by Jill Winters
“I was just curious.”
“Sorry, I'm not sure. But I wouldn't be surprised. Chatham does have a way of keeping families together…”
When Ginger let the remark linger, Nicole tentatively supplied, “Like you and Hazel?”
A fleeting smile flickered over Ginger's face. “Yes, I suppose so. I left for a while, as I think I told you...but I came back. It's my home.” She sounded resigned and almost ambivalent. Then she got a kind of faraway look in her eyes, as though she were more reflecting than making conversation. “It's strange when you've been somewhere so long though—how you see people change. You see their lives happen to them, without really seeing your own. If that makes sense.”
“I know what you mean,” Nicole said, oddly intrigued by Ginger's comment, which seemed both objective and poignant at the same time.
“Some of these people I have known forever, it seems. I remember when Herman MacDonald was just a young man. I used to baby-sit Vickie Finn, for heaven's sake, and now she owns her own inn.”
“Vickie grew up here, too?”
“Yes, over by Pleasant Bay. Do you know Vickie?”
“We met the other day. She seems nice,” Nicole threw in with almost painful banality. Ginger didn't seem to notice.
“Well of course she was very different back then,” Ginger continued, and Nicole just assumed she would say something typical—about how much Vickie had grown and matured into a lovely woman, etceteras—but instead, her voice dipped a bit lower and she said, “She was a very fat child, you know.”
Caught off guard, Nicole said nothing at first.
“You'd never know it to look at her now,” Ginger added. “I really give her a lot of credit. She must have lost a hundred pounds—at least.”
“Really?” Nicole said, shocked. She knew she had this shamelessly over-the-top incredulous expression all over her face, but she couldn't seem to help it. A hundred pounds? At least?
“Ahem!”
Both Nicole and Ginger jumped. The gruff sound had come from the inordinate depths of Hazel, who was planted by the bookshelf behind Nicole.
How long had she been standing there? She appeared rooted to the spot, yet neither had heard her approach. For such a hefty woman, Hazel was surprisingly light on her feet.
“Finished already?” she asked, looking pointedly at Nicole. Her pinched expression caused the myriad granules of her heavy face powder to cake up, and glitter in the creases.
A bit confused, Nicole glanced down at the research materials. “Uh, no...not even close.”
“Well then perhaps we shouldn't distract you.” Nicole suddenly felt like a scolded child. Delineation between the Bloomingdale sisters was getting even clearer. Ginger: still waters. Hazel: stagnant swamp.
“Ginger's not distracting me,” Nicole said pleasantly. “She's helping me.”
“That reminds me,” Ginger spoke up, “Hazel, the idea we had...?”
“Yes. Well.” Hazel inhaled a steep breath. “We are inviting you to our monthly meeting tonight. Since you are assisting the Preservation League, I thought it prudent to introduce you to the other women.”
Not the most effusive invitation Nicole had ever received. But then, anything that began with “I thought it prudent” wasn't exactly a warm and fuzzy fest. Still—it was nice to be asked.
“Of course we'll understand if you can't make it,” Hazel added.
“I'd love to come,” Nicole announced. Mostly as an homage to her aunt—her friends, her causes—and in small part, to throw Hazel for a loop. “Where and what time?”
“Our house,” Ginger replied warmly. “Seven o'clock. And there will be some light refreshments.”
“But no alcohol,” Hazel added sternly. Nicole managed to hold back an eye-roll. As if she would really go to Hazel and Ginger's house to get plastered and have wild times.
Was it an age thing? This perception Hazel seemed to have of her as some trouble-making interloper? Or was it the Michael factor?
“I'll be there,” Nicole said.
“Fine. See you then. Ginger, could you help me with something in the office?”
“Of course,” Ginger said obediently.
She followed her big—and Nicole did mean big—sister to the staircase. I'm so immature, Nicole thought, chastising herself for the catty thoughts about Hazel's...girth.
But talk about abrupt. Even if Hazel didn't want to make chitchat, wasn't Ginger allowed to talk to Nicole? What did Hazel care?
Of course it did not occur to Nicole until much later that what Hazel wanted was simply for Nicole to focus on the lighthouse—and leave other local history alone.
Chapter Sixteen
“Ladies, let's get started soon!” Ginger's delicate voice tingled across the chattering din of the Preservation League of Ladies—whom, from Nicole's vantage point on the couch, consisted of about twenty women in their fifties or older.
The mood was festive and friendly, with the others welcoming Nicole and urging her to partake in the appetizers and apple cider. It seemed like a cheerful group, which was surprising given that it was led by Hazel a.k.a. Attila the no-fun.
When Nicole had arrived, Ginger had introduced her first to Betna Doyle, a petite Indian woman who was Ginger's dearest friend. Kindly, Betna had been full of lauding words about Aunt Nina. Surgeon Ann Winston had mentioned over the cider spigot that she and her husband had occasionally double-dated with Nina and her boyfriend, Abel.
“Let's get started!” Ginger said again, raising her voice pretty minimally.
“Everyone's not here yet,” Elizabeth Parker pointed out.
“Well, you know Hazel likes to start the meeting at 7:25 promptly,” Ginger replied with a slightly apologetic tone. “We have been socializing since seven, so...”
When Elizabeth Parker had introduced herself to Nicole that evening, she had mistaken her, blurting out, “Nina Corday's daughter, of course. I see the resemblance right away.”
“Goddaughter, actually,” Nicole corrected her with a polite smile. “She was my aunt.” Elizabeth seemed confused by that, almost disbelieving.
“Who's left?” Stacy Gristol asked now. An attractive woman in her fifties with pale blond, cotton candy hair, Stacy had supplied the stuffed shrimp, which sat on the coffee table beside the homemade quiche Lorraine. The quiche was compliments of Mimi Frances, a delicate sliver of a woman with white hair in a bun.
“Lydia isn't here yet,” Elizabeth said.
“Or Edith Winchell,” Betna Doyle inserted.
At the name “Edith Winchell,” both Mimi Frances and Stacy Gristol grimaced.
“As usual, Edith is too good to be on time,” Ann Winston muttered.
“Maybe Old Chester wouldn't let her go on time,” someone else said.
At that, Stacy Gristol scoffed. “Wouldn't let her? Edith's been with him for over twenty years. I'm sure she can do whatever she wants at this point.”
“But you see how needy Chester Northgate is these days,” Marge threw in. (Nicole couldn't recall Marge's last name at the moment.)
Without a doubt, she felt like a spectator since there was nothing she could contribute to this topic. All she knew was the name; at the police station the other night, Donovan had mentioned a “Chester Northgate” as having spotted Nicole's attacker.
“I saw him in town the other day and he was practically trailing behind Edith's skirt,” Marge went on. “He looked a bit...off.”
“The man is in his seventies by now,” Betna countered, sounding diplomatic.
Frail looking Mimi Frances spoke up. “The point is—are the two of them doing it or what?”
Taken aback, Nicole repressed a sudden urge to laugh.
“Mimi!” Ginger chastised.
“That man is ancient,” Ann Winston added. Presumably a point in the “not doing it” column.
“Watch what you call 'ancient',” Mimi replied.
“Fine, but...I just can't picture it,” Ann said, wincing at the visual.
Stacy reached for a slice of quiche. “Little Blue Diamond. That's all I'm gonna say.”
The room burst into chuckles. All this talk about Chester and Edith brought to mind Egyptian mummies, dead sea scrolls, and Viagara, so casually, Nicole leaned over to Ann and said, “I guess Edith's husband is a lot older than she is?”
Confused for a second, Ann shook her head. “Oh, no—Chester's not Edith's husband. Edith works for him, as his housekeeper. Estate manager, whatever you want to call it.”
Betna Doyle addressed the room:
“Now ladies, Edith Winchell is as much a part of the League as anyone here. We should applaud anyone who volunteers her time for the good of preserving our beautiful town and its history.”
Nothing like a goody-two-shoes to spoil a catty conversation. There was usually one in every group. Per expected, Nicole watched the ladies begin scrambling to revamp the bitchy things they'd just said. “No, I'm not criticizing her...” it began. “She's an amazing woman, no question,” another back-pedaler said. “Every member of our group is appreciated,” someone else insisted. As the women continued, Nicole reached for another shrimp.
Just then the doorbell sounded. Conversation ceased as Ginger went to get it. A few moments later, she returned—with a tall, exotic looking woman by her side.
“Hi, Edith!” Elizabeth Parker enthused first. The others joined in merrily.
Wait a second. Nicole recognized this woman. Where had she seen her before?
Then it hit her. The coffee shop on Main Street! This was the same woman who had been staring at Nicole in the mirror.
Seconds after Edith Winchell said a brief hello and sat down, Hazel entered the room. Nicole realized something then. It wasn't so much Hazel's size or shape that made her formidable. It was the way she seemed selectively omnipresent, the automatic way she was able to root herself to a spot.
From there, the meeting became productive. As Hazel talked about the upcoming Harvest Parade, as well as the agenda for December's holiday season, Nicole rose and quietly asked Ginger for directions to the bathroom.
Once Nicole was out in the center hall, the threads of the meeting seemed to coalesce into one distant stream.
Ginger had said the bathroom was in the corridor past the kitchen, the first door to the right. When Nicole reached it, she discovered it was already in use. The door was closed and when she tried the knob, it didn't turn. She stepped back a few feet and waited.
Idly, she glanced at the framed seascapes on the wall. There was one that hung crookedly. Being organized by nature, Nicole couldn't help but reach up and nudge it slightly with her fingers. She accidentally nudged it too much—now it dipped too far the other way. “Oh shoot...” she whispered to herself and using both hands, attempted to get it perfectly straight. When she lifted the bottom corners, two photos slid out from behind and fell to the floor.
“Oh, no,” she muttered and knelt down to put them back.
She noticed that both of the photos were black and white. One was of a man, woman, and three little girls, all standing in front of a brick house. Actually...it looked like Tinsdale. Had that house been in Hazel and Ginger's family? Of course, it made perfect sense. It had likely been a family home that was later converted to a private library. Squinting thoughtfully, Nicole guessed that the little girls in the photo were Hazel, Ginger, and their sister, Portia. Surely the man and woman were their parents.
The second photo looked a bit more modern than the first; it had soft muted grays, rather than stark black and white. It was a picture of a young couple holding hands—
Suddenly Nicole had a burst of recognition. It was a much younger and happier-looking Hazel! Younger, Hazel was still a heavy woman but more stout than massive, and she was actually smiling rather than looking—at best—pleasantly imperious.
Then again, didn't everyone smile for a picture no matter how mean or miserable they were in real life?
Alongside Hazel was a short, slim man with glasses. He wore a bow tie and cardigan sweater and seemed meekly delighted. Was this Walt Baker, Hazel's long-lost husband?
“What are you doing!”
Guilty and startled, Nicole whipped around and saw Hazel right beside her. Damn! How had she gotten there without Nicole hearing her? What shoes did she wear to accomplish this feat all the time—bad pun not intended?
“Oh...Hazel...hi. These fell and I was just picking them up...”
Hazel snatched the photos out of Nicole's hand. “Ginger said you went to use the bathroom.”
“I did,” Nicole said quickly, trying to explain—to appease a bull with flaring nostrils before she started rubbing her foot on the carpet, or something equally ominous. “But someone is in there so I was waiting... um...the photos just fell...”
Hazel turned the doorknob on the bathroom and gave it a shove open.
“There's no one in here,” she stated. It was more of an accusation than a realization.
“Oh. Well that's weird,” Nicole fumbled, “I mean I just assumed because the door was closed, and I went to turn the handle it seemed locked.”
“It sticks.” Her voice was flat and unforgiving.
Jeez, it wasn't like Nicole read her diary. These photos had been right out here on the wall, granted not in plain view. But what was the big deal anyway? It couldn't possibly be the photos themselves, which were innocuous. It had to be Hazel. The woman was a grade A uptight witch and a half. What other explanation could there be?
“Okay, well, I'll just use the bathroom then.”
“And then, if you do not feel inclined to return to the meeting, I would appreciate you bidding us goodnight rather than meandering around my home.”
With a touch of exasperation, Nicole said, “Hazel, listen, those photos fell. I wasn't snooping around if that's what you're getting at.”
“Hazel!” Ginger called from what sounded like the front hall. It sounded like Ginger's best attempt at being loud. “Some of the girls are asking about the Christmas concert this year—Hazel?”
“I'm coming,” Hazel said, eying Nicole suspiciously before giving her her back.
Nicole swallowed down her frustration. Come to think of it, Hazel hadn't bothered to put the photos back behind the frame on the wall. Rather, she had slipped them into her skirt pocket before she had turned to go. Which made Nicole wonder off-handedly if Hazel even realized that they had been in that frame in the first place.
Chapter Seventeen
Later that night, Nicole headed home and bumped into Michael on the side yard that divided her house from the Bloomingdales'. “Hey you,” he said, surprised.
“Hi...” she said. “What savagery I've had to deal with tonight.”
“Why, what happened?”
“It's a medium-length story. What are you doing now?”
“Just on my way from getting some dinner in town,” he said.
“Want some coffee?” Nicole asked. “I was going to make some...”
He checked his watch, then shrugged. “Sure, let's go.”
“Here sit,” she said when they got inside, and motioned to the kitchen table.
By the time they were seated facing each other, with hands wrapped around mugs of fresh-brewed coffee, she had filled him in on her evening. “I just don't understand her hostility towards me. Not to overstate the point, but—aren't I doing her a favor?”
With a shrug, Michael said, “Hazel's a bully. You can't let it get it to you. It's a predatory sport and you're the prey.”
“You make it sound like there is a shark circling around me.”
At that, Michael paused. Glanced briefly at his coffee.
“Let's put it this way—she sounds like the type who senses weakness and then takes advantage of it.”
Eyes wide, Nicole said, “So I'm weak?”
“You're soft,” Michael corrected.
“But why does she feel she has to bully anyone, period?”
He slouched back in his chair, still holding his cof
fee mug on the table. “I can only tell you how people operate. Not how they feel. That's...not exactly my area.” Momentarily, she reflected on that. It was an intriguing, if odd, comment. “Nicole, the bottom line is, if you want to put Hazel in check, you're gonna need to show more confidence.”
“I have confidence!” she protested.
“I know, but the thing with you is, you're so...” He seemed to be searching for the right word. “Unassuming. Quiet. Sometimes people misinterpret that as weakness and so you've gotta push back on them. Use it to your advantage.”
“How do you mean?”
He paused, as if trying to explain. “Okay—do you play poker?”
Nicole nodded. “Sure, I play poker. Infrequently,” she added. “And poorly. Why?”
“Got a standard deck around here? I'll show you what I mean.”
Nicole recalled a deck she had seen in the hall closet upstairs. Once she'd retrieved it, she returned to the kitchen and handed it to Michael.
“Okay,” he said and began shuffling. “I don't want to get all philosophical on you here—”
“Why not? I'd like to get philosophical.”
“—but the most common mistake in poker is a common mistake in real life.” Curious, she waited. “And that is, assuming that all that counts is what you have in your hand.”
“But isn’t that true? If you're dealt a bad hand, then that's it. You can't do anything about that. It's like when you're playing Scrabble and you get five I's and two U's. True story, by the way.”
Michael shook his head. “You can't change the hand, but you can still win. By out-thinking the other players, by deducing their options—by playing them, not your cards. Here, I'll show you. But first you've got to cut.” When she just looked at him, he nodded down toward the table. “The deck.”
“Oh.” She picked up a chunk of cards, put it aside and topped it with the remaining pile. Michael scooped up the deck then and dealt them each two cards. “So do you remember all of the hands?”
When he proceeded to refresh her memory—full house, straight, flush, etcetera—it was all familiar. Reminiscent of the summer her family vacationed on Lake George, when it had rained for three days straight and their dad had taught them all how to play.