AT 29

by D. P. Macbeth

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a video camera around here would you?”

  Skip brightened, “As a matter of fact…” He left his stool and went behind the bar. He bent down, reached into a cupboard and brought out a shoulder mount RCA video cam. “Is this what you mean? We make it available for weddings and such.”

  Miles couldn’t contain his delight. “How about the lights. Can you turn them up as bright as possible?”

  “Sure thing, boss.” Skip went off to flip every switch in the hall. Soon the room was awash in bright light.

  Jimmy fiddled with a few strings then stamped his foot. “One, two, three…”

  McCabe raised the camera to his shoulder and trained the lens on center stage. Who knows? He decided, as he flicked it on, maybe the video engineers can make something out of this. Jimmy launched into the song.

  Outside, Alice coaxed Les to the window. “See? That’s how he looked back then. It’s exactly how it used to be. Oh, Peggy, don’t you just love it?”

  Marsha and Melinda began to walk away. Cindy followed. Seconds later they rounded the corner of the building to the entrance. Mid-way through the song Joe appeared on the grass and walked over to his wife. Peggy smiled and took his hand. Then she circled Alice’s waist with her other arm and the threesome sauntered through the blankets to the edge of Lake Memphremagog.

  Les turned away from the window, suddenly aware that she was alone. She looked around, wondering what she should do. Intrinsic Colors was nearing its end. For an instant she felt the urge to join Peggy, Joe and Alice, but then her heart pulled her in the opposite direction. In less than twenty-four hours she would be married to the only man who ever made her feel so full of happiness, so in love, so safe. She thought about the thrill of being by his side at the piano. Without a moment’s hesitation she let her feet carry her around the building to the entrance. She climbed the steps, thinking about the cottage in Apollo Bay. Why did that come to mind? She didn’t know. She stopped just inside and surveyed the room. Cindy was at the bar beside Miles. Marsha was close to the stage looking adoringly at Sonny. Melinda was at the keyboards, preparing to play as Jimmy strummed the opening to Peg. He looked up. Their eyes locked and he stopped.

  For a moment, there were no others in the room. Everyone watched the couple. The unspoken message went between them as Jimmy stood and pointed to Skip’s ancient console piano against the wall. A moment later, only two instruments filled Skip’s with sound. Les played from memory while Jimmy gently strummed his guitar. They sang together:

  Because you turned me to the angel

  In my midst

  Seventy-Seven

  Walker Jorgen met them in his home office on Story Street two blocks from Harvard Square. He was a plump, white haired fifty-nine year old with a pretty English professor wife and three grown children. In most respects he was retired, having earned a good living as mechanical engineer before leaving corporate life to consult part time. That is, when the spirit moved him. His passion was writing mystery novels and his only other role was managing the Whitehurst Trust, established by his grand aunt, Melba, in 1930.

  “I must say I was taken by surprise when I received Nigel Whitehurst’s telephone call.” He gestured for Jimmy and Les to take seats. “How can I help you?”

  “We were married over the weekend and decided Nantucket would be a nice place to spend a few days before returning to Australia. We plan to take the ferry from Hyannis tomorrow.”

  “Congratulations.” He glanced from Jimmy to Les, smiling. “The island is the perfect place.”

  “Thank-you. As for the trust, Nigel told me about the land in Siasconset.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The land is his, of course. I’ve begun the paperwork to make the transfer. What is your connection to him?”

  “We’re friends. He asked us to have a look and take some pictures.”

  “I have a famous cousin from down under, quite the revelation.” He smiled. “And, I’m honored to meet you as well. As for the trust, I’m afraid he’s in for some disappointment.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you familiar with that area of Nantucket?”

  “I’ve been there a few times. I know the Chanticleer and Sconset Beach down off the foot bridge.”

  “Yes, near the rose covered cottages, casino and post office.”

  “Casino?” Les questioned.

  Jorgen turned to look at her. “Sconset was once an actor’s enclave. The casino was built in 1899 for summer productions. Today, it’s a tennis center and informal movie house.” He turned back to Jimmy. “The areas you mention are off Low Beach Road and Ocean Avenue. The Whitehurst land is in the other direction toward Sankaty Light.”

  “I know the lighthouse. If I remember correctly it overlooks the golf course”

  “Quite right. Sankaty Light is an island landmark, but it’s threatened. It’ll go into the sea if something isn’t done soon.”

  “Erosion?”

  “Yes, very bad in recent years.”

  Jimmy turned to Les. “He’s referring to the cliffs. They’ve been eroded by storms for centuries.”

  “Baxter Road.” Jorgen interjected. “Most of the land has been developed all along the cliff.” He brightened. “It’s a very exclusive area. Many of the old cottages have been torn down and replaced by sizeable summer homes. Some would call them mansions. It’s risky though. Recently, a wealthy financier paid three million only see the entirety of his back lawn tumble away. The property is roped off. He’ll have to put up another three million to shore it up.”

  “I assume this has something to do with the Whitehurst Trust?”

  “Yes, what’s left of it.” He opened a drawer in his desk, brought out a map and spread it on the desktop. Jimmy and Les leaned forward to look. “Here’s Siasconset and here’s Sankaty Light.” He circled two locations with a pencil. “Sankaty Road runs between and Baxter Road is an offshoot that runs along the cliff here.” He drew a pencil line along the water’s edge. “The condemned property is here, next to the last spit of land that hasn’t been developed. That’s the Whitehurst Trust.”

  “How much land is there?”

  “It used to be six acres.”

  Jimmy sat back. “Used to be?”

  “Today it’s just over three.”

  “That much has eroded?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Les had a curious expression on her face from the moment the ferry rounded Brant Point. The tiny lighthouse, marking the entrance to Nantucket harbor, seemed to welcome the newlyweds as they stood at the bow and watched the lumbering vessel dock. She took everything in, occasionally turning her head to concentrate on this building or that storefront.

  They brought the Saab. Les insisted because she wanted to see every inch of the island. The crowded summer resort, especially Nantucket town with its rough cobblestone main street, was better suited to tiny vehicles and four wheel drives that could shoehorn into scant parking spaces or withstand the dirt roads along Cisco beach. But, as they came off the ferry, top-down, Jimmy was delighted to meander the short route from Steamboat Wharf to Broad Street and the Jared Coffin House. Most of the sights were familiar and he scarcely needed to think as he maneuvered the car around bikers and pedestrians.

  “Different from Lake Winnipesaukee, isn’t it?” Jimmy grinned contentedly.

  “You obviously haven’t spent a summer in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire.”

  “I only meant Nantucket has a charm all its own.” He jumped on the brakes just as a biker swerved in front of the car.

  “We’ll see.” She went back to taking everything in.

  After unpacking, Jimmy went off to make reservations for dinner while Les explored the ornate mansion. The well-preserved lobby was pristinely decorated with nineteenth century furnishings and paintings that emphasized Nantucket’s storied past. She wandered from room to room, identifying what was new and what was original from the dining room to the bar and reading rooms. The sound of t
raffic, ever-present in summer, beckoned her to the sidewalk. She surveyed the stately brick building, imagining how it must look when cold nor’easters drive wind, rain and snow against its sides. Why such a thought came to mind on the third day of July, she didn’t know.

  They decided to relax and enjoy. They had five days. Running out to Siasconset to take pictures for Nigel could wait. In the meantime, they filled the hours exploring the shops in town. At dusk the next evening they headed to Jetties Beach, joining a summer crowd numbering close to a thousand to loll on the sand and enjoy the Fourth of July fireworks. Afterwards, they walked back to town and bought ice cream cones at one of the two soda fountains that competed side-by-side on Main Street, little changed since the 1940s.

  The next day, Jimmy rented a small day sailer at Children’s Beach. They spent the morning harnessing the tricky breezes of Nantucket Harbor, making their way across to Monomoy and the majestic summer homes that lined the waterway. In the afternoon they shopped. He bought Les a gold pendant. It was fashioned in the shape of a basket, the island’s defacto trademark along with the whale.

  They drove out to Surfside and Cisco beaches. Then they returned to town and parked at the top of Main Street to survey the Victorian homes of merchants and whaling captains from a bygone era. Hand in hand, they meandered with other vacationers, casually stopping here and there to look at the stately structures until they came to one that captured Les’ interest.

  Jimmy had seen it many times. The Dorsett House, three stories with steep steps leading to a columned facade and an ornate heavy front door. It was a bed and breakfast, one of dozens in and around the town. A group of young women came down the steps. Jimmy stepped aside to let them by. Les let go of his hand and stared up at a window on the second floor.

  “I wonder what that room is like.”

  “It’s probably no different than ours at the Jared Coffin house.” He answered, beginning to move on.

  Les followed. “Yes, I imagine so.”

  Two more days devoted to tanning and swimming then it was near the end of their brief honeymoon. He booked dinner in the elegant Chanticleer dining room in Siasconset. Les brought the camera and Walker Jorgen’s map. The early evening sun invited them to lower the top of the Saab. The seven-mile drive, directly across the center of the small island, held little interest, but the approach into Sconset suddenly turned green with century old trees forming a delightful canopy over the roadway. The streets of the hamlet narrowed as they came around the circle, bordered on one side by tennis courts and the other by a post office and general store. Jimmy pointed right.

  “That’s Low Beach Road to the foot bridge I mentioned.”

  Les nodded, following his gesture as he continued left around the circle to Sankaty Road. She referred to the map. “Baxter should be coming up soon.”

  They turned right onto Baxter Road just as a jeep full of teenagers roared by. The radio blared loud. Jimmy and Les gave each other a knowing look at the sound of one of Kate’s songs, written by Jimmy.

  The summer homes appeared just as described by Jorgen, each so-called cottage shingled in weathered gray with crushed seashell driveways occupied by large four wheel drives or shiny luxury cars, more often both. The homes had expanded footprints that suggested large open interiors with walls of glass overlooking the ocean. Jimmy drove slowly as Les took them in.

  Within minutes they reached the end where Baxter veered back to intersect with Sankaty Road. Jimmy parked at the side and they got out to look. The Trumbull property circled on Jorgen’s map, stood across from them with several signs driven into the lawn: DANGER! KEEP OUT! The cliff’s edge could be seen, dropping perilously, fifteen feet from the foundation of the house. Jimmy crossed the road for a closer look. He whistled and shook his head. The pounding surf could be heard unseen far below.

  “Only three million dollars to shore it up?” Les said, sarcastically, coming to Jimmy’s side.

  They walked on to the last lot that bordered the shuttered house. It was overgrown with thick bushes bearing yellow/orange beach plums. Most were bent suggesting a hard existence fighting wind and weather off the ocean. Jimmy cleared a path with his feet so they could get to within ten feet of the edge of the cliff. It was a beautiful view out to the blue Atlantic, but the drop was ominous.

  “It looks like it could go anytime,” Jimmy said.

  Les lifted the camera and snapped off a string of pictures. She lowered the camera and walked closer.” It won’t be long before there is no Whitehurst Trust.”

  “Nigel should see it before it’s too late.”

  They stood for a few minutes then turned back to the car. There wasn’t much else to see. Les took a dozen more pictures from different angles, including a few capturing the Trumbull property with the ‘Keep Out’ signs. Then she opened the car door. Jimmy stood for a moment longer, wondering.

  “Anything?” he asked, turning to look at Les who was returning the camera to its case.

  “Nothing.” she answered, without raising her eyes from her task.

  “What about the Dorsett House back in town?”

  She shook her head. “We’ll be late for our reservation.”

  Over dinner they talked about the Whitehurst Project. Les played with the gold Nantucket basket around her neck, smiling occasionally as Jimmy became more animated and obviously excited about the progress he and Reina were making.

  “She’s lined up the orchestra. When we get back I’ll bring them in to work the arrangements.”

  “What about the script?”

  “Alice gave me her first draft before we left. I have it in the suitcase, brilliant.”

  She took a bite of her food. “Miles is paying for everything?”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “Why?”

  “Ellis and Cindy convinced him to broaden the Blossom Presents catalogue.”

  “A Musical?”

  “If he didn’t cover it Nigel and I would have financed it ourselves.”

  “Can I read the script?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe the Whitehurst story?”

  She reached across the table and touched his hand. “You want it to be true.”

  “It’s odd, Les. That’s all.”

  “Nathan and Melba? A connection to two people who died a long time ago?”

  “You played his songs without even looking at the music.”

  She retrieved her hand. “I’ve decided Nantucket does have a charm all its own.”

  The Chanticleer compound included a thick lawn surrounding a gazebo. Jimmy ordered coffee and they carried their cups outside.

  “Did Alice follow Melba’s story to the letter?”

  Jimmy looked up beginning to wonder at her questions. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  “You always have a reason.”

  “Look.” She pointed to an opening into the trees bordering the lawn. Jimmy followed with his eyes.

  “So?”

  “So, I lied.” She got up and took the steps down from the gazebo onto the lawn. He didn’t move. “C’mon.” She quickened her pace. He put down his cup and hurried to catch up.

  “Lied about what?” He shouted, as she disappeared into the woods. No answer.

  She was ten feet into the canopy made nearly dark by the setting sun. He stayed on the path until he spotted her veering right. He left the path and bushwhacked through the growth until he caught her arm.

  “What do you mean you lied?”

  She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “This is an old horse trail. I’m sure of it.”

  He pulled her close. “You’ll ruin your dress.”

  “It’s all right, Jimmy. Let me find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “This is the trail they took when they rode out to Sconset together.”

  “Who?”

  “We both read her story. She wrote about coming here on horseback.”

  “Melba?”

&nb
sp; “Who do you think?”

  “Les…”

  “The tree, Jimmy. Remember?”

  “Sure. Where Nathan carved their names. It could be anywhere or nowhere. It’s getting dark.”

  “No! We have to look.” She advanced deeper into the woods. “Look for a big oak. She wrote that it was along the trail.” Suddenly, she looked ahead and broke into a run. “There! There!!”

  Jimmy watched, beginning to feel her excitement. Then he hurried to where she stood next to a giant white oak that dwarfed all the other trees in the vicinity. Les had a satisfied look on her face. She took his hand and guided it to the other side of the trunk.

  “You look. Tell me if it’s there.”

  “It’s been almost a hundred years.”

  It was there two feet above his eyes, barely visible, faded and all but overgrown with bark, but still faintly discernible in outsized letters carved nearly a century earlier.

  Nathan

  +

  Melba

  “You’ve known all along?”

  “Since the ferry rounded Brant Point.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because it’s impossible. I’m still trying to understand.”

  Back at the Jared Coffin House they pulled out Alice’s script and Melba Whitehurst’s story, reading them side-by-side on the bed. Les made annotations on the script.

  “Here, Alice missed an important part.”

  “Where?” Jimmy looked over her shoulder. Les pointed from Melba’s text. Then she made more notes in the margin of Alice’s script. After an hour she was done. Jimmy took the script and rifled through the pages. There were notes in the margin of every page. Les settled back on her pillow.

  “She’s got the story, but she missed the soul.”

  “Alice won’t like you making changes.”

  “What did you ask her to do?”

  “I told her to take the story and turn it into lyrics for the music.”

  “That’s all?”

  He set the script aside and settled back next to her. “She won a Pulitzer Prize.”