling the truth—she had heard him say that. She’d also heard him say he wasn’t sure exactly when Skye would grow into it. But Skye didn’t need to hear that part. “Maybe you can remember what the list said.”

“Stuff about brushing her hair and which vitamins to give her.”

“Which vitamins?”

“I don’t remember details! I thought I’d have the list!”

“Maybe I can hypnotize you into remembering.” Jane waved her hand like a pendulum in front of Skye’s face. “You are getting sleepy. You are getting very—”

Skye swatted her away. “Jane, this is serious.”

“Taking care of Batty can’t be all that hard. We’ve watched Daddy and Rosalind do it for five years now.”

“I haven’t been paying attention,” said Skye. “Have you?”

“No, not really.” Jane refused to give in to hopelessness. “So whenever we have a question, we’ll just call Rosalind and ask.”

“We can’t do that. If Rosalind figures out I don’t know what I’m doing, she’ll be on the next bus to Maine.” Skye sank onto one of the cots. “I’ll have failed in everyone’s eyes.”

Jane wanted to help. But short of staging a near tragedy so that Skye could dramatically rescue Batty, thereby boosting her self-confidence, there was nothing she could do. Unless they went back to the hypnosis idea. Jane thought that Skye had dismissed this too readily and was about to tell her so when they heard a phone ringing inside the house.

Skye grabbed Jane’s arm. “That’s Rosalind, I know it is. Please don’t say anything about this.”

“I won’t. But, Skye, you should try to sound happier if you don’t want her suspecting trouble.”

Now Aunt Claire was calling for them to come inside.

Skye pitched her voice higher. “Do I sound happier?”

“No, just weird.”

“That’s the best I can do. Let’s go talk to her.”

But when they went into the living room, Aunt Claire had already hung up the phone and Batty was dancing around Hound.

“There’s a very good surprise,” she said, hopping over Hound’s tail. “Guess!”

“Ice cream for dinner,” said Skye, wondering if there was a flavor of ice cream that blew up children. “Wasn’t that Rosalind on the phone?”

“Not ice cream and not Rosalind.” Batty danced in the other direction. “Guess again. Starts with a
G.
”

“Giraffe, gnu, goldfish,” tried Jane. “Green beans, grass skirt, George Washington.”

“Not even close.”

“Batty, the surprise doesn’t start with a
G
,” said Aunt Claire. “Now everyone sit down so that you don’t fall over when I tell you what it is.”

Neither Skye nor Jane could imagine a surprise good enough to fall over for. But they sat down at the table, because it seemed the quickest way to stop Batty from dancing. She was a loud dancer.

“Good,” said Aunt Claire, sitting, too. “First I have to apologize for not telling you last night when I found out, but I was afraid she would change all over again. Heaven knows it’s happened enough times already.”

The girls were used to Aunt Claire not making sense when she was excited or nervous, but usually their father was available to straighten her out. Skye took a deep breath—it was up to her now.

“You were afraid who would change all over again?” she asked.

“Starts with an
M
,” said Batty, jiggling in her chair.

“Oh, my!” Jane jiggled a little, too. “I’m having an idea.”

“I’m not,” said Skye crossly.

Jane turned to Aunt Claire. “Did Batty mean
J
instead of
G
?”

“She did indeed.”

“Oh, Skye, don’t you see?
J
is for Jeffrey and
M
must be for Mrs. T-D. Did she change her mind again, Aunt Claire?”

Skye was back on her feet, so full of hope she couldn’t stand it. “Is Jeffrey coming here after all? Don’t tease. Please just tell us.”

She didn’t need an answer—Aunt Claire’s big smile was enough. And then there was lots of shrieking, and when Aunt Claire said that not only was Jeffrey coming but he would arrive any minute, Skye dashed outside into the late-afternoon sunshine, then stopped so abruptly that her sisters and Hound, who were also dashing, slammed into her.

“Go ask Aunt Claire how he’s getting here,” Skye told Jane. “If his mother is driving—”

Jane didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence. She knew as well as Skye that the sight of actual Penderwicks could be enough to make Mrs. T-D turn around and drive all the way back to Arundel. But Aunt Claire had the right answer—Jeffrey was being delivered to them by a hired driver—and now there was nothing to keep the girls from running down Ocean Boulevard to meet him headlong.

So they ran, Skye and Jane carrying Batty between them, with Hound following, barking at all the excitement. They ran and ran, and would have kept on running forever to be with Jeffrey, but way before that, a long black car appeared. Hound barked even more,
Skye and Jane waved frantically, the car came to a stop, and out of its window popped Jeffrey, looking exactly as he should, with his freckles and his hair that had trouble staying down, and just as happy to see them as they were to see him.

“Get in!” he cried.

They all crammed into the car, gleefully scrambling over each other and Jeffrey, though they did manage to say hello to the driver, a cheerful-looking man named Mr. Remillard. Then, with everyone talking and laughing at once, they rode back to Birches. Hound helped by barking the entire time, because he worshipped Jeffrey and was amazed to have him turn up so suddenly in Maine.

“The house is awfully small, Jeffrey,” said Skye when they’d arrived and tumbled out of the car. “Do you mind?”

“Are you kidding?” Jeffrey picked up Batty and spun her around until she squealed with laughter. “I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.”

“No, no,” said Jane and Skye together, then went on interrupting each other to explain the sleeping porch and how they would share one leg of it, and Jeffrey could have the other leg all to himself, and how they didn’t mind sharing at all, since it meant they’d have him there. In the meantime, Mr. Remillard had opened the trunk of his car and was unloading it. First came a suitcase and then a cardboard box tied with a ribbon.

“Food from Churchie,” said Jeffrey when the box appeared. “As soon as Mother decided to let me come, Churchie started baking.”

The sisters had gotten to know and love Churchie, who was Mrs. T-D’s housekeeper, the summer before at Arundel. She had many excellent qualities—her fierce devotion to Jeffrey among them—but in the realm of the kitchen she was beyond excellent and all the way to phenomenal. Skye peeked into the box and almost swooned. Three loaves of Churchie’s famous gingerbread! Jeffrey and gingerbread, all at the same time. Perfection.

Now Jeffrey reached into the trunk and brought out a small black clarinet case. This wasn’t unexpected, since Jeffrey was a musician and would be miserable without some instrument or another. His first love was the piano, which he’d been playing for years; he’d been studying clarinet for only six months. But pianos don’t fit into trunks of cars, so the clarinet was an excellent choice for Maine.

Skye started to close the trunk but saw one last thing, crammed way into the back and half covered with an old towel, as though Jeffrey had tried to hide it. And when she looked closer, she understood why. Back there was a fancy leather bag full of golf clubs. The sisters knew this bag well—they’d been with Jeffrey the previous summer when his mother and Dexter gave it to him for his eleventh birthday. Jeffrey had loathed golf then, and Skye was quite sure he loathed it still.

“Why did you bring this?” she asked him, saying “this” as she would say “putrid garbage.”

Jeffrey grimaced. “Dexter says there’s a golf course around here. There could be a hundred golf courses for all I care. Stupid sport.”

“Never mind,” said Jane. “We’ll stick the bag under one of the cots and you can ignore it for the whole two weeks.”

“You can stay for the whole two weeks, can’t you?” asked Skye anxiously. Now that he was here, it would be horrible to have him swept away again.

“Every minute,” said Jeffrey. “Mr. Remillard will come back for me on the morning you’re all leaving.”

“Even if your mother calls and says she’s changed her mind again?” This was Jane.

“Even if she and Dexter drive here themselves and try to tear me away.”

Batty took hold of his arm. “Promise?”

“I promise,” said Jeffrey. “Do or die.”