The Hot Flash Club Chills Out (20 page)

Delighted to have a neutral topic of conversation, Polly remarked, “Ah, you like crossword puzzles!”

“They serve to keep one’s mind sharp,” Lucinda said. “Earl Grey?”

“Perfect, thanks.”

The older woman took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and set them on a tray. She brought out two teaspoons and lay two cloth napkins beneath them. She poured milk into a small pitcher and set that on the tray. She worked in silence, moving with arthritic stiffness and elegant, rigid posture. Finally she carried the tray to the table and sat down to pour the tea.

Even though the silence was uneasy, Polly waited until the little ceremony of tea serving had been performed and the other woman seated before speaking.

“You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.”

Okay,
Polly thought, so this is going to be work. At least I’m drying off.

“How old is this house?”

“It was built in 1840 by a whaling ship captain.”

“Ah, like Nora Salter’s house, then.”

Lucinda’s face darkened. “This house is
two
years older than the Salter house.”

Polly sidestepped to a neutral subject. “There’s so much history on this island.”

But Lucinda wanted to make a point.

“It’s unusual for houses to remain in one family through the generations. My father, Wetherford Payne, inherited the house from his father, and so on, back to 1840.”

“Did you grow up here?”

Lucinda sniffed. “Of course not. My father was a banker. This was our summer retreat. I grew up near Boston.”

Polly frowned. “Your last name is Payne?”

“I reverted to my maiden name when I was divorced.”

“And your children?”

“I had two sons. They’re both deceased.” Lucinda glared at Polly, as if she were responsible.

“I’m so sorry.”

Lucinda nodded. “I wanted more children, but I had several miscarriages, unlike that breeder next door. Nora has three children, but what good has it done her? They’ve all moved to the west coast.” Icicles dripped from her words.

Polly smiled. “Children do go off on their own. I have one son, and he lives in Massachusetts, but his wife tends to keep him to herself.”

“How
is
Nora?”

Slightly thrown by the quick change of subject—and then realizing that as far as the older woman was concerned, the subject hadn’t changed; Lucinda could care less about Polly—she replied, “I don’t know Nora well. I’ve met her at a couple of events. She’s the friend of Shirley Gold, who owns The Haven, a spa outside Boston.”

“But Nora’s not coming down at all this summer?” Lucinda’s green eyes bored like diamond drill bits into Polly’s.

“She has to have an operation.”

Lucinda’s eyes took on a gleam of pleasure. “A
serious
operation?”

Polly was reluctant to give the other woman the information. But she was horrible at pretense. “I believe she’s having a hip replaced.”

Lucinda smiled slightly. “Ah.” More to herself than Polly, she murmured, “Total anesthesia is always dangerous for one her age.”

Well, you’re a charming old ghoul!
Polly thought, bristling. “Her daughter’s coming back from California to take care of Nora after the operation.” The light went from Lucinda’s face.
Damn,
Polly cursed silently,
why did I let myself get caught up in this bizarre competition Lucinda seems to have going with Nora?

“How fortunate for her.” Lucinda’s voice was etched with acid. “And when she dies, her children will inherit the house. It will be passed on to other Pettigrew descendants. While this house”—she lifted her arm, languorously waving it to indicate the room and the rooms around it—“is willed to the Historic Preservation Association, which will, no doubt, sell it to some millionaire who made his money with a national cesspool-equipment company and use the revenue to buy open land.”

There were so many land mines of toxic subjects in that little speech, Polly had to struggle to come up with a dispassionate reply.

“Your house is in beautiful condition. And so…uncluttered.”

It was the right thing to say. Lucinda’s despondency lifted. She smiled, ever so slightly. “Unlike Nora’s. What a pack rat.”

Geez! Polly felt as if she were in a tug-of-war. Loyally, she countered, “She has accumulated an enormous variety of possessions, true, but they all look old and valuable. Perhaps they’re family heirlooms.”

“Perhaps.” Lucinda’s elegant head lifted. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Oh! That will be Faye!” In her eagerness to jump up, Polly hit her knee on the underside of the table. She cursed inwardly, but outwardly remained—she hoped—calm. “May I help you clear the tea things?”

“No, go on.” The older woman made a little shooing motion with her hand. “You must be eager to get into clothes, since it’s almost noon.”
You lazy cow,
her tone of voice implied.

“Thank you so much for allowing me shelter,” Polly said formally, and sincerely.

Lucinda simply nodded her head, in majestic acknowledgment of her benevolence.

“Perhaps you’d allow me to take you to tea sometime,” Polly offered. “Or have you to tea at Nora’s house.”

Lucinda shrugged. “We’ll see. I’m very busy.”

“Yes, of course. Well, thanks again.” Once again Polly hurried down the hall, her bare feet making slapping noises on the floorboards.

She flung open the door. Faye saw Polly’s orange face and burst out laughing. Standing there in her cherry red raincoat, laughing, Faye looked like heaven to Polly.

30

O
n this warm July morning, Faye woke with the sun. She jumped from bed, hurriedly dressed, and tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen to make coffee. She filled a traveling coffee mug, grabbed the juice, sweet roll, apple, and sandwich she’d prepared the night before, and rushed out to her Jeep. By five o’clock she was on her way.

The light. The light! No matter where she set up her easel, there was the light, as clear as a spotlight, or shimmering with humidity, or softened by clouds to a veil of gray, and always firing the landscape with a heart-stopping incandescent reality, a kind of visual
truth.
Here was the world, budding and ripe together, past, present, and future, consecrated by the sunlight. The light fell down from the heavens like psalms.

Some days she returned to a site to finish a complicated painting that took several days. The scenes by the harbor, with the verticals of sailboat masts and the shifting iridescence of the water, were the most challenging. Some days she woke knowing she wanted to go to the moors to paint the delicate pink and yellow blooms of Goat’s Rue, or the grasses around the ponds. Other days, her subconscious informed her she needed to paint a particular Nantucket house, one she’d passed while driving off to get groceries or strolling around town.

Today rain threatened as clouds rolled overhead, making the light fickle. She drove just a few blocks, to the cross street near a house that had most recently caught her eye. She parked the red Jeep on Fair Street, because the house she wanted to paint was on a narrow lane with no sidewalks or room for parking.

The house itself wasn’t unusual; it was much like many others on the island, over a century old, gray shingled, and modest. Its two and a half stories squarely faced the street, its chimney rose straight from the middle of the center-ridged roof. What set it apart was its oddly romantic state of dilapidation. The white trim around the windows was weathered to a mottled, almost feathery softness, like a pigeon’s breast, as was the picket fence dividing the small garden at the side from the street. A luxuriant New Dawn rosebush scaled the side of the house, smothering most of the windows with a fairy-tale abundance of fragile pink flowers. At the front, the branches of a holly tree, thick with shiny, prickly leaves, stretched across the front door like a barricade. The windows at the front of the house were swathed with pink and purple clematis, while hollyhocks stood at attention like sentinels in the small space between the house and the street. The grass behind the picket fence was unkempt, uncut, and twined with weeds.

The curtains were all drawn. They never seemed to be opened. Faye assumed the house was unoccupied.

She walked back and forth, trying to find the right spot to set her easel. The houses on either side were higher, casting the smaller house in shadow. She established herself at the end of the small brick parking space across the street from the house. She adjusted her floppy sunhat, set up her easel, took out her palette, and began.

As she worked, the world woke up around her. Birds flashed back and forth in the trees, greeting the day and ordering one another around with bossy little chirps. Down the lane, a front door slammed, and a few moments later a young woman jogged past Faye, sleek in spandex, encased in headphones. She waved at Faye. A while later, another door shut and a boy biked along, the cards in his spokes clattering. She heard windows open. Scents of coffee and bacon drifted out into the morning air, and from behind her floated the measured, pleasing notes of someone practicing scales on a piano.

The front door opened on the house to the left and a young father and mother emerged, shooing their brood of children in front of them, all clad in bathing suits, carrying towels, a picnic basket, beach bags. Later, when Faye stopped to drink coffee, the side door of the house on the right opened and an older gentleman, dapperly clad in white flannels and a peppermint-striped long-sleeved cotton shirt, appeared. He had thick white hair, a dashing white mustache, and sparkling blue eyes. An elegant white poodle accompanied him with such élan it seemed
she
had
him
on the leash.

“Lovely morning,” he said to Faye. “Mind if I look? Oh, very nice, very nice. Get away, Mitzi. I know, I know,” he said to Faye, as if she’d made a remark, “man with a poodle, a bit tiddley. Mitzi belongs to my wife, don’tcha see, and my wife’s a bit under the weather, so I’ve got the dog-walking duties. Yes, yes, off we go, good-bye, good-bye.”

Later, Faye sensed someone watching her. Looking around, she spotted an orange-striped cat sitting on the picket fence, still and vigilant as an owl.

But for most of the morning Faye was alone. Occasionally a car slowly went down the lane, but most of the time people passed on foot or bike. Hidden away from the beaches, shops, and wider avenues, this lane was a real little pocket of peace, an island on an island.

By noon, Faye was tired and hungry. She began to organize herself to leave.

“Hello, my dear.”

She looked up. A door at the side of the house she’d been painting was open now, and a little old woman stood in her garden, leaning on a cane.

“Oh! Hello!”

“I see you’re painting my house’s portrait.” Gingerly, as if each step hurt, she progressed through the tall grass. “May I look?” She had white hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and several wobbling chins. She seemed very plump, but that might have been because she had so many different sweaters and shawls draped over her faded cotton dress.

“Of course.” Faye lifted the canvas from the easel and brought it across the lane.

The older woman’s neck emerged from its draperies like a tortoise’s from its shell as she leaned forward to peer at it. “My, that’s lovely. Just lovely.”

“Thank you.” Faye set the painting on the ground, leaning against her leg, so she could hold out her hand. “I’m Faye Vandermeer. I live in Boston, but I’m visiting here for the summer.”

The older woman peered up at Faye through very thick glasses. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Adele Spindleton and I’ve lived here all my life.”

“You have a beautiful home.”

“Yes, that’s true. Although, sadly, I haven’t been able to keep up with it like I used to.” She cocked her head. “Would you like to see the inside?”

“Oh, I’d love to!”

Faye set her paraphernalia just inside the fence, went through the gate, and followed Adele Spindleton into the house. It was so dark, it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust.

The kitchen they stepped into hadn’t been renovated since the forties. The floor was wide boards, aged to a deep bronze. A porcelain sink was set in a metal cabinet, and the refrigerator was a short, stocky Amana with rounded corners. The kitchen table was wooden, covered with a checkered tablecloth.

“If you’d like to see the dining room and parlors, be my guest,” Adele told her. “I’ll just wait here.” She collapsed in a wooden kitchen chair. “Don’t get around as easily as I used to.”

“Oh!” Faye didn’t want to intrude, but she did want to see the house. “Well, I’ll just peek.”

“Take your time.”

The kitchen opened onto a dining room, which in turn opened onto a short hall and two front parlors. The ceiling plaster was crazed with cracks, as were some of the walls. Wallpaper had peeled in places, and much of the trim on the doors and windows was chipped. The hearth in the left parlor fireplace was missing a few bricks, and cobwebs laced the corners of the rooms, but clearly this was a fine old home. Family photos were everywhere, hanging from the walls, standing on mantels, tucked up in the bookcases. The floors sloped slightly, warped by age, but their lilt seemed pleasing to Faye, appropriate—it was like being on board a ship. In the right parlor, a recliner was situated in front of a television set, a crocheted afghan neatly folded on its side. Stationed nearby were a TV tray set with a glass of water, a remote control, and several pill bottles. Faye imagined this was where the old woman spent much of her time.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Adele Spindleton dozing in her chair, her chin resting on her bosom. Faye hesitated. She didn’t want to wake her—

As if reading her thoughts, Adele opened her eyes. “I’m awake. Do you have time to make us some tea?”

“Yes, of course.”

Faye moved around the kitchen, pleasantly surprised at how tidy and efficient it was. When she remarked on this, the older woman said, “When I turned ninety, I had my children come take everything they wanted, every heirloom, every valuable thing, and the rest of it I donated to the thrift shop. I’d like to remain in my own home as long as my old bones will allow, which means I had to pare my life down to the essentials. Meals on Wheels comes by every day, and the young people next door pick up anything else I need.”

“You still have pictures around,” Faye remarked.

“Yes, yes, I’m so glad you noticed those. Yes, I kept the old photo albums and pictures. I love to look at them. It’s like visiting the past.”

Faye brought the teapot to the table, poured the tea into mugs, and helped Adele to milk and sugar. “Did you ever know Nora Salter? We’re living in her house on Orange Street.”

“Nora Salter. Nora Salter.” Adele tapped her temple, as if trying to nudge a memory from its place. “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. Beautiful woman, much younger than I. She’s a Pettigrew, you know. Very fine island lineage. Pascal Pettigrew, her father, was born on the island, and so was her mother. Pascal’s grandfather had been a whaling ship captain. Oh, yes, lots of history in that family. And so much drama! Oh, my dear,” Adele’s laugh tinkled like bells. “I haven’t thought of them in years!”

Faye was fascinated. “What kind of history?”

“What kind would you like? When you get a family going back for generations, you can take your pick.” Adele sipped her tea and her cheeks grew rosy. “He was such a scamp, that Pascal Pettigrew! I’m six years younger than he was, but I heard all about him when I was a child. He was legendary. He and Ford Payne. What they got up to!” Adele cackled and clapped her hands on her knees.

Faye leaned forward. “What sorts of things?”

“Well, for one, when they were kids, they liked to tip over outhouses on Halloween.” She peered over her glasses at Faye. “As you can tell, this was a long time ago. At the beginning of the last century. What else? Let’s see. If they didn’t like their teachers, they’d fill May baskets—people don’t do this anymore, but back then, we used to leave May baskets filled with flowers or cookies to celebrate May Day—only they’d put a layer of flowers on top and dog manure beneath!”

Faye tried to organize this history. “Ford Payne would be Lucinda Payne’s father?”

“That’s right. I haven’t seen Lucinda in ages. She’s such a beautiful young woman, but rather uppity.”

Faye raised her cup to her lips to hide a smile she couldn’t suppress when Adele called Lucinda a
young
woman. Of course, Adele was in her nineties, while Lucinda was only seventy-three. Youth was relative. “We met Lucinda Payne briefly. She didn’t seem pleased to know we were spending the summer in Nora’s house.”

Adele waved her hand. “Oh, nothing about
Nora
could ever please Lucinda. By the time Lucinda was born, the scandal had happened. The Pettigrews and the Paynes hated one another. Lucinda and Nora were
raised
hating one another. Oh, they were all so stubborn. Neither family would sell the house that had been handed down over the years, and I can understand that, yes, I can. Still, to live side by side with your arch enemy has got to be difficult.”

“Scandal?”
Faye thought she could actually feel her ears strain forward like a bat’s.

Before Adele could reply, a volley of bangs sounded nearby. Adele frowned. “What was that? Thunder?”

“Firecrackers, I think,” Faye assured her. “Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July.”

“Oh, of course.” Adele shook her head. “They always have such a fine display down at Jetties Beach. I assume they still do. I haven’t seen the fireworks for years.”

“Polly and I are going,” Faye told her. “Would you like to come along?” When the older woman looked puzzled, she said, “Polly’s a friend, another of the five us of who will be spending time in Nora Salter’s house this summer. She’s my age. You’d like her.”

“Well…my sake’s. Goodness.” Adele seemed absolutely stumped by Faye’s invitation. “I can’t walk very far, you know. And I can’t sit on the ground like I used to.”

“We’ll bring beach chairs. We’ll pick you up in the Jeep and drive you as close as we can get to the beach.”

“What a kind offer!” Adele’s face grew rosy. “You know, I’d love to come! Why not? If you two girls don’t mind being saddled with an old nag like me….”

“The fireworks start at nine. We’ll pick you up at eight-thirty,” Faye told her. “I’ll drive the Jeep right to your door.”

“Wonderful! Thank you!”

Faye washed the mugs and teapot, then let herself out of the house. As she carried her easel and painting to the Jeep, she realized that in the excitement of planning for tomorrow, she’d forgotten about the scandal.