Nantucket Rose

by CF Frizzell

  Today, spring was hard at work, battling to pull the Atlantic out of its notorious “off-season” mode, and Maggie found it hard to resist the temptation to join that effort, stroll the deck and withstand the buffeting chill. A blue-sky morning like this felt like a test she desperately wanted to pass. But she was a newcomer to this change-of-season stuff on the ocean, and doubted she’d ever achieve “veteran traveler” status like that held by islanders she’d come to know, like that Julia woman she’d met last month, like seamen aboard ferries like this.

  “I’ve been through far worse already, haven’t I, sweetie?” She rubbed Retta’s side and then her belly when Retta lazily rolled over. “My good girl. I promise we’ll go to the beach later and you can check out how cold the water is. And, if you must, you can go swimming.”

  That word set Retta on high alert, back on her feet in readiness, ears perked.

  “Not now, Retta.” Maggie regretted uttering the “S” word. “Chill, baby. Later, I promise.” She found a chew toy in her hefty shoulder bag and grinned at Retta’s happy acceptance. A handful of treats and another chewy just might keep Retta content until they docked, as long as an excited voice or the whiff of something delicious or the appearance of a certain handsome sailor didn’t throw decorum overboard in an instant.

  *****

  Shaking her head at Nantucket’s chilly air, Maggie blasted her heater and spared a glance into her rearview mirror. Retta looked every bit the sightseeing tourist, gawking out the Rav4’s open rear driver’s side window as they drove off the Eagle and onto Nantucket soil, a family of two. Hopefully, they’d be happy here for a while and make this work.

  “Deadline’s in about a month, Retta. We’ll make it.” The car bounced over the cobblestones, and she smiled as she passed the Easy Street sign. “We have to work our butts off, but we’ve got four bookings already. Not bad, huh?” She glanced in the mirror again and watched Retta’s head turn with the passing of a German shepherd on the sidewalk. “He was a good-looking boy, I know, but listen. We’ll be at our new home in a few minutes, and you’ll have plenty to do.”

  Retta looked back at Maggie in the mirror and readjusted her footing on the seat. She had her niche in the back, surrounded by boxes, bags, bins, suitcases, lamps, two chairs, and a small secretary’s desk. From front passenger seat to rear windshield, the car was full to the ceiling, as was the large carrier on the roof. Everything jiggled and creaked as they cautiously traversed the uneven, lumpy road, and Maggie rocked from side to side as much as Retta did.

  “God, driving on these is evil. Imagine horses and wagon wheels dealing with this? Some are the size of footballs. How did they do it, way back then?” Maggie turned off Main Street, thankful to see asphalt ahead. “Almost there. See the hedges? Those are ours.” She pulled up in front of the ten-foot-tall privet hedge that shielded the property from the sidewalk, and stopped where the greenery arched over a tiny gate. “See, Retta? We’re home!”

  Both of them stared through the white picket gate and up the narrow walkway, a herringbone pattern of dusty gray paving bricks that led to the slate patio and a wide, wooden screen door. Shoulder-high shrubs channeled the path, as ragged and unkempt as the battered weeds growing between the pavers, and Maggie mentally added yard maintenance to her already lengthy list of chores.

  “Give me a minute, Retta,” she said, getting out. “I’ll be right back. You stay.”

  Holding open the gate as she stood beneath the hedge arch, she took a moment to size up work done to the mid-nineteenth-century house in her absence, and nodded at the completion of the exterior project that had eaten a sizeable chunk of her budget. Totally re-shingled in unstained cedar from the ground to the second-story roof, the building stood welcoming and warm, a honey-brown in the morning sunshine, and she saw it as a house reborn, eager to match its weathered gray neighbors. The scent of fresh cedar on the salty breeze was invigorating. Tall grids of wooden lattice encased the four pillars that supported the porch roof, and she envisioned columns of pink roses offering a picturesque, aromatic greeting to guests.

  She strolled the lengthy walkway and circled the house, inspecting the new windows and shutters, the sealing and painting of the foundation, so pleased with the finished work she didn’t mind the construction disaster in the yard. Scraps of lumber, strapping, paper and plastic labels, discarded coffee cups, and miscellaneous debris littered the grounds all around the house. Both narrow side yards, the compact backyard, and even the white shell lot that might accommodate three cars were a slum-like disaster all the way to the bordering hedges.

  Nevertheless, Maggie smiled. Cleanup was the least of her worries. If the flowers and shrubs flourished the way she’d seen in old photos, the property would dazzle, and guests would marvel at the landscaping as they lounged in cozy little sitting areas throughout the yard.

  She led Retta on a repeat of her stroll and pointed out the property boundaries, including the gated rear driveway area, and hoped Retta wouldn’t dig her way out to introduce herself to the neighborhood.

  “You promised to be good, remember,” she said, as Retta stopped for the hundredth time to sniff hedges. “This backyard is for you to do your business. And this gate here is for cars to go through—not you. This is your yard now. And no digging.” She led them back to the front of the house. “Time to park the car. Let’s go.”

  She curled the Rav4 around her privet hedge and down the narrow lane beyond, then jumped out to open the driveway gate at the rear of her property. Retta eyed her every move, excited when Maggie returned behind the wheel. She leaned out the window and looked down toward the foreign sound of tires crunching over seashells.

  “Yup. We’re here, sweetie.” Maggie patted her head as she trotted back to close the gate. The span of white pickets complained and wobbled as it swung, and it, too, went on Maggie’s list of “eventual to-dos.” She dug house keys from her purse and opened Retta’s door. “We’re home, Retta. Check it out.”

  Retta bounded from the car and romped across the sparse backyard lawn, picking up speed and racing in delirious ovals from side hedge to side hedge like an Indy car driver. Maggie stopped at the top of the four back steps and laughed. “Are you coming or what?”

  Retta ran toward the car, stopped on a dime, and cautiously sniffed her way onto the seashells. Apparently satisfied they wouldn’t attack, she approached the Rav4’s front bumper and marked her territory with a sizable puddle.

  “Good girl, Retta!” Maggie said brightly, hoping Retta made a habit of going on the driveway instead of ruining the lawn Maggie hoped to grow. Retta rocketed back across the yard and up the stairs, eager for the door to open to further exploration.

  Maggie gave her a substantial hug. “Such a good girl. You ready?” Retta only briefly broke her stare at the door to send Maggie an answer. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  She opened the storm door, unlocked the interior wooden one, and swung it wide. Retta loped in, nose to the floor, and was off, investigating.

  Maggie crossed the little mudroom, entered the spacious kitchen, and her heart sank.

  Spacious it should have been. Appliances she’d ordered months ago, an array she admittedly would like in her own home someday, sat still crated. They crowded the wide room, scattered over the torn and stained linoleum flooring. Refrigerator, dishwasher, freezer, washer and dryer, the stainless steel stove of her dreams, and the soapstone farmer’s sink were nowhere near ready for installation. The room itself sported new drywall and plumbing, but that was all.

  So much for cooking our first meal here tonight. And why is no one working today?

  “Damn it.” She pulled out her iPad and started making notes. All the big pieces seemed to be accounted for, she thought, checking crate labels for accuracy, but the refinished wood flooring, all the restored original cabinetry, the butcher block countertops…She sighed heavily and moved on, now leery of what she’d find.

  Off the kitchen, the three small rooms she’d had converted to
two for the proprietor’s residence glistened. Old hardwood flooring and trim glowed warmly, and the wall colors she’d selected proved ideal. Her bedroom set and a small table with chairs would fit perfectly, once the moving truck arrived on the midday ferry. And her little desk would be right at home in the sunny nook beneath the side window.

  A small en suite bathroom had been completed as well, and she was never more thankful to find it ready. Stepping in, she flicked the light switch and nodded approvingly, then flushed the toilet and ran hot and cold water in the sink, tub, and shower.

  “Thank God.”

  She jerked around at the sound of the front screen door slapping shut. Retta rang her own doorbell, barking ferociously in another room.

  Maggie hurried to the opposite end of the suite. “Retta?” She threw open the door and looked through an anteroom to the vast common room. “What—Oh. Hi, Bud.”

  A short, chunky man in coveralls stood with his back against the screen door, looking from Retta to her as the barking persisted.

  “Hi. She friendly?” He pointed at Retta.

  “Yes. This is all pretty exciting for her—and me.” Maggie soothed Retta’s raised hackles with several long strokes of her palm. “You can say hi now, Retta. Bud’s a good guy. He’s in charge of all the work we need.” Retta approached him slowly, nose to his work boots. Her tail only began wagging when he gave a friendly rub to her head. “Come in, please. We just arrived, actually, but I’m really glad you’re here. There’s a lot to talk about.”

  “That there is.” He stepped up beside her as she perused the room. “Under all this paper, the floors came out great,” he said, shuffling his feet. “And the built-ins, we just finished staining two days ago. Room’s pretty much ready to go. You check out your office?”

  Maggie looked to the anteroom she’d rushed through moments earlier. “Not really.” She went back to the open Dutch door in the corner that separated the common room from what she’d planned as the office. Sunshine, despite the unwashed new window, lit the room brightly, and the woodwork glowed.

  “It’s perfect.” She stepped in and turned around. “Plenty of room for a real desk and filing cabinets. Plus, I can see everything out to the front door—and access it from the residence, which is gorgeous, by the way.” She beamed at Bud, and a proud smile added more wrinkles to his weathered face.

  “All this covering on the floor can come up now, I suppose,” he said, walking back out to the common room. “Your furniture still coming today?”

  “It better be or I’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Not to worry. Those guys are used to this. Deliver all over the island all the time. You can count on them.” He rubbed his chin as he surveyed the space. “Need a lot of stuff for this room. It’s the whole width of the house.”

  “Well, I have enough for now, but I’ll add pieces as my budget permits.” She tipped her head toward the doorway that led back toward the kitchen. “There’s still a lot to be done, however.”

  “The kitchen, yup. Sent my crew over to an emergency in ’Sconset this morning, but they’ll be here in about an hour. Every week, something messes up my Monday schedule. But your cabinets are already on the truck, and all the butcher block is due this afternoon, so we’re hoping to have the cabinets and countertops done today. It’ll go quick. You’ll see.”

  “It has to, Bud. It seems I’ll be eating out for a while.”

  “Well…yup. My floor guys should be done by the end of the week. The plumber will be finishing her thing, too, and we’ll get the backsplashes up. Hey, we could plug in the fridge for now, if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” She wandered to the large antique wood stove, now situated at the stone fireplace opposite the front door. “I know this was quite a project. It’s usable now, I hope? I just love it.”

  “Yup.” A lock of his fluffy silver hair fell into his eyes when he nodded. He swiped it away. “A pretty big expense, but it’s a beauty.”

  “I’m counting on not having to sleep in front of it tonight.”

  He chuckled at that but shook his head. “No worries there. Heat works just fine. Furnace overhaul is good for another fifteen years, and the tank is new and full. Got your first oil delivery last Thursday.”

  “Yes.” She grimaced. “The bill was emailed to me immediately. At least prices are better off-season.” Thankful she wouldn’t have to worry about those cold, raw months, she headed for the stairs at the far wall. “Okay, Bud. Now, take me through the progress up here.”

  Happy to see a polished sheen on the old banister and a paper runner rising to the second floor, Maggie started up the newly stained steps, their edges rounded smooth from generations of use. Thoughts of previous residents’ foot traffic nearly distracted her, the history of the place so compelling, but a brush of Retta’s strong shoulder against her leg kept her on track.

  “The downstairs was a picnic compared to up here,” Bud said, trailing after them. “Really old houses like this come with their own unique nightmares. Configuring nine rooms, plus two suites and ten baths took us since Christmas. Hell, it felt like Christmas when we finished.”

  Maggie reached the landing with a bounce in her step and noted the refurbished hardwood floor also mostly covered by protective paper.

  “It’s all done? Really? What I can see of the flooring looks amazing.”

  “We had to match a board here and there, but overall they turned out great. So…let’s see. The plumber’s still waiting on a few more sink fixtures, I’m afraid, but the shipment of air conditioners came in. They’re at my place, and I can bring them over any time now. And the electrician finished putting up all the ceiling fans last week.”

  Maggie couldn’t stop smiling as they checked the two suites at the front of the house, nor as they traveled the hallway back and stopped in the other rooms. It was easier than ever now to picture them with beds and furniture, curtains and scatter rugs, bathrooms with coordinated towels and shower curtains, fresh flowers in vases throughout…Her heart beat joyfully as her long-held vision began to materialize.

  “You’ve done an incredible job, Bud. I’m so pleased.”

  He shrugged modestly. “Can’t do the slap-it-together kind of work. It’s not how I do business. Around here, it’s done right. Expensive, I’ll grant you, but this is an island, and the town’s pretty darn fussy about everything.”

  “Oh, believe me. I know everything’s pricey here and the Historic District Commission is ridiculously particular, although that’s not necessarily a bad thing. But competition for Nantucket accommodations is strong, and I intend to make Tuck’r Inn the cutest little sanctuary possible. Top-quality work is worth the investment. That’s how I do business. So I thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, I got one more thing for you. Let’s go back downstairs.”

  In the oversized closet in the common room, he stepped around Retta to pull a long, narrow object off the shelf. Maggie watched, curious, as he removed the bubble wrap and held out a piece of wood in both hands.

  “I remembered the sketch you sent me, way back in the fall when we first hooked up,” he said, “how you wrote about having the Tuck’r Inn name on a quarter board someday, just like all Nantucket houses have. So…”

  Maggie’s eyes had already gone wide. With plump clusters of roses etched into each end, the wood had been intricately carved, its entire outline routed, gilded in gold leaf, as were the letters, all against a background of dusky gray, the future accent color of the house. Displaying a ship’s quarter board bearing the house or family name was a Nantucket tradition, and Maggie couldn’t have felt more humbled, more honored, if she’d been planning to make Tuck’r her permanent home. The welcome was genuine and touching.

  “Oh, Bud. It’s absolutely beautiful. I don’t believe you did this. Thank you so much.”

  “The least I could do for you, trusting my outfit with a job this big.”

  Maggie lifted th
e board from his hands and examined it from end to end, ran her fingers over the woodwork. Something about touching it lent more substance, more reality to her project, and she was surprised to feel so moved. Her eyes filled, and Retta wandered to her side and sat against her leg. Maggie acknowledged her with a stroke of her head and chuckled at herself. “This makes it official.”

  “That’s for sure,” he said. “It’s mahogany, and sealed so it’ll last. Had a woodcarver friend do it. He’s got a shop on Straight Wharf.”

  “I’ll look him up. This is just gorgeous, such incredible detail. Could you hang it for me?”

  “Not till we’re done. I’m not superstitious about most things, but that I am. When your inn is ready, it’ll be the finishing touch. Should probably go between the second-floor windows. That’s where the old Pratt quarter board used to hang. Don’t know what happened to that, though. Maybe the Whaling Museum ended up with it when the bank took the house, back before your previous owners. Pratt was a big-time whaler.”

  “My attorney’s given me a pile of title research to look at, once I have time, but she did tell me the basics.”

  “Well, it’s yours now, Maggie. And you’ll be up and running in no time.”

  “Thank you again. What a precious surprise.”

  Maggie couldn’t believe her good fortune. What a day this turned out to be, she thought, how lucky she was to have hired Bud.

  Tuck’r Inn would indeed open for business on Memorial Day weekend. Her timetable to receive her first guests still looked solid; even the prospect of the summer roses framing the entryway seemed realistic. Some three weeks remained to square away all the projects on Bud’s list, then dress up the place. Not for the first time, however, she prayed for the stamina to do the interior design and prep herself. And that would just be the beginning.