“Mr. Doyle’s writing class.”
He flashed his orthodontically perfect smile. “Yeah, that’s it. Patty, right?”
“Penny, actually.”
“Right. Penny.”
“You, um, start your short story yet?”
“Naw,” he yawned with out-partying-all-night contentment. “I’ll probably whip it out on the plane ride home.”
“Me too,” I said, even though I’d been working on it for two weeks now. “Well, I liked your last piece, the one about finding your old finger paintings in the attic.”
“Thanks,” he said, but at this point he was looking past me, not at me, like he was hoping to spot someone more interesting in the terminal to talk to. I wished he’d put me out of my misery and leave, but he just stood there, and I didn’t like the silence.
“So…” I fumbled, “you going somewhere for the holidays?”
“Yeah,” he said brightly. And why wouldn’t he be cheerful? He was surely going on a real vacation. “I’m on my way to Aruba,” he said. “You?” Now he was looking straight at me.
Damn, he had to ask. It was bad enough that I had to go to Islemorow. Did I have to confess it to Chad Laramy? “I, I’m going to the islands too,” I said.
“Really, which one?” But he was already looking away again. “Oh wait, there’s my girlfriend and her mom. Finally, ready to board.”
“See you back at Mr. Doyle’s then,” I said.
“See ya, Patty.”
As he walked away, all I could do was wonder: why was it that the only boys who liked me had tails and a litter box? Apparently, that was not for me to know.
I boarded the plane only to discover that it wasn’t really a plane. It was a glorified kite. I’d never flown before, and I’ll admit I was feeling a little jittery. Well, jittery isn’t quite the right word—scared sick is more like it.
…Okay, I told myself once my teeth stopped chattering. Okay, we’ve taken off, and I’m not in the fetal position. I can get through this, I can. After all, what choice do I have, right?
Somehow, we made it safely to Augusta, Maine, even though I swear the propeller outside my window wasn’t rotating. I caught lunch at a vending machine in the airport lobby—M&Ms, the peanut ones (for protein)—and then headed for the puddle jumper that stopped in Waterville, Bangor and Bar Harbor before finally dropping me in Jonesport, where I had to catch a ferry to the island.
The sun was setting on Islemorow by the time the ferry docked, and it was beyond cold. The wind whipped little ice swords at me, and my nostrils froze together in a futile attempt to keep the arctic air out. Thank God the inn’s driver was waiting for me at the wharf. He was easy to spot since he was the only one there.
Unfortunately, the driver was in as rotten a mood as me. “Black Butterfly?” he grumbled, winding down the window of his snug minivan, not making eye contact.
I nodded. He didn’t look much older than me—eighteen maybe. Wearing no jacket over his thermal shirt, he had longish dark hair, eyes far apart, and a small growth of stubble. His jaw kept flexing, sending little muscular ripples across his cheeks. I found myself wondering what he looked like when he smiled, but no, he wasn’t going to be doing that any time soon. Instead, he crammed a fistful of Cheetos into his mouth. “Put your things in the trunk.”
Wait a minute, wasn’t that his job? I took a step forward to give him a piece of my mind, but what came out of my mouth was, “Could you open the trunk then?” So much for assertiveness.
He heaved an irritated sigh, brushed a Twinkie wrapper off his lap, and rolled out of the car. He was tall and lean in his black jeans.
“Get in,” he said after watching me stow my bag. “Don’t try to open your window—it’s stuck.”
“No problem,” I said, climbing into the backseat. Like I was going to want more 20-below air slapping me in the face.
“And the seat belts are broken.”
“I’m in hell frozen over,” I whispered to myself.
“Huh?” he asked as we took off.
“Nothing.”
I wiped the frost off my window and looked out at the ragged heaps of snow and bent trees passing by. The road curved sharply at one point, and a few houses appeared. Now, in case you’re picturing some quaint New England scene here—shingled cottages with shutters and brick chimneys and tire swings hanging from trees—let me set you straight. These houses looked like trailers minus the wheels, and the yards were piled with rusted cars, broken refrigerators and other junk. I spotted a couple of dogs snooping around an upside down table, and then we were driving through woods.
“How many people on the island?” I asked.
My driver rolled his tongue around his mouth like he was trying to get a piece of Twinkie out from between his teeth. “Depends,” he said, peering at me through his rearview mirror. “This time of year, a couple hundred, give or take. Summertime, you can double that easy.”
Did he hold my gaze in the mirror for an extra second? Or was it just my imagination? No matter, it didn’t matter. Still, I smoothed my hair, which was turning into a frizzy brown mess as the ice melted off it, before pulling myself back into the conversation. “So what do the yearrounders do? For a living, I mean?”
“They catch lobsters,” he said, and I knew he wanted to add a duh. “Or fix the lobstermen’s boats. Or sell food and cigarettes to the lobstermen. Or marry them.”
The road twisted again, taking us past an old building that looked like a cross between a diner and a bookshop, or maybe between a convenience store and a library. The pink neon sign said the place was called the Grindle Point Shop. I prayed that it was walkable from the inn. I was going to need something to do during my forced two-week isolation, and maybe the Grindle Point Shop was it.
We drove a short way on, at which point the junk food addict behind the wheel decided to turn on a CD. Loud. Then, just when I thought I’d rather walk the rest of the way, the Black Butterfly Inn appeared before us.
Set back a hundred feet from the road, the inn was a three-story battleship in a sea of snow—grey, weathered, a mishmash of eaves and gables. The front door and windows were crowned with pointed arches straight out of some medieval abbey. From the steep roof, multiple chimneys released tongues of smoke that quickly dissolved into the bitter evening. Maybe the inn was supposed to look like a castle or a church—it was definitely commanding, but in a grim, stiff way, not at all charming or welcoming. If buildings had faces, this one would be puckered up in a frosty snarl, its icicle-shaped holiday lights only making it look colder.
“It’s nicer on the inside,” my driver said, eyeing me again in the rearview mirror. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but somehow it was consoling to learn that the inn didn’t dazzle absolutely everyone at first glimpse. Maybe the Black Butterfly scowled at all its visitors. Maybe it even scared some of them. Or maybe this guy was taking pity on the girl who was obviously starting to snap. Either way, I had to admit I appreciated the gesture. And the eye contact.
He drove up the narrow circular driveway but couldn’t reach the top because a truck was blocking the way. The truck, a shiny silver job souped up with black racing stripes and oversized chrome wheels, looked out of place against the gothic exterior of the inn. In bold blue print on the tailgate, it said Mike’s Heating and Plumbing—there when you need us.
“So he finally got around to coming,” my driver said, parking directly behind the pickup. “About time.” I hoped that meant we’d have heat and water tonight.
A plump woman in a bathrobe and faux fur slippers was standing on the wraparound porch, waving energetically at us. Her hair was a wild shade of red from a bottle, and it matched her lipstick. When I stepped out of the minivan, she ran down the front steps, skirted the pickup, and flung her pudgy arms around me. “Penny!” she cooed. “Penny, at last!” Then she took a step back to examine me. “You’re Viv’s child, all right.”
I gave her my best rendition of a knowing smile.
�
�I’m Bubbles,” she said. “Blanche really, but everyone calls me Bubbles and so should you. I see you’ve met my son George.”
I clamped my jaw to keep it from dropping open. “Yes, we’ve met. Thanks for the ride, George, and for the tour. That was sweet of you.” He pretended he didn’t hear me.
Part of me felt sorry for George. If this was his family’s business, then he was probably a lifer, sentenced to carting people around in the snow and eating meals out of cellophane bags for the next 60 or 70 years. Talk about lousy luck. But another part of me resented the twit for not letting on who he was. He was the son of the owner. He was the son of my mother’s friend. I was going to be spending two weeks with his family. What possible reason could he have for hiding his identity from me? “Mutant,” I added under my breath.
That, he heard. “Pardon?” he asked.
I tossed him a big fake smile.
“Let’s get you in out of this cold,” Bubbles said. “Oh look, it’s starting to snow again.” She looped her arm through mine and led me to the stairs in short, slippered steps. I felt dizzy all of a sudden. Not dizzy like on a roller coaster, where the downs are always followed by ups. More like the free fall, where it’s one freakishly terrifying plummet the whole way. What was I walking into, and why wasn’t anyone rescuing me?
I have a new philosophy.
I’m only going to dread one day at a time.
—Charles M. Schulz, Charlie Brown in “Peanuts”
George was right about one thing: the inn was nicer on the inside, a lot nicer. The lobby didn’t look like any lobby I’d ever seen—no front counter, no tourist posters from the local chamber of commerce, no vending machines. It was more like a den from a fancy house. The paneled walls were hung with oriental rugs of red, gold and blue, and several stained glass skylights studded the cathedral ceiling. A lush brown sectional couch wrapped itself around the fireplace, where a fire crackled and danced. Something about the last bits of daylight mingling with the flames made the air itself seem to flicker and swim.
“Surprised?” teased Bubbles, shaking a set of sleigh bells that rested on a small desk in the corner.
“I live in an efficiency apartment,” I explained. “I’m not sure what to do in a place with working thermostats and chairs that don’t fold.”
She chortled, apparently thinking I was joking. “Glad you like it.”
When did I ever say I liked it? I hated this place, hated it. I hated being here, I hated Mom for sending me here, I hated myself for agreeing to come, and no fancy decorations or pretty lights were going to change my mind.
“Here’s Vincent then,” Bubbles said as an older man answered her bell. “He’ll show you to your room, and we’ll get acquainted over dinner, how’s that? Vincent, the Lilac Room for Penny, please.”
Vincent was a pillowy man with a full head of silver hair framing his baby blues. He wore painter’s pants and a down vest, and his belt buckle was a silver and turquoise fish. “Welcome, Miss Penny,” he said, picking up my duffel bag.
I followed him across the lobby, through an arched doorway, and into a parlor. This room was bigger and brighter than the lobby—creamy walls with framed mirrors, a marble floor, plenty of recessed lighting. Cushioned armchairs haphazardly lined the walls, and a horseshoe of sofas filled the center of the room.
A girl around my age was sitting cross-legged in one of the armchairs, looking out the bay window. She was pretty—light eyes, light hair, light skin—but I decided not to hold that against her. I was just glad to see there was another guest, someone I might be able to pass some time with on this iceberg. When she looked my way, I nodded and gave a little smile, but instead of smiling back, she jumped out of her chair and ran out of the room. Just my luck—a bizarro. I followed Vincent, wishing the marble tiles beneath my feet would give way to a secret tunnel back to Boston. Regrettably, they only gave way to a curved staircase.
As we climbed to the second floor, Vincent asked, “Do you have plans for your stay?”
Yes, I wanted to say, I’m planning to die of boredom and loneliness. But I answered, “I brought a couple of books along. And I have a writing project to finish for one of my classes.”
“What are you reading?”
“Right now, a thriller.”
“Thriller. Say, did you know Alfred Hitchcock stayed here when he finished Psycho, back when the Black Butterfly was new?” he asked. “And Stephen King’s wife takes a room almost every Labor Day weekend with her daughter.”
“You mean, some mothers actually take their daughters with them when they go away?” I accidentally said this loudly enough for Vincent to hear. He didn’t say anything though, and for that I was grateful. I didn’t want a pity party or a cheering squad. I just wanted to get through this.
We walked down the hallway, under a crystal chandelier and past garden watercolors. There were four guest rooms on each side of the hall. Instead of room numbers, they had porcelain signs with the rooms’ names calligraphed on them. Vincent led us past the Iris, Foxglove, Tiger Lily, Sweet Pea, Indian Pipe, Lady Slipper and Rose rooms, stopping finally at a door half hidden behind a wreath of silk flowers. “Here’s the Lilac Room,” he said, fishing a key out of his vest and jiggling it in the knob until the door popped open. He handed me the key, then stepped into the blackened room and flipped the wall switch.
Several wall sconces flickered on. My eyes bulged when I saw what the light had to show me: a king-size four-post bed with a sheer canopy and ivory bedding, a stone fireplace flanked by two overstuffed loveseats, and rosy valances swirling their way around a triple window. Lavender brush strokes caressed the walls, while pearly threads of carpeting kissed my feet. And it was all mine. The gods had sent a crumb of justice my way.
“Not bad,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Vincent asked.
“Nothing—sorry.” I walked over and sat on one of the loveseats, which felt like velvet and looked like aquamarine—the same color the dancers were wearing in the Degas print hanging over the mantel. “It’s just, this room is really pretty.”
“It’s my personal favorite.” He moved past me and set my bag on the chest at the foot of the bed. “Come on,” he motioned me over to where he stood. “Take a whiff and tell me what you think.”
I didn’t know what he was up to, but he must have been trying to cheer me up. Which was a sweet, albeit futile task. Obediently, I walked to the middle of the room and inhaled. The smell was rich, zesty, inviting, like walking into my favorite pizza place. “Wow,” I said, “you’re right. It smells like…like a feast or something.”
“This room sits directly above the kitchen, and that’s why it’s my favorite. Now if you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you what’s for supper. I’ve got this down to a science, since Miss Rita doesn’t let anyone outside the Henion family in her kitchen while she’s cooking.” He tested the air with several short snuffles at different angles. “Cloves, cinnamon—that’s probably the soup. Veal. Some sort of squash—Miss Rita makes a fabulous acorn squash soaked in brandy and mango juice. Let’s see, mushrooms and…something nutty for dessert. Sound all right?”
I looked at him, wondering if he were kidding. At home, it’s gourmet dining if we bother taking the Spaghettios out of the can. Veal, mangos, dessert? If it weren’t for all those hours I spent drooling over the Whole Foods shelves while I waited for Mom to get out of work, I wouldn’t even know what real food looked like. I wished I could forget how dismal I felt so I could enjoy this place, but I knew that would never happen. Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the mind as the wish to forget it. That’s what some Renaissance guy said about five hundred years ago, and I believe him.
“Supper’s at seven,” he said, returning to the doorway. “You’ve got almost an hour. Oh, if you want me to build a fire later, let me know—it’s my specialty.”
“Okay.” I dug into my back pocket, hoping a dollar would show up, but he disappeared before I could tip him.
The fir
st thing I did when I was alone in the room was kick off my clogs and flop belly up on the bed, just looking around, trying to adjust to this alien physical comfort. Satiny sheets, carpeting deep enough to sleep on, a carved table I hadn’t noticed on my way in. Everything felt plush and elegant and almost sparkly, but somehow unsettling too. Everything so pristine, so quiet, so someone else’s. And here I was, alone in it for the next two weeks.
To busy myself, I decided to unpack. There wasn’t much to do, but I managed to make a little project out of hanging up my shirts, stuffing my underwear into the dresser, and unearthing my hair ties. Next, I headed into the bathroom with my toiletry kit.
Wow, the bathroom. Peacock blue tiles from floor to ceiling, black granite countertop, a light-up mirror, Jacuzzi tub, a separate shower stall, and the crowning cherry: a heated floor. I took my time transforming the space into my altar of vanity, laying out all the wares for my skin, hair, teeth and nails. Then I tried to pretend this was my house, that my beauty products weren’t drugstore knock-offs, that I padded barefoot on heated floors every day of my life. Yeah, right.
Never eat more than you can lift.
—Miss Piggy
“Dinner?” said Vincent from a podium outside the dining room, which was on the far side of the lobby and down a hallway. We were standing in a dimly lit alcove, and he was wearing a suit jacket now. So Vincent was the maître d’, as well as the bellhop. Probably the maid and the dishwasher too.
“Come along, Miss,” he said, pushing open the door behind him and leading me into a small but lavish room where four glass topped tables stood on four oval rugs. The burgundy walls boasted jewel framed mirrors, bead and ceramic hangings, and an ancient map of the world. A huge picture window and a double fireplace completed the room. It felt dark and spicy in here, old and sophisticated, and I hoped I wouldn’t break anything.
Vincent pulled out a high-backed wicker chair for me at the window end of the room. “This is our best table,” he noted as I sat down. “The Bushes always request it when they’re here from Kennebunkport.”
The Black Butterfly Page 2