by Mary Simses
Strawberry rhubarb. That was my grandmother’s favorite pie, and she made it better than anyone. A memory of her San Francisco kitchen brushed by me like a tap on the shoulder. I was nine the year she taught me how to make that pie. I remember her putting on Rosemary Clooney music and demonstrating each step of the recipe as I followed along beside her, the ingredients on the counter in front of us.
We blended the flour, butter, a pinch of salt, and egg to make the dough and then formed it into balls and chilled it in the refrigerator. When it was ready, we rolled it into circles for the crusts. I always rolled my dough too thin and Gran would have to help me patch the holes. You’ve got to be quick, she would say as she showed me how to dab small pieces of dough into the gaps, her fingers moving like a magician’s. Otherwise, the heat from your fingertips will melt the butter and the dough will just stick to your hands.
We mixed the rhubarb and the strawberries with sugar and lemon, a little cinnamon, a bit of vanilla, some tapioca and flour, and a couple of other things I don’t remember, then poured the filling into the crusts. We covered the pies with the top crusts, crimping the edges with our fingers and pricking the crusts with a fork to make tiny escape holes for the steam.
While the pies baked, Gran and I danced around the kitchen to Sinatra and Shirley Horn and I peeked in the oven a million times. And, after dinner, when we finally got to taste the pie, it was sheer heaven. A little tart, a little sweet, the crust light and buttery. I still had the index card, old and yellowed now, on which Gran wrote the recipe for me in blue fountain-pen ink.
“What can I get you, miss?”
I looked up and saw a man in an apron with a pad and pen ready to take my order.
“I’ll have the Thanksgiving Special, please,” I told him. Then I walked to the refrigerator, looking for a Perrier but settling for a club soda. When my order was ready the apron man started to hand me a box. Then he smiled and little wrinkles appeared at the sides of his eyes, making them look like dry creek beds.
He snapped his fingers. “Knew I’d seen you somewhere. You’re the gal who fell into the ocean, aren’t you? The Swimmer!”
The boy behind the counter said something to the pregnant woman and she said, “Yeah, off Marlin Beach.”
I heard someone behind me whisper, “A guy rescued her, she was drowning,” and then a little buzz of mumbles percolated from the people in line behind me.
Oh, God, I thought, this is a nightmare. I just wanted to get my lunch and get out. I could feel everyone staring as I took my box.
The apron man leaned over the counter toward me. “No chaaage,” he said, waving dismissively. “You deserve it. It’s on the house.”
I shook my head. “No, no,” I said. “That’s very nice but I insist on paying. I want to pay. I’m fine.”
As I raced to the cash register at the front of the store, the apron man’s voice soared over the whole place. “Phil, no charge for the Thanksgiving Special. It’s the Swimmer.”
Having been directed not to charge me, Phil, who worked the register, waved me through the line and refused to take my money. “Just happy you’re alive, ma’am,” he said, his round face all serious, his mouth set in a determined line. “Near-death experience and all.”
I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what to do. I took a ten-dollar bill and threw it on the counter. He shrugged, put the money in the cash register, and motioned for the next customer to come forward. Then he winked at me. “Picture doesn’t do you justice, though.”
Picture?
I’d barely formed the question when I saw the answer. At the end of the checkout line, piled on crates, were two huge stacks of the Bugle. On the front page, taking up the top right-hand quarter of the paper, was a photo, in full color, of a man and woman standing in chest-high water. The man’s face was obscured, but the woman’s face was clearly visible. Their clothes were plastered to their skin, their hair tousled and sandy. Their bodies were locked together, and they were in the midst of a passionate kiss.
Chapter 4
Worth a Thousand Words
I stood by the cash register, holding my breath, staring at the photo, hoping that if I looked at it long enough the woman would turn into someone other than me. My eyes moved to the large black letters over the picture: WOMAN SAVED FROM DROWNING OFF MARLIN BEACH THANKS RESCUER. My knees began to buckle as I read the caption: “Victim is brought to shore by rescuer after being swept out by rip current.”
A crowd began to form around me. “The girl who almost drowned,” a man said. And then a child asked, “Why couldn’t she swim, Mommy?”
I turned to the child. “I can swim,” I said, crossing my arms defiantly.
That’s it, I thought. I’ve got to put an end to this. What if Hayden ever saw that photo? How could I explain it to him when I couldn’t even explain it to myself? Or what if the media got hold of it? I mean, the real media, back in New York, where they would recognize me. Maybe the chance was slim, but my heart began to rattle in my chest when I thought about what would happen to me, to Hayden. I couldn’t take the risk.
The first thing I needed to do was get rid of all the newspapers in this store. I leaned over the counter toward Phil. “Excuse me,” I whispered. “What would it cost to buy all of those?” I pointed toward the papers, my hand trembling.
Phil squinted at me. “You want all of them?”
“Yes,” I said. “All of them.”
His mouth twitched for a second and then he smiled. “Oh, I get it. Souvenirs.”
Someone behind me whispered, “She’s going to sign them and sell them.”
“Please,” I said, as I tried to breathe in and out slowly, the way Hayden always told me to do when I got flustered or upset. “I’m not going to sign them or sell them.” Breathe…breathe…
“I just want to buy them. Please, how much?” I had my wallet out and ready.
Phil rubbed his chin. “Well, I’d have to count them. We get five hundred every day and they’re fifty cents apiece—”
“Okay,” I said. “Five hundred times fifty is—”
“Yes, but we’ve sold a bunch,” Phil said, shaking his head. “So let me see…” He narrowed his eyes and looked at the ceiling.
I took out four crisp fifty-dollar bills, two twenties, and a ten. “Just take this,” I said, shoving the money at him. “I’ll pay for the full five hundred.”
Phil looked at the money as though it were foreign currency. “Well, gee…” Then he scratched his head. “But that’s too much.”
“No, please,” I told him, pushing the bills his way. “I insist.”
It took me three trips to haul all of the newspapers to my car, as I speed-walked to and from the market, trying to avoid the stares of the customers.
I tossed one copy on the passenger seat and threw the rest in the trunk. Then I got in, slammed the car in reverse, and launched onto the road. I drove for ten minutes, with no idea where I was going, until I came to a field surrounded by a black post-and-rail fence where three horses grazed. I pulled off the road onto the dirt shoulder.
I grabbed the paper and took a good, long look at the photo. For a second I could feel his arms around me again, I could feel his lips on mine, I could taste the salt water. And it was all…
Nothing. It was all nothing. I was a happily engaged woman, getting married in three months and looking forward to it. I sat there, imagining my walk down the aisle, Uncle Whit at my side, his arm linked in mine, standing in for my late father. And Hayden would be watching me take that walk, waiting for me, looking tall and handsome, his face tan from golf or tennis or the family yacht, his hair bleached from the sun. He would give me that little nod and that wink that I loved.
I unfolded the paper and read the article.
A woman fell through the dock at 201 Paget Street off Marlin Beach yesterday afternoon and was apparently swept away by a rip current. In a daring rescue, a man dove in after her and brought her back to shore. The grateful victim gave her
hero a kiss. Neither the victim nor the hero has been identified. The incident took place around four o’clock, according to Dan Snuggler, owner of Snuggler’s Pet Supply on Cottage Street. Snuggler was walking his poodle, Milarky, at the time of the incident and took this photo. “It was quite a courageous rescue,” Snuggler said. “It looked as though she couldn’t swim.” Snuggler also noted that the dock is on private property and added, “Maybe she shouldn’t have been trespassing.” For more photos, turn to page 7.
More photos? My hand trembled, rattling the pages as I turned them—four, five, six. Thank God, I thought as I found page 7. There were no other photos of me or Roy. Only pictures of Mr. Snuggler’s poodle frolicking on the beach, which made me wonder just what kind of journalism was being practiced in this town. And what was that bit about the daring rescue? And the hero? And the trespassing!
I hurled the paper toward the backseat as the realization hit me that I had to do some damage control. I grabbed the bag from the market and took out my sandwich. Yes, damage control was definitely in order, I thought as I took a bite. The turkey and stuffing were still warm. I took another bite. The cranberries were cool and refreshing and the bread tasted homemade. I opened the bottle of club soda and took a sip.
I watched the horses graze and flick their tails at passing flies. There was no way I could have this photo circulating, even if my name wasn’t mentioned and even if it was just in The Beacon Bugle. There was only one thing to do. I would go to every store in town that sold the Bugle and buy up all the copies. I would take them out of circulation. Then tonight I would find a big trash bin somewhere and dump them.
I drove around town and made six stops, ending with the Three Penny Diner, where the aroma of freshly baked cider doughnuts was overwhelming. Laying two twenties on the counter, I scooped up their copies and dropped them in my trunk. I felt a surge of relief as I slammed the lid. The incident involving the Swimmer was officially closed.
By this time it was almost two o’clock. I set the GPS for Chet Cummings’s house again and headed off. When I arrived on Dorset Lane, the green Audi was in the same place. I knocked on the door several times and looked in the kitchen window again, but the house appeared to be empty.
I sat in the car and wondered what to do. I could go back to the Victory Inn, open my briefcase, and get some work done. That was one option. But the day was so clear and the sky so relentlessly blue…
I leaned back against the seat and let the breeze drift through the windows as I surveyed the neighborhood. Most of the houses were older—early 1900s, I guessed. Each one had a dark green lawn and gardens full of coneflower, lupine, black-eyed Susan, Shasta daisies, beach heather, silvery Russian sage. I could see Gran as a girl, tending one of these gardens, the same way I’d seen her so often as an adult—trowel in her hand, floppy yellow hat on her head. She would be humming to herself, pulling up weeds or deadheading old blossoms, maybe adding a little more mulch here or there.
I felt so sad to think that I would never see her in her garden again. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears away. I just wanted to feel connected to her. Maybe I’d hung my hopes on finding that connection in Beacon, through Chet Cummings. And maybe that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe I’d come all this way for nothing.
I gazed again at the houses on the street and began to wonder about my grandmother’s childhood home. What if she had lived on this very street? What if I was looking at her house right now? And I realized that perhaps there was something I could do. I could find Gran’s house. This was something I could easily accomplish. Real estate was my specialty. I pictured myself driving down a street of quaint New England homes, knowing that Gran’s was one of them, looking for her house. I started to feel much better.
I took out my cell phone, checked the Internet, and found the number for the Beacon town clerk’s office. The town clerk’s office would know where the real estate records were kept. The woman who answered the phone told me the records were kept right there, at 92 Magnolia Avenue. Finally, something was going right.
The Beacon Municipal Building, at 92 Magnolia Avenue, was a one-story redbrick structure with four windows across the front, white shutters, and a white cupola above the double front doors. It looked like it had been built in the 1960s—not too modern, but not too old, either.
I stepped inside and caught a faint whiff of ammonia. A directory on the wall listed the town clerk’s office as being in room 117. By the time I arrived at that door, the ammonia smell had been replaced by the smell of spaghetti sauce. A woman with short gray hair and the wrinkled face of a pug dog sat at one of two desks, eating penne and marinara from a plastic tray.
All around her were piles of paper, notepads covered with dark, scrawled handwriting, stacks of manila folders from which the edges of documents peeked out, pens, markers, and colored paper clips. The nameplate said ARLEN FLETCH.
She put down her plastic fork and looked up, waiting for me to speak.
“I’m Ellen Branford,” I said, extending my hand. “From New York,” I added. I beamed a big smile her way as I noticed a yellowed microwave oven in a little cabinet across the room.
Arlen looked at my hand and then shook it.
“My grandmother lived in Beacon when she was young.”
Arlen nodded and stirred her pasta around in its tray. A puff of steam rose into the air.
“And she recently died…” I waited to see if there would be any reaction to that, but Arlen just looked at me again. A door closed somewhere down the hall, followed by a stream of laughter.
“I’m here taking care of some business for her,” I went on, “and while I’m here I’d like to find the house where she grew up.”
Arlen slipped one of the tines of the plastic fork through a piece of penne. Then she popped the food into her mouth. “So I take it you don’t have the address.”
“That’s right,” I said, relieved that she could talk. “That’s what I need to find.”
She looked down at her tray, eyeing it for several seconds, and I thought she was going to tell me to come back in twenty minutes so she could finish her lunch. Instead, she smiled for the briefest second and said, “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
She led me into an adjoining room that had no windows and smelled dry and stuffy. Except for a table with two computer monitors on it, the room was filled from floor to ceiling with books in gray metal bookcases. I knew that between the computer database and the books, the room contained a copy of every real estate document that existed for every piece of property in Beacon, from the very first sale that was recorded.
There would be deeds of title, mortgage deeds, tax liens, foreclosure notices. There would be judgment liens, bankruptcy notices, covenants and restrictions, and easements. And, somewhere, there would be a deed of title to a piece of real estate in my great-grandparents’ names.
“Okay, so let me show you how this works,” Arlen said, taking her pencil and waving it as though it were an orchestra leader’s baton. “First, someone comes in with a document. Could be a deed of title. That’s a pretty common one. Or it could be a mortgage deed or maybe a—”
“Excuse me,” I said, as I started to raise my hand to stop her from wasting her time and mine, to tell her I’d spent hundreds of hours in rooms like this doing title searches as a young real estate associate. But the look on her face was so serious, so stern, that I decided I’d better keep quiet.
“Sorry,” I said. “I thought I had a question, but I don’t.”
She nodded. “Well, then, let’s say it’s a deed of title. Cecil or I, he sits over there”—she pointed to the empty desk—“we put it through that machine.” She nodded toward an old time-stamp machine.
“That puts the date and time on the deed so there’s no question when it came in.” She pointed her pencil at me. “That can be very important when people are arguing about who owns what, you know.”
This was Real Estate 101, but I bit my tongue and let her continue
.
“Then we photocopy it and scan it on this thing”—she pointed to a scanner— “and Alice, who comes in three mornings a week, puts it all into the computer and organizes it all in there so people can look up a deed by seller, buyer, property address, you name it.”
I continued to stand there patiently while Arlen explained how to look through the annual grantor-grantee indexes for my great-grandfather’s name, and how, if I found his name, there would be a notation as to what kind of document had been filed with the town clerk and the book number and page of the book where a copy of the document would be found.
As Arlen talked, I began to wonder if I would find my great-grandfather’s name in this vast selection of books that contained the history of Beacon real estate. And if I did, where would the house be and what would it look like? Would it be brick or stone? Maybe it would be a clapboard house with shutters. Maybe it would have a nice porch on the front like Chet’s porch. On the other hand, it might have an ugly addition pasted onto it or, worse, be run-down and falling apart. I began to worry. What if it was owned by a commune? Or a group of drug dealers? Were there drug dealers in Beacon? I wondered.
I looked up and saw Arlen staring at me. She seemed to be waiting for me.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She waved her pencil. “Federal tax lien. Ever had one filed against you?”
I shook my head. “No, I haven’t.” Some of my clients had, but I wasn’t going to get into that.
Arlen’s gray eyes seemed to light up with this topic. “You’d sure know if you had,” she warned me. “Those IRS people—they’re monsters.”
“Really,” I said in a half whisper. I dated a guy in law school who was now working in the office of the chief counsel of the IRS. I had never considered him a monster, although I did later find out he was secretly dating someone else at the same time he was dating me. Maybe Arlen had a point.