Summer Days

by Lisa Jackson

  Clovis was rolling on his back now, the poor chipmunk between his gigantic front paws. Ellen flinched again. Life could be so cruel.

  For a bitter moment she remembered what she had felt when Peter asked her to marry him. Safe, and secure, and grateful that she had found someone with whom she could share the burdens as well as the joys of this dangerous journey through life.

  So much for safety and security.

  Ellen frowned as she watched Clovis enjoying his game of intimidation with the chipmunk. She doubted that cats ever got their hearts broken. Though they most definitely had egos, and they did not like to be embarrassed or shown to be wrong . . . or, Ellen surmised with a sort of dark grin, left almost at the altar.

  Ellen took a final sip of tea. She wondered if Clovis would like to come inside when he finished torturing the poor little chipmunk. She wished she had a way to ask him.

  Wait, she thought. Maybe she could entice him with a can of tuna fish.... There was some in the pantry.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Clovis suddenly released the chipmunk (who, much to Ellen’s relief, darted off at great speed) and came trotting toward the house.

  CHAPTER 10

  The doorbell rang—three times in rapid succession—at eight o’clock the next morning.

  Ellen knew it had to be Cora Compton. Patience didn’t seem to be one of her strong suits. This morning she was bearing a plate of scones. They were lightly browned and still warm and fragrant from the oven.

  “You’ll make me fat,” she said to Cora, accepting the plate. “Not that I won’t enjoy the journey.”

  Cora made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Young women today are too concerned with their weight. Why, I could knock over most of them with one big breath!”

  Ellen smiled at the image that came to mind. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” she suggested. “By the way, Clovis has been hanging around. How does he know this house?”

  Cora’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I wasn’t aware that he did know the house. I suppose he followed your scent here. It would seem he likes you.”

  “Huh.” Pretty impressive, Ellen thought, to follow my scent all the way from his home to this somewhat remote house on Wisteria Lane.

  She put the plate on the counter. She wondered if Clovis liked scones. She suspected he ate everything that came his way. He certainly had devoured that can of tuna fish she had offered him the day before.

  But enough about Clovis. Ellen was sorely tempted to ask about Rob, in spite of the dangers involved. After all, she was an honorary local, wasn’t she? She should be entitled to know all the gossip.

  Oh, what the heck, Ellen thought, experiencing an unexpected moment of bravery. Or maybe it was carelessness.

  “So,” she said, “who was that woman Rob was talking to at your party?”

  Cora’s eyes widened. “What woman would that be, dear?” she asked. Ellen thought Cora knew very well what woman she meant.

  “A tall, thin woman. With dark hair.”

  Cora now scrunched up her eyes. “Tall and thin, you say? Dark hair? Hmm . . .”

  “Yes. Long, dark hair.”

  “Oh, that woman! That’s Annabelle Morris. She owns a charming little restaurant in Portsmouth. She does quite well, from what I’m told. I hear that she’s opening a second restaurant in the fall. Not that I go down to Portsmouth all that often. Usually, I prefer to give my money to our more local business owners.”

  “Oh,” Ellen said. Not an artist, then. A businesswoman. Interesting.

  Cora reached out and put her hand on Ellen’s arm. “My dear, are you asking about Mr. Penn’s romantic status? Because I can assure you that he’s unattached. He told me so himself.”

  “Oh,” Ellen said quickly. “I mean, no, I don’t care one way or the other if he’s seeing someone.”

  “You really should give him a sign of your own growing romantic interest,” Cora suggested, ignoring Ellen’s protestation. “How else will he know? He seems a sensitive sort, but I’m quite sure he doesn’t read minds. Not many people do.”

  Was Cora insinuating that she could read Ellen’s mind? Maybe she was a witch after all!

  “No, no,” Ellen said hurriedly. “Really, I have no romantic interest in Rob Penn. No interest at all, actually. I mean, other than as a neighbor.”

  Cora raised her dark eyebrows again until they came very close to the lower portion of her magnificently upswept hair. “Cora knows all,” she intoned.

  Ellen was compelled to grin. “Like Hercule Poirot? He says, ‘Poirot knows all.’ ”

  “If you like, dear.”

  “Well, in this case you’re wrong. I’m sorry.” Ellen wondered why she was apologizing.

  Cora nodded. “If you say so.”

  “I was just curious. That’s why I asked if he was—I mean, that’s why I asked about that woman. I’m just a curious person.”

  “Of course.”

  “You might not think that a person who works in the financial industry would be a particularly curious or creative person, but in my case you would be wrong.”

  Cora put her hand over her heart. “In your case, I would never make such a wrong assumption.”

  “Because I am a creative person,” Ellen went on, all too aware that she was protesting too much. “Even if I can’t draw a straight line or write a novel or—”

  “Now, Rob Penn certainly can draw a straight line, and a crooked one and a wavy one at that. His ability with the brush is astounding. Don’t you agree?”

  It’s a lost cause, Ellen thought wearily. She’ll throw us together until we finally stick, even if she has to move mountains and use a vat of Krazy Glue to do it. And then she’ll swear she had nothing to do with it. “Yes,” Ellen said, momentarily defeated, “his work is astounding.”

  Cora seemed to have gotten what she came for. “Well,” she said briskly, “I must be off. Dear Miss Camp and I have an appointment for an early lunch with her solicitor, and we mustn’t be late.”

  “Her solicitor?” Ellen said, following Cora back to the front door. “I hope she’s not in legal trouble.”

  Cora looked puzzled. “Why would you think that? Emily’s solicitor is a dear old friend. We three get together once every month to catch up on the gossip and share recipes. Mr. Frechette is a whiz in the kitchen. His beef bourguignon is beyond compare. His courgettes are divine. And his crème brûlée is the best I have ever tasted.”

  Ellen smiled. What could she reply? (Well, she might have asked the definition of a courgette. Obviously, it was something edible and French and probably delicious.) She watched Old Mrs. Compton sail down the drive and, with surprising grace for such a large person, settle into her Cadillac. Then, Ellen headed to the kitchen to have a scone while it was still warm.

  And if the rumor mill was in full operation by lunchtime, then Ellen only had herself to blame.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, around nine o’clock, Rob Penn called to ask Ellen if she wanted to drive with him up to Portland later that morning. He said that he needed to visit an art supply store and would appreciate the company.

  “Did Cora suggest that you ask me along?” Ellen blurted. She wondered if Cora had gone straight from her house to Rob’s the day before, full of misinformation about Ellen’s romantic intentions.

  “What? No.” Rob laughed. “Why would you think that?”

  Ellen cringed. “No reason. Sorry.”

  “Okay. So, would you like to come along?”

  Ellen considered. “Sure, yes,” she said after a moment. “Thanks. I could pop in to some of the shops on Exchange Street while you buy paint or whatever it is you need.”

  Rob came by a half an hour later. He was driving a beat-up old Mazda. It was missing all four hubcaps, and several low-lying areas were fragile with rust. Ellen got in with caution, only to find that the car was surprisingly clean inside, particularly given the run-down condition of the exterior. The engine seemed to be in good shape, too. At leas
t, it didn’t make any unsettling noises as Rob pulled back onto the road.

  Ellen fervently hoped that no one saw them together before they were able to get on the highway and away from nosy neighbors and enthusiastic matchmakers.

  “I don’t know Portland well,” Ellen admitted, once they had reached the relative anonymity of the highway. “Except for the Old Port, of course, the touristy part of town. Irish pubs. High-priced stores and way too many spas and salons. I can’t imagine how they all stay in business! Not that it isn’t a charming area.”

  Rob nodded. “It’s an interesting city, especially once you get beyond the Old Port. It’s got a little of everything. Quiet neighborhoods like the West End, great food sources and restaurants, a unique urban vibe, and of course, the museum and galleries.”

  “I guess you’re a member of the PMA?”

  “Card-carrying. I shouldn’t brag, but I will. I had a painting in a show there a few years back. The show featured Maine artists under thirty. It was the highlight of my career.”

  “So far,” Ellen pointed out.

  Rob smiled. “So far.”

  Once in Portland, Rob dropped Ellen off at the top of Exchange Street and headed off to the art supply shop. After about forty-five minutes they met at the Portland Lobster Company for lunch. The place was packed, the band was good, the food was substantial, and the sun was shining. Ellen felt pretty good; she was glad she had come along for the ride, even if (in spite of Rob’s denial) Cora Compton had arranged it.

  Rob raised his hand in greeting to a scruffy group of young guys and girls who were settling at a high, round table near theirs.

  “You know them?” Ellen asked.

  “A bunch of my students,” Rob explained. “For the past five years I’ve been teaching a few courses each semester at the Maine College of Art.”

  “Really? What’s that like? Teaching, I mean.”

  Rob shrugged. “It’s okay. I like teaching, but I don’t love it. I’m always worried my students are going to find that out about me and suffer for it. A lousy teacher, even a lackadaisical one, can be death to a young talent, let alone a tender spirit. So I try to work extra hard to make up for my lack of enthusiasm. So far, so good. I think. At least, no one has complained to my boss.”

  Ellen laughed. “I’d be an awful teacher. I can’t seem to understand why someone doesn’t know what I expect him to know. If something—like math—comes easily to me, I just can’t grasp why it doesn’t come easily to everyone. I’d be fired on the very first day for shaking a student in frustration. Fired and sent to prison.”

  “Well, at least you’re aware of your—your weakness.”

  Ellen laughed. “How very tactful! So, where do you live when you’re not in Ogunquit?”

  “Here, in Portland,” Rob said. “I have a small apartment in the East End. I’m subletting it for the summer. It’s how I can afford to rent in Ogunquit. Barely. And, well, I sold three paintings so far this year. It might not sound like much, three measly paintings, but trust me, it’s huge. Especially since I don’t have an agent and get to keep all the money!”

  Ellen was dying to know what one of his paintings commanded on the current art market, but thought it might be rude to ask. “That’s great,” she said instead. “I don’t own any art myself. Well, just some prints. But nothing original.”

  “Maybe I’ll convince you to invest in me,” Rob said. “Just kidding.”

  Ellen smiled enigmatically. Honestly, she would love to own one of Rob’s paintings. His work spoke to her. But first she would have to know what a painting cost! She doubted he sold on an installment plan.

  “I’ve actually been considering moving full time to Ogunquit,” she said now, surprising herself by admitting what had been only a passing thought. “I can work from practically anywhere. And it’s high time I bought a place and stopped wasting my money on rent.”

  “It’s an awfully quiet town for—”

  “For what?”

  Rob shrugged. “At the risk of sounding like an old busybody, I’ll say it. It’s an awfully quiet town for a single person. Unless, of course, meeting someone isn’t on your agenda.”

  “No,” Ellen said quietly. “It’s not on my agenda.”

  As if sensing this was not a topic Ellen wanted to further discuss, Rob turned the conversation to a more neutral subject—movies. They both had seen and liked the new biopic about Katharine Hepburn. They both had seen and abhorred the latest installment in an otherwise fine series about a popular comic book hero.

  “Should we head back?” Ellen suggested after some time.

  Rob checked his watch and agreed. “If we leave now I can get down to the beach by four and do some sketching.”

  And I, Ellen thought, can . . . Can what? Work, of course, but . . . Why had she suggested they leave Portland to head back home? It had been years since she had enjoyed an afternoon with someone as much as she was enjoying this afternoon with Rob. Maybe, she thought, I’m just not used to having fun, not since the early days with Peter. And look where that got me.

  Fun was risky. It could lure you into a false sense of security and happiness. Peter had been such a jovial guy, the proverbial life of the party, a magnet around which everyone gathered and stayed put. He had so thoroughly disarmed her with his good humor that . . .

  “You’re frowning,” Rob said as they turned onto Commercial Street. “Crab roll not sitting well?”

  Ellen smiled. “Sorry. I mean, I don’t know why I was frowning. Habit, I guess. It’s not the crab roll or the company.”

  “Good. Because I thought I was being pretty darn charming.” He was, Ellen thought. But she only smiled.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  Ellen reached out to steady the person she had accidentally bumped into as she stepped back from one of the library stacks.

  “No problem! I am off-balance with this load!”

  It was a young woman, no older than nineteen or twenty. She was very thin and was dressed in a black T-shirt and black jeans. She had an arresting face with large, luminous dark eyes and a wide, mobile mouth. In her arms she held a mammoth stack of magazines.

  “I read as many of the magazines as I have time for,” she explained, noticing Ellen’s look of astonishment. “It is a good way to keep up-to-date on the current slang. And, some of the articles are pretty good. At least, in some of the magazines. By the way, I’m Nadia.”

  “Ellen.” She laughed. “I doubt Tween Fashions prints stimulating stuff!”

  Nadia grimaced. “What are you here for?”

  “I came in to see if the library had a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. I forgot to pack my copy.”

  “You are not a local? You’re visiting?”

  Ellen explained her family’s history in Ogunquit. “So, no, I’m just here for the summer. Then, it’s back to Boston.” Maybe, she added silently.

  “Boston is home?”

  “Yes. You’re here for the summer, too?”

  “Yes, working as a waitress and saving as much money as I can.”

  “And then, it’s home?”

  Nadia shrugged. “Where is my home now? I was born in a country in Eastern Europe I can no longer name. It’s too painful for me. But for the last few years I have been most of the time not there. Anywhere but there.”

  “Oh.” Ellen didn’t know quite what to say to this bit of information.

  “You see, my parents were killed in a conflict when I was thirteen,” Nadia said then, taking Ellen entirely by surprise.

  “My God!” she cried. “How awful.”

  “My brother and I went to live with our grandmother after the death of my parents. Then, she died, and soon after, Stefan went to Australia. I have not heard from him since. So, I have been alone in this big wild world since I was fifteen.”

  Ellen shook her head. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  Nadia shrugged. “I thank you for your sympathy,
but really, I do not need it. I am simply impossible to hold down for long! My spirit is—what is the word?—irrepressible. Is that correct?”

  Ellen nodded. “I think it’s exactly the word you want. Your vocabulary is wonderful.”

  “It is just my way. I do not know why I am so—like a rubber ball. I hit the floor, and I bounce back!”

  “I would consider myself very lucky to have such a positive outlook on life,” Ellen admitted.

  “Positive?” Nadia frowned. “Maybe not positive. Life is often very nasty and always very hard. But what is the point of moaning about it? What is the point of hiding away, yes? Face life! It sometimes will back down. I am proof of this!”

  Ellen laughed. “You certainly seem to be!”

  Nadia checked her watch, with some difficulty given the stack of magazines in her arms. The watch looked to Ellen like an antique, and she wondered if it had belonged to Nadia’s mother or perhaps her grandmother. “Look, I must go to work,” Nadia said. “If you will let me have your number I will give you mine and perhaps we might meet some time for coffee. I would like to ask you what you do for a career. I need the ideas for my future!”

  Ellen found herself happy to exchange numbers with the young woman, though she doubted that Nadia was really in need of anyone else’s help.

  Nadia dashed off, and Ellen resumed her search. She found a copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories and headed back to the house. As she drove, she reflected on her meeting with Nadia. It had heartened Ellen to hear that brave young woman tell her story with such a lack of self-pity. It had shamed her a bit, too.

  Imagine being so alone, she thought, as she pulled into her driveway, so truly alone, and yet so free of self-pity. Imagine being so alone and so fearless.

  Nadia was not only irrepressible; she was inspirational.

  Well, Ellen thought as she opened the front door. This summer is proving to be restorative after all—and in an unexpectedly social way!