"The problem was to make the legend marketable," Corinne explained to her sister, "so five or six years ago, the council came up with 'Chepaquit—Pitcairn of the Cape.' What d'you think?"
Laura stared at the huge white banner, its Pitcairn slogan emblazoned in nautical blue and flanked by stylized ships, that was strung across Main at its intersection with Water Street.
"I think the slogan's a stretch," Laura admitted. "First of all, how many people know that Pitcairn is the island where the crew of the Bounty settled after their mutiny? And Bligh's crew headed for Pitcairn on purpose. Captain Barclay didn't have a heck of a lot of choice about where to aim his longboat."
"Well—don't go telling the tourists. The idea is that we're supposed to be a wonderful destination."
"And you are," Laura said, looping her arm through her sister's.
It was another in a string of improbably glorious days, warm and breezy and absolutely tailor-made for flying a kite. There were dozens of them visible from the town center where the sisters were currently taking in the scene.
"It was Gabe who came up with the Pitcairn concept," Corinne explained. "He's so proud of Chepaquit's history."
"And well he should be. He's a Wellerton, after all, descended from one of our founders."
A discouraged sigh escaped Corinne. "He is, isn't he. Oh, lord. What was I thinking?"
Laura said, "Now, wait a minute. He's a Wellerton, not a Washington, for Pete's sake. Let's not get overly impressed."
"You're not impressed that Kendall Barclay is descended from Captain Barclay himself?"
"No! Well ... maybe I was once. But I'm willing to bet that Kendall Barclay takes his pants off one leg at a time," she said dryly, "just like everyone else."
Corinne laughed and said, "Isn't the expression supposed to be 'Puts his pants on one leg at a time' ?"
"Oh. You're right," Laura said, embarrassed. "How Freudian of me." She decided that there was absolutely no point in dwelling on either the man or his pants, since she didn't expect to see him again after her panicky meltdown of the previous night.
She and Corinne got in line to buy cherry slushes from an ice-cream truck parked in the blocked-off street. All too aware of their current notoriety, they waited in discreet silence until suddenly Corinne groaned and said, "Oh, shoot; I forgot to take something out of the freezer for Snack."
At the mention of their brother's name, the woman ahead of them turned her head around sharply, took in who was standing there, lifted her chin, and yanked her grandson out of the line.
"We'll get the slush later, Joshua. Let's go look at the quilt exhibit first."
Little Joshua was having none of it. "No! I want my slush first! You said!"
"Don't be naughty. We can come back when the line is smaller, Josh. Come with me; we'll go see the quilts."
"I don't wanna see quilts, not now, not ever. I want my slush!"
He began to bawl loudly.
The woman turned to the sisters with a baleful look. "I hope you're happy now," she snapped. "You are nothing but trouble, you Shores."
She gave Joshua's arm a yank that might have dismembered a less robust child and marched him, howling, toward the village hall.
"Who was that?' Laura asked, abashed.
Corinne's tan did nothing to hide the crimson flush in her cheeks, but this time her high color was from anger. She was as stunned as Laura was.
Under her breath, she said, "You didn't recognize her? That was Patsy O'Hara's mother. Josh is Patsy's kid."
"Mrs. O'Hara? Oh, God, it figures. She never let Patsy play with us. I remember one time I sneaked over to Patsy's house and Mrs. O'Hara came home unexpectedly; I hid under the bed for an hour before she left again and I could escape. It was the most humiliating hour of my life."
Once again Laura remembered why she'd left Chepaquit. How did you change people's initial convictions about you? It couldn't be done. There they were, two grown women, dressed very prettily in summer skirts and pastel tops and politely minding their own business, and what did they get? Bushwhacked.
Of course, the latest scandal couldn't be helping their case for acceptance very much. Still, bones or no bones, it was completely unnerving to have Mrs. O'Hara whip her head around like that at the mention of Snack's name. Was it the Shore clan in general that everyone was focused on—or Snack himself? The town had never had much use for him.
Laura could see that Corinne was wondering the same thing. Their spirits dampened, they skipped the cherry ices and headed off for the kite-flying arena. Corinne was always happiest with the wind in her hair, anyway.
There was no line at the popcorn cart, so they bought a bag apiece and munched on the snack as they threaded their way through strolling tourists and townspeople—no huge crowds, despite the fine weather and the Pitcairn comparison. They wandered down a side lane that led to the town beach, a wide strip of pure white sand with a weathered concession shed in the middle and dotted with humble trash barrels painted with childlike renderings of gulls and shells.
The kites, of every conceivable type and color, were swooping, diving, climbing, and skittering across a sky studded with cotton clouds. Bird kites, twist kites, box kites, dragon kites, stunt kites, trick kites, and several plain old everyday diamond kites filled the air with their jubilant solo dances.
Laura was enchanted.
"They didn't have this during Founders Week when we were kids," she said.
"How would we know? We would've been working."
"Too true," Laura said, yearning once again for that childhood she'd somehow missed. "Well, we're not working now, so let's make up for a few lost years."
They took off their sandals and trekked leisurely across the warm sand, digging their toes in now and then to watch a particularly perilous maneuver and, at one point, crying out together when one of the kites crash-landed in the parking lot.
"Don't worry, it's cool," the teenage owner assured them as he began reeling in his fierce-looking F-16.
Relieved to see no damage done, they walked on, pausing at the very end of the exhibition to marvel at the twenty-five-foot-long dragon kite that wiggled and wallowed above them. Its great size and bright yellow, green, and red color scheme made it easily the biggest and brightest kite in the sky, humbling the charming Harry Potter diamond kite that snapped and fluttered alongside.
"It's hard to believe that the same wind can keep both those kites aloft," said Corinne, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun.
"I know," Laura said, squinting up at them. "You expect the one to sink like a stone, and the other to blow apart. I don't understand the aerodynamics of kites at all. You know what, we should just ask some—"
One. The one. The one, the only. What was he doing here, of all places, and with a Harry Potter kite, of all things?
Chapter 22
"Hey," Ken said, seeing them at about the same time that Laura saw him. A grin spread across his face, leaving Laura giddy.
When I see him, my heart goes up, up, and away.
Corinne had got it just about right, Laura realized. Her own heart was lifting and soaring alongside that Harry Potter kite. She was astounded by the coincidence of their meeting. Never mind that the beach was filled with locals. This was extraordinary. This was fate.
He was wearing a shirt and tie with his khakis, way overdressed for Portland, Oregon, but somehow not that weird for a beach in New England.
"What're you doing here?" she asked, and she was hoping the answer would be, "Waiting for you, of course."
"Banker's hours, remember?" he teased, and then he went on to explain. "I had the kite—my nieces and I made it when they were visiting—and it was just sitting at home. I figured I'd take it down to the beach and give it to the first kid I saw."
He said with a gallant smile, "Corinne? That would be you," and handed her his string-wrapped stick.
"Me?" she squeaked. "Oh, I couldn't, honest, I don't know how ... I've never flown a kite, ever. Take it ba
ck, take it back, plee-eeze." She looked as if he'd just handed her the controls of a jumbo jet.
"You're doing swell. Just pump it two or three times, and you'll be able to keep it right where it is," he said, laughing. "Okay, ma'am, you're on your own. Mind if I steal your sister for a couple of minutes while I take in the rest of the show? I didn't do it when I first got here."
Corinne nodded nervously, her gaze fixed on the kite, and Ken took Laura by the arm and said, "Shall we?"
And when he touches me or kisses me, it's pure heaven.
Corinne had that part right as well. Oh, damn, Corinne had it all so completely right. Women in love.
When they had strolled a little way off, Laura said to him, "You do realize that my sister will die of embarrassment if Harry Potter crashes and burns, don't you?"
"Harry's fine. Those instructions I gave her basically cancel one another out. It's a perfect day; the kite will fly itself."
"Oh. Well, in that case ...."
She let herself fall into strolling mode with him, perfectly happy, for once, just to be. Maybe it was her imagination, maybe it was the kites, maybe it was because when you smile, the whole world smiles with you—but everyone they passed on the beach seemed willing to make eye contact with Laura without a hint of suspicion, much less hostility. A couple of women even asked to know when the nursery would be open again for business; they'd heard so much about the jumbo-sized annuals for sale there.
It's Ken, she theorized. They're trying to score points with him.
But why would young mothers with children and little old ladies in hairpins want to do that? Wasn't it possible that Chepaquit was simply evolving into a vibrant, smalltown alternative to Boston? The town was clearly growing. Laura had seen the new construction, seen the new faces.
What she hadn't seen, until that moment, were the possibilities for a future there.
Frightened by her own optimism, she walked beside Ken in thoughtful silence. He seemed content to do the same. But she was practically throbbing with awareness of him, despite the bright sun and the people all around them. If they'd been alone on the deck of a yacht in the moonlight, she could not have been more aware of him.
And yet Ken seemed truly to have nothing to say. Once or twice he glanced at her, but he seemed content just to walk. It rattled her, and she got a little silly, as she sometimes did when she was flustered.
"Wanna hear a kite joke?" she asked him.
"Sure."
"A man is in his yard," she said, "trying to fly a kite with his son. Every time the kite gets up into the air, it comes crashing down again. This goes on for a while. Finally, his wife sticks her head out the window and yells, 'You need more tail.' The father turns to his kid and says, 'Son, I'll never understand your mom. Just yesterday I told her I needed more tail, and she told me to go fly a kite.' "
Ken burst into a loud laugh. "I'm shocked," he said primly. "Who told it to you? Snack?"
Caught off guard by the question, Laura had to say: "Max."
Ken gave a single upward jerk of his head by way of an acknowledgment. After they walked a few more steps, he said, "I'm pretty sure I hate that guy."
Surprised, she said, "Why? Because he dumped me?"
"Because he knew you well enough to tell you dirty jokes."
She stopped to do a double-take. "You want to tell me dirty jokes?"
"I just want to know you well enough to."
If she expected to find burning desire in the look he was giving her, Laura was disappointed. She saw wariness in those sea-blue eyes, and, worse, distrust. The question was, what was it that he distrusted?
"We really have spent more time in the trenches than we have at the pool, haven't we?" she said. Before he could answer, she added, "And, face it: it doesn't look as if my life will be normal anytime soon."
"Doesn't look like it," he agreed. "What's your point?"
"My point is that unless you have a taste for the bizarre situation, I'm not sure you want to continue this walk with me."
"Well," he drawled. "I guess we're even now."
"Oh? How so?"
"This time you're the one who's ambushed me."
The phrase vividly called up a picture of them in the doorway of his bedroom; Laura could practically hear her own moans.
"I didn't intend to ambush you," she said, pressing her lips together. "I just want you to know that there's no obligation to get to know me well enough to tell me dirty jokes."
Without a smile, he said, "How about if I just try to get to know you, period?"
It was an odd proposal, possibly innocent, probably intimate. Laura didn't really know what to make of it, but she knew what her answer had to be. "Yes. Okay. I'd ... like that."
Suddenly they heard Corinne yelling at them. "Ken! Help! That dog ran off with my sandal! Come and take the kite!"
Laughing, Ken yelled back, "I'll get the shoe." He took off after the golden retriever, who apparently had decided that the sandal could use a good wash. Into the sea went Ken. After a brief showdown with the animal, he was able to return the sodden shoe to its rightful owner.
Laura watched him, delighted by the sight. His khakis were soaked to the knees, his yellow tie was blowing sideways like a kite-tail in the wind. He had a grin on his face that would have melted the most hardened of hearts. For all of his education and breeding, Kendall Barclay was a townie to the core: it was obvious that he was perfectly content-being on that particular patch of the planet. The captain's genes ran true.
Corinne herself looked wonderfully carefree and relaxed. She and Ken were in animated conversation, which just went to show that Corinne could fly a kite and talk at the same time, despite her fears. As Laura approached them, she could see that Ken was having a lot to do with her sister's mood; there was just something about him that put people at ease. The dog's owner had joined them, and a couple of passers-by. Everyone was having a laugh over the purloined shoe.
This was a whole new Chepaquit—and it was definitely where Laura wanted to be. The realization came like a bolt of lightning and an immediate crack of thunder; she felt it race through her body and leave her in a state of electrified shock and with her ears ringing.
But was it Ken or was it home that was claiming her?
It couldn't be home, not with someone's bones in their compost.
It had to be Ken, she decided, dumbfounded.
****
"Hey, here's an idea," Corinne suggested after their return from the beach. "Since they won't let us work in the nursery, why don't we work on the house? We have a lot of daylight left. We can do ... windows!"
Snack, alas, did not do windows. But he did do painting, so he dragged out an old gallon of gray paint from the basement and went to work on the floor of the wide front porch, while the women tackled the windows on the side of the house that faced the sea.
Laura suspected that they were all somehow whistling past the graveyard, but it felt good to be doing something constructive again. The first window she tackled was the filthy one on the second-floor landing. She was sitting on its ledge, cleaning the painted-shut upper pane, when the phone rang. Slithering back out into the hall, she answered before the machine kicked in. It was Ken.
"Hi," she said, unable to keep from smiling. She was picturing him on the beach, in his soggy pants, returning Corinne's hijacked shoe.
"I'm at Creasey's Marina," he told her. "They're launching my boat in the next hour: we have to wait for high tide. Come down and help me eat all the fortune cookies in my pocket."
"Is that all you do? Play? Come here and wash windows," she countered, not entirely kidding.
"Ah ... sorry, sorry, can't," he said. He sounded sincere, as if there were nothing he'd like to do more. "You know the old saying: time and tide wait for no man."
"I know another saying: something, something, men and their toys."
"Hey, unfair. Except for the car, the boat is really my only toy. And it's a hand-me-down boat at that."
&nb
sp; "Such things are called 'antiques,'" she said dryly. "In this case, the correct term would be 'antique yacht.' "
He sighed. "It's just a small old boat, Laura. Still carrying that chip on your shoulder? I thought we'd been through all that."
"Are you kidding? I have enough material for years of therapy."
"Baloney. You just want to think you do."
"Excuse me?"
"Come over to the marina," he coaxed. "And I'll elaborate."
"Ken ... really, I can't. Everyone here is too on edge. We need to hang together now. To do something together. But ... open a cookie for me," she said impulsively. "Tell me my fortune."
"Can do," he said, and she heard the rustle of cellophane. "Okay, it says, 'Come down and help me eat all the fortune cookies in my pocket.' "
Her laugh was beguiled as she asked, "What does it really say?"
There was the slightest hesitancy in his voice before he answered, " 'Be careful what you wish for.' "
"Oh, that one. That's so overused," she said, actually resenting the slip of paper. "Open another one."
"Okey-dokey." Again the crackle, again the slight hesitancy before he said, " 'Be careful what you wish for.' "
She humphed and said, "There is no quality control in fortune-cookie factories anymore. Do another one."
Sheepishly, he said, "That's all I got. I had three with me. I may have exaggerated my holdings."
"What did yours say?" she asked, almost afraid to ask.
His soft laugh was more bemused than cheerful. "Actually, mine had the complementary sentiment to yours: 'Things are not what they seem.' "
"Good grief," Laura said, more affected than she would have liked to be by the ominous proverbs. "Whoever the fortune-writer was, he could use some prescription medication. What a downhead. Whatever happened to cute little sayings like 'You will gain wealth and live long'?"
"Ah, the guy probably just had a bad day at the office," Ken said, dismissing him. "When will I see you again?"
"We have lots of Windex. When can you be here?"
"An hour, an hour and a half."
"Too late. The sun will be down and the streaks wouldn't show."
A Month at the Shore Page 20