Summer Days

by Lisa Jackson

  “Mrs. Compton—” she began.

  “You must call me Cora, dear.”

  “Cora, then. It’s good to see you. I was going to look you up just as soon as I settled in.”

  “Of course, dear,” Cora said, with a wave of a bejeweled hand. “But you’re a young woman and no doubt awfully busy, what with your job and a social life and everything else young women are busy with these days.”

  Ellen, who felt supremely lazy at the moment and pretty happy about it, blushed. “Oh,” she said, “I’m not all that busy right now. Maybe later in the summer . . .”

  “Splendid. Then you’ll be available to attend the opening of the Noise Gallery Wednesday evening.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” Ellen replied, wondering if she could successfully backpedal on the “not busy” front, “I’m not really planning a very social summer. I came back to Ogunquit to—”

  The look on Cora’s face stopped Ellen short. It was an awful combination of hurt feelings, disappointment, and, worst of all, suspicion.

  “Oh, but you must come, dear!” Cora exclaimed. “Everyone, simply everyone will be there, and they are all dying to meet you. Well, those who haven’t met you in the past. Those who have are eager to renew their acquaintance.”

  Ellen highly doubted that, but she quickly agreed, more to make Cora feel better than because she wanted a night out hobnobbing with the locals.

  “Well, then,” Cora said with a tone of immense satisfaction, “I’ll look for you at the opening. It will be such a marvelous occasion.”

  Ellen watched as the older woman made her way—sailed, rather, a ship in full mast—down the drive to where she had parked her car, a massive, ancient black Cadillac.

  She was really a wonderful old girl, Ellen thought as Cora Compton pulled away. Woman, rather. Why, Ellen wondered, had she thought of Mrs. Compton as a girl? She had meant no disrespect. Maybe she had been watching too many British period mysteries lately, the ones in which even the nicest of men referred to older women as “girls” and suspected them of fanciful thinking, odd behaviors, and a penchant for cats and doilies and sherry.

  Ellen turned away from the view of the front drive and headed toward the kitchen. Some people might not think so, but a love of British period mysteries went very well with a financially attuned mind, one that could make calculations and decipher complicated facts. In her professional life as an independent financial advisor, Ellen was in some ways a detective, reading signs, making educated guesses, and rapidly solving riddles the average person could not solve given months or even years.

  It was just too bad that she couldn’t solve people as easily as she could solve their financial matters.

  Her stomach rumbled loudly, and Ellen reached for the door of the fridge. She would solve no mysteries, financial or otherwise, until she got some hot coffee and food inside her.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Noise Gallery (what a ridiculous name, Ellen thought; it certainly didn’t bode well for what lay within) was located on a small, one-way street off a main road through town. It was a cramped space. The ceilings seemed dangerously low, and there was very little natural light. The artificial lighting was poor, especially for a venue dedicated to showcasing art. Well, maybe poor lighting was a good thing, Ellen thought, taking a glance around the rooms. She was no artist, but she prided herself on having some native taste. And that taste was telling her that the work hanging on the walls of the Noise Gallery was—well, it was not very good. Amateurish would be a kind way of putting it. Just plain bad would be a less kind though maybe more accurate way of stating things.

  Ellen eyed the refreshments. They didn’t look any better than the art. A paper cloth that had seen better days covered a long metal folding table. (Wasn’t the point of paper tablecloths to use them once and toss them?) Plastic cups prefilled with wine of a suspiciously bright yellow color were lined up along the back of the table. The hors d’oeuvres were laid out next to the cups—pale yellow squares of cheese Ellen supposed was an anemic sort of cheddar piled on store-bought crackers; rubbery shrimp stuck on plastic toothpicks; and dry little chunks of some awful nut bread. Nut and bolt bread was more like it, Ellen thought, as she desperately swallowed half a cup of wine (it was horribly sweet) to wash it down her protesting throat.

  Still, in spite of the bad art and worse food, the opening had drawn a large crowd. Virtually everyone was smartly dressed; no baseball caps or white crew socks here. There was the usual scattering of eccentrics to be found at every gallery opening everywhere—women in billowing garments and oversized jewelry and men in badly faded velvet vests and sporting ponytails. And then there was the better-heeled set, or the ones who considered themselves so, the men in navy blazers, pressed chinos, and pastel ties, the women wearing tailored skirts or dresses and stack-heeled pumps. In general, both sets of people were genial and seemed happy to be there.

  Ellen hadn’t thought about what to wear until almost the last minute. She was lucky she was built slightly; most everything sat nicely on her, like the sleeveless A-line linen dress she was wearing at the moment. And it was all right that linen be slightly wrinkled. In fact, it was almost expected that it be wrinkled.

  “Ellen!”

  Ellen startled. Cora Compton was charging in her direction, sending patrons of the gallery scattering for safety.

  “Ellen, my dear, I am so glad you came!”

  Ellen smiled. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  The older woman was decked out in what she proudly told Ellen was one of her finest outfits. Finest and, Ellen thought, most conspicuous. It was a dress of a shocking shade of purple, with a fitted bodice and a full, floor-sweeping skirt. Adding to the Edith Wharton effect (though Ellen doubted that Mrs. Wharton ever wore such a garish shade), Cora’s hair was piled particularly high, causing Ellen to wonder if she had inserted a few pieces of faux hair into the structure. From Cora’s earlobes hung magnificent, glittering gems; they might have been real diamonds, they sparkled so cleanly and brilliantly. No less than three diamond and ruby rings adorned her fingers. For the first time Ellen wondered what the mysterious Mr. Compton had done for a living. As far as she knew Mrs. Compton was unemployed and had been for—well, forever. Had her husband been a latter-day robber baron? Had he left her millions when he died? That might explain a few things, like her presumptuous nature, as well as the obviously expensive jewelry.

  “You of course remember my dear friend, Miss Emily Camp,” Cora said now.

  “Of course,” Ellen lied, startled to finally notice the woman tucked under Cora Compton’s right arm. “How do you do?”

  The truth was that Ellen had completely forgotten and now only began to remember Miss Camp, and it wasn’t surprising that memories of the woman should slip her mind. Compared with Cora Compton, Miss Camp—well, she didn’t compare much at all.

  Emily Camp, who Ellen thought might be anywhere in age from seventy to ninety, was as diminutive as her friend was massive, as birdlike as her friend was—well, ursine, as soft-spoken as her friend was thunderous. Side by side they made for a classic pair, the forceful leader and her loyal, subtle sidekick, a contemporary Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. They routinely finished each other’s sentences and straightened each other’s clothing when a bit went awry, and Emily slipped her tiny little arm through Cora’s sturdy limb when they went walking. Ellen now recalled that there had been rumors once (and there probably still were) of the women being witches—of the good sort, of course. Well, Ellen thought now, if they are witches, I might have to ask them for a charm to ensure against choking. The nut bread was still working its laborious way down into her digestive system.

  Emily’s outfit befitted her lack of definitive presence. She wore a dun-colored dress that came to mid-calf; held a dun-colored handbag in the crook of her right arm; and her feet were shod in dun-colored, low-heeled pumps. Ellen looked closely without seeming to. Yes, Miss Camp’s eyes were dun-colored, too. Her hair,
white like her friend’s, was the only spot of brightness about her. Unlike her friend’s, it was neatly scraped back into a low bun. On her head sat a dun-colored, narrow-brimmed straw hat.

  “Hello, dear,” Miss Camp said, in a voice oddly strong and clear for such a wee person.

  “Hello, Miss Camp,” Ellen replied, unsure if she should attempt to shake the woman’s bird-like hand. She was sure she would crush it.

  Cora came to the rescue. She suddenly hailed a fellow art enthusiast across the room with a cry that made Ellen wince, and sailed off, Emily following in her wake.

  With nothing else to occupy her—there was no use spending any time pretending to admire the paintings and collages—Ellen turned back to the table of pathetic refreshments. Standing there, reaching for a piece of the deadly nut and bolt bread, was a very attractive man about her age.

  “I’d avoid that stuff,” she warned.

  He startled, as if he hadn’t at all sensed her standing next to him. “Why?” he asked, turning to face her.

  “Trust me. Try the cheese instead. It’s tasteless, but harmless.” The man thought about her advice for a moment and then chose a cracker with a piece of the tasteless cheese.

  “Ellen Tudor,” she said.

  He finished chewing and then said, “Rob Penn.”

  “You’re an artist.”

  Rob seemed surprised. “How did you know?”

  Ellen pointed. “Paint-stained fingers. It’s a dead giveaway. Unless of course you’re a house painter. Are you?”

  Rob managed a smile. “No. I paint canvases. Pictures.”

  “Do you have any work in the show?” Ellen asked.

  Rob’s face underwent a remarkable series of expressions, from outright horror to injured ego to dark amusement. “No,” he finally said. “My work is—er, it’s different.”

  “Oh.” Ellen restrained a smile. Different. What a nice way of saying, “the work in this place is awful.”

  “What are you . . .” Rob’s question wandered off, as did his eyes. It—and they—were back in a moment. “I mean,” he said, “are you here for the summer or . . . ?”

  So, Ellen thought, he’s not good at small talk. That was okay. She didn’t think she was so good at it, either. “I’m renting a house for the summer,” she said. That was the simple truth. She did not want to share the more complicated truth with anyone who didn’t already know.

  Rob nodded. “Me too.”

  “Oh,” Ellen replied.

  “Yeah.”

  When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Ellen opened her mouth to ask some sort of polite question, but before she could form words, Rob was wandering off, his eyes scrunched in what Ellen thought might be horror at the “art” surrounding them.

  Ellen watched him wander. He’s handsome, she thought. Nicely built. Not too buff and not too thin; tall, but not too tall. His hair was a rich shade of brown. And his eyes were particularly nice—large and very dark brown with lashes Ellen would kill to have for her own. But the cuffs of his button-down shirt were seriously frayed, and the shirt was missing a button right in the middle. And his sneakers . . . They were tattered and looked just about to fall to pieces.

  Ellen wondered if he cared and decided that he probably did not. He was an artist, after all. Artists weren’t supposed to care about frayed cuffs and missing buttons and torn sneakers, were they? Certainly, Rob Penn didn’t seem at all self-conscious. In fact, he carried himself with what struck Ellen as a sense of ease and confidence. Not bravado or cockiness, just confidence. That was also attractive, and in Ellen’s opinion, pretty rare. Peter certainly had his share of bravado....

  Ellen dismissed thoughts of her former fiancé with some difficulty. And along with them, she dismissed any thoughts of Rob Penn. The last thing she needed or wanted was an emotional entanglement, for a very long time. She simply didn’t trust herself to see the truth before her eyes. She had made such an enormous mistake with Peter. How could she have loved someone—and she had loved him, very much—who could treat her so cruelly and with such duplicity? It really didn’t bear thinking about.

  Ellen spent another twenty minutes or so answering polite questions about her parents from longtimers claiming to remember them well. Ellen recognized very few of these people, though she refrained from admitting as much. Finally, seeing her opportunity, Ellen snuck out of the gallery before Cora could corral her into another round of small talk.

  She didn’t regret having gone to the opening. It hadn’t been a painful experience. Then again, nothing had been gained by her being there, and the food had been less than appetizing. Ellen’s stomach grumbled with hunger; she was glad the nut bread wasn’t causing total disaster on its journey through her digestive system. She slid behind the wheel of her car and mentally scanned the fridge back home. A nice bowl of pasta with shrimp and peas would be delicious and easy to prepare, followed by a quiet, peaceful evening all by herself.

  A few moments later she pulled into the driveway of her rental home and turned off the engine. In the half-dark of the summer night, the house at the end of the road seemed suddenly very isolated, not charmingly alone, as Ellen had thought it in the light of day.

  She got out of the car, walked up the front steps, and opened the door of the house. For a moment the silence that greeted her was deafening.

  Ellen shook off the sense of loneliness that had overcome her, stepped inside, and firmly closed the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  Two days later Ellen found herself at Cora’s house. She might have visited as a child, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember if she had. Looking up at the Compton residence now, she felt sure she would never have forgotten such a structure.

  The house could be described as a cottage, albeit a mammoth one. In that way, it was on a scale suited to its owner. It appeared to be out of proportion, though Ellen didn’t know enough about architecture to say exactly how. There was something about the windows; maybe there were too many of them? And the porch seemed to be something transported from a much larger and older structure, maybe a manor house or a faux castle of the Victorian imagination. It seemed to swallow the house itself, to embrace it in a strangling hug. The entire pile was painted dark green; trim and shutters were painted black. Cora Compton’s home, Ellen decided, was something out of a fractured fairy tale.

  The interior was decorated in what Ellen decided could be dubbed “hodgepodge meets fussiness.” But in spite of what seemed to be thousands of objects on top of the surfaces—books, figurines, framed photos (was Mr. Compton in one of those photos?), and doilies—the surfaces (what could be glimpsed) were dust free; the throw rugs looked almost new; the wooden floors beneath them (what could be seen of them) shone. Even the walls—some painted a soothing ivory, others covered in pretty flowered wallpaper—were conspicuously clean. Even the ornate crystal chandelier over the formal table in the formal dining room shone with brilliance. Old Mrs. Compton might enjoy collecting trinkets and amassing keepsakes, but she was a stellar housekeeper.

  Cora had invited Ellen for tea, and, once again, in spite of her determination to suffer in silence, Ellen had not known how to say no to her mother’s old friend without causing offense. She had been prepared for a teabag and a cup of water heated in the microwave. How mistaken she was. Cora’s idea of tea included said beverage (piping hot and delicious, made from a mix of green and black loose tea leaves), milk, sugar, lemon wedges, cookies, tartlets, half a pound cake, and a cake that resembled an overgrown sticky bun. Everything was served in or on obviously fine and frighteningly delicate china. With what she thought was admirable restraint and dignity Ellen carefully placed a cherry tartlet and a piece of the giant sticky bun on her plate. That would do for now. Maybe.

  They sat eating pastries and drinking tea for a while, Ellen listening to Cora’s colorful commentary about the bad behavior of neighbors (some of it was indeed shocking!), and the backstabbing involved in the local politics, and the terrible trouble the farmers
had been having due to a particularly dry spring and summer.

  Suddenly, something at the corner of Ellen’s eyes caught her attention, and she started. An enormous, black, short-haired cat, sleek and powerful looking and easily standing a full two and a half feet off the ground, slunk into the room. If he was trying to be inconspicuous, he was failing miserably. (He was like his mistress that way, Ellen noted. Neither could possibly slip under anyone’s radar should it ever occur to them to try.) He stopped several feet from Ellen’s chair and glared up at her.

  “Oh, my God, what is that?” Ellen exclaimed, involuntarily sitting back in her chair.

  Cora frowned. “It’s a cat, my dear.”

  “Oh, I know that. I mean—it’s just that he’s enormous.”

  Cora considered. “Is he? Well, yes, he might have gained an ounce or two recently.”

  “I don’t mean that he’s fat,” Ellen explained. “He’s just—huge. Are you sure he isn’t a puma or a mountain lion? Are jaguars black? His paws are like catcher’s mitts! He’s got to be at least half wild!”

  “Oh, dear, not at all,” Cora replied with nonchalance. “I was a witness to his birth. Though he did give his poor mother quite a hard time of it, he is one hundred percent domesticated, I assure you.”

  Ellen was not assured. “He’s looking at me.”

  “So he is.”

  “Um, what’s his name?” Satan, Ellen thought, what with the black glossy fur. Goblin or Lucifer, what with the yellow eyes. Maybe even Snake, what with the way he slunk. He probably even slithered, so maybe . . .

  “Clovis,” Cora said.

  Ellen blinked. “That’s an unusual name.”