Firefly Beach

by Meira Pentermann

A long silence followed, then a heavy sigh. Beth gritted her teeth, hoping to quell the slew of obscenities on the verge of pouring from her mouth.

  “I’ll call Lou,” he murmured, his gruff voice melting into annoyance. And before Beth could respond, he hung up the phone.

  Beth sat down on the couch for a moment, a little dazed. She gingerly placed her phone on the coffee table as if it were a diseased handkerchief unfit for handling. She stared out the window at the bay, reminding herself that it was still a beautiful place with an amazing view, and that wonderful opportunities awaited her; new beginnings for which her grieving spirit yearned…a fresh start.

  At this point, I’d settle for a fresh shower. But I’d better put my clothes on in case this Lou happens to be a plumber. She headed for the stairway. And, hopefully he or she actually plans on coming over today.

  Beth decided to put her energy into setting up the bedroom. She needed to take a break from the studio, so she filled and organized her dresser drawers and arranged the bedside table. She figured she would be lucky if Mr. Thompson sent a plumber out before morning.

  The doorbell rang an hour and a half later. Beth was pleasantly surprised. She raced down the stairs and pulled open the door.

  “Lou Schmidt, ma’am. Plumber.” He nodded politely. He was a broad shouldered man in his early sixties, with gray hair swept away from his face, a moustache, and kind blue eyes. He wore a blue and green flannel shirt and a faded pair of jeans. He extended his right hand in greeting, and in his left hand he carried a red toolbox.

  Beth shook his hand enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you could come. Thank you. Thank you,” she responded opening the door and ushering him in. “Whew. You are a godsend.”

  “I’m a Rodsend, really, ma’am,” Lou said, attempting to be humorous. Instead it sounded dreadfully goofy and the poor man blushed.

  But Beth grinned. “A Rodsend indeed.”

  “So you’re getting no water. Is that my understanding?”

  “Yes, nothing. Nothing in the bathroom and nothing in the kitchen. The spouts sputtered, rather loudly,” she said, grimacing, “and then they stopped flowing.”

  “Uh huh,” Lou said, already distracted, looking around the kitchen. “Did you shut off the main valve?”

  Beth looked flustered. “Uh…I don’t even know where that is, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s okay, ma’am. I’ll find it.” Lou headed toward the laundry room attached to the kitchen. “Go ahead and continue whatever it was you were doing and I’ll check it out.”

  “I was going to take a shower.” Beth laughed nervously, smoothing down her tangled hair. “But I’ll settle for unpacking.”

  Lou crouched in the space where a washer would eventually be installed, already absorbed in his work. Beth slipped upstairs and resumed tackling the boxes in her bedroom.

  Thirty minutes later, she heard Lou calling from the base of the stairs.

  “Ma’am?”

  She hurried down to meet him. “Stop with all the ma’am stuff, please. I feel old enough as it is.”

  “Fourteen years in the Navy, ma’am…uh, Miss…uh, LaMonte,” he said, shrugging. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

  Beth crossed her arms and scowled at him playfully. “Well, sir,” she teased. “This ma’am respectfully requests that you knock it off. Call me Beth, please.”

  Lou glanced at his feet. “I have some bad news,” he blurted out. “I’m going to need to order some parts from Portland. I should get them the day after tomorrow. In the meantime…” His voice trailed away as Beth’s face grew red with anger.

  “Two days without water?” she yelled, not so much at him as at the circumstances. “In all this packing dust?” She swept her arms dramatically in an arc.

  “Listen,” Lou began. “My wife runs a bed and breakfast, The Virginia Point Cove. We don’t have any guests scheduled to arrive until Friday. You could stay with us for a couple of nights,” he offered. “On the house, so to speak.” He chuckled, making another failed attempt to be humorous.

  “Lou Schmidt,” Beth exclaimed, realizing why the name sounded familiar. “Your wife is Mary?”

  “Yes, ma’—” He caught himself just in time, but she glared at him anyway.

  “I…I can’t ask you to take me in.”

  “Beth, it’s what we do. Mary would be delighted. You already know her?”

  “We’ve spoken on the phone.” Beth fidgeted with her hands. She wanted to take him up on his offer. A hot shower and a moving-box-free environment sounded very inviting. “It would be nice to get tidied up. I need to take my paintings to Mr. Downy’s shop tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you’re the painter. Mary told me all about you. In that case, it’s settled. You must come.”

  Beth cast him a wary look. How could Mary possibly tell him all about her? Mary knew next to nothing about her. Beth frowned and continued to fidget nervously.

  “In all honesty,” Lou continued. “Just between you and me. You’d be doing me a favor. The Mrs. drives me crazy when we have no guests, chattering on about nothing. A man needs a little quiet now and again, if you understand me.”

  Beth pursed her lips to one side. She was not very interested in chatty women herself, but she hoped to rejoin the land of the living, so on an impulse she said, “Lou, I would be honored to accept your offer.”

  “Perfect. The truck is a bit cluttered. If you’re bringing your paintings, you may want to take your own car.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll wait. You can follow me. Do you need time to get ready?”

  “I’ll just grab a suitcase,” she hollered as she raced up the stairs.

  “Take your time. I’ll call Mary and let her know we’re on our way.”

  A few minutes later Beth returned with a small, flowered valise in tow. She set it by the hall closet and went back upstairs to retrieve three paintings wrapped in brown paper. Lou helped her put everything neatly into her Honda.

  “All right then,” Lou declared. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 3

  The Cove

  The Virginia Point Cove was a beautiful, two-story Colonial home built in the 1850s. White with midnight blue trim, it sat a couple of blocks away from Main Street on Spruce Road and Knox Lane. Six steps led to the small, covered front porch located precisely in the middle of the house. Around it, eight symmetrically placed, shuttered windows reflected the afternoon sun. An American flag jutted out at a forty-five degree angle, centered above the door. Two-foot high shrubs ran along the sides of the house marking the property, and a pair of pots filled with pink petunias hung from the porch roof. On either side of the stairs, flowerbeds graced the entire front of the house. Rose bushes flourished near the porch. Freshly turned dirt around the annuals indicated recent planting, while several perennials were already in full bloom. An assorted mixture of dahlias, bleeding hearts, oriental poppies, zinnias, and a variety of wildflowers greeted Beth as she ascended the stairs.

  A slightly plump woman in her early sixties burst out the door, bubbling with hospitality. Her wiry gray hair hung past her shoulders, a bit Bohemian for Beth’s taste. But Mary had warm, hazel eyes and an accepting smile, and she swiftly drew Beth in, washing away her negative first impression. Mary wore a blue cardigan sweater with a dark blue cotton t-shirt and black jeans. “Beth LaMonte,” she cried with open arms, crossing the distance between them to offer Beth an embrace.

  A startled Beth returned the embrace listlessly. “Mary, it’s good to meet you. And it is so generous of you to take me in on such short notice.”

  “Nonsense.” Mary waved her hands dismissing Beth’s needless concern. “What are we here for? We’re prepared for guests night and day. Come along then. Lou, please grab her suitcase,” she hollered after him. “In,” she said to Beth, pointing inside. “I’ve got dinner on the table.”

  Beth shrank and took a step back. “You didn’t have to—”

  “Stop, for goodness sakes,” Mary scolded. “O
r I’ll have to slap you right here on this porch. I’m dying to learn all about our new resident artist.”

  Beth smiled shyly and relaxed her shoulders. She allowed Lou to relieve her of her suitcase, and she followed Mary across the threshold.

  An antique writing desk stood near the door and a faux quill pen rested on its surface next to a leather guestbook. The guestbook, open to the most recent page, awaited the next visitor’s signature. A creeping plant sat in one corner of the desk. Its vines wound around the back right leg, almost reaching the ground. To the right of the desk a narrow stairway, padded with an auburn antique rug runner, led to the second floor. Beyond the stairs, visitors were welcomed by a sitting room complete with a sofa, two chairs, a glass coffee table and several large windows. Along the windows two small, narrow tables accommodated numerous houseplants. To the left of the entrance, a hallway disappeared into the back of the house. Beyond that there was a library with five full bookshelves, three cushy maroon recliners, and one dark, antique armchair. The foyer glowed in a warm, pinkish shade of off-white and a floral print border ran along the edge where the walls met the ceiling.

  Lou passed the ladies and began to ascend the stairs with Beth’s suitcase in tow.

  “Put her in Mother’s room,” Mary called up to Lou. “She won’t be needing it.”

  Beth cringed.

  Mary’s face lit up in amusement. “Oh, dear, this isn’t the psycho mansion. My mother lives in Palm Beach. She won’t be visiting until later this month.”

  Blushing, Beth followed Mary down the hallway. Several generations of family photos arranged in small groups decorated the walls. Pictures of the Schmidts’ three children – school photos, vacation photos and senior portraits – surrounded Lou and Mary’s wedding photo. Another cluster of photos celebrated their parents at various stages of life. There were other wedding photos, presumably those of Lou and Mary’s children, and a number of photos of toddlers, most likely grandchildren. Although she passed by the photos only briefly, Beth felt a momentary pang of regret for her solitary lifestyle, but Mary’s ceaseless chatter drowned out wistful thoughts.

  “Anyway,” Mary pointed to a door. “You can wash up in here. The dining room is down the hall to your right.”

  Beth stepped into the bathroom, splashed a little water on her face, smoothed back her hair, and washed her hands. She dried her face and hands with one of the four small hand towels arranged neatly in a small basket next to a dish of miniature soaps. She would have preferred to apply a little make-up and use a hairbrush, but the Schmidts’ hospitality made her feel at home. As she emerged from the bathroom, the smell of roasted chicken and potatoes made her realize how hungry she was.

  She found the dining room and nearly gasped when she saw the table decorated and loaded as if it were Thanksgiving. “I hope you didn’t do all of this on my account.”

  Mary laughed joyously. “Oh, just a flower arrangement and the cloth napkins on your behalf. The chicken’s been roasting since this afternoon.”

  “We always eat like royalty,” Lou said, as he entered the room patting his protruding stomach.

  “Sit, sit,” Mary said, gesturing to the chair next to the head of the table. Beth settled in next to Lou and across from Mary.

  Dishes were passed back and forth, plates were loaded, and the glasses were tinkling with ice water. All the while Mary chatted boisterously, asking Beth dozens of questions about the drive, the house, and the weather. Beth answered as politely as she could. She was not comfortable sharing stories in vivid detail, and she had barely spoken at a dinner table setting for years.

  “Anyway,” Mary said at one point, interrupting Beth’s hesitant response to a simple question. “If anyone gives you trouble about being from away and all, you just let me deal with them.”

  Beth looked confused. “From away?” She suddenly felt self-conscious about her nonresident status. It hadn’t occurred to her to be concerned until that moment. “People don’t want me here? Will they threaten me?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. Goodness, no. Lou, how do I describe it?” she asked, turning to her husband.

  He shrugged.

  Mary looked up at the ceiling. “It is just a feeling hanging in the air, you know, like a cloud of cigar smoke…a little stifling. We encountered it when we returned in 1992. Lou was in the Navy, you know. We lived all over. When we moved back, I had to put a couple of people in their place. Then the air cleared and things have been normal ever since.” She took a sip of water. “Remember Betsy Mallard, Lou?”

  Lou groaned. “She was a piece of work.”

  Mary turned to Beth and explained. “She was the town manager for a number of years. She was so full of herself. Unbelievable. Eventually the townspeople got sick of her. She didn’t last past 1995, I believe. But, anyway, at one town meeting, shortly after Lou and I were settling in, she started going on about ‘people from away,’ looking straight in my direction, you know, and I gave her a piece of my mind. ‘I’m a true Mainer, Mizz Mallard,’ I told her, drawing out the Ms. for dramatic effect. ‘It’s just that in all my extensive travels I’ve picked up a few ideas here and there that might be useful in Virginia Point.’ Ooh, that really got to her because, of course, she’s never been out of Maine in her life. And several of the selectmen were interested in what I had to say. It was a golden moment, I tell you. Pure gold.”

  Beth feigned a smile. Town managers. Selectmen. She had no idea what Mary was talking about. Confused, she looked down at her plate and felt a bit out of place.

  “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll win ‘em over,” Mary said enthusiastically. She took a large bite of chicken, paused for a moment, and changed the subject. “Anyway, so old man Rod let the plumbing go, huh?”

  “Uh, yes, I guess so,” Beth replied.

  “You can’t leave a house empty for six months and expect it to manage itself,” Mary said with disdain. “I don’t know what goes through that old geezer’s head sometimes.”

  “Mary!” Lou scolded. “Mind your tongue. He’s our neighbor and a client.”

  “Pfft,” Mary replied. “A fine client he is. He may be prompt with the check, but he needs a kick in the pants in the manners department.”

  Beth listened with interest, delicately balancing peas on her spoon.

  Mary took a sip of water and leaned toward Beth almost whispering, even though she knew perfectly well that Lou could hear her. “We have to mail him Lou’s invoices. Heaven forbid we drop by in person. He won’t even answer the door. I know when he’s there, the old coot. He just won’t answer the bell.” Mary enjoyed a bite of potato and a big gulp of water before resuming her character analysis. “It’s like he has no need to interact with other human beings.”

  Beth looked down at her chicken and cut off a small bite. She took a brief inventory of the last ten years of her life and wondered if her acquaintances and co-workers would say the same things about her.

  Mary prattled on, oblivious to Beth’s internal dialogue. “If it weren’t for people’s boats breaking down—” She interrupted herself, turned to Beth, and explained, “He fixes boats at the marina, but he spends most of his time on his own boat, tinkering and sailing. The Bottomless Blue, he calls it…the boat that is. A rather sad name if you ask me.” Mary took a sip of water and continued. “Anyway, if it weren’t for people’s boats breaking down, I don’t think he would talk to anyone, period. I don’t know what happened in his life to make him so cross. He’s got a few gears loose in his head if you ask me.”

  “He’s just a lost soul,” Lou said.

  Mary glared with little compassion. “You mean he’s lost his soul.” She took a bite of chicken and allowed a rare moment of silence. “My mother will tell you otherwise, dear,” she said to Beth. “Mother says he used to be quite a gentleman and a decent neighbor. I rather have my doubts. I vaguely remember him. I grew up here before I became a military wife and moved all over kingdom come.” She flashed an impish grin in Lou’s direction. “I belie
ve he had a daughter in elementary school when Lou and I were in high school. Obviously she hightailed it out of here as soon as she could, the poor dear.” Mary sighed. “The man has no one, but it’s his own damn fault. He drives people away.”

  Lou cleared his throat.

  Mary ignored him. “It’s just as well he’s a hermit. I’d rather not have a conversation with the man, anyway. He gives me the willies, sucks all the good energy out of the room when he walks into it.” She toyed with her potatoes. “What do you think, Beth?”

  Beth fidgeted in her chair. “I’ve never met him, actually,” she admitted.

  Mary’s eyes flew wide open. “Heavens! You rented the cottage without meeting the man? That’s a whole new way of doing business.”

  “We do it all the time, Mary,” Lou reminded his wife. He had a wry smile on his face.

  “At least we meet them, eventually.”

  “Yes. And we let them run all over our house.” He wiggled his fingers in Mary’s direction as if casting a spell.

  Beth stifled a laugh. Mary scowled.

  “Never mind her, Beth,” Lou said in response to Beth’s apprehensive expression. “He’s a good landlord. When things need fixing, he gets them done. He’s not very cordial about it, but he gets them done.” Lou scraped the last bite of potatoes and gravy onto his fork. “I’m sorry about the delay in getting your water back to running. The plumbing was last updated in the seventies. Old man Rod should have had me go over the house before you moved in. Houses that sit tend to develop kinks.”

  “Old man Rod, indeed,” Mary snorted. “Old men that sit also develop kinks.”

  “He hardly sits.” Lou corrected her. “The man’s not idle, just quiet that’s all.”

  Mary glared at Lou and harrumphed under her breath.

  Beth looked at the quarreling couple with some amusement. She broke the silence. “I’m surprised the cottage sat idle for so long. I mean it is an amazing location at a great price.”

  Mary and Lou exchanged a look. “You may change your mind after you’ve dealt with Rod for a few months.”