Watch for the Dead (Relatively Dead Book 4) (7 page)

“Let me connect my computer and we can find out.”

Abby went quickly upstairs and retrieved her laptop from her tote bag, then brought it down to the dining room and plugged it in. She breathed a sigh of relief when she logged herself in and found an Internet connection, as promised. Much as she hated to admit it, she felt kind of lost when she couldn’t drop in at least once or twice a day. She started with the National Weather Service and scanned their local forecast. As Ned had told her, it looked like the western edge of the storm now moving up the coast would clip southern New England, bringing with it high winds and a lot of rain, but they didn’t seem to be recommending taking extreme measures like evacuation. That was mildly reassuring. She bookmarked the page so she could check later.

Next she checked the Woods Hole website. From what she read, it appeared that the exhibit center was the main thing to see, and since that was indoors, maybe they should save that for later in the week, in case it rained. Provincetown? The one time she’d been there she’d found it highly entertaining, with a lot of activity on the streets. And there was that saltwater taffy place. It would be an easy trip from where they were staying. Maybe that was the best idea for the day.

“What’re you looking at?” Ellie asked, coming up beside her.

“I was thinking Provincetown might be fun. And we could stop along the national seashore on the way there or back. Sound good?”

“Sure, why not?” Ellie didn’t seem to have any strong opinion, but maybe that was better than pitching a fit if she didn’t get to do exactly what she wanted. Abby wouldn’t label her as placid or uninterested, just reasonable and open to new ideas. She hoped.

“Are we gonna swim there?”

“I don’t think so. There are beaches where you can, with lifeguards, but they’re likely to be crowded. If you just want to enjoy the views and the birds, and maybe look for shells, we should stay away from those.”

“Sounds good.”

Abby stood up. “Well, then, let’s clean up, and then go see what games and puzzles there are, and then we can take off.”

“Cool.” Ellie took her cereal bowl to the kitchen and then darted across the hall. Abby did the same, rinsed the bowls, then followed. The living room was kind of broken up into different areas, but there were shelves at the back end. They held the predictable hodgepodge of summer reading left behind by tenants over the years, but the bottom shelves were stacked with what looked like board games. Abby could identify Scrabble from a distance, but she had to check the others. “You have any of these at home?”

Ellie shook her head. “We don’t play games a lot, because Mom and Dad are too busy, and Petey’s too little.”

“Good, then they’re all new to you. We might as well get a couple of decks of cards when we’re out, because any that have been left here are probably pretty grubby. So, are we ready to go?”

“Okay,” Ellie said willingly. “Mommy put a hat in with my stuff—I’ll get it. And my camera. And I guess my backpack, so I can carry them.” She scurried up the stairs. While she waited, Abby surveyed some of the books. At the end of one shelf was an older black binder with a mottled black cover. She pulled it out and opened it carefully—it looked as though it hadn’t been opened for a while. She was surprised to find that it was stuffed with clippings and pictures, not of people but all about the big hurricane of 1938. She’d heard about it, but mainly because of her inland ancestors, who had lived in the path of the storm in the Connecticut River Valley. It hadn’t occurred to her that the same storm would have affected the coastline, but even reading snippets of the headlines in the binder, it was clear that it had been one of the largest storms on record, so it could easily have extended across Massachusetts. She closed it again and carried it into the dining room, laying it on the table next to her computer to look at later.

Ellie came bounding into the room, clutching the straps of her backpack. “Ready! Let’s go.”

Once again Abby passed through Falmouth, reminding herself that it was still early in the day and might be more crowded later. Following Route 28 was easy, and it would take her as far as she wanted to go, although it might not be the fastest way. But that was fine; there was no need to hurry. The Chatham Lighthouse was only slightly off the main road, so Abby made a quick detour to it, more so that she could tell Ellie they were at the “elbow” of Cape Cod than because it was a spectacular lighthouse, which it wasn’t. They were early enough to find a parking space, and they admired the view. Ellie took pictures of the lighthouse, although it was impossible to get very close because it belonged to the Navy and they liked their fences. Then they walked down to the beach, which wasn’t yet too crowded, especially if they wandered over to the spit of land on the right end. Sparse picking for shells, though. Maybe if there was a storm, more shells would be washed up?

They didn’t spend long in Chatham, because Abby wanted to reach Provincetown in time for lunch. They stopped only one more time along the way, at a beach that was not marked for swimming. It lay a substantial distance below the road, which ran along the top of the dunes, and they slid their way down to the beach itself. Abby hoped they weren’t destroying any sensitive bird habitats, but there had been no signs or warnings posted. At the bottom of the dune, the views were lovely, and Ellie started snapping pictures again. Abby took off her shoes and strolled along the sand at the water’s edge, admiring her own footprints. The only sounds came from the water and the shore birds. This was nice. Why hadn’t she done this before? With or without Ned?

She turned to watch Ellie, who was still occupied with her camera. Looking at her from this distance, she could see the resemblance to Ned—not just Ellie’s coloring, but her kind of rangy build. She was going to be taller than Leslie in a few years. And Ellie also shared Ned’s focus, taking in details, paying attention to what was around her.

Ned had to be a part of Ellie’s life. Surely Leslie could see that. Nothing like shared custody, or even public acknowledgment of their relationship, but it was so clear that they were connected. Even without the “seeing” thing. They would have to work out something, even if it took time.

“Ellie?” she called out, the wind tearing away her words. When Ellie looked back at her, Abby waved her over. “Seen enough?”

“Yeah. I’m hungry.”

“You’re definitely a growing girl. Let’s head on, then.”

Chapter 7

The drive to Provincetown didn’t take long. They found a parking space on a side street near the end of town and walked toward the center, passing some charming bed-and-breakfasts as well as private homes shoehorned into tiny lots. The town center was as colorful as Abby had remembered, and she and Ellie enjoyed walking along the main street looking at stores and people. They stopped to eat at the Lobster Pot, and Abby pointed out the live lobsters in tanks at the entrance.

“You really eat those?” Ellie asked incredulously.

“They’re good! Especially with lots of butter. Hey, I’ll have one and you can taste—it’s going to be different from the ice cream. Maybe you can close your eyes so you don’t see the pincers and the feelers and all that icky stuff.”

Luckily Ellie recognized that she was teasing. They were seated fairly quickly, and Abby did order a small lobster, while Ellie settled on a hamburger, keeping a wary eye on Abby. When her plate was delivered, Abby tore into the cooked lobster with relish, ripping off the claws and the smaller legs, picking out the meat and drenching each bite liberally in the butter. Ellie looked disgusted but agreed to try one small bite of the tail meat. She chewed thoughtfully, then said, “Would I have to clean them?”

“No, don’t worry. Lots of places serve lobster rolls, and they’re already cleaned by then.”

“Okay. Not bad.”

After they’d eaten, they resumed their stroll. The place was such a mixed bag: high-end art galleries and stores selling nice silver jewelry jostling against comic book stores and places offering tacky tee shirts. And the water was around them, only feet away.

“Why’s it called Provincetown?” Ellie asked suddenly.

Abby was caught off guard. “Uh, I don’t know? It wasn’t in the beginning, because there were Indians here long before any English settlers arrived. I think the whole place was called Cape Cod for a while, but it wasn’t until after Plymouth Colony and the Massachusetts Bay Colony joined up that it was given a separate name. And that is just about all I know.”

“Okay. But there’s no province here, right? Or a guy named John Province or King Province of England or something?”

“Nope,” Abby said, laughing. “I think I can safely say that. You ready for saltwater taffy yet?”

“Sure. Why is it called that?”

Abby felt on safer ground explaining the history of the candy. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I’m not really a walking encyclopedia.”

“That’s okay—I can look it up online.”

“No, no, I’ll be happy to tell you. First thing you need to know is that there’s not salt water involved in it.”

“Then why do they call it saltwater taffy?” Ellie asked reasonably.

“Well, that’s not real clear. It first became popular in Atlantic City, in New Jersey. Then some guy got a trademark for ‘saltwater taffy’ and tried to make other people pay him for it, but the government didn’t like that so they eliminated the patent. Taffy just means it’s stretchy, and it’s stretchy because it has corn syrup and glycerin in it to keep it soft. You have to pull it to get air into it. Would you believe people used to do it at home?”

“Sounds messy,” Ellie commented.

“Probably. So then they made a long skinny rope and cut it into small pieces and wrapped up the pieces individually, or they’d all stick together. And if we’re very lucky, we’ll see them doing it at the shop we’re going to.”

The store that Abby remembered was on the main street, on a corner, which gave it banks of windows on two sides. Since it was still prime tourist season, there was a man inside working at a machine, which appeared to be doing the pulling of the taffy. For a while Abby and Ellie stood outside watching the man work quickly and efficiently. Finally Abby said, “Let’s get some to take back for Ned. For your mom and dad too, if you want.”

“Can I pick which colors?” Ellie asked, pointing to the staggering array of choices inside the store.

“Of course you can.”

They spent a happy half hour trying to choose and ended up filling two one-pound boxes with an assortment. After paying, they walked slowly back to where Abby had parked. Ellie fell asleep on the ride back to West Falmouth, worn out from sun and candy and walking and seeing so much. Abby wished she could pull over and take a nap too, but she was the grown-up here. They’d had a good day, just like two normal people who didn’t see ghosts. As she drove, Abby wondered idly just how many of her ancestors she was likely to run into throughout Massachusetts. From what little research she had done, it was clear that her families, up the tree, had landed and then spread widely across the state of Massachusetts, with a few excursions into neighboring states, so an encounter could happen anywhere, in theory. But there was one apparent restriction: those ancestors she could see had to be in a place
and
under great stress to leave a mark that she could perceive. Certainly fleeing a pack of angry Indians shooting arrows at you would be stressful, but unless you stopped to face your pursuers and clung to a tree while they filled you with arrows, you wouldn’t leave a mark. Abby considered whether that tree would have absorbed anything, and then if the tree had been cut down and the wood used . . . She shook herself. She didn’t need to go that far to find those ancestors. It had been bad enough in Salem, where the anxiety level across the town had been extraordinary when her ancestors lived there centuries before. If she walked the streets of Plymouth, would she find crowds of worried ancestors? They’d certainly had some hard times when they first arrived. It seemed absurd, but there wasn’t much she had been able to rule out so far.

How could she help Ellie deal with this? She herself had been lucky as a child, growing up in New Jersey, since apparently none of her ancestors had lived (or died or suffered) where she had grown up. Of course, that hadn’t prepared her at all to run into them when she moved to Massachusetts. There was no one to blame, since her mother didn’t possess this ability and so couldn’t have warned her. Ellie was here, and there were plenty of family ties for her. But she was still a child, which meant she was open to a lot of experiences and impressions that people generally filtered out as they got older. And what would happen when she reached puberty? Better or worse?

These thoughts kept her occupied—and awake—all the way back to Falmouth. She was relieved when she pulled up behind “their” house and parked. When the car stopped moving, Ellie roused herself. “Are we there?” she said sleepily.

“Yes, we are. You had a good sleep. You hungry yet, or would you rather take a walk?”

“Let’s walk. You think there’s a path to the beach?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know how far it is. But that’s okay—if we don’t find it in a couple of minutes, we’ll just turn around and come back. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Ellie set off at a good pace, and Abby marveled at Ellie’s energy; give her a short nap and she was off again like a wind-up toy. Not that Abby felt old—or only when around children. There was what looked like an informal path, but either the beach was farther than they’d hoped or the path didn’t lead anywhere. “Ellie?” Abby called out to her, since she’d forged ahead. “Let’s save this for another day, okay?”

Ellie turned to look at her, then trudged more slowly back. “Okay. Tomorrow?”

“Let’s see what the weather looks like. What do you feel like eating for dinner?”

“Not lobster!” Ellie said, grinning.

They turned around and went back the way they had come, this time looking more carefully at the houses along the way. Most of them looked like they dated from around 1900, or not much earlier. Funny to think of this prime piece of real estate being no more than a windswept spit of land a century before. Still, most of the houses were not pretentious, although a couple were—or had once been—kind of over the top. Fancy gingerbread probably wouldn’t stand up too well to the winds and salt spray here, which made the houses seem plainer, less fanciful.