The Tale of Halcyon Crane (5 page)

Behind me, I heard a soft
clop, clop, clop
coming down the street, and I turned to see a horse and carriage approaching. It wasn’t the open-air type you see in New York’s Central Park but rather a more sensible enclosed vehicle, the likes of which you might imagine passengers using in their daily travels around the turn of the last century. Mr. Archer had said he would send a taxi for me, and here it was. Even though I knew there was no motorized traffic on the island, I stupidly had had the idea in my head that I’d be met by the kind of taxi with four wheels and an engine.

Perception and reality collided when the two chestnut-brown Clydesdales stopped in front of me and the coachman, an elderly man with a shock of white hair, said, “I assume you’re Miss James. I’m here to take you to the Manitou Inn.”
He groaned as he clambered down from his seat to gather up my bags.

“I’m supposed to be meeting William Archer at his office.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope, which he held out in my direction. “I’m to give you this by way of explanation,” he said. I opened the envelope and read the note inside.

Dear Hallie,

 

Please forgive this change in plans. A last-minute urgent business matter cropped up just about the time your ferry pulled in. Rather than meeting at my office as we discussed, I’ve instructed Henry, the coachman, to take you to the inn.

I’ve taken the liberty of rescheduling our appointment for 9 a.m. tomorrow. If this doesn’t work for you, please phone me from the inn and let me know a better time.

Again, please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this might cause.

Most sincerely,
William Archer

 

A handwritten
note
? Why hadn’t he just called my cell with the change in plans? “I’ll just give him a buzz to confirm,” I mumbled, fishing my phone out of my purse. As I stared at the no service message on my phone’s display, I realized why Mr. Archer hadn’t made the call.

Henry shrugged. He was probably thinking:
Tourist
.

I dropped the useless phone back into my purse. “I guess
I’m going to the inn, then.” I smiled as he held out his hand to help me up the two steps into the carriage.

“This is the first time I’ve ever ridden in something like this,” I said to Henry, who hadn’t heard me. I settled in, and with a slight shaking motion we were off. The soft sound of the hoofbeats was mesmerizing:
clop, clop, clop
. I looked out the window at the town passing by—a diner, the bank, a bar, yet another fudge shop—settled back against the carriage seat, and exhaled. A feeling of peace washed over me. I supposed it came from the lack of anything motorized—no cars, no buses, no exhaust fumes, no booming car stereos, no cell phones—to interfere with the quiet beating of my own heart.

We turned from the main street and began climbing a long hill lined with more Victorian-era houses, not quite as opulent as the mansions I saw from the ferry but certainly nice enough, each with a front porch and a well-maintained lawn. Had my mother lived in one of these houses? Had I? I tried to search the closed compartments in my brain for any hint of recognition, any flare of familiarity. I had walked these streets as a child, played here, lived here; surely there must be some imprint left, some ghostly residue of my life. Yet it was as if I were seeing it all with entirely new eyes.

Up the hill we went, finally stopping in front of a massive yellow wooden house with a porch that snaked from the front all the way around to the back. A brightly painted sign swung noisily from the eaves: manitou inn.

As Henry retrieved my bags, I climbed the steps toward the front door but stopped in my tracks because of the view in front of me. From the porch, I could see across the wide expanse of water in all directions, the island’s rocky coast,
and even the mainland on the opposite shore. In the distance, I could make out the ferry chugging along on its return trip; from this vantage point it looked like a tiny toy boat. I held my breath. I could easily imagine why wealthy people from the past built their summer homes on this spot.

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” Henry was grinning broadly.

“It really is,” I agreed. “I could stand here all day.”

The door opened and out came a woman wearing jeans and a cream-colored fisherman’s-knit sweater, bright red bifocals hanging around her neck on a silver chain. Long graying hair softened her angular face; I couldn’t tell if she was about my age and prematurely gray or a phenomenal-looking sixty. The innkeeper, I assumed. I knew she was expecting me—Mr. Archer had made arrangements for me to stay here—yet she just stood there in the doorway for a moment, eyeing me with what seemed to be suspicion mixed with surprise. I didn’t quite know what to make of the cool reception, so I broke the silence between us.

“Hi!” I smiled the brightest smile I could muster, extending my hand. “I’m Hallie James. I believe I have a reservation?”

She nodded, her suspicious glance melting into a grin as she took my hand. “You sure do, Hallie. Welcome, welcome! I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Come in, for heaven’s sake, out of this wind.” She turned and called her thanks to the coachman before ushering me inside.

The house had a comforting, welcoming aura. Its shining wood floors were covered with oriental rugs; colorful oil paintings of island scenes hung on the walls; photographs
lined the fireplace mantel in the living room. The overstuffed couch and love seat looked like inviting places to curl up and read. Through a doorway, I could see a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“I’m Mira Finch,” she said, leading me up the stairs to the second floor. “Your room’s up here.”

“I was so glad to learn that you’re still open for business.” I was chattering, nervously. “I understand most inns are closed this time of year.”

She opened the first door at the top of the stairs. “It’s true, the weather can get pretty nasty here in November,” she said, nodding. “I don’t have any other guests, haven’t for weeks. But I’m a year-round resident, so I’m happy to put you up for as long as you plan to stay. This is your room, the Mainland Suite.”

“Wow,” I murmured, looking at the enormous bay window. Its cushioned seat was covered with multicolored pillows; a couple of afghans were folded in the corner next to the wall. I saw the same view as from the front porch: the great expanse of choppy water below and the flickering lights of the mainland beyond. A king-sized bed held a down comforter, and a wood fire crackled in the corner fireplace. “This is absolutely beautiful.”

“It’ll do.” Mira’s smile broadened, warming somewhat. “Your keys are on the nightstand. One opens the front door—which you’ll rarely find locked—the other is for your room. Coffee and some sort of breakfast—muffins, scones, eggs, whatever—will be available in the kitchen after seven o’clock, but I’m usually up earlier if you want something before then.”

“Hey, please don’t trouble yourself on my account,” I told her. “Coffee and a little something to munch on would be great, but I’m not expecting the full treatment, it being off-season and all. You’ve got no other guests; I really don’t want to be a bother.”

Mira patted my arm; I was grateful to be melting her somewhat icy exterior. “How about we say this: I’ll make coffee in the morning. After that, the kitchen’s open. I’ve got cereal, oatmeal, bagels, eggs. Help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

“That sounds perfect,” I said, lugging my bags to a settee at the foot of the bed.

I could tell she was taking a moment to decide whether or not to say something further. Finally she added, “I was just planning on sitting down for some tea when you arrived. Join me after you get settled, if you’d like.”

I had imagined I would spend my first hours on this island discussing wills and mothers and deaths with Mr. Archer, but this was infinitely nicer. “I’d love that, thank you! Is it okay if I clean up a little first? I’ve been traveling since early this morning, and I feel the grime of several states is covering me from head to toe.”

She laughed. “Take your time getting settled. I’ll be downstairs whenever you’re ready.” And she left me alone, closing the door behind her.

I slid my pajamas out of my suitcase but left the rest of my clothes where they were. Then I took my travel kit into the bathroom, which to my delight was round. Located in one of the inn’s turrets, no doubt. It contained an enormous tiled shower and a Jacuzzi, facing another window overlooking
the lake. Fluffy white towels sat in a stack on the counter, along with candles, soap, shampoo, and lotions.

Instead of unpacking further, I snuggled into the window seat, pulled one of the afghans over my legs, and stared out across the water. Back home, Puget Sound was my safe haven, the barking of the seals and the lapping of the waves like a sedative to me. Any problems in my life—from high school angst to college uncertainty to my divorce to my dad’s illness—were solved on the seashore, pounded out of existence by the relentless beating of the surf. I got a similar feeling here, looking out over this great lake. There were no seals or whales, but the peacefulness was the same.

I took a moment to catch my breath, and the enormity of it all hit me—I was actually on my mother’s island, looking at my mother’s lake! This was the place from which my father had fled with me, all those years ago.

My mind swam with a jumble of thoughts. If I had only been here a few weeks earlier, I’d have met her. If she had just called instead of sending a letter. If she had flown out to see me. If.

Tears were stinging my eyes. I went into the bathroom, peeled off my clothes, and turned on the tap. A shower would do me good. I tried not to break down, but as I stepped under the stream of water the tears began to flow. I stood there sobbing as I let the water wash away the miles between me and my home, the lies between me and my father, and the regret I felt about my mother.

Finally, I toweled off, ran a brush through my hair, pulled on a shirt and jeans, and made my way downstairs. I found Mira in the living room with a plate of cheese and crackers,
veggies and dips, and some assorted meats. When she spied me coming down the stairs, she poured me a cup of tea and topped off her own.

She looked at my puffy eyes and splotchy complexion with concern. “Everything okay?”

“Long day. Long week. Long month.”

“I hear you.” She smiled. “I thought you’d probably be hungry after your trip so I’ve got a chicken in the oven, but let’s dig into this for now.”

She had made dinner for me? I hadn’t realized how famished I was. That handful of peanuts on the plane wasn’t much of a lunch. And I hadn’t even thought about finding dinner on an island where most everything was closed up tight for the season.

“Thank you so much, Mira,” I said, taking a sip of my tea. “I certainly didn’t expect you to do anything like this, but it’s wonderful and much appreciated.”

“Hey, I’m an innkeeper.” She grinned, clinking her cup with mine. “It’s what I do. I should also give you the particulars of life on the island during the off season.”

I folded myself into the armchair next to hers.

“The first thing you should know: Most shops and restaurants are closed for the season.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, taking another sip of tea. It tasted comforting and warm. “Is anything still open?”

“There’s the grocery store, the wine bar on Main Street, the diner where just about everyone congregates for breakfast and lunch, and the Lodge on the other side of the island. There’s Jonah’s Coffee Shop and—let’s see—the library’s open, too. But that’s about it.”

“That’s more than I was expecting, actually.”

Mira dug into the cheese and crackers. “So, what brings you to our little island during the gales of November?”

William Archer had given me express instructions not to discuss my circumstances with anyone. Still, after a somewhat chilly reception, Mira seemed friendly and welcoming. On the other hand, he knew I was staying at this inn; he had even made the reservation for me. If he thought I could take Mira into my confidence, he would’ve said so. He had alluded to a “situation” that had occurred around the time my father left with me all those years ago, something the islanders who were living here then had not forgotten. Now was not the time to find out if Mira was one of them. She was the only innkeeper still open on this island. If she threw me out for claiming to be Madlyn Crane’s long-dead daughter, I’d be without a place to stay.

“I’m seeing William Archer on a legal matter.”

She looked at me, a mix of interest and curiosity in her eyes. “Oh?” Clearly, she wanted to hear more. “It’s really none of my business. It’s the innkeeper’s curse; we’re naturally inquisitive.”

“No, it’s perfectly all right,” I said to her, hesitating. “I’m here to talk with Mr. Archer about Madlyn Crane’s will.”

Mira stared at me for a moment and my mind raced, trying to think of a plausible way to backpedal away from an explanation.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said slowly. “I didn’t think Madlyn had any living relatives.”

I had succeeded in digging myself into a nice little hole.
Should I admit who I was? Keep silent? Saying as much as I already had was clearly foolish.

“I’m not exactly—” I began, and then stopped and started again. I didn’t want to tell an outright lie. Too many lies had been told already. “I really don’t know much right now. I got a letter from Mr. Archer requesting me to meet with him about the will. I didn’t know Madlyn Crane. I knew her work, obviously, but beyond that—”