by Lisa Jackson
“The famous Frankish king, my dear. Clovis was of the Merovingian dynasty. He ruled his kingdom from 481 until his death in 511.”
“Oh,” Ellen said. “Right.”
Cora squinted at her. “Surely you know your European history?”
“Well, not all of it . . .”
“The Merovingian dynasty was followed by the Carolingian dynasty. That was in the eighth century.”
Ellen laughed a bit. “Of course. The Carolingians. Who could forget them?”
Cora gave her a look that managed to combine pity with disappointment. Clovis stalked off, his tail touching the ground.
Ellen had never been made to feel stupid in front of a cat before. But she guessed there was a first for everything.
“I saw you speaking with that nice young painter we have with us this summer,” Cora was saying. “At the gallery opening, I mean. Rob Penn. He’s renting a house down by the water off Sand’s End Street.”
“Yes,” Ellen said. “We spoke for a minute.”
“He’s such a handsome man, don’t you think? One might even say distinguished. And from what I understand, he’s quite a good painter. I am told he specializes in landscapes. Well, that makes sense then, for him to come to Ogunquit, doesn’t it? We have all sorts of wonderful landscapes, and seascapes for that matter. Maybe he’ll have his own show soon at one of our local galleries!”
Ellen had more than a slight suspicion of Cora’s motives in introducing the subject of Mr. Penn.
“You know,” she said, “I should tell you that I’m not at all interested in dating. Not that I don’t appreciate your concern or your good intentions. I do.”
Cora released and recaptured a small, brief smile. “But I’m not at all interested in matchmaking, dear!” she declared. “Really, I have much more important things to do with my time than orchestrate the romantic lives of my friends.”
Ellen blushed. “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Forget I said anything. . . .”
“Forgotten. Now, you never did tell me exactly what it is you do for a living. Something marvelous, I’m sure.”
Ellen explained as simply as she could the nature of her work as an independent financial consultant.
“I’m actually very lucky,” she told Mrs. Compton. “I find the work interesting and challenging, but at the same time not very difficult. Well, most times. And it pays really well, and I can work from pretty much anywhere.”
For a moment, Cora’s expression wavered between outright distaste and supreme pity. “Well,” she said finally, “I must say that sounds like rather dry work. For a woman, I mean.”
With difficulty, Ellen restrained a smile. Well, it was confirmed. Cora Compton was firmly implanted in the Old School of thinking about “the fairer sex.”
“Are you quite all right, dear?” Cora was saying. “Your face has grown alarmingly pink.”
“No, no,” Ellen lied. “I’m fine. I’m just—just overheated. It must be the hot tea.”
Cora picked up the plate of cookies and offered it to Ellen. “Of course. Do you know who also likes tea?” she asked. “Rob Penn!”
With even more difficulty, Ellen stifled a laugh.
CHAPTER 5
The next morning dawned clear and bright yet again. Imagine, Ellen thought, contemplating the garden of wildflowers through the kitchen window as she drank her coffee, becoming suspicious about endless perfect weather. If only there were a cloud on the horizon or an unexpected chill in the air, something to mar the seeming perfection. In Ellen’s experience, seeming perfection was not to be trusted.
Take Peter Hall, for example. Handsome, jovial, successful, attentive. Also, a liar and a cheat.
Ellen spent most of the morning with her laptop. Around eleven, feeling she had been particularly productive so far that day, she drove into town. After stopping in Bread and Roses for a bag of fresh whole-wheat rolls, she popped into the local deli cum specialty foods shop for a pound of butter and some raspberry preserves to go with them.
And there he was, Rob Penn, Cora Compton’s distinguished and talented painter, standing before the dairy case, staring at the large selection of milk.
For a moment, Ellen wondered if Cora Compton had orchestrated this sighting. She immediately dismissed the idea as nonsense and almost laughed out loud at her wild imagination. Everybody needed milk on occasion. Even starving artists. Though Rob didn’t look particularly hungry. As a matter of fact, in the light of day, he looked downright robust, the proverbial picture of good health. Maybe he really was a talented painter. Maybe he made a great deal of money from the sale of his work. Maybe his tattered clothing was a style statement, not a sign of financial distress or unconscious, habitual carelessness.
Ellen took a closer look at Rob and noticed that his fingers were free of paint stains. Interesting. He cleaned up to go to the market, but not to attend a gallery opening. (What did that say about his priorities?) He was wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, nothing special, but they fit him perfectly.
There was no doubt about it. He was an attractive man.
“Hi,” she said.
He turned and frowned at her for a moment, clearly puzzled, and then his expression cleared and his eyes widened. “Oh,” he said, “right. The opening.”
Ellen felt a twinge of disappointment. Was she that forgettable? Still, what did it matter? She wasn’t in Ogunquit to make friends. She was in Ogunquit to hide and to heal all on her own.
“Yes,” she said. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I’m fine, too.”
Rob blushed. “Oh, right,” he said. “I should have . . . Sorry. I guess I’m a bit out of it lately. Distracted. I’m trying to solve a problem with the painting I’m working on right now and . . . Well, the answer isn’t coming. It’s kind of driving me crazy.”
Ellen smiled. “I don’t know how you do what you do,” she said. “ ‘You’ meaning artists. It’s as foreign to me as . . . well, as financial analysis might be to you. But I’m making an assumption.”
Rob laughed. “Believe me, there are times when what I do is as foreign to me as financial analysis. Like, right now. What made you say that, about finance?”
“Because that’s what I do. I’m an independent financial consultant.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“There’s really nothing wow about it. It’s a job like any other.” But unlike any other, Ellen thought, it can make people think you’re some sort of machine. Some sort of machine intent upon evil. (Did machines have intentions?)
“I’d better be off,” Rob said suddenly, snatching a carton of milk without looking to see if he had chosen low-fat or soy or chocolate-flavored. “I’ve just had an idea. . . .”
He dashed off toward the checkout counter before Ellen could say good-bye. She smiled at his back. In spite of his flighty behavior, there was something honestly charming about Ogunquit’s newest resident artist.
Not that it mattered. Ellen finished her shopping and drove home, her mind on what she would make that evening for dinner. By the time she walked through the front door she had decided on steak and green beans. And maybe the rest of the double fudge ice cream.
But dinner was hours away. Ellen brought her laptop to the kitchen table and checked her e-mail. There was a mildly amusing joke forwarded by her mother, something about a cranky husband. There was an obviously dubious offer of a loan from an obviously dubious lending institution, and there were the ubiquitous Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn updates. Finally, there was an e-mail from Peter. It was headed, Please don’t delete until you’ve read this.
Ellen’s heart began to race with an all too familiar combination of fear and anger. Was there really nowhere safe to hide these days? With the click of a mouse or the tap of a key, anyone could follow you anywhere. She felt exposed, sitting there at the kitchen table, unprotected.
Well, Peter might reach out to her, but there was nothing to force her to t
ake his hand. With a firm touch, Ellen hit the Delete button.
It was not that she hadn’t forgiven Peter his sins. She had forgiven him. And it wasn’t that she held a grudge against him. She was working hard to let go of the past, and holding a grudge or refusing to forgive was hugging the rotting, decaying past to one’s chest. It was a form of self-torture. You didn’t retreat to hold a grudge. You retreated to forget as much and as completely as you could manage.
With a sigh, Ellen put her laptop aside and proceeded to make a cup of tea. When the tea was brewed, she took the cup over to the window and peered out at the back lawn. Ellen noticed that it was a little dry in spots. That was to be expected. Cora—and the local papers—had informed her that the area had been short on rain since spring. For Ellen, this was a minor inconvenience, if an inconvenience at all. But for the farmers it could very well spell disaster. That, in turn, would have a ripple effect on the broader local economy and, possibly, at some point, on Ellen’s own business. People had to have money in the first place—at least, some money—in order to hire someone to manage it.
But Ellen wasn’t particularly worried. She knew she would always find a way to survive. She was nothing if not resourceful. And she didn’t need much in the way of “stuff,” unlike Peter, who seemed compelled to accumulate every new electronic and mechanical gadget the moment it hit the market. His house was cluttered with things Peter had just had to have, iPads and super-duper phones and state-of-the-art cameras that were ignored almost as soon as they were acquired.
Stop thinking about Peter, Ellen scolded herself. Well, it would be easier to stop thinking about him if he stopped trying to contact her!
Ellen turned away from the window. I wonder, she thought, what the inside of Rob Penn’s house looks like....
CHAPTER 6
“Ellen, my dear! So good of you to come!”
“Thank you for having me,” Ellen said, submitting to Cora’s hearty hug.
“Come in, come in. You’re almost the last to arrive.”
Cora took Ellen’s arm and whisked her into the cottage, already loud with laughter and good cheer.
So much for my vow to enjoy a party free summer, Ellen thought. Cora Compton had a way of getting what she wanted, at least as far as Ellen was concerned. Oh, well, Ellen thought. Maybe she’ll tire of me by midsummer. After all, I’m not the most exciting person around these days!
This evening Cora was wearing an ensemble in fuchsia. Fuchsia dress. Fuchsia shawl. And, most surprising, fuchsia shoes. They must be dyed, Ellen thought, eyeing her hostess’s boat-like feet with suspicion. Would anyone really mass-produce shoes in that eye-shattering hue? Maybe I’m just a boring dresser, she thought, giving the older woman her due as she contemplated her own rather sedate outfit of white blouse, navy cotton pullover, and dark, skinny jeans. In the latter months of their relationship, Peter had often commented on her style or lack thereof....
In stark contrast, per usual, Cora’s sidekick, Miss Camp, was in taupe from head to toe. Ellen greeted her with trepidation. If she tripped and knocked into the lady she was sure Miss Camp would break into a million little taupe pieces.
Clovis was nowhere to be seen. “He doesn’t care for crowds,” Cora explained. For a moment Ellen had a strange desire to seek out Clovis in his hiding place; she really didn’t care much for crowds, either.
Cora sailed off to see to her other guests, and Ellen got herself a glass of wine from the drinks table in the living room. As she sipped the wine (it was very good, another indication that Cora Compton was not in financial difficulty), she surveyed the room. She recognized a few of the faces from the Noise Gallery opening; others were new to her, though she might have known them in passing as a child. There seemed to be far more women than men. Among the men that were present, Ellen was not surprised to find Rob Penn. After all, he was a favorite with Cora and already a bit of a local celebrity; in the past week Ellen had heard his name mentioned on three separate occasions—once at the post office, once at the Hannaford a town away, and once in Reny’s. Still, Ellen felt a wee bit suspicious. Had Cora invited Rob Penn so that he and Ellen could chat, fall in love, and wed? Don’t be silly, she chided herself. I’m sure Cora Compton has far more important things on her mind than me! After all, Cora had said as much the afternoon Ellen had been at her house for tea.
Hmm, Ellen thought now. There was Cora, leading Rob by the arm toward a tall, willowy woman.
Ellen watched as almost immediately Rob fell into animated conversation with this willowy woman. She must be very interesting, Ellen thought. Or maybe Rob liked women with long, dark, glossy hair.
Ellen turned away and came face-to-face with another guest.
“Greetings,” said the man.
Ellen returned the greeting; she had seen this man at the gallery opening, but had not spoken with him. He was of medium height and weight and maybe about sixty years of age. His long gray hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. His clothes were black, as were the beret perched on his head and the frames of his glasses. His shoes, Ellen noticed, were bright green.
He introduced himself as Richard Green. (Hence the shoes? Ellen wondered.) He said he was an old friend of Cora’s and asked how Ellen knew their host. Ellen explained.
They chatted amiably for a few minutes until Ellen noticed that Rob, across the room, had put on a jacket and was headed for the front door. Cora was with him, and she beckoned to Ellen to join them.
“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” Ellen said to Mr. Green, interrupting a tale of his fourth marriage. (He claimed that none of his wives had understood him. Maybe, Ellen thought, they hadn’t approved of his taste in footwear.) She headed toward her hostess.
“Rob has something to ask you, Ellen,” Cora announced when Ellen had joined them.
Ellen looked up at Rob’s expression of discomfort and braced herself.
“Um,” he said, “I was thinking that maybe we could have lunch someday.”
“The day after tomorrow,” Cora said brightly. “Why not the day after tomorrow?”
Rob attempted a smile. “Um, sure. Why don’t you come to my place? If the light is good I can paint while we have lunch. I hate to miss good light.”
Ellen attempted a smile back. “Sure,” she said. And because it was painfully obvious that Cora had put Rob up to offering this invitation, Ellen suggested that she bring the food. It was, she thought, the least she could do.
Rob nodded. “Thanks. Sometimes I forget to go to the grocery store. . . .”
Ellen assured him that it was no trouble at all.
“Good then,” Rob said. “See you around noon. Oh, do you know where I live?” He told her, and Ellen made a mental note.
Task accomplished, Cora sailed off, and with a little wave Rob left the party.
Ellen’s thoughts were a jumble. So Cora had lied. She was interested in the romantic lives of her friends! Ellen hadn’t been imagining Cora’s nascent matchmaking. Well, it wasn’t the end of the world, she decided promptly. Clearly, Cora meant well, and also clearly, Rob Penn wasn’t in the least bit romantically interested in Ellen Tudor! She would be safe enough eating a sandwich with him.
If she kept up her guard.
Ellen found Cora standing by the drinks table, saying farewell to an elderly couple in matching yellow sweaters. She waited until the elderly couple had gone off and then thanked Cora for inviting her. She did not mention the lunch date with Rob Penn.
“Of course, my dear,” Cora said graciously, squeezing both of Ellen’s hands in hers. “I hope you enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes,” Ellen said. “Thank you. I had a very nice time.”
Was Cora giving her a searching look? “Thanks again,” Ellen said, and hurried out the door and down the drive to her car, flexing her squished fingers as she went.
She just knew that Cora Compton was watching her from the front window. And what, Ellen wondered, was the crafty older woman planning now?
CHAPTER 7<
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Before she had finished her coffee and breakfast the next morning, Ellen was considering the wisdom of canceling her lunch date with Rob. He probably wouldn’t care—if he even remembered that they had made a date. He might even be relieved; he might possibly be delighted. After all, Cora had put him up to offering the invitation.
But Ellen realized that canceling without a very good reason like a verifiable illness the town folk could witness (a freshly broken leg might suffice) might only serve to bring more attention to her nonexistent relationship with Rob Penn. Even if he had told no one of the lunch date, and she doubted that he had, someone, a third party (other than Cora), was bound to know about it.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, was private in a place as small as Ogunquit. Her mother had reminded her of that terrifying little fact often enough. Then why, Ellen thought, did I come back here?
Better to bite the bullet as the saying went and eat a sandwich with Rob Penn. Or rather, eat a sandwich while he painted.
As a matter of course, Ellen checked her e-mail before reading the news online and settling down to work. The only message of interest was one from Caroline.
Hey, you! Whassup? No, really, I haven’t heard from you in days, and although I know, I know, you’re doing your hiding away thang right now, trying to erase all traces of the dreadful Mr. Hall from your system, your old friend Caro misses you and wants to hear something, anything from sleepy little Ogunquit. So—write! Call! Sheesh, send a text! Mucho love, Me. Xxxx
Ellen smiled and quickly typed out a note in return. She did not mention Rob Penn and his forced invitation to lunch. There was really nothing to tell.
It was another beautiful day, warm and sunny and dry. (Too dry. Even Ellen was beginning to worry about the near-drought conditions and had checked to be sure the house came with a fire extinguisher.) She thought of taking her laptop out to the garden—there was a small wrought-iron table and chairs where she could work—but she suspected she would soon lose focus. The colorful flowers, the songs of the birds, the warmth of the sun on her skin would distract her. And you didn’t want to be distracted when you were handling other people’s financial futures. Ellen was nothing if not responsible.