by Lea Wait
Snow had moved in last night, covered Haven Harbor with a fresh coat of white, and then moved out to sea. The morning sun was making the snow sparkle.
A perfect day for the Christmas Cheer festival.
I checked in with Captain Ob and Anna and Dave. They all promised to have the needlepointed pillows they were doing for Skye finished by December 23. I’d pick them up, along with Sarah’s, and deliver them to Aurora the day before the party, in plenty of time for Skye to wrap them, hide them . . . or whatever she planned to do.
While I was checking times for the Christmas Cheer events, Trixi became fascinated by the cardinals and blue jays and chickadees dodging in and out of the holly bush by our front porch, competing for the seeds in the feeders. As I watched, a downy woodpecker landed on the cake of suet and blueberries and started his breakfast, and a pair of juncos arrived.
I left Trixi at the window, staring out at the excitement she couldn’t reach, and headed for the carriage house at Aurora. By the time I got there it would be late morning.
I used the back entrance, in case the media was still in front of Aurora.
I hesitated, then knocked on Patrick’s door.
After the third time I gave up, headed up the drive to Aurora, and knocked on the door there.
Patrick opened it. “So glad you came! I wanted to call you, but no one has their phones back yet. We’re hoping they’ll be returned by tonight.”
He pulled me into the front hall, where I noticed Christmas packages had appeared under the tree.
The kissing ball we’d bought from Arvin and Alice worked just fine.
“Good morning, Angie!” Skye walked down the stairs, carrying a jacket. “Isn’t it a beautiful day? I’m so glad you’re here. The wagon should arrive soon.”
“The wagon?”
“Remember, Mom wanted a sleigh ride? And Captain Ob said no one around here used sleighs anymore?” Patrick reminded me.
“Snow mobiles, more likely.”
“Ob called a cousin of his who has a farm outside of town. He’s going to hook up a couple of his horses, fill a wagon with hay, and come by. He says he’s ours for the day, to go anywhere we’d like.”
“Exactly. And we’ve all been cooped up here since we arrived, and haven’t shown our guests how beautiful the State of Maine is, so we’re excited!” Skye took my jacket and hung it in the closet near the door to the kitchen.
“I was hoping you and I could go to the Christmas Cheer festival together this afternoon,” I said quietly to Patrick.
“We’ll all be going,” he said. “Mrs. Clifford had a copy of the local paper, so everyone’s been handing it around. Apparently the police blotter is the funniest thing anyone’s ever read.”
Didn’t sound as though Patrick and I would be enjoying the celebration on our own.
Skye peeked out the front window. “I suspect rumors about Paul’s death have made their way to the Internet. We don’t have computers or phones, of course, thanks to that state trooper and his friends, but the media’s back.”
I looked. Clem’s Channel 7 friends were there, and several other vans and cars I didn’t recognize. “They might know about Paul. Or they might want to cover your visit to Maine,” I pointed out. “But you won’t be invisible if you’re all in a horse-drawn wagon.”
Patrick tried to hide a smile. “Mom knows that, Angie. It was Marv’s idea. He figured pictures of his cast celebrating Christmas in Maine would be good publicity for the movie.”
Did they want publicity or privacy? I didn’t fully understand.
“I have a proposition for you, Angie. You grew up here. You know Haven Harbor better than anyone else. We’d love for you to join us in the wagon and be our tour guide. Pick out the most interesting places to see, direct the driver where to go, and tell us all about what we see,” said Skye.
That wasn’t what I’d hoped for today. But how could I say no?
“Haven Harbor’s a pretty small place. There’s the lighthouse and Pocket Cove Beach and the Green and the downtown area, the four blocks of stores, and the wharves. That’s about it.”
“We’ll go slowly, to absorb the atmosphere. Then we’ll park the wagon and check out the stores, and be there when Santa arrives on his lobster boat and leads the parade. It sounds perfect!” Skye had it all planned.
“Christmas Cheer is fun,” I agreed. “But it’s not fancy.” Haven Harbor’s parade wasn’t like Macy’s. And where could we “park” a horse and wagon?
“That guy we bought the wreaths from said there was a lobster boat parade,” Patrick pointed out.
“There is. Right before Santa arrives. And later there’ll be fireworks over the harbor. Although you can see those from your back field, too.”
Oops. From where I’d found Paul’s body.
“Fireworks. Like the old days,” Skye said.
I’d forgotten for the moment that she’d been a guest in this house forty plus years ago. A guest when, during end of summer fireworks, her best friend had died.
“Just a few fireworks,” I explained. “The Chamber of Commerce sponsors them. They’re set off from Second Sister Island.”
“They sound lovely,” Skye said. “Mrs. Clifford is going to put out some lunch for us in a few minutes, and by the time we’ve eaten, the wagon should be here and we’ll be off.”
How many photographers would be here by then? Would they follow us around town? I shuddered. Most of the people in Haven Harbor knew me. Many of them knew Patrick and I were together. But what would they think seeing me in a crazy horse-drawn hay wagon with these Hollywood people?
Skye was fine. She’d met a lot of people in town, and, at least on the surface, they’d accepted her for what she was: a famous actress who wanted a private retreat.
But this was different. Even Skye seemed different when she was with her friends. Maybe it was Paul’s death.
Patrick had warned me at the tree-trimming party that this group could be . . . interesting. Reverend Tom had suggested they keep whatever excitement they provided at Aurora.
Now it seemed they were not going to stay at Aurora, and they were incorporating me in their plans.
Patrick had gone to the kitchen; I assumed to talk with Mrs. Clifford about lunch.
I wished I could escape. Run to where my car was parked and drive off.
But this was part of Patrick’s life. It wasn’t a part I’d seen before. But if we were a couple, it was a part of my life, too.
I straightened my shoulders. I could do it. Haven Harbor gossip be darned.
Chapter 31
“So false religion shall decay
And darkness fly before bright day
So man shall God in Christ adore
And worship idols vain no more.
So Asia and Africa
Europa with America
All four in concert join shall sing
New songs of praise to Christ our king.”
—Sampler in silk thread on linen made by Ann Isabella Littlefield in Wells, Maine. Ann was eleven years old, and the year was 1835. A few years later Ann married lawyer Nahum Morrill and they moved to Auburn, Maine, where they had three sons. One died at the age of six months; the other two grew to adulthood and also became lawyers. Ann died in 1906 and Nahum in 1917.
Skye’s schedule held up. After a leisurely lunch, during which most of her guests indulged in wine or beer to accompany their salmon, bacon, lettuce and tomato salad, and blueberry muffins, Ob’s cousin, Seth Harlow, pulled his hay wagon up in front of Aurora’s gate alongside the media trucks. Didn’t those guys ever take breaks? Seth was wearing a Santa hat. As though on cue, one cloud paused overhead and it started snowing. The sun was still shining, so the snow looked like a glittery curtain.
It all fit Skye’s script perfectly.
Seth had clearly heard the message that Skye West had requested a sleigh. I’d seen a fair number of hay wagons, although none recently, and certainly none in the residential sections of Haven Harb
or. Most were pretty grungy. This one had been spruced up, benches added to the sides, and the hay that filled it wouldn’t have kept one horse alive for more than a day or two.
Seth’s two horses had been brushed until they shone, and he’d braided red ribbons in their manes and hung large wreaths (also with red ribbons) on the sides of the wagon. Several of the paparazzi left their warm cars to take pictures even before the celebrities left Aurora. As Seth stepped off his seat at the front of the wagon, he waved a cow bell at everyone. I suspected he’d take a few pictures of his own before the day was out.
“Not bad,” I said to Patrick. “I’m impressed. That’s the closest I’ve ever seen to a horse-drawn sleigh in Haven Harbor.”
“Thanks to Ob Winslow. His cousin Seth acts in the local theater group—I didn’t know Haven Harbor had one of those!—and he took the job as a challenge.” Patrick bent over, touched my shoulder, and whispered, “Plus, he’s starstruck.”
“He does look as though he’s having fun,” I agreed.
Patrick had arranged the day, but Skye was staging it. “We’ll all put on our coats and gloves and walk to the wagon, and then get on, allowing time for the media people to snap a few pictures. Some of the photographers will probably follow us for the afternoon, but I’m hoping this scene will be perfect enough that at least some of them will leave us alone after the photo op.”
I suspected she was being optimistic.
Everyone in town would gawk at this setup and who was in the wagon. Santa Claus was going to have competition for attention this afternoon, at least among the adults in town.
Patrick and I hung back as Skye and her guests walked casually toward the street and the wagon. After all, the photographers weren’t interested in us.
Blaze posed next to one of the horses, her short black leather skirt and high leather boots (not waterproof) competing with the horse for attention. Weren’t her legs cold? Then Skye joined her, wearing a white jacket and red scarf over her slacks, ready for a holiday picture. The photographers weren’t as interested in Thomas and Marie, who were the first to climb onto the wagon. They weren’t holding hands today, and sat on benches on opposite sides of the wagon. Patrick and I joined them without anyone paying attention. I sat near Seth, so I could tell him our route, and Patrick sat close beside me. We weren’t exactly snuggling, but feeling his body next to mine was almost as good.
Marv was posing with the horses and actresses. He had his arm around Skye, who was not only older than he was by about ten years, but several inches taller.
When they all finally decided to end the photo session, Marv helped Blaze negotiate climbing into the wagon. Several photographers took advantage of the display her tight skirt and high heels gave them. Marv’s hand on her rear gave her a final push to get in.
Who’d given her the idea that a tight leather skirt would be appropriate for this occasion? She’d be freezing that tight ass of hers off before we got far.
Everyone settled in. Blaze cuddled next to Thomas, and Marv squeezed in between Skye and Marie.
“Seth, let’s go slowly, and head to the Haven Harbor Lighthouse.”
“No problem about going slow. My old girls here aren’t ready for the Derby.” He called out, “Happy holidays! Ho, ho, ho!” to the delight of the photographers and Blaze’s giggles, and we headed out.
Captain Ob and Anna waved from their barn across the street. We waved back, like tourists waved to passengers on other boats.
As long as I didn’t worry about what people in town would think, it was fun. I’d been on hayrides when I was a kid, but that was a fall activity. Despite the new layer of snow gathering on the road, the sound of the horses’ hooves was loud enough so Skye had to raise her voice when she called out, “Angie, tell us about Haven Harbor’s history.”
Two cars of paparazzi were still following us.
Thomas and Marie turned toward me. Blaze made a point of shifting in her seat so her back was to me. History must not be her favorite subject.
It hadn’t been my favorite, either. But I knew the basics about my town.
“Haven Harbor’s a typical Maine coast community,” I said, stretching my voice so if Blaze wanted to hear me, she could. “We have a safe harbor protected by three small islands—the Three Sisters—so fishermen from northern Europe made it a camp and trading center in the early 1600s. By 1646 a few families had settled here, in what was called the wilderness of Massachusetts. We were primarily a fishing community then.”
“What about lobsters?” Marv called out.
“Early settlers only ate lobsters when waters were too rough to fish and they didn’t have any dried fish left. Lobsters were thought of as bottom-scavenging bugs. The lobstering industry didn’t take hold until the nineteenth century. Fishermen still call lobsters ‘bugs.’”
Blaze shuddered. “Didn’t they farm? Didn’t they have vegetables?”
“Some,” I admitted. “But the rocky coast of Maine wasn’t good for farming. Inland, in later years, yes. But at the coast people ate seafood, and traded fish and lumber from the trees they cut down with people who farmed, or who lived in cities and had access to imported goods. They had animals, though. Cows and chickens and pigs and goats. Most communities, like Haven Harbor, kept their animals on islands near the mainland, so they didn’t have to use wood for fencing that was needed for building houses, heating them, and trading. That practice became a major problem during the American Revolution. British war ships sailed along the coast from Canada and stole the animals off the islands to use as food for their sailors. Along the way they destroyed any boats they found, cutting people in towns like Haven Harbor off from the rest of the world. Without boats they couldn’t fish, they couldn’t trade for food, and, remember, their land was too rocky for farming.”
“Couldn’t they ride their horses to other towns, inland, where there were farms?” asked Marie.
“Haven Harbor, like many towns on the end of peninsulas, was isolated. Boats were their transportation; rivers and sea their highways. No roads led here. The few roads there were—abandoned Indian trails—were rough. No horses were north of Brunswick until after the Revolution. Oxen were used for hauling lumber, but they were either stolen by the British or eaten early on. People living on the coast of Maine were close to starvation during the American Revolution.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Patrick.
Blaze took a mirror out of her bag and refreshed her lipstick.
“The first place we’re going to see is Haven Harbor Lighthouse,” I continued. “It was built about the time of the War of 1812 to warn vessels away from the cliffs you’ll see, and to watch for British ships that might attack the harbor.”
“Did any attack?”
“No,” I admitted. “But other towns along the coast were attacked. People here felt the Light had protected them.”
“What about shipwrecks?” asked Thomas.
“There were several in the couple of hundred years before the Lighthouse was built,” I said. “One ship full of coal from England hit the ledges in fog and sank. All winter local residents carried baskets down to Pocket Cove Beach—we’ll go past there today—to collect coal to use for heat that winter.”
Seth turned around. “I don’t want to take the horses up the hill to the Light—the parking lot at the foot of the Light is plowed, but the trail won’t be.”
I relayed his message. “We can’t get close to the Light with the horses. Even in the summer, people have to park at the bottom of the ledges and climb to the Light itself. Today the path won’t be shoveled.”
“Does anyone want to hike up the trail? Or shall we just look at the Light from the base?” asked Skye.
The overwhelming vote was to stay in the wagon.
We rounded the corner to the Light’s parking lot. “You can see the Light from here. A lighthouse keeper and his family used to live there, but today all the lights on the Maine coast are automated. The small building at the base of the Li
ght is the cottage for the lighthouse keeper. Some lighthouse stations were considered hardship posts—they could only be reached by sea, and keepers had to keep the oil lamps burning even in winter nor’easters. Today some, like the Haven Harbor light, are open to the public in the summer months. But this time of year it’s a dangerous climb over the snow and rocks and ice, so lighthouse tours end on Columbus Day.”
As we sat for a few minutes at the base of the ledges leading up to the Light, Thomas pulled a silver flask out of his jacket and handed it to Blaze, who accepted it gratefully and drank.
“Thomas!” Marie said. “Put that away!”
“It’s a cold day, and I’m not driving? Why not?” Blaze handed the flask back and he took a good swig himself. “Anyone else?”
Marie frowned and shook her head, but Marv reached across the wagon to take the flask. “Good stuff,” he said, offering it to Marie and Skye, who both shook their heads. “Thanks, Thomas.”
“Haven Harbor isn’t a large town. You can see how the land curves around the three small islands.” I pointed. “They’re called the Three Sisters. No one lives there.”
“Why not?” asked Marie.
“No fresh water or electricity. They’re basically pines and underbrush on top of rocks. The town owns them and doesn’t plan to develop them. Kids camp over there sometimes.”
“How about grown-ups?” Patrick elbowed me.
“Not often,” I answered. “We’re going to drive past Pocket Cove Beach, a small, stony beach open to the public, and then we’ll pass the town wharf and several private wharves, ending up on the other side of the harbor with the yacht club. It’s closed this time of year. Recreational sailors put their boats in dry dock for the winter, but a few fishermen work all year-round. You’ll see Christmas trees and lights on some today. At dusk this afternoon the lobstermen and fishermen will circle the harbor in their boats, in a parade to welcome Santa Claus, whose boat will come from the other side of Second Sister Island and take him to the town dock. He’ll have several elves with him, and a moose.”