Shadows of a Down East Summer

by Lea Wait

  Maggie was still thinking about Anna May Pratt’s journal when Aunt Nettie handed her the telephone during the middle of breakfast. Clearly there had been a connection between Prouts Neck and Waymouth in 1890.

  “No lady should call at such an early hour,” Aunt Nettie sniffed as she went back to the griddle.

  Maggie put her fork down. The wild blueberry pancakes with butter and Maine maple syrup were light and delicious. Perhaps the salt air had increased her appetite. She’d already eaten several more than she would have at home. “Hello? Carolyn! I’ve been thinking about you. I started reading the journal last night.”

  “Maggie, I’ve bad news,” Carolyn interrupted. “It’s Aunt Susan. She went to sleep last night and didn’t wake up. The nursing home called to tell me two hours ago.”

  “I’m so sorry, Carolyn.”

  “It isn’t a surprise, of course, but it’s still a shock. I keep thinking of my mother’s death. Now I have to plan Aunt Susan’s funeral.”

  Carolyn sounded on the verge of tears.

  “Let me come over and make phone calls, or do anything else that needs to be done. Maybe just keep you company.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Maggie, but I’ll be all right. The lawyer, Brad Pierce, is on his way here, and he’ll help me make arrangements. She left instructions, so it shouldn’t be too complicated. But I won’t be able to meet you for lunch.”

  “Of course not, Carolyn. If you think of something I could help with, call me, please.”

  “I will. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. The funeral won’t be for a couple of days. Some distant relatives live in Massachusetts and New Hampshire and I want to give them enough time to get here.”

  “Know I’m sorry, and thinking of you.” Maggie put down the telephone and turned to Aunt Nettie. “Carolyn’s Aunt Susan died last night.”

  Aunt Nettie nodded sadly. “From your end of the call I was guessing that. Poor Susan. But she was getting on, and hadn’t been well in a while.” She started clearing the breakfast dishes. “I’ll make a casserole and some muffins, Maggie, so don’t you worry about that.”

  Cooking hadn’t even occurred to Maggie. But food was the currency of sympathy in Maine, she remembered. “Thank you, Aunt Nettie. Can I help with anything?”

  “Not a bit. I’ll take care of it. I’ll guess you won’t be seeing Carolyn today?”

  “No. She and Brad Pierce will be making the arrangements.”

  Aunt Nettie nodded. “He knows the way Susan would have wanted everything done.”

  Maggie looked out the window. It was a dank and dreary morning.

  “You go find Will. He’s out in the barn, puttering with all that paint we bought, waiting for the rest to be delivered. Looks like rain in any case. Too damp to start painting.” She wiped her hands on her apron decisively. “The two of you go and look for antiques, or whatever you want to do. Leave me to think about Susan and put together some food.”

  Maggie resisted the urge to hug her. “Thanks, Aunt Nettie.”

  An hour later they’d organized the paint and tools Will had gathered, and as Nettie had predicted, it had started to drizzle. They decided to explore, and bring back lobster rolls for lunch.

  “With butter, mind you. None of that celery some folks fill the rolls with to make you think you’re getting your money’s worth,” advised Aunt Nettie. “A toasted roll full of lobster meat and a touch of butter. And some of those vinegar potato chips. I like those with a lobster roll now and then.”

  Will and Maggie promised, and headed out. Besides the three antiques shops Maggie had spotted on the main street Will knew at least a half dozen more hidden on side streets, but all within walking distance. That didn’t even begin to count the craft shops.

  “I remember Walter English’s Antiques Mall from last summer,” Maggie said, as they walked. “And his auction house. Will he be having any auctions in the next ten days or so?”

  “I think there’s one at the end of the week,” Will said. “I’ll check the local paper when we get back with lunch. Aunt Nettie always has a copy. If so, the auction preview will be in the next couple of days.”

  Maggie, wearing an old yellow slicker Aunt Nettie had urged on her, jeans, and a long-sleeved green T-shirt to go with her tourmaline earrings, was intrigued by a blacksmith’s shop, so they made that their first stop.

  “Morning, Tobias,” said Will to the heavily muscled man who was working a piece of iron over a good-sized forge. “This is Maggie Summer. She didn’t believe we still have blacksmiths in Maine.”

  “Aye, but we do,” said Tobias, carefully putting down the long piece of iron he’d been holding into the flames, and taking off his gloves. “A number of us. I’ve been here for a good number of years.”

  “Do you shoe horses?” asked Maggie, looking around the small shop decorated with iron hooks and doors and gratings of various sizes.

  “I don’t. A farrier would do that. Back a hundred years ago, a smith and a farrier might be the same person. Not today.”

  Maggie nodded, hoping she looked intelligent. “So you make iron gates and fences and hooks and such?”

  “And spiral staircases and fancy signs, and candlesticks and candelabras, and whatever the customer wants. Right, Will?”

  Will smiled. “Tobias has done some custom work for me over the years. If I find an old fireplace set that needs a bit of repair work Tobias is the one who can make everything right without too much to show that the piece has been fixed.”

  Tobias grinned. “Although you always tell the folks, don’t you, Will? That a bit of work has been done.”

  “I do,” Will agreed. “I also tell them if they need any additional iron work, you’re the man to see.”

  “Last summer I did quite a fancy archway for a young couple’s garden, on your recommendation, Will. Thanks for the referral.”

  “Glad to know everyone was happy,” Will agreed.

  Out on the street again, Maggie asked, “Do you know everyone in town?”

  “Not quite. Tobias moved to Waymouth about twenty years ago. He’s a nice guy, and a good worker. We had a few beers, got along, and he made a set of wrought iron wheels for my wife to hang her copper pots in our kitchen.”

  Maggie blanched slightly. Her husband had been killed in an automobile accident eighteen months ago. Will’s wife had been dead for nine years. But he still spoke of his wife in a tone that said she’d been loved, and was missed. Maggie’s memories of her husband didn’t inspire tones like that.

  “There are other craftsmen, and -women, in town, too,” Will continued, unaware of Maggie’s loss of focus. “Up a couple of streets is a woman who weaves blankets and scarves like the ones we saw at the Edgecomb Potters yesterday. There are other potters, too. And smiths working in gold and silver who create jewelry and small sculptures.”

  “I saw three art galleries on Main Street.”

  “That’s just the beginning. Two good-sized galleries are in Waymouth now. One in an old school, and one in a nineteenth-century sail-loft. During the twenties and thirties Homer Thompson even headed a small summer art colony here.”

  Homer Thompson! Betsy Thompson’s father-in-law. Clearly, according to the journal entries, whether any rumors of paternity were true or not, there had been a connection between Waymouth and Winslow Homer. She was tempted to tell Will, but it was Carolyn’s journal. She should be the first to be told. “I hadn’t realized there was an art colony in Waymouth,” said Maggie.

  “Not a large one,” said Will. “Your new friend Carolyn probably knows more about it. I never paid much attention. It was way before my time.” He pointed up the hill and to his right. “The Thompson home is over that way. They have a big place, with a barn studio and a couple of cottages left over from that period, I think.”

  Maggie made a mental note to ask Carolyn more about the Thompsons.

  “During the sixties and seventies a lot of counter-culture types moved to Maine, and some stayed. They ran organic far
ms, and spent the winters creating art and crafts for tourists to buy during the summer.”

  “Not a bad way to live,” Maggie said.

  “Not at all,” agreed Will. “For those with talent, and the ability to market what they created.”

  “It isn’t easy for an artist to make a living anywhere,” Maggie said, thinking of Carolyn’s mother. “At least here the cost of living is lower than in the cities.”

  “Maine is generally accepting of those whose lifestyles are not so conventional,” said Will. “It’s been the home of a number of characters over the years.” He stopped in front of the door to an antiques shop. “Shall we check it out? I haven’t been in this place for years.”

  The shop hadn’t wasted any space. Or paint. The walls were rough wood covered with nails, on which hung everything from nineteenth-century iron ice skates to badly stained Currier & Ives prints to a Beatles poster to a crude modern painting that might have been of a bird. Or a moose.

  Will and Maggie looked at each other, but carefully made their way through the narrow aisles between tables covered with miscellaneous china and glass and twentieth-century souvenir dishes and figurines.

  So far this was definitely not what either of them were looking for. The back wall was covered with bookcases. From a distance none of the books looked older than 1930s Reader’s Digest condensed editions, but Maggie headed in that direction to check.

  Will went up to the elderly man, his head haloed by tufts of gray hair, seated at the counter which might once have been in a general store. “Do you have any early fireplace or kitchen utensils?” The man looked at him as though he hadn’t heard.

  “Old kitchen stuff.” Will said it loudly this time.

  “Don’t have no copper just now,” yelled the man. “Fine pottery mixing bowls on the floor under that far table. You like irons?”

  Will shrugged and shouted back, “Maybe.”

  “Got a bunch of those, on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, over by the stairs.” He pointed. “Go ahead and look.”

  While Will checked out the irons (most of which turned out to be electric) Maggie quickly perused the bookshelves. Most of the books were twentieth-century book club editions, or well-read paperbacks. She opened one 1908 children’s book of poetry, but the illustrations were not good, and all of them had been crayoned over. When she reached the bookcase section where Will was looking, she whispered, “Find anything?”

  He shook his head. “This guy must buy up everything no one else will buy at flea markets.”

  Maggie kept herself from giggling. “Agreed. I need to wash my hands after just looking at those books.”

  Will held his up. He’d been examining some fireplace tongs, and his fingers were black.

  “Lobster rolls?” Maggie mouthed quietly.

  “You’ve got it,” Will answered, and they headed out.

  “Find anything you like?” shouted the owner.

  “Not today,” Will called back. “Thank you!”

  On the sidewalk outside they looked at each other.

  “The term ‘antiques business’ covers a multitude of merchandise,” said Will.

  “Sometimes a multitude of junk,” agreed Maggie. “How ever does he make a living?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he just supplements Social Security,” said Will. “I’ll bet he sells some of that china and glass to people trying to find pieces to fill in sets they already have, or just single dishes someone thinks are pretty. Years ago he had some good stuff in there. I don’t think his inventory has turned over in a long time.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I wish him the best of luck. But right now I’m thinking lobster rolls. Does that place we’re going have a bathroom so we can wash off the dirt of the ages before we order anything?”

  “My dear Maggie,” said Will, taking her arm, “Maine is now fully equipped with indoor plumbing. In the towns, in any case.”

  After lunch, Maggie thought to herself, she would treat herself to more of Anna May Pratt’s journal.

  Chapter 9

  The Artist in the Country. Winslow Homer wood engraving from Appleton’s Journal, June 19, 1869. Cover art, self-portrait of Winslow Homer, back to viewer, painting on a portable easel on a hilltop. A lovely young woman is looking over his shoulder at his work. One of three wood engravings Homer did that are said to be self-portraits. 7.5 x 11 inches. Price: $300.

  June 10, 1890

  This morning was foggy and damp, but I tried to ignore the weather’s unfortunate effect on the appearance of my hair as I walked the blocks to Jessie’s home. I could hardly sleep last night, my heart was pounding so. This was our first day to pose for Mr. Homer! I chose my good blue dress, and was glad to see Jessie had chosen a pink one, so we did not look too similar.

  She was more distracted than I, but whispered that most of her distraction was in the shape of Orin Colby, who has been paying her attention in the past week. He visited her home last evening. Her parents think a thirty-year-old ship builder would be a good match for Jessie, but Jessie only dreams of Luke Trask, who is at sea, and says she does not like redheaded men. Orin Colby certainly has red hair. It covers his face and his hands as well as his head, and Jessie whispered that she suspects it covers parts of him a lady should not even imagine!

  I was selfishly pleased her thoughts were on Orin Colby, since mine were on Micah Wright. And indeed Mr. Wright was driving the wagon which stopped for us at Jessie’s house! It is strange: I have been waiting for so long for another man to capture Jessie’s attention, and now, when her parents are introducing a man to do just that, my mind was drawn to the gentleman near to me, rather than to the man I have been dreaming of, who is on the cold north seas.

  Very little was said on the drive, but I am sure Micah cast glances at me, and I immodestly returned several. The drive to Prouts Neck passed quickly.

  On our journey I tried to imagine what sort of studio a famous artist would have. We passed several large hotels of the sort patronized by summer residents. At first I thought we were stopping at an elegant house overlooking the ocean, but instead Mr. Wright pulled the horse over at a small building to the rear of the grand one, but still with a view of the sea.

  He informed us that the large house, which he amusingly called the Ark, is occupied by Mr. Homer’s father, who must be very elderly, considering the advanced age of Mr. Homer himself, and by Mr. Homer’s brother and sister-in-law. The artist prefers to live in the small building behind it, more like a carriage house than a home, and no larger than the parlor and dining room of my own home. A second floor, where Mr. Homer’s bedchamber is said to be, also boasts a balcony. Several of his canvases were hanging from the railing there, which I thought strange.

  Mr. Wright told us Mr. Homer preferred this method of drying his work, and also liked viewing his paintings from the distance of the cliffs. Artists have their own ways of doing things, I have already observed.

  Micah helped Jessie and me down from the wagon, and we knocked on the door. We had to knock several times because of the noise from carpenters who were at work adding a small room to the rear of the building, away from the ocean.

  Mr. Homer and his dog, Sam, admitted us to a room empty of furniture but for a large table on which stood a lamp, a bench, and four straight chairs, on which he suggested Jessie and I sit. Sam sat between us. He cocked his head and looked from one to the other as if to ask what we were doing in his home. For a few moments I wondered that myself.

  Paints, jars of brushes, and a few books and dishes were on shelves near the fireplace, where a kettle and several pots were set, appearing to be used for cooking. There was no stove. Stretched canvases and paintings were stacked and turned to the walls. A banjo and several crates of liquor were near a side window. One corner was filled with fishing poles, nets, and other equipment one might normally find in a fishing shack or barn. The room smelled considerably of pipe tobacco. Jessie later said it made her head ache.

  Between the tobacco sme
ll and the stink of, I must say it, the dog, I was quite relieved when Mr. Homer said we would be posing outside.

  We were joined by “Madame” Homer, a very elegantly attired lady. At first I assumed she was Mr. Homer’s wife, but soon found that she was the wife of his older brother. Clearly she was to chaperone us, which I found reassuring, since Mr. Homer is indeed a bit strange. I imagined an artist would be romantically dressed in a shirt and pants covered with paint smears. Instead, Mr. Homer was dressed much as Father is when he attends church services.

  Sadly, Mr. Wright then left us. I had hoped he would stay with us for the day.

  Mr. Homer looked Jessie and me up and down as though we were horses he might be interested in purchasing.“You’ve worn lovely dresses,” he said. “When next you come, leave your hair down and wear simple blouses and skirts. I need fishing women in my painting, not ladies.”

  Jessie and I exchanged looks of some dismay as he then led us down a rough path to a small rocky beach. Mrs. Homer followed behind carrying a wicker basket we found later was filled with bread and cheese and fruit. When we reached the beach Mr. Homer pulled an old fishing net, crusty with salt water and smelling of fish and seaweed, from behind some rocks, and asked us to hold it between us, as though we were inspecting it to see if it required repairs. Jessie and I looked at each other and wrinkled our noses. We were not fishermen’s daughters! At home we would never have considered touching such a filthy net. He explained he was “working up” some sketches he had made on the coast of England a few years ago, and needed us to represent the women he had seen there.

  This was hardly what we had supposed we would be doing! But we had agreed to pose, so pose we did.

  “When you come again, be prepared to remove your stockings, and pose in your bare feet,” he told us. Jessie giggled. I wondered what Mother would think of that, but I was silent. It all sounded very improper, but in Mr. Homer’s mind it clearly meant nothing.