“If he said he’d be here, Izzy, he will be,” Nell said.
Izzy didn’t seem to hear her aunt’s ready assurance. She stood apart, smiling politely at neighbors and friends, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Harry and Margaret Garozzo walked by, the ruddy-faced deli owner holding his wife’s arm with unusual tenderness.
The season gets to all of us, Nell thought, even dear, gruff Harry.
As if reading her mind, Harry stopped and gave Nell a brief, awkward hug. His baker’s arm was huge on her narrow shoulder. “Sad time for Mary,” he said softly, nodding his large head. Harry’s wide forehead was dotted with tiny drops of perspiration, as if he had just been toiling in his kitchen deli, baking his famous rustic Italian bread. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his dark suit. “We dropped off some platters today.”
Nell nodded. Of course Harry would take food over—probably his specialty for unexpected gatherings—an enormous platter of prosciutto, plenty of imported cheeses, and his famous capicola—more food than the Pisanos would ever eat. Food said, I care.
And blustery Harry Garozzo cared.
Ben handed glasses of champagne to Birdie, Nell, and Izzy. “To family, to friends,” he said, lifting his glass. Then he waved toward the bar and added, “And to more friends.”
Sam, Cass, and Danny Brandley waved back and immediately wove their way through the crowd to the small group. Sam moved directly to Izzy’s side, cradling her waist with his arm and drawing her close. He whispered something in her ear.
Izzy smiled, a slow flush traveling up her cheeks.
Ben leaned his head toward Nell. “I can feel the relief traveling through your body like earthquake tremors when those two are in good spirits. You’re hopeless.”
Nell pressed closer. “You’re right—I’m a hopeless, interfering aunt. It’s in my genes, right there in that stringy little chromosome. And there’s nothing you or I or the man in the moon can do about it.” She touched one finger to his lips. “So there.”
Ben took the hand that touched his lips and kissed her fingertips. “And I suppose it’s one of the many things I love about you—sometimes, anyway.”
Nell drew her hand away and urged him to mingle. She pointed toward Jerry Thompson standing across the room staring down a baron of beef. “Maybe the chief will have some news.... ”
Nell wandered off to congratulate Nancy Hughes on how lovely the museum looked. Although cutbacks had slashed the former director’s hours to just a few, Nell felt sure that Nancy was responsible for the museum’s festive flair tonight—and had probably purchased half the decorations herself.
Nancy stood alone near the fireplace. She looked happy as she watched the sea of color and life move across the room.
“We all agree; it’s beautiful.” Nell walked up and stood beside her. “And I suspect you had a lot to do with this.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Nell touched the edge of the loose, wavy scarf looped around Nancy’s neck. It moved in slow motion down the length of her simple red dress, the loops of the lace intricate and artful. Nancy certainly knew her way around a skein of cashmere. “You’re amazing, Nancy. You do many good things. Knitting, organizing, and if I might venture a guess, you probably fixed those broken shutters yourself.”
“It keeps me sane, Nell,” Nancy said. “It fills a void. And anything I do at this museum is definitely a labor of love. I’ve loved working here.” She rested one hand on a polished glass cabinet that held artifacts from an ancient shipwreck. “Dean loved the museum, too—he was proud of what we did here. He used to tease me when I’d bring my toolbox to work to mend a display case or fix a broken step or saw branches off the trees out back, but beneath the teasing was pride. I always knew that. ”
Nell nodded and watched a familiar sadness fill Nancy’s eyes. Dean Hughes had been a handsome, successful lawyer. Not only had his needless death a few years before cut a successful career short; it had left a bereft wife dealing with the worst kind of pain.
“If there are such things as saints, Nancy Hughes is certainly one of them,” Birdie had declared not long ago. “Her job at the museum is diminished; then her husband leaves her in such an awful way—and how does she respond? She volunteers for every known cause in Sea Harbor. Given the same circumstances, I would shrivel up and turn into a prune.”
Birdie, of course, would do nothing of the kind. Widowed herself in her late twenties, she had done more for the town of Sea Harbor than any one person alive. Although she’d married several more times after Sonny Favazza died, Birdie had kept his memory alive, and the Favazza wealth had been put to good use, never squandered.
But Nancy’s generous spirit was certainly admirable. Suicide could destroy more lives than the deceased’s. Somehow Nancy had risen from the ashes and devoted herself to others—and fortunately had the funds to support her efforts. Dean Hughes had made sure that with him or without him, she was well taken care of.
She thought of all the Pisanos dealing right now with the same painful emotions, a family member gone—by choice.
Nancy straightened a candle in a brass holder. “Laura’s done a good thing here. She is so talented and energetic.”
“Speaking of talent and energy, Mary says you’re the reason Ravenswood-by-the-Sea is becoming a reality.”
“Another labor of love. I love being in that grand house, bringing it to life. Mary’s a gem to work with.”
Nell watched Nancy’s smile slip away. In the beauty and festive mood of their surroundings, it was easy to forget the sad occurrence just across town.
“It’s been a dreadful week for Mary. One more day and that family of hers would have been gone. We could have gone back to our work without their constant interference. If only . . . If I hadn’t kept Mary so long that night . . . ”
Nell shushed her. “Tragedies always bring about a list of ‘if only’s.’ You know that better than anyone. And you know what a waste of energy that kind of thinking is. No one could have done anything. If it hadn’t happened that night, it might have been the next. Or next week. We can’t control other people’s lives or what they do with them. We just can’t.”
“You’re right. It took me a long time to accept that. But what will be, will be, and sometimes there isn’t anything you can do about it.”
“There you are.” Laura Danvers swept over to the two women, the elegant folds of her satin gown floating down to the floor. Emerald green earrings dangled nearly to her bare shoulders. She tucked her arm in Nancy’s.
“I need to steal Nancy away, Nell. Father Northcutt has a question about a Winslow Homer painting, and Nancy knows far more than I do in that department. She’s our resident expert tonight.”
Nell watched them walk away, the elegant hostess and the quiet librarian, an unlikely pair, but both feeling equally maternal tonight toward the museum they’d festooned in holiday finery, bringing all its ancient artifacts to life.
Nell stayed by the fire a moment longer, enjoying the warmth. Standing in the shadow of the enormous tree, warmed by the fire, she felt nearly invisible. The museum ghost. The thought pleased her, and she sipped her glass of champagne, her eyes smiling as the evening unfolded around her.
The children, having finished their medley, had been bundled off to home and bed. In their place, a string combo sat on straight-backed chairs, filling the air with a perfect mixture of holiday music and classic jazz. Friends and neighbors greeted one another, their faces bright with expectation, holiday dresses sparkling and elegant. Laura had invited nearly half the town, it looked to Nell, and they’d brought with them the feeling of Christmas.
No matter what lay outside their doors or at the other end of town or was hidden for the night in police and coroner’s reports, tonight was a festive night.
Conversations sometimes erupted in hoots of laughter, sometimes in soft smiles. And when tones lowered to a whisper and expressions grew serious, Nell knew they were acknowledging Pamela Pisano�
�s suicide. Tragic. The word fell off lips. So sad for her mother, the older set acknowledged.
And the family. And what about the fate of her cousin Mary’s bed-and-breakfast?
Why? How?
Guests would need to mention it, of course, in the way tragedies required. And then it would cease to be the elephant in the room and the guests could set it aside, move on to happier talk—Santa’s arrival at the pier, the opening of the skating rink, the lighting of the town Christmas tree, and choir concerts scattered all around Cape Ann like glorious snowflakes, softening the night and brightening the season.
In one corner of the room, a photo and book exhibit detailing the birth and growth of Sea Harbor in the late 1700s drew a crowd. Nell watched her friend Archie Brandley wander over, then saw his eyes dance with delight as he saw donated books from his own bookstore acknowledged and handsomely displayed.
Archie’s forty-year-old son Danny had recently moved back to Sea Harbor to work on a book of his own. “My son the novelist,” Archie proudly whispered to customers in his store. Nell spotted Danny, dancing with Cass Halloran near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Cass dancing. She smiled. The tomboy fisherman turned elegant. And elegant she was, her slinky black dress matching the mass of hair that cascaded around her shoulders. Who knew? Danny Brandley’s return to town had added a new dimension to Cass’ life.
Izzy and Sam hovered near the doors to the library, their heads leaning in toward each other, their world reduced to just the two of them. Their faces were serious, deliberate, as if the problems of the world were being solved right there in the Sea Harbor Historical Museum.
A few steps away, Ben and Birdie stood in front of a table that groaned with spinach crepes and smoked ham, thin slices of cheese and turkey and pasta dishes, a baron of beef. They were talking with Ham and Jane Brewster. Nell noticed that Ben’s plate was piled high with carpaccio, hunks of French bread, and chunks of Brie. Not his daily fare, but a holiday indulgence, Nell reminded herself. Let him enjoy it—his heart would be fine.
Looking at her husband from a distance, Nell’s heart still reacted. It wasn’t with that wild rush that ran straight through every inch of her body when she’d see the tall, gangly graduate student coming toward her across Harvard Yard. But a quieter rush, like fresh springwater, coursing through her body, waking her spirit and her senses. It was a softer flow of desire, but one enriched by nearly forty years of sharing life’s moments and intimacies.
“You think you’re invisible, but you’re not.” Jane Brewster gave Nell a warm hug. “From that sexy smile lighting your eyes, I dare not offer money for your thoughts.”
Nell chuckled.
“This is a great spot for people watching.” Jane settled in beside her, her back against the wall. The giant Christmas tree and mantel on either side shadowed the two friends. “Maybe people will think we’re ornaments.”
A minute later Birdie joined them. “A lovely party. But I need a slight break from being charming. Do you have room for one more in your little cave?”
“You can be an old grouch with us,” Jane said. “Problem is, I don’t think you know how.”
Birdie laughed and looked over the crowd. “People are having fun, don’t you think? We all needed something like this to end this week.”
A waitress walked by, and Jane stopped her with a wide smile, lifted martinis from the tray, and passed them around. “And something like this.” She slipped a lock of salt-and-pepper hair behind her ear and peered into the delicate glass. “Not Ben’s, for sure, but it will do.”
Jane Brewster and her husband, Ham, had been friends of the Endicotts for longer than either couple could remember. The Brewsters had come upon Sea Harbor by accident in the late sixties, looking for Woodstock-type action and instead finding a sleepy harbor town perfect for growing an artists’ colony. And so they had, buying a small patch of land and opening a gallery that featured not only Jane’s ceramics and Ham’s paintings, but also the work of other artists they had lured to the area. Years later, the area was thriving, encouraged and supported by not only townsfolk, but artists from the notable Rocky Neck colony over in Gloucester. “Artists help one another,” Ham explained. And it had certainly been true in growing Canary Cove into a Sea Harbor tourist attraction.
“I stopped over at Mary and Ed’s today,” Jane began. She paused and took a sip of her martini. “They were alone—I don’t know what happened to the rest of the Pisanos—but Mary seemed grateful they weren’t there.”
“It’s a sad time for that whole family. They may not have all gotten along, but having Pamela die so young and so unexpectedly is a tragedy—and I know they’re feeling it deeply.”
They stood quietly, sipping their martinis in the comfortable way old friendships allowed, their thoughts moving from a body in the snow, to the diminutive newspaper columnist, to the festive party playing out around them.
People moved about the room as if performing in an extravagantly choreographed movie. Elegantly dressed guests moved past them; couples drifted over to a small dance floor. And everywhere people chatted and drank and ate, happy to be in a warm, lovely place, happy to be alive.
“Pamela had planned on coming tonight,” Nell said, admiring a parade of designer gowns moving across the room on toned bodies. “She was bringing one of her magazine’s photographers from New York. Laura was thrilled about the possibility of being in Fashion Monthly.”
“It would have been a nice thing for the museum,” Birdie said. “And a generous gesture on Pamela’s part. I’m sure she had invitations to dozens of holiday parties all around New York and Boston.”
“And now a holiday party is the last thing any of the Pisanos will be thinking of.”
“Pamela is being cremated. A private service, Mary said,” Birdie told them.
“Everyone in town knew who Pamela was. She was in and out of here often enough, and she often left things in her wake—like crushed relationships. But I don’t think she had many friends, at least not here.”
They all knew that was an understatement, but they let it rest. Everyone knew of Pamela because she was a “personality.” An editor people found difficult to work for, or so said the rumor mill. And a beautiful woman who loved men.
Jane set down her glass and folded her arms around a silky blue stole. Hand-painted flowers in golds and greens detailed the ends of the fabric, and Nell knew without asking that Jane had made it herself and painted the tiny images with great care and talent. “Mary doesn’t think Pamela’s death was a suicide,” Jane said.
Nell and Birdie were silent, playing with the thought that had finally been voiced. Pamela’s dying was so neat. The words in the snow. Even the place. A snowbank and a back porch didn’t seem a likely place for Pamela to end her life.
Pamela had seemed happy in Polly’s Tea Shoppe, not distressed or depressed.
Nell had mentioned it to Ben as they’d dressed for the party.
“Sometimes people about to commit suicide are happy,” he’d reminded her. “Their pain—or whatever is driving them to it—is about to end.”
But Pamela hadn’t seemed happy in that way, though Nell couldn’t articulate it to Ben. No. It didn’t fit—none of it.
So Ben had tried being circumspect, the practical one. “Let’s wait until Jerry releases his report,” he had said. Chief Jerry Thompson was good at his job, he reminded Nell pointedly. He was the expert.
“I don’t think anyone wants to take that thinking to the next step,” Birdie finally said. “That’s the thing. We want to be singing of white Christmases and decorating trees. We don’t want to be thinking ‘What if Pamela didn’t commit suicide?’ ”
“But what if?” Jane urged.
The words fell to the floor, untouched. No one wanted to push this further; Birdie was right. And there was no reason to do so. At least not tonight.
Nell watched Ben off in the corner, talking to Jerry Thompson. She wondered whether they were talking about Pamela. She had been
surprised earlier to see the police chief there, but then realized that was silly. A death didn’t require round-the-clock duty.
Their heads were bent, two tall, graying men, their conversation protected by the huddle of their bodies.
“What’s going on?” Birdie set her martini glass down on a small table and pointed toward the dance floor. Her thin white brows were pulled together.
A tall, skinny man whom Nell didn’t recognize was setting up a portable spotlight, plugging an extension cord into its base. A young woman stood nearby, holding a pad of paper. Nearby, Laura Danvers, her face flushed, stood with her husband, her arms linked around his waist. Her beautiful Donna Karan gown flowed to the floor.
The photographer pointed to a spot on the floor, and Laura and Elliott Danvers moved to it, positioning themselves. The flash of a bulb captured the moment, and Nell looked again at the photographer. It wasn’t anyone local; she was sure of that. And the equipment was elaborate, not the usual Sea Harbor Gazette digital one-shot.
“Look,” Birdie said, her voice so low, Nell could barely hear her.
She followed the point of Birdie’s finger.
On the other side of the lighting equipment, a woman gave instructions to the photographer, then to the couple in the spotlight, then to the assistant taking notes. Even from a distance, her movements were authoritative, precise.
She was a tall, big-boned woman, with her hair pulled back and fastened tightly at the base of her neck. A glitter of diamonds surrounded the bun, and a sequined dress fell from her square shoulders, moving uncomfortably over her hips to the floor.
Although she wasn’t overweight, everything about the woman was long and strong—her body, her nose, her cheeks, her chin. The elegant dress looked strangely out of place, as if it had been made for a model but purchased by someone unfamiliar with the art of dressing glamorously.
The woman turned slightly, and Nell’s eyes widened in surprise.
Pamela’s unkind words in the tea shop crept, unbidden, into Nell’s mind.
A face like a horse, she had said.
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