Dangling by a Thread

by Lea Wait

  “Tourists are still around,” Dave pointed out. “I heard a pretty spectacular yacht was anchored out beyond the harbor yesterday.”

  “Wonder who was visiting?” said Ruth.

  “Gerald Bentley and his wife,” I answered. “They’re friends of Skye and Patrick West.”

  “You have a good grapevine,” said Dave. “I hadn’t even heard the Wests were back in town.”

  “Anna Winslow called to tell me,” I admitted. “So I stopped in to welcome them back. The Bentleys were there. The guy who runs the art gallery downtown was there, too.”

  “Ted Lawrence?” asked Ruth. “I haven’t seen Ted in a while now. This arthritis of mine keeps me too close to home. I used to go to all his openings. Never could afford to buy anything, but I’m a good looker. I loved his dad’s oils. Sea scenes, mostly.”

  “His father was Robert Lawrence, right?” asked Dave. “I’ve seen his work in museums. Very impressive. And Ted Lawrence is the one Sarah’s spending so much time with now.”

  I looked at him. “Sarah? And Ted Lawrence?”

  “She hasn’t told you? When I invited her to join us tonight she told me she was busy, so I kidded her a little—told her I felt insulted that she’s always busy these days. She said she was sorry, but she was spending a lot of time out at Ted Lawrence’s.”

  “He’s a bit old for her, I’d say,” said Ruth drily. “Younger than I am by some, but in his seventies. He could be Sarah’s father, for that matter. Or grandfather. That place of his out on the point is spectacular, though. Oceanfront view and its own private beach. His father bought the place years ago.”

  Dave shrugged. “I don’t know what their relationship is. And I didn’t know Ted Lawrence was that old. I’ve never been to his gallery. But Sarah seems happy. That’s what’s important.”

  “Earlier this summer she seemed besotted with that Patrick West,” said Ruth. “Guess I’m out of date.”

  I felt out of date, too. I’d known Sarah had a new interest in her life. And Ted Lawrence was good-looking, for his age. But a romantic interest for Sarah? It didn’t make sense. And she’d specifically told me she didn’t have a new man in her life. Why hadn’t she told me about Ted Lawrence? She’d told Dave. I sipped my wine as Ruth and Dave talked about Robert Lawrence’s work.

  I’d lived in town most of my life and Dave was a newcomer, but he knew more than I did about the Lawrences. Ruth did, too. My family had been more interested in paying grocery bills than visiting art galleries.

  Was Ted Lawrence the reason Sarah wasn’t interested in Patrick anymore?

  Patrick hadn’t asked about her, either. Had they had a long-distance falling-out? Why wouldn’t Sarah have told me?

  I could have been having dinner with Patrick tonight. Rich, handsome, early thirties, and, according to Ted Lawrence, a talented artist.

  Dave and Ruth had changed topics. Now they were comparing tomato sauce recipes.

  Dave was graying, in his forties, and had never expressed any romantic interest in me. He was a friend. He taught biology at the high school. He was a good cook, and he had the only poison garden I’d heard of.

  Gram had implied he could be more.

  I wasn’t sure. But I had to admit I was more comfortable sitting in his living room, chatting with Ruth and Dave, than I had been visiting Patrick’s carriage house.

  Gram always told me to keep my options open. But she’d also reminded me I didn’t know whether Patrick or Dave were even looking for a relationship.

  “Angie, where are you?” Dave asked. “I’ve asked you twice whether you wanted another glass of wine. I’m about to open a second bottle.”

  “Sorry. I was daydreaming. Another glass of wine would be great. And when are we going to eat? Those tantalizing scents from your kitchen are driving me crazy.”

  “A little hungry?” Dave asked. “You’re smelling the garlic bread. Dinner should be ready in a few minutes. I’ve even cleaned my needlepoint stash off the dining-room table so we can eat in style.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Ruth. “This is such fun. I should get out of my house more often. Some days I think arthritis has given me an excuse to be lazy.”

  “I noticed you walked here,” he said. “That’s a long four blocks. After wine and dinner, when you’re ready to go home, I’m going to drive you. Independence is well and good, but I wouldn’t want you falling, or wearing yourself out.”

  “We’ll see,” said Ruth.

  As she spoke the door burst open. Dave jumped up as The Solitary limped into his living room.

  “Sorry. Didn’t know you’d have company tonight,” Jesse Lockhart said. He turned away as if to leave.

  “Jesse, it’s all right. These are my friends, Ruth and Angie. Fellow needlepointers.”

  “Never understood you doing all that sewing,” said Jesse. He nodded at Ruth and me. “But I should go. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “You will not. You’ll stay for dinner,” said Dave, taking Jesse’s arm and moving him over to one of the chairs. “Let me get you a glass of wine.”

  “Haven’t had wine in”—he looked around the living room—“a long time. Guess I could do with some.”

  Dave went to the kitchen for a glass. Jesse sat uncomfortably and didn’t look directly at Ruth or me. “I’m Angie Curtis,” I said, “and this is Ruth Hopkins. Like Dave said, we’re all Mainely Needlepointers.”

  He squirmed in his chair. “I’m Jesse Lockhart.”

  “I saw you here yesterday,” I said. “Dave told me you live out on King’s Island.”

  Dave handed him a glass of wine and sat down. “What brings you to town so soon, and at this time of day?”

  “I’m in trouble,” said Jesse, looking at all of us. “I didn’t know what to do, so I came here.”

  Chapter 10

  “And while her fingers over this canvas move

  Engage her tender heart to seek thy love.”

  —Hannah Marcia Tucker (1816 – 1886) of Saco, Maine, stitched this when she was about ten years old. When she was nineteen she married Daniel Cleves, a successful ship owner, banker, and merchant. Of her seven children, four died in infancy.

  “Of course, if you have trouble, you should have come here,” said Dave reassuringly as Jesse gulped his wine. “You’re always welcome. What’s happened?” He refilled Jesse’s glass.

  “Someone wants to buy my island,” said Jesse. “He’s trying to push my birds and me off.”

  “Now you take it easy. Jesse, is that your name? Good old-fashioned name,” Ruth interrupted. “I don’t know you, but I know the law. No one can buy your island if you won’t sell it to them. Calm down. Just tell them it’s not for sale.”

  “I did,” said Jesse. “This afternoon, when that man came to the island. He came ashore without permission. He yelled and scared my birds. Nesting season’s about over, but my island’s posted. He told me it wasn’t my decision to sell. He’s going to call Simon. And I don’t know what Simon will say.”

  “Who’s Simon?” I asked, confused. “Why should anyone else have a say in what you do with your island?”

  “Simon’s my cousin,” said Jesse, rolling the stem of his again-empty wineglass between his fingers. “He and I inherited the island from our grandfather.”

  “So you own half the island,” I said.

  “We own it together. Simon lives in Chicago. He never comes to Maine. I live here. I take care of it. I take care of the birds. I pay the taxes. It’s my island.” Jesse’s eyes were dark and scared. “No one can buy my island.”

  “Who came to see you?” asked Dave.

  “A fat man who talked too much,” said Jesse. “He gave me his card. Said I should call him when I decided on a price. As if I had a telephone! I told him King’s Island wasn’t for sale. It didn’t have a price.”

  “Do you still have his card?” asked Dave quietly.

  Jesse searched in one of his torn pockets. He handed Dave a folded business card.


  “Jed Fitch,” Dave read. “Jed’s a local Realtor. He helps people buy and sell homes.”

  “And islands. That’s what he said. He said someone wants to buy my island and he’s going to make it happen.”

  “Sounds like Jed’s trying to browbeat you,” said Ruth.

  “He didn’t beat me,” said Jesse. “He yelled at me. And scared my birds. I won’t let anyone on my island again.”

  “Jesse’s island is one of only a dozen nesting sites in Maine for great cormorants. They’re a threatened species,” Dave explained.

  “Threatened species?” I asked.

  Ruth nodded. “I used to be active in the Audubon Society. Anna Winslow’s president of the local chapter now. An endangered species is in danger of becoming extinct. A threatened species isn’t endangered now, but might be in the near future.”

  “If they’re close to endangered, then why would anyone be allowed to build there?” I said. Then I caught myself. Jesse lived on the island already.

  “I didn’t build. I live quietly. I don’t bother the birds,” Jesse explained. “They build nests on high ledges and trees. I don’t go near them.”

  “Do you have electricity on the island? Or fresh water?”

  “When it rains, I have water,” Jesse explained. “Dave lets me fill bottles here for drinking.”

  “Then why would anyone want to buy your island? It would cost a fortune to build the sort of house most people would want today. They’d have to have a propane generator and some way to get fresh water.”

  “The fat man—Jed—he said the people who want to buy my island are rich. He said I could buy another island, a better island. But I don’t want another island. I want my island!”

  “Did Jed say who this man was? The one who wants to buy your island?” I asked.

  Jesse shook his head. “He said it’s the man on the big white boat anchored near the harbor,” he said. “I don’t care who he is. I won’t sell to anyone.”

  The big white boat.

  Only one yacht had been anchored near Haven Harbor recently.

  Gerald Bentley must want Jesse’s island. Rich people thought they could buy anything.

  “We’ll help you,” I said without thinking it through. “Somehow we’ll find a way for you and the birds to stay on your island.”

  “I can start by recommending a good lawyer,” Dave added.

  Chapter 11

  “Great minds conquer difficulties by daring to attempt them.”

  —Cross-stitched in 1823 by Elizabeth Helen Hutton, ten years old, in New York City.

  The rest of the evening went by quickly.

  Jesse seemed more relaxed after I’d told him we’d help him (and after his third glass of wine), but as we ate our way through Dave’s lasagna, salad, and homemade garlic bread, and savored Ruth’s apple pie, I kept wondering what we could do for him. No one else volunteered any ideas.

  Instead, we talked about weather and the town and Jesse told us about the great cormorants on his island (seven nesting pairs; together they’d had twenty-six chicks this summer, but an eagle had stolen two of them. Jesse was very angry at that eagle.)

  Dave convinced Jesse to stay the night instead of rowing home in the dark. While Dave was driving Ruth home, I stayed to talk with his guest.

  “How well do you know your cousin Simon?” I asked.

  “When we were kids we vacationed together at my grandparents’ house near here. Grandpa would take us out to the island to camp for a night or two. After high school Simon went to college and became a banker. I joined the army. We hardly saw each other after that.”

  “Where did you meet Dave?”

  “We were in the same VA hospital in Massachusetts. I’d gotten shot up in the Middle East. Dave had an accident when he was on leave. We were in PT together. My head had problems, and we’d both messed up our left legs.” Jesse didn’t look directly at me; he seemed to look into the past. “We talked a lot.”

  “What about?” I asked, curious.

  “Neither of us wanted to go back into the service. I didn’t want any more fighting. No guns. No IEDs. No loud noises.” He hesitated. “A lot of guys felt that way. At night, in the wards, they’d have nightmares. I started thinking about the island when I was in the hospital. I told Dave about camping there when I was a kid. Dave liked to hear about Maine, but he wasn’t a camper. He was in the navy. He wanted to settle down. He was figuring how to go back to school. Did it, too. He’s a teacher now, you know.”

  “And what did you want to do?”

  “I just wanted to get away from everyone. I wanted to live in a place like the island I remembered. Or in the woods. Maybe have a little farm. Quiet. No one to tell me what to do. I had to stay in the hospital longer than Dave. He went to school nearby and visited me. Neither of us had families to go home to. We kept in touch. And then my grandfather died, and left Simon and me King’s Island and his house on the mainland.”

  “And you decided to move to Maine.”

  “Grampa’s house was down the coast. Simon and I sold it. That’s what Simon wanted, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want a house in town. Simon said King’s Island was a joke. He wasn’t interested in a rock out in the ocean. I said I was. He said I could have it if I paid the taxes and didn’t bother him about it. When I got out of the VA Dave and I drove up to Haven Harbor. I borrowed a skiff and rowed out to the island. I wanted to see if it was the way I remembered. The great cormorants were nesting there. They hadn’t done that years ago. Cormorants are special.”

  “They are,” I agreed. “No other seabird I know doesn’t have oil on their feathers and has to dry their wings in the sun after diving.”

  “People used to think that—about the oil. But it’s because of the shape of their feathers that they don’t dry easily. A marine patrol officer told me that. Cormorants are like statues, standing with their wings spread out. I rowed around the island and kept looking at them. King’s Island was special. It was their place.”

  “Is that when you decided to move out there?”

  “Not then. King’s Island was a place for birds. I didn’t want to disturb them. Dave liked Haven Harbor, though. When he heard the high school was looking for a biology teacher, he bought this house. I stayed with him for a while. Dave wanted me to meet people, get to know the town. But I wasn’t looking for friends. I had Dave. I was looking for peace.” Jesse took another drink of wine. “I’ve talked more tonight than I have in weeks. Maybe months. Feels strange.”

  “What did you do, then?”

  “Bought a skiff and rowed around a lot, thinking. One day I rowed out to the island. Teenagers were there, throwing stones at the birds and laughing.” Jesse’s face hardened. “I chased them away, told them I’d tell the marine patrol. That’s when I knew what I had to do.”

  “And that was?”

  “Move to King’s Island and protect the great cormorants.”

  How could anyone object to someone who wanted to protect birds? I wasn’t a birder, but I’d always enjoyed the local birds. Gram had bird feeders all year long, and I used to watch over the cardinals and chickadees and goldfinches. One summer Gram told me cowbirds laid their eggs in other birds’ nests. I was so angry I chased them away from the feeder whenever I saw them.

  Gram had just smiled and said birds were like people; there were all kinds.

  Sea- and shorebirds had always been a part of my life.

  Herring gulls, great black-backed gulls, and laughing gulls hung around the wharf where I’d worked summers, steaming lobsters, in my teens. We’d posted signs saying to BEWARE OF GULLS! WATCH YOUR FOOD! and were amused whenever anyone ignored the warnings and a gull dove down and made away with a beak full of French fries . . . or even a lobster. Funny to see. Not fun to explain we didn’t give refunds for stolen dinners.

  Cormorants, or shags, as some people called them, never competed with the gulls on the wharves. They did their fishing in the harbor and at sea, not at restaurants or dumps
. When I was little I’d called them “dinosaur birds.” I thought they looked like the pterodactyls I’d seen in books.

  Actually, they still did.

  I left after Dave returned from taking Ruth home, my head full of birds and a strange man who’d found his purpose in life.

  At home I looked up great cormorants and King’s Island on my computer.

  Great cormorants were larger than the more common double-crested cormorants and lived in Maine all year. (Double-crested cormorants wintered in southeastern states.) Only about a hundred pairs of great cormorants were left in Maine. They nested on one of seven islands. They were almost extinct because during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries people had eaten their eggs and killed them for food or fish bait.

  King’s Island qualified to have an official SEABIRD NESTING ISLAND sign posted saying it was closed to the public from April 1 until August 31 to protect nesting birds.

  I assumed Jesse wasn’t the public. But Jed Fitch was.

  Those who owned such islands were supposed to “protect seabird nesting islands and adjacent waters from further development.” But I couldn’t find anything that said the owners had to do that.

  What if Jesse’s cousin Simon wanted to sell King’s Island?

  I hoped Dave connected Jesse to a good lawyer.

  Selling half a small island didn’t make sense. King’s Island was only about eight acres.

  The great cormorants needed a quiet place with trees and high ledges where they could build their large nests.

  Not places with mansions or docks.

  I turned off my computer and, instead of thinking about how quiet my house was tonight, I thought of large seabirds whose survival depended on people who didn’t even know they existed.

  Jesse, or someone else, had to convince his cousin Simon that birds were more important than money.