The Penderwicks at Point Mouette

by Jeanne Birdsall

  Jane listened to the notes still being played in the house. Yes, they did sound like the beginning of “Taps.”

  “If not, there should have been,” she said.

  “I agree,” said Skye. Crouching, she tossed a shoe under the bamboo room divider. She must have aimed well, because now there came a series of snorts, and finally Jeffrey’s indignant voice.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “ ‘Taps’? On a harmonica?”

  The bamboo screen was shoved aside and Jeffrey’s head came through. “It was the easiest song I could come up with,” he said. “And I think she sounds pretty good.”

  When Skye picked up another shoe to throw, Jane scooted down under her blanket. A second line had just come to her, and she didn’t want to lose it. Sabrina told herself that she didn’t long for love, but this was a lie. No, that wasn’t right at all! Rats! Maybe it would help to choose a name for Sabrina’s love. Arnold, Akbar. No. Aidan? No. Bartholomew. Ha. Crispin, no, Carl, no, no, no. Go on to D. But to Jane’s annoyance, her brain got stuck on Dexter, and that of course was out of the question.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she moaned. “Am I washed up as a writer already?”

  No one answered, not a helpful muse or even a sister. Jane peeked out from under her blanket. Skye was gone, and Jeffrey’s shoes, his hat, and a golf club were on this side of the bamboo curtain. There must have been an exhilarating battle while Jane had gotten exactly nothing done. She twisted her blanket in frustration.

  But now Skye was bursting back onto the porch, full of energy and plans. Aunt Claire was sending the two of them and Jeffrey on a walk to that market with the moose in front. For groceries, and also to keep Skye from breaking Batty’s harmonica in two and throwing it into the ocean. And also to work on soccer skills. Skye loved working on soccer skills. Jane would have preferred to stay in bed and think—Eamon? Felipe?—but Skye was waving around three fat slices of Churchie’s gingerbread, and suddenly Jane was too hungry to worry about Sabrina Starr’s love life.

  Skye didn’t hand over the gingerbread until they were all dressed and outside. It was a gorgeous morning, bright with sunshine while still fresh and cool, and with traces of dew glittering on the grass. Across the street a broad meadow was dotted with wildflowers and, in the middle, one giant oak lording it over all. The pinewood to their left was as dark and secretive as a pinewood should be, and to their right was a long stretch of privacy, broken only by Alec’s red house, and that was half hidden by the birches.

  “I like it here,” said Jeffrey, cramming the last of his gingerbread into his mouth.

  “It’s idyllic,” agreed Jane.

  “Enough chatter. Get ready for soccer drills,” said Skye. “Taps” had been only a temporary setback. The combination of Jeffrey, gingerbread, and the invigorating ocean air had her nearly giddy with happiness. “Dribble pattern Isosceles.”

  Isosceles was one of Skye’s favorite drills. It needed three people—positioned at the three points of a triangle—and consisted of a complicated pattern of passing, receiving, and switching places in the triangle, while all the time running forward, even when passing backward. Jeffrey and Jane groaned—weren’t they on vacation after all?—but Skye was already tossing out two balls, so off they went down Ocean Boulevard. They passed Alec’s house and the stretch of rocky coast that separated it and Birches from the rest of Point Mouette.

  Then came a large white building, which they’d been too rushed the day before to notice. It turned out to be an inn—Mouette Inn—and was comfortable-looking rather than grand, with cheerful flower gardens and a wide porch full of lounge chairs, and across the road from it was a wooden dock built far out into the ocean, which everyone agreed was full of possibilities.

  None of this slowed down the intricate dance of Isosceles, but when they had to turn off Ocean Boulevard and start up the hill, the triangle had a hard time holding its shape, and as the road got steeper and curvier and there were cars, even Skye knew that the soccer drill was over. Still, she insisted they all run in a straight line, carrying the balls. She wanted them to chant as they went, but while she was trying to decide on a chant, Jane and Jeffrey ganged up on her and said that if they had to chant, they wouldn’t run. Even without the chanting, it was grueling work, and they were grateful to reach Moose Market.

  Inside, the store had wide-planked wooden floors and leaning shelves, and it smelled delicious, like ripe fruit and new bread. Jeffrey, in charge of Aunt Claire’s list, sent them hunting and gathering for groceries, and when they’d finished that, all three ended up staring at the rows of fresh-baked pies in the glass case near the cash register, debating the merits of each, and finally deciding on one lemon meringue and one strawberry-rhubarb. Then Skye grabbed extra cartons of orange juice to drink on the way home, since the run there had made them thirsty, and they were ready to check out and head back.

  On the way down the hill, Jane lagged behind the others, laden down with a soccer ball, her orange juice, and both pies. Moose Market had made her think about her book. Maybe she needed to come up with a particularly interesting place for Sabrina to meet her love, like a country store with wooden floors. Looking up from the pies, Sabrina saw him across the aisle, near the lettuce and celery. No, that doesn’t work, thought Jane. Was it possible that Sabrina Starr simply wasn’t ready for romance? And how does somebody become ready for romance, anyway? This was an enigma, one that Jane needed to solve.

  “For my art,” she said out loud.

  Ahead of her, Skye called out, “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Jane knew there was no point in discussing love with Skye, who didn’t have what Jane considered to be a romantic soul. Or with Jeffrey, whose head was so stuffed with music that there wasn’t room for much else. Like right now—Jane could hear him trying to explain to Skye about something called a diminished seventh chord while Skye was beating him with a roll of paper towels to make him stop.

  Jane wished she’d begun thinking about love a week or so ago, when the family was still together. Iantha would have answered her questions. She always did—it was one of the million nice things about her. Rosalind might have, too, though she had said it was none of Jane’s business that one time Jane asked what it was like to kiss Tommy. Maybe that hadn’t been a good question to start with. Maybe she should work out better questions to ask, and make up a survey for research. Yes, a Love Survey. Jane liked that idea a lot. What she needed was a good first question, one that would get people interested without scaring them away.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked out loud.

  “Jane, what are you talking about?” It was Skye again, but this time she was only a few feet away. Jane had caught up without noticing.

  “She wants to know if we believe in love at first sight,” said Jeffrey.

  “More love,” said Skye, now hitting Jane with the paper towels. “As the OAP, I demand you don’t mention love for the whole rest of the day.”

  Jane thought this hardly fair, but before she could launch an argument, everyone was distracted by the rattle and clatter of something rushing down the hill. They turned and saw a boy flying toward them on a skateboard, his arms outstretched. Almost immediately he was upon them and then passing by, at such a speed Jane felt her curls lift. She thought he would keep going, but no, he executed a sharp turn that should have ended in disaster, slid to a dramatic halt, and dismounted with careless grace.

  My goodness, thought Jane, staring. He was magnificent, with sunglasses, lots of hair, and the self-confidence of a movie star, or even a prince. Jane cast about in her mind for possible European princes who could be traveling incognito in Maine, but her knowledge of present-day royalty was limited to William and Harry of England, and this boy was certainly neither of them. She would have to hear him speak for a clue—a foreign language or at least an accent—and, look, he was about to say something. Jane held her breath.

  He said, casually, “My sister migh
t crash into you.”

  The accent was disappointingly pure American. But what an interesting thing to say, thought Jane, full of possible hidden meanings. Like the opening of a spy conversation, in which one spy said Looks like fog and the other spy answered Or mist, and then they both knew that it was safe to discuss state secrets. What would be a good response to My sister might crash into you?

  Jane never got to decide, because other, cooler heads—that is, Skye and Jeffrey—prevailed, pushing Jane out of the path of a bicycle that was wobbling dangerously down the hill. Riding it was a wispy, awkward-looking girl who could barely reach the pedals.

  “I don’t know how to stop,” she called.

  “Use the brakes!” shouted Skye and Jeffrey together.

  But apparently the girl’s cycling lessons had not included brakes, because instead of using them, she decided to launch herself off the bike. She went one way—into the grass beside the road—and the bike went the other, crashing and sliding with lots of wheel spinning. Jane and Skye dropped their groceries and rushed to the girl’s aid, but she easily scrambled to her feet, unhurt and not at all embarrassed by her clumsy entry. Meanwhile, Jeffrey picked up her bicycle and set it back upright—and she looked at him as though he were a god.

  “I’m Mercedes Orne,” she said.

  “Jeffrey Tifton.” He shook her hand, then straightened her helmet.

  In all this activity, the one person who hadn’t budged was the boy in the sunglasses. Jane looked at him curiously. Did he care so little about his sister crashing her bicycle? Or maybe he was simply being generous about letting the others be heroes. Yes, it was probably generosity.

  Skye, however, seemed to have come to a different conclusion. She was glaring at the boy and was clearly about to scold him. Jane jumped in.

  “I’m Jane Penderwick, and this is my sister Skye,” she said brightly. “We’re staying in Birches, that tiny house at the end of Ocean Boulevard.”

  “Dominic and I live at Mouette Inn during the summer,” said Mercedes. “Our grandparents own it.”

  So his name was Dominic—Jane thought it a strong name—and he was staying right down the street from them. Maybe they would all get to know each other—that is, if Skye didn’t scare Dominic off. At least she’d stopped glaring, but now she’d turned her back on him and was picking up her groceries, ready to go. Jane sighed. This was not a good beginning. If only Dominic would say something intelligent, maybe Skye could be brought around.

  And then he spoke. “Which one of you is the oldest sister?”

  “Why?” asked Skye in a tone that offered no hope of brought-aroundness.

  He shrugged and did a little move with his skateboard.

  “I’m seven, and Dominic’s twelve,” said Mercedes. “Are you twelve, too, Jeffrey?”

  “I will be in August,” he said.

  Dominic looked sideways at Jeffrey, then back down to his skateboard. “I’m twelve and a half, actually.”

  “Well, we should go,” said Skye.

  Which made it clear to Jane that Skye wasn’t going to claim being the oldest for Dominic. If Skye didn’t want to, could someone else? How exciting to be the oldest for once, and especially the once that included a boy with such flair and swagger. Jane thought quickly. She refused to lie—no boy could be worth that—but there was something she could say, if she was careful.

  “Neither of us is the oldest sister, really. That’s Rosalind, who’s in New Jersey. But we have a little sister, named Batty. You should meet her, Mercedes—she’s only five, but advanced for her age. Anyway, Dominic, when it’s just me and Batty, I’m the oldest.”

  Jane didn’t dare look at Skye or Jeffrey. She kept her attention on Dominic, who seemed to be trying to work out what she’d just said. It took him a while, but at last he nodded, leaped onto his skateboard, and skated off with the maximum noise and spectacle.

  Jane watched him go. “I wonder if he plays soccer.”

  “No, but I do.” Mercedes was struggling to remount her bike, since her brother showed no sign of waiting for her. “That is, I’d like to.”

  While Jane steadied the bike, Jeffrey helped Mercedes on, then gave her a push in the right direction. She turned to wave and almost crashed but managed to keep going without further injury. When Mercedes was safely out of sight, the threesome set off again, with Skye in the lead and moving quickly. Not so quickly that they might catch up with the Orne siblings—that was the last thing Skye wanted—but just enough to burn off her irritation with Dominic, whose conversational skills hadn’t impressed her at all. Why Jane had been so friendly to him was a mystery. Rosalind had wanted them to be polite to people in Maine, but being polite is one thing, and telling people where you live is quite another. Unless Jane hadn’t noticed that Dominic was all hair and attitude. No, not even Jane could be that gullible, right? Skye glanced back at Jane but wasn’t reassured—Jane was again muttering to herself about love.

  Skye groaned. Why, oh why, had she ever agreed to be the OAP?

  Then she heard the barking, and Dominic flew out of her mind. It was Hound’s barking, the kind that said Trouble Trouble Trouble. Skye threw her share of the groceries at Jeffrey and Jane and took off toward Birches, running, running, and as she got closer, along with Hound’s deep barking she could now hear Hoover’s yapping. She ran faster. Whatever bad was happening involved Batty—Skye was sure of it. Batty had been blown up, drowned, smashed on the rocks, or some combination of the three. And it was all Skye’s fault. She would never get over the guilt, and her father and Rosalind would hate her forever.

  Past Alec’s house now, and Skye could tell that the barking was coming from behind Birches. Around the house she flew, and suddenly Batty, without any visible wounds, was running toward her.

  “You’re alive!” said Skye, so relieved her heart hurt.

  Ignoring such an obvious statement, Batty grabbed Skye’s hand and urgently pulled her across the lawn. At first Skye could see only Alec, standing near the seawall, holding the two dogs, who had finally stopped barking. Then Alec stepped aside, and there on the ground was Aunt Claire, clutching her ankle and trying to look brave.

  Skye rushed over. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay.” Aunt Claire smiled, then winced.

  “She fell off the seawall,” said Batty.

  “It was Hoover’s fault,” said Alec. “He startled your aunt, and she fell.”

  Hoover again! Skye turned on Alec. “You can’t control him at all!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Skye was trying hard to loathe the man and his dog, but Alec was making it difficult by being so sincerely remorseful. Meanwhile, Jane and Jeffrey had arrived. Explanations were made all over again, with Alec apologizing several more times while Skye knelt beside her aunt.

  “How badly are you hurt?” she asked.

  “I think it’s just a sprain,” said Aunt Claire. “Help me stand.”

  But when Aunt Claire put weight on the bad ankle, she cried out in pain and had to be lowered onto the seawall.

  “She needs to see a doctor,” said Jeffrey.

  “I’ll drive her to the hospital,” said Alec. “There’s one only about a half hour away.”

  “We’ll all go.” Skye was determined that there be no more tearing apart of the family, especially in emergencies. “Aunt Claire needs people she knows around her for comfort.”

  “Comfort is good,” Alec agreed, “but since your aunt will need to stretch out in the backseat, there won’t be room for all of you.”

  “Even if we can’t all go with Aunt Claire, some of us can,” said Jeffrey. “I will, if that would make you feel better, Skye.”

  “I’ll go, too,” added Batty.

  Skye couldn’t help noticing Alec’s mouth twitching with amusement at the idea of this small girl in her orange life jacket being any kind of help or comfort. He did sort of look nice, she thought—not as respectable and dignified as her father, but who
was? Some people might even think him handsome in a grown-up sort of way, with brown hair that didn’t seem to want to lie down properly and a splatter of freckles across his nose. It could be just the beard, she thought, that gave him a less-than-dependable look.

  “All right, Jeffrey, you go with him,” she said.

  “Good.” Jeffrey grinned at Alec. “And, Skye, I like him, even if he can’t control his dog.”

  “I like him, too,” said Jane. “I even like his dog.”

  “Oh, I don’t like his dog,” said Skye.

  “Stop this right now!” Aunt Claire waved her arms frantically. “Listen to me. I don’t need comfort. I just need a ride, which means that Alec will drive me to the hospital, just me, by myself. You four will stay here and have a good time and not worry. Agreed?”

  “You can’t expect Skye not to worry,” said Jane. “She’s the OAP.”

  “Fine. Skye, as long as you do everything else I say, you may worry all you want.”

  Skye wasn’t going to give up altogether without one last gasp of authority. “You need ice for your ankle. Jane, go get the ice. Batty, your job is to keep Hound calm.”

  “And I’ll take Hoover home,” said Jeffrey.

  So while Jane went inside to fill a plastic bag with ice, and Batty whispered words of comfort into Hound’s ear, and Jeffrey set off for Alec’s house with the wayward Hoover, Skye and Alec managed to get Aunt Claire to the car without causing her too much more pain.

  “Here’s the ice,” said Jane, running up.

  “Thank you, girls. You are my angels,” said Aunt Claire. “Now, truly, there’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ll call you.”

  Skye and Jane smiled and waved as the car pulled away.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” said Skye, her smile gone as soon as the car was out of sight.

  Jane and Batty were staring at her like they expected her to know what to do. She’d seen them stare like that before, but always at Rosalind, never at her. She turned her back on them for a bit of relief, and then, because a tree happened to be in front of her, she kicked it. Pleased with herself, she kicked another tree. Maybe she could escape to the pinewood at the end of the street, where there were hundreds of trees to kick.