Nantucket Rose

by CF Frizzell

  “Customers matter to us all.”

  “Well, I’ve got this newbie on my route who’s a piece o’ work, let me tell you. Called our showroom like three times already.” He inched forward again. “Some corporate hotshot’s moving in and had to have every freaking stick of furniture by today.”

  “Some timing, huh?”

  The man snorted and shook his head. “Got that right. Nothing like picking Memorial Day weekend.” He crept forward again, next in line to leave. “It’s all about big money, y’know? They’re redoing the old Pratt House.”

  Ellis looked up sharply. The name sent a woeful trickle along her spine.

  “The Captain Pratt House?”

  “Yeah. I heard the old couple living there finally threw in the towel and took off for Phoenix, sold it to some corporate type. I’ve delivered there a couple times already this month, and I gotta say, it’s good to see the place spruced up again.” Ellis wondered how badly the elderly owners had let it deteriorate. “Okay, Ellis. I’m off. Take care out there.”

  Numbed by his news, she waved the next vehicle up in line and stepped farther aside, not willing to get caught up in chitchat again.

  It had been years since she’d seen the house. She’d made a point of avoiding Davis Street altogether. Passed down from her mother’s great-great-great-grandfather, Percival Ellis, whose father-in-law had been Captain Pratt himself, the home had remained in the family forever, bearing the Pratt name in tribute to one of Nantucket’s greatest whalers. Until…

  A fellow seaman called to her from the open belly of the Eagle and pointed to the line of waiting cars. He raised his palms, asking why she wasn’t directing outbound traffic aboard.

  Striding forward, she waved the vehicles on, but her thoughts remained on the landmark house she once called home.

  Those thoughts rode with her as uneasily as the sea challenged the Eagle, back to Hyannis Harbor, and out again, crossing the Sound on her last run to the island. These trips at night deprived visitors of the best view of the Gray Lady’s welcome, the picturesque little harbor with docks offering sanctuary to traveling craft, and for Ellis, it felt like intimacy lost. Brant Point Light provided reassurance, however, and she treasured her ship’s curl around it as if pulling into one’s neighborhood after a prolonged absence. The specks of mellow light from houses, shops, and church steeples bolstered her spirit, reminded her that islanders—her ancestors included—had soldiered on here for centuries, always with an eye to the sea.

  As chief mate, Ellis thankfully had no choice but to tend to her many duties. She assisted the vessel’s master with everything: loading and securing freight, safety checks, passenger boarding and control, docking, communications, even navigation. None of them easy tasks when the ocean was cranky and one’s mind adrift. Tonight she was glad to be so busy. As the annual holiday rush began hitting its thirty-six-hour peak, the big ship bustled, sold out and cargo deck full. This final run on the Thursday before Memorial Day always drew a maximum load, as would all the trips tomorrow and Saturday morning, and Ellis longed to be flat on her back on her bed, allowing the Rose to rock her to sleep.

  Headwinds and heavy swells had the Eagle ten minutes off schedule by the time it rounded Brant Point, but nobody seemed to care. Anticipation had voices raised and passengers in motion as the jockeying for quick exit began. Ellis squeezed her way through the crowd and descended to the vehicles on the cargo deck in preparation for docking and traffic control.

  “Two more days of this,” she muttered, watching families pour out of the stairwells and head for their cars, “and Sunday and Monday are mine.”

  A further treat was the upside of the hour: lack of traffic in town at ten thirty had the Eagle’s vehicles flowing like water off the ship and out of the lot. Passengers couldn’t debark fast enough, either, scurrying down the zigzagging gangway as fast as seamen would let them, wheeled luggage in tow.

  In short order, with backpack over her shoulder and jacket zipped to her chin, Ellis made her way beneath the occasional streetlamps of Easy Street, past the wharves, and through gusts that insisted on blowing her farther inland. Twenty-knot winds at forty-eight degrees and it’s freaking Memorial Day. She pulled her cap down tighter, crossed the wind off Old South Wharf, and finally reached her neighborhood.

  She turned onto sleepy Commercial Wharf, head down into the whipping salt air, and increased her pace to the slip her family had used for generations. A soft yellow light glowed off the tall piling that marked her address, and a dimmer one shone on the Rose, both welcome sights. The weathered plank walkway rolled beneath her feet, a bit more unsettled than usual, and she considered how much like the sea she had become, how they resembled each other too often nowadays. With a respectful glance at the restless black liquid around her, she climbed aboard, eager to let the ship’s roll and lapping waves calm her overactive mind.

  It had been a busy day, but the physical weariness was nothing compared to the thoughts that returned unabated. Some corporate hotshot? Strangers making themselves at home, oblivious to the banister I rode, the whispers from the chimney, the tales those old walls told…

  She tossed her backpack onto the couch and pulled a bottle of Sam Adams from the melted ice water in the cooler. Hit up the Boatworks and see about ordering a damn fridge. The concept made her snicker. “Bet there’s a shiny new fridge in that damn house now.”

  She shed her clothes on the deck and slid under a comforter, propped up to drink and think.

  Whose fault is it that I’m not sitting by that fireplace anymore, or sweating off broken pipes or fighting that pain-in-the-ass plaster? She raised her bottle. “Here’s to you, Ellis Pratt Chilton, first-class fool.” She chugged half the beer without stopping. “Good thing there’s only one left.” She knew this was one of those rare occasions where, in the past, she would blow through an entire six-pack, dwelling on life’s defeats.

  She hadn’t been able to prevent fate from stealing her father before her very eyes, but she should have been able to save the family business—and should never have let the family’s legacy slip away. God knew, her four years of sleepless nights and back-breaking effort had been noble enough, just not business savvy or enterprising enough to stay afloat through stiffening economic times. But to have gambled for success, to have put the house on the line for that cash infusion had been…

  “The mistake of a lifetime,” she grumbled, knowing she’d take that failure to her grave. She sipped her beer again and rubbed her eyes.

  Such a know-it-all back then. What the hell does anyone know at twenty-two? She sighed heavily, mourning all that effort and good intention, and reminded herself that no rationalization would ever mitigate the blame she shouldered for losing it all—father, business, home. And now, to that anguish she added the bitterness of having some off-island bigwig settle into her family’s private, long-esteemed residence. Too bad I didn’t hit the lottery. The right name would be back on that deed now.

  Nearly dozing with her head on the back of the couch, Ellis peered at her surroundings as if searching for a friend. The Nantucket Rose, paid for years ago, remained her sole possession, her pride and joy, and the day she surrendered the Pratt House to foreclosure, she vowed to never subject the Rose to seahorse labor again, to protect this home at all costs. She yawned hard and finished her beer, deciding to finish these recollections as well. Ultimately, they would drag her down, flood her spirit, and she’d spent too many years battling the current that sought her soul. Surrendering to sleep, she saluted the Captain Joshua Pratt House and her past.

  *****

  The stack of correspondence fell over, fanned across the table like playing cards, and covered the billing statement to which Ellis had just signed her father’s name. Rocking seven-foot seas made the tedious paperwork chore a challenge as the Rose churned across the sound, headed home through thickening fog, but it was her job to tend to business whenever her father manned the helm. She cursed the mess, cleared a space, and con
tinued working until he summoned her up to the wheelhouse.

  He gestured for her to take the helm and headed for the cargo deck. “That stern line didn’t want to hold earlier. I don’t trust it.”

  She took a step with him. “You stay. I’ll go out and check.”

  “Nope. My turn,” he said.

  “Well, watch your step. It’s bad out there.” She called after him, “Don’t get cocky, sailor!” She shook her head at his confidence.

  He left the bridge and practically disappeared into the fog. Ellis hated dividing her attention this way, keeping one eye on their heading and the other on him. She never felt as “ready” to handle a situation that might arise on either front. But it was their routine, their trusted system as a “two-man” crew, and their livelihood as a family depended on their seamanship as much as that damn paperwork.

  She leaned away from the wheel, finally spotted him aft, ghostly nondescript in the gray air. He staggered left as the Rose listed on the rough sea, and then right, and Ellis sighed, relieved, when he steadied himself with a hand on the black crane boom and made his way to its far end.

  “Damn cowboy.”

  She turned back to the helm and cleared her forward view with a click of the windshield wipers. She estimated visibility now at hardly an eighth of a mile, and with fifteen miles to go, she hoped previous reports were accurate and this mess would lift in a few minutes. Never soon enough, she thought as she directed the Rose through the crest of a wave and surfed down into its trough.

  With a hand on the wheel, she looked back again and could barely make out the shadow of her father astern. She picked up the shipboard microphone and broadcast her voice out over the cargo deck.

  “Shake a leg, sailor. Get your ass back up here.”

  The shadow suddenly moved sideways and Ellis focused hard, desperate to see what caused his erratic movement. A wave slammed the Rose’s port side and almost dropped him to his knees. The jerky impact snapped the boom’s stern line, which, in turn, overstressed the safety cables. They popped like gunshots. Ellis stopped breathing as the boom swung free and its thousand pounds of steel clipped her father’s head. Surreal, as if in slow motion, his body hurtled into the fog and the sea.

  Ellis screamed, spun, and slammed the engines to full stop with one hand and blared the horn’s distress signal with the other. She fumbled with the radio, shouted “Mayday” and “Man overboard” calls, blurted their coordinates, and then ran like hell.

  Hands on the rails, she raised both feet and slid down the stairway, then raced across the deck. She ran breathless yet screaming toward the stern she could hardly see a million miles ahead. Fog swirled around her, fought to contain her. The sounds of her pounding steps and thudding heart grew deafening. Salty air stung her teary eyes, filled her nostrils, coated her windpipe, and made yelling seem so useless. The vision of his limp form vanishing into gray mist assaulted her and she ran desperately, ran to it, ran through it, ran until the gunwale slamming across her gut caught her.

  Gasping, Ellis jerked upright and wide-eyed on the couch. Her beer bottle clattered to the floor and rolled away, and she stared after it, wondering how it belonged in the trauma she’d just experienced.

  Coated in sweat and short of breath, she held out her palms and watched them shake.

  “Jesus.” She dropped her face into her hands and waited for reality to return as it always did.

  Chapter Five

  Maggie emerged from the kitchen with a fresh pot of green tea, just in time to see Laura catch a ceramic lamp en route to its demise. The rambunctious little boy who’d sent that side table rocking raced up the stairs. Maggie mouthed “thank you” to Laura from across the room.

  “These are simply divine,” his grandmother said, more interested in Maggie’s miniature muffins than her grandson’s destructive behavior. “Do you get these locally?”

  “We just took them out of the oven,” Laura said, stepping up to the woman’s opposite side. “Ms. Jordan makes them herself.”

  “Is that so? Tell me, is there a chance I might have several dozen shipped home? There’s nothing like them in Alexandria.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Mrs. Cross. Thank you,” Maggie said and set the tea caddy amidst an attractive coffee-and-tea station on the corner buffet. “Of course we can send some off for you. So glad you’re enjoying them. Apricot and Nantucket’s own cranberries added to my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “I thought I detected some of that grandmother-y goodness.” Her eyes twinkled behind her glasses.

  “I’m hoping they’ll become a Tuck’r Inn specialty. Thank you again. And you just let us know when to send them and how many.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “I must go for a stroll, however, to tear myself away or these will spoil my appetite. My daughter and grandson should be down momentarily. He’s excited to see the Whaling Museum. Personally, I’m looking forward to an up-close look at the making of your lightship baskets.”

  “Both are worth the trip,” Maggie assured her, “although I’d double-check the hours.” She pulled a brochure from a display by the door. “Yes, the museum will be closing in an hour, but the basket shop is open later.”

  “Good to know. We might be able to hold Harlen off until tomorrow, then. We’re hoping to arrange a sightseeing cruise at some point. That will definitely keep him contained.”

  “Well, I’d be glad to make some referrals, if you’d like. There’s lots of information like this in your room.” She waved the brochure. “So, how are your accommodations? Is everything satisfactory?”

  “Oh, quite pleasant. Even Harlen slept later than usual this morning—for which his mother and I are quite grateful.”

  Maggie laughed with her. “Well, I’m tickled to hear it. Enjoy your stay and don’t hesitate to ask if either of us can be of any help.”

  By eight thirty that evening, having sent Laura home by four, Maggie eased into a cushy wingback chair in the empty common room. She’d cleaned up after guests’ late-afternoon comings and goings, washed and restocked supplies at the coffee-and-tea station, refreshed the fruit and nut bowls, then baked brownies and oatmeal cookies for anyone passing through or lounging after their evening plans, and finally, prepped ingredients for making breakfast breads in the morning. With a satisfied sigh, she shook her hair free of its clip and took a moment to relax and survey the place.

  “Not bad,” she said to Retta, who curled up on the little braided rug at her feet. “If this is what busy feels like, we can handle it for a while. Right?”

  It would have meant an increased workload, but she would have preferred a full house for this opening weekend instead of starting off at 65 percent occupancy. Considering the bigger picture, the sooner Tuck’r Inn succeeded and she had substantive business records to show a prospective buyer, the sooner she could take on another project.

  She gazed around the cozy room and snuggled deeper into the chair. “But this does amount to a very respectable start. I can’t be impatient, can I, girl?” Retta raised her head as if about to respond. “I’ll lose my mind if I don’t stay realistic. This is actually pretty damn good for newcomers like us.”

  She sat up, suddenly re-energized. Retta popped up too.

  “I think Mama deserves some of that Italian merlot, don’t you think? Let’s go for a walk.”

  Retta bounced in place, then ran off to find a stuffed toy to take on their adventure. Searching for a jacket in her office, Maggie yelled to her, “I can hear you running around out there, Retta. God. I thought I was impatient.” Retta managed a muffled bark from behind her toy duck as Maggie hurried into the bedroom to find the jacket. “All right already. I’m coming.”

  Leash in place, Retta tugged Maggie out the door and through the gate in seconds. Maggie reined her in a bit as they picked up speed downhill toward Main Street.

  “Will you slow down, please?” Retta obeyed. “Thank you. Sometimes I don’t know if
you’re a bloodhound or a husky.”

  What should have been a twenty-minute jaunt to and from the liquor store evolved into a more practical stroll around several blocks, and that expanded into a sixty-minute social event, as Retta commiserated with the occasional passing dog, inhaled and snorted at every tree, and then bolted free to chase a rabbit behind the bank. Almost. Maggie actually didn’t get a good look at the critter, but Retta had, and Maggie barely managed to stomp on the loose leash before they ended up behind the building in the dark.

  “Christ, Retta.” She led her onto the sidewalk and resumed their stroll down Main Street. “Enough socializing for you tonight.”

  At the store, Maggie tied the leash to the nearby bench. “Sit, please. Thank you.” Retta stared past her to the lighted doorway as Maggie kissed the top of her head. “Mama’s just going to be a minute. Be a good girl now. Stay.”

  *****

  Headed home with her backpack over her shoulder, Ellis couldn’t help feeling a bit lighthearted. The next two days were hers, free and clear, and the promise of springlike weather had her contemplating just how she’d spend that time. She caught herself whistling down the dark street like an Old Spice commercial, headed for the liquor store to stock up while she was in the vicinity rather than interrupt her precious free time in the days ahead.

  She had just ten minutes till closing as she walked up Main, and she grinned at the dog who sat waiting patiently by the door. Such devotion, she thought, and remembered wanting a dog when she was young. A Lab would have been perfect, and she recalled lobbying hard as a teenager, but her father had been adamantly opposed. Eventually, she came to see his point about their time constraints at sea versus a pet’s need for exercise.

  She crossed the street, and the dog barked at her approach.