Keepsake (62 page)

"I did that because finding a full-time job is a full-time job. Anyway,
twelve
part-time jobs later, and you have a degree. Think of it, Allie," Meg said, motioning to her to sit back down beside her. "A
degree."
She threw one arm around her sister and pressed her forehead to Allie's temple.

"The first one in the family; we're all so proud of you."

"Oh, Meg," the younger girl said modestly. "It's not as if it's from
Cornell's
hotel school. It's no big deal. I still have to start at a pathetic wage in an entry-level job. A degree doesn't make me any better than you or Lloyd. It only means I didn't marry young the way you two did."

"Yeah, and I know why," Meg said with an ironic smile. "Because the minute you say yes to someone, ninety-nine other men are sure to cut their throats, and you can't bear the thought of all that blood on your hands."

Allie's violet eyes turned a deeper shade of perfection. "That isn't why I've never married, Meg, you know that," she said in a soft voice. "I just haven't found the right one."

Meg sighed heavily and said, "Whereas I, on the other hand, married my one and only suitor
—
and then lost him."

Allie shook her head. "Paul wasn't the right one for you, Meg. You know he wasn't."

Meg's brow twitched in a frown, but then suddenly she smiled and said: "Was too."

"Was not."

"Was too!"

"Dammit, Meg!" Allie grabbed a short brown curl of her sister's hair and yanked it hard, then said in a voice endearingly wistful, "It's good to be back, Margaret Mary Atwells Hazard. I've missed you."

"And I," said Meg softly, "have missed you too, Allie-cat."

They sat there for a long moment without speaking, content to watch the kaleidoscope of reds and pinks that streaked across the morning sky. On a good morning
—
and this was one of them
—
the view of the sea from
Cadillac
Mountain
went on forever.

"Maybe you're right, Meg," Allie murmured at last. "Maybe money
isn't
everything."

Meg nodded thoughtfully, then stood up and stretched. "Let's go home, kiddo. We've got work to do."

****

Homicide Lieutenant Tom Wyler was stuck in a traffic jam as thick and wide as any he'd ever had to cut through back in
Chicago
. But at least
there
he had resources: a siren, a strobe, a hailer to warn people to get the hell out of his way. Here, creeping along the main drag through
Ellsworth
,
Maine
, he was just another tourist, without authority and without respect.

And without air conditioning. In a burst of economic caution he'd decided on Rent-a-Wreck instead of Hertz or Avis at the airport. The three- year-old Cutlass they gave him ran perfectly fine; if it were, say, January, he'd have no complaint. But he was dressed for the Arctic, which is roughly where he thought
Maine
was, and with the midday sun beating down on a dark gray roof on a hot June day, he felt like complaining plenty.

"Go heal somewhere else,"
his surgeon had advised him.
"Away from the bloodshed. Somewhere cool, somewhere quiet, somewhere where every citizen isn't armed up to his goddamned teeth."

Wyler was shell-shocked, and he knew
it.
He
needed time to think, time to heal, time to decide whether he even wanted to go back to the bloody fray. So he'd chosen a small, very small, resort town with a reputation for quiet evenings and grand scenery. He didn't need theme parks, topless beaches, casino gambling, or all-night discos. All he needed, all he wanted, was a little peace and quiet.

So why, having fled to this supposedly remote chunk of granite coast, was he feeling his blood pressure soar and his temples ache?

Because this isn't what it was supposed to be,
he realized, disappointed. Because he'd pictured the route to
Bar Harbor
as a quiet country road lined with gabled houses with big front porches, and laundry billowing from clotheslines out back. Instead, he found himself inching past a more familiar kind of
Americana
: Pizza Hut, Holiday Inn, Dairy Queen, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and McDonald's, all vying with one another for his tourist dollars
—
that is, if the fella on the curb selling Elvis-on-velvet paintings didn't get them first.

Shit.
He'd picked a tourist trap after all.

His disappointment lasted right through Ellsworth and over the causeway onto
Mount Desert Island
. The island, too, was pretty developed. The road that fed into
Bar Harbor
was lined with campgrounds and cabin rentals and, eventually, big motels perched high on a ridge to his right, presumably with views of the ocean he knew was somewhere to his left. The motels must be what had replaced the string of
Bar Harbor
summer mansions that he'd read were lost in the Great Maine Fire of 1947.

All in all, he wasn't impressed. Shifting his wounded, aching leg into a more comfortable position, he reflected on how thoroughly he'd failed to follow his surgeon's advice.  He'd plunked down good money to spend at least half a summer in a place that wasn't cool, wasn't quiet, and as far as he could tell
—
judging from the number of gun shops he'd passed along the way
—
where every hunter-citizen was armed up to his goddamned teeth.

****

"Unseasonable, ain't it, de-ah?" The mailman handed Meg a bundle of mail, pulled out a handkerchief from his hip pocket, and mopped his beaded brow.

Meg put down her watering can and took the packet. "I don't mind," she said, stepping back to admire her new flower boxes. "Did you ever see a more charming geranium? Allie brought them up with her from
Portland
."

"Awful pretty," agreed the mail carrier. "Pink do sit well with Dusty Miller. The blue lobelia's a nice touch. Flesh out a bit, them boxes be right as rain."

The flower boxes, painted a dusty rose to match the shutters, were sitting on the veranda
—
after they began renting rooms, Meg made everyone stop calling it a porch
—
ready to be mounted under the big bay window of the Inn Between. The job was waiting for Everett Atwells, but as Meg poked through the mail packet she realized that it would have to wait a little longer.

"Dad! Mail's here!"

Everett Atwells ambled out from the side of the house, paint scraper in one hand, a hopeful smile on his craggy face. "You're right around this mornin', Desmond. Hot enough for ya?"

The mailman lifted his chin in an upward nod of greeting. "Corn weather, without a doubt," he said, and went back to his rounds.

Everett
eased
Fly Fishing Magazine
out from among the bills in his daughter's hand. "Two minutes," he said with an apologetic wrinkle to his nose. "Then it's right back to the grindstone."

Meg responded with a resigned sigh.

Her father took that sigh personally. "Jeez-zus, you're a driver, woman."

"
Someone
around here has to be," she said, running her hands distractedly through the straggles of her overlong hair. She reached in the pocket of her khakis and pulled out a rubber band. "High season is right around the corner, and look at this place," she said, yanking her hair back in a short and all-too-functional ponytail. "Between painting and papering, we have twice as much work as we have weeks."

"The guests'll fall asleep just as easy starin' at stripes as they will at florals."

"You
know
what I'm talking about, Dad." She pointed to the inn on the left. "Look at the Elm Tree Inn." She pointed to the inn on the right. "Look at the Calico Cat. They're perfect. Perfect! And then look at
us,"
she said with a despairing sweep of her arm across the front of their big, rambling Victorian. The pale gray clapboards of the
Inn
Between were holding on to their paint, more or less, but the white trim
—
and there was white trim everywhere
—
was a sad and peely mess.

"We ain't perfect,"
Everett
allowed, squinting at the high, pointed turret that dominated the front of the house.   "Yep," he said with a yank on his cap. "Definitely needs paint."

"Oh, take your magazine and beat it," Meg said, shaking her head and resolving not to smile. "I'll pick on Lloyd instead."

"Don't I know it?"
Everett
said with a wink. He ambled off without a care in the world toward a chair under the huge oak in the back of the yard. Meg sighed and flipped through the mail, plucking out the "Final Notice" the way she would some evil-looking weed from her garden. When she looked up again, her sister was standing on the front lawn next to the Inn Between's sign and hanging a NO in front of the VACANCY.

"No kidding? On a Wednesday?" Meg broke into a big, relieved grin. "Maybe we're finally turning the corner on this bed-and-breakfast thing," she added as she bounded up the porch
—
the veranda
—
steps. "Who was it? A couple?  A family?"

Allie shrugged and yawned at the same time. "Comfort took the call. All I know is they're due in an hour."

"Damn. Room five isn't made up. But I've got to get over to the Shop ‘n Save or there'll be nothing for afternoon tea today. Allie would you
—"

Allie looked at her older sister incredulously. "Meg, I'm exhausted; we were up all night. I was just going back to bed
—
why can't Comfort do it?" she demanded in the perfect pitch of a whiny twelve-year-old.

Meg lowered her voice: "Because we only have an hour and Comfort will take an hour and a half."

"What about Lloyd, then?"

"Lloyd's working on the furnace. Possibly you don't know how upscale we've become. We're actually promising hot water in our ads nowadays."

"Well, if I'd known you wanted me back in
Bar Harbor
just because you were one slave short, I might've thought twice
—"

"Yoo-hoo, Meg? And oh, my goodness,
Allie!"
Both sisters turned to see Julia Talmadge, the well-groomed owner of the well-groomed Elm Tree Inn, approaching them with a cheerful wave and a man in tow. It was the man who caught their attention. Tall, trim, good-looking, and thoroughly overdressed in corduroys and a heavy flannel shirt, he possessed something else that set him apart from the men of
Bar Harbor
: a cane.

****

"So you're
back,
Allie. How
are
you, dear? You look
fabulous
—
but then! Listen, dears, I want you to meet someone. This is Tom Wyler, all the way from
Chicago
. He'll be staying at the Elm Tree for the next month;
however,
there's been a dreadful mixup in the booking date. I don't have Mr. Wyler down until tomorrow."

Eyeing the newly hung NO sign with obvious skepticism, she said, "You
can
do something for Mr. Wyler, can't you, dears? Just for tonight?"

"Definitely!"

"I'm sorry."

The two sisters exchanged surprised and hostile glances. Julia stared at them both with dismay. Wyler indulged himself in a silent oath and re-adjusted his weight on the cane.

"Meg, for Pete's sake! He can have room five."

"Room five is taken, Allie. You know that."

"But the callers wouldn't even give Comfort a Visa number!"

"We promised them."

"What about first come, first served?"

"Now
—
dears
—
I didn't mean to make this awkward for you.
"

"This
isn't
awkward, Julia. Meg is just being Meg. Can't you see, Meg, that this man is
injured?"
Allie asked, turning to him with a look that suggested she'd just made him a knight.

Suddenly she did a double take. "Wait a minute
—
I've seen you recently."

"Oh, I doubt it," Wyler said quickly.

"Yes, I have. Wait,
I
know
—
the cover of
Newsweek!
You're on the cover of the
Newsweek
that's in my room!" she cried. "The one about violence in the streets!"

Hell.
Just his luck. "That's an old, old issue," he said irrelevantly.

"Violence in the streets, or
Newsweek?"
the older sister asked dryly.