The Sense of Reckoning (20 page)

“I have my reasons.”

“She says she needs it to save the hotel.”

“Oh, I don’t think it would save the hotel,” said Loring, examining his nails.

“You don’t want her to have it?”

Loring sat forward suddenly. “I didn’t want any of us to have it,” he said savagely. “That thing sucked Dad’s energy and attention as if he’d had a mistress. Ellen never had a mother—Mom died giving birth to her—and for all I know she would have latched on to ‘The Lady’ like a gosling imprinting on a goose and spent all her time mooning over it. I was hoping there would be at least one person in the family who could help me try to keep this miserable place afloat.”

“So what will you do now?”

Loring sat back again and looked at Garrick for a few moments. Finally he said, “I have no reason to want to help her find that painting. And if I were to give anyone a message to convey to my sister, it certainly wouldn’t be you. Letting her piss away her money on your ‘consulting services,’” he said contemptuously.

Garrick raised his eyebrows. “I find it hard to believe you still doubt my abilities since you’re conversing with me.”

“It’s not your abilities I doubt, Garrick—it’s your scruples. You let a young girl squander her money on ideas even you never believed would work. Ghost tours. Séances.” Loring snorted. “Ridiculous.”

“I wasn’t in a position to turn away business, Loring. That’s a situation with which you are certainly familiar.”

Loring sat forward again. “I know you’re in a position to turn away business now, Garrick. Don’t come back. I have no reason to tell either of you anything.” He pushed himself to his feet, crossed the lounge, and disappeared into the lobby.

Chapter 27

1947

On Monday, October 20
th
, Chip drove home from Jardin d’Eden through a haze of smoke from the fires that continued to spring up in the tinder-dry slash that had been left behind from logging and brush cutting. He passed trucks filled with young men on their way to help fight the fires. He felt guilty, heading toward the fire-free western “claw” while men and boys his own age were working to protect the timber and parkland that provided their livelihood and the homes those livelihoods enabled. But his father had been very clear that Chip was to come directly home after his day at Jardin.

That evening, as he finished a bowl of the soup his father had heated up from a can, he broke the silence that was the usual accompaniment to their meals. “I think I’ll sign up to help fight the fires tomorrow. They’ve got quite a job to do, they can probably use all the help they can get.”

“That isn’t a job, it’s volunteer. Those boys are never going to get paid for that work.”

“It’s only a couple of days, I can make up the time and the money at Jardin.”

“You’ve got a commitment to Jardin, you go there like you told them you would.”

“You wouldn’t complain about me volunteering if the fire was coming toward the hotel,” Chip muttered.

“What did you say?” demanded his father.

“Nothing.”

His father took a deep breath. “If you think—”

“I’ll do like you say. I’ll go to Jardin.” Part of Chip was sorry to miss out on the excitement of the fire lines, but he realized that the place he really wanted to be was near The Lady. The forests and homes seemed to have plenty of people who were fighting to protect them, but who was fighting to protect her? Certainly not Pritchard. If his father thought the money he’d earn at Jardin was the most important thing—well, that was as good an excuse as any to stay near The Lady.

The next day, on his drive to Jardin, Chip saw fresh smoke roiling up from the land to the north of Eagle Lake Road, and the fire whistle blew as Chip pulled the truck into its usual spot. He jogged to the veranda and looked out toward Bar Harbor, but the air was hazy with smoke carried by a strengthening wind from the fire, the view of which was blocked by the bulk of Great Hill.

“Lynam!” he heard a voice call behind him—George Pritchard with his ever-present clipboard. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be out helping with the fires? I hear they’re going to be calling in reinforcements from Dow Field.”

“Dad told me to come here. Don’t you need me?”

“They need you more there. If the fire reaches Cleftstone, there’s not much that one extra pair of hands here will accomplish.”

“But what about ... the artwork?” Chip had been about to say “The Lady,” but didn’t want to endure the teasing that would result should Pritchard find out about his obsession.

“Mr. Furness says to keep the house locked up and to wet the roof if the fire gets close—he says that the art’s more likely to be damaged by moving it than by keeping it here.”

Only if it were moved by uncaring hands, thought Chip. He needed an excuse to stay at Jardin in case the circumstances—or Mr. Furness’s instructions—changed. “I have some things to finish up, maybe I’ll just stay long enough to do that.”

Pritchard shrugged. “Suit yourself, just don’t be telling your dad that I was the one who kept you around here.”

Chip didn’t bother saying that keeping him working at Jardin was evidently exactly what his father wanted.

Chip worked distractedly at the greenhouse window repair—which was proving to be trickier than he had expected—his concentration broken by the repeated sounding of the fire horn and the increasing thickness of the air. He found an excuse to walk by the library, trying the door although he knew it would be locked. He overheard Pritchard telling one of the other men that the women were home packing things up in case of evacuation. He wished Millie was at Jardin so that he could sweet talk the key to the library away from her, although he suspected that Millie might not be susceptible to his sweet talk any more, if she ever had been.

At five-thirty, the electricity went out and Pritchard insisted that he leave. “If you don’t want to help out with the fires, at least go home and help your father.”

Chip set out in the truck. When he cleared the trees at the bottom of Cleftstone Road, he could see a huge funnel-shaped cloud, purple and yellow like a bruise in the sky, roiling overhead.
 

The roads were crowded with vehicles. Family sedans loaded down with possessions headed away from the fire, Army trucks full of men and firefighting equipment and some cars that appeared to be carrying sightseers headed toward it. He started toward Eagle Lake Road until he encountered a barricade—the fire had jumped the road and was now burning in Acadia Park. He finally made his way back to Lynam’s Point via
Eden Street to Hulls Cove, Salsbury Cove, and Town Hill.

That night, his father told Chip to stay and keep an eye on the hotel and then headed out in a truck with some fellow business owners from the western side of the island. They had heard reports of a black sedan filled with foreigners—perhaps the men responsible for setting the fire. When his father returned to the hotel, the “foreigners” having eluded the men, he reported that the fire had burned across McFarland Mountain and Brewer Mountain. The next peak would be Great Hill.

Chapter 28

Breakfast at the inn was, surprisingly, Mexican-themed, and Ann found that she didn’t have much stomach for the salsa omelet that she normally would have enjoyed. She was waiting to hear from Garrick about the outcome of his meeting with Loring and felt draggy and at loose ends. By late morning, Scott had decided a picnic would cheer her up.

They were in the sitting room of the inn, still sipping coffee from breakfast. Ann leaned to look out the window. “It doesn’t seem much like picnic weather.”

“We can have the picnic here. We can get all that nice picnic type of food—bread, cheese, fruit. Wine,” he added for Ann’s benefit.

At that moment Nan appeared in the doorway with the coffee carafe. “Can I top you off?” she asked.

“Not for me, thank you,” said Scott. “Annie?”

Ann shook her head. “Thanks.”

“We had a question for you,” said Scott. “We’re thinking of having an indoor picnic if you wouldn’t mind us using the dining room.”

“Not at all,” said Nan. “You’re the only ones here, please feel free to spread out. You could even have your picnic in here by the fire. It’s so raw out.”

“Where’s the best place to get picnic supplies?” asked Scott.

“Well, the fanciest place is Finn’s Market—it’s right down the street, but,” she added, lowering her voice, “it’s pricey. The Food Mart is only about a mile away and much less expensive—it’s where all the locals go. I’d recommend going there for the fruit and wine, and going to Finn’s for the bread and cheese.”

After they finished their coffee and Scott sent an email update to Mike, including a postscript from Ann, they headed out for the Food Mart. Ann pulled on her cap as protection against the nip in the morning air.

The Food Mart actually had quite an extensive selection of wine. “Wine in the grocery store—that’s so civilized,” said Scott, accustomed to Pennsylvania’s restrictive regulation of alcohol. “You pick out some nice wine and I’ll get the fruit,” he said, and headed off to the produce section.

Ann’s eyes roved idly over the racks of bottles, registering labels but not names: frogs, deer, rabbits. She usually got red but perhaps she should get white—that might go best with picnic food. She glanced down the aisle, looking for Chardonnay.

There stood Ellen Lynam, only about ten feet away and absorbed in the label of a can of coffee on the other side of the aisle.

Ann was faced with the same dilemma she had been when Ellen had come out the front door of the hotel the day before—whether to try to scuttle away or whether to greet her. She glanced the other way down the aisle—she was closer to Ellen than she was to escape. With her back still toward Ellen, she drew her sunglasses out from where she had hooked them into the neck of her sweater, slipped them on, and then turned, intending to reassess the situation. Instead, Ellen stood right in front of her.

“Yikes!” yelped Ann.

“Oh, sorry to startle you, Miss Near—I didn’t mean to sneak up!”

“Oh, no problem!” Ann wondered if it looked odd that she was wearing sunglasses in the dim light from the store’s fluorescent bulbs.

“I see you’re slumming a bit. Most of the tourists go to Finn’s, but I like the Food Mart, prices are much better, and easier than driving all the way to the mainland to go to one of the big chain stores. Laying in some supplies?”

“Yes!” She had to dial it back, working undercover seemed to bring out her overenthusiastic side. “Yes, we’re going to have a picnic lunch at the inn where we’re staying.”

“You’re here with your fiancé?” Ellen glanced up and down the aisle. “That’s so romantic!”

“Yes, my fiancé!” said Ann. “He’s somewhere around here ... looking for something. Maybe I should go find him. Heaven only knows what he might pick up if he’s unsupervised.”

“Me unsupervised?” said Scott, appearing at her side with a bunch of grapes and a box of clementines.

“Hello!” said Ellen brightly.

“Hello!” said Scott.

Ann linked her arm into Scott’s. “Honey, this is the woman I told you about. At the hotel I went to look at. For our reception. Ellen, this is my fiancé, Scott.”

“Yes, her fiancé!” said Scott gamely.

“She even remembered my name, called me ‘Miss Near’!” Ann turned to Ellen. “Although please call me Kay.”

“I wish I could remember names,” said Scott, who never forgot a name. “So you work at a hotel in the area?”

“Yes, I own Lynam’s Point Hotel,” said Ellen. “A beautiful place for a reception. For the wedding, too, if you’re not looking for a church. I wish you could see it in season.”

“The wedding—why not!”

Ellen turned her attention to Scott, clearly the more enthusiastic participant in the wedding planning. “How many people do you think you’ll have?”

“Oh, lots!” Ann nudged him slightly with her elbow. “Well, not too many.”

“We’ve had receptions with anywhere from a dozen to two hundred. With a tent, of course.”

“A tent, honey!” he said, turning to Ann. “That sounds nice!”

“Yes, dear,” said Ann.

“Without the tent, we’d recommend no more than about fifty, in case the weather is bad and people have to stay inside.”

“Well, fifty would be a very nice number also.” He leaned over and kissed Ann on the cheek. “Whatever you think is best, sweetheart.”

“It’s not until July, we have lots of time to think about it,” said Ann, starting to nudge Scott down the aisle. “Nice running into you, Ellen.”

Ellen beamed at them. “Hope to hear from you,” she called after them.

After they paid for their purchases and got back to the car, Ann said, “Sorry about that.”

“Sorry for what? That was fun! What are we doing? Why are we getting married in Maine?”

“I’m helping Garrick with something and that was my cover story—that I was looking at places for a wedding reception. I didn’t expect to run into her again. I wonder what Garrick will think. It’s supposed to be a big secret.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Scott, starting up the car.

Chapter 29

Having returned the hotel key to its hiding place and driven sedately back to Somesville, Garrick sat in his office letting his mug of hot water grow cold. He had hoped that, once confronted with Garrick’s knowledge of the true nature of The Lady, Loring would acquiesce and reveal its location. What possible incentive could the man have to keep such knowledge a secret?