"So you guys are off tomorrow morning to Maine?" Patrick said.
"First I have to check out the carriage house. Then we're blasting off up ninety-five toward Portland and Yarmouth. We probably will stop in New Hampshire."
"In Exeter? At Liam's?" Case said.
"He wants to show me his friend's house that he moved into last year," Maureen sneered. "Jim slept in his attic, you know."
"The same attic where Liam found a lithograph of Lincoln in a closet?" Bryce said. "Where the closet door had been nailed shut?"
Jim nodded. "I slept in that attic until autumn turned too cold. Then I stayed in a room in the parish house across town from the rectory and church, where I had gotten a job doing maintenance."
"They tried to make a priest out of you up there, if I remember," Bryce said.
"The priests, staff, and much of the congregation wanted me to enroll at Saint John's Seminary in Brighton," Jim stared down into his beer. "I actually considered it, attended a retreat there. But it's just not for me."
"He found something he fancied a bit more." Maureen smiled and waited for Jim to agree.
Jim studied what was left of his ale.
"So how about we kill our drinks and scoot over to Vox?" Patrick said. "Over on Boylston?"
"Then maybe we can go to Saint and let Cara dance!" Bryce said.
Jim's eyes rose slowly from his glass. He turned his head and allowed his gaze to sweep the breadth of the restaurant. Spread out before him was a panorama of vanity, ambition, and egotism, of empty chatter and cold glances Jim recognized all too well. How weary he had grown of that emptiness! How very different from the soulfulness and laissez-faire of the New Orleans of his memories.
But still he longed to further explore the variety and excitement of Boston. And as Jim downed the dregs of his beer, he thought how he loved the slower pace of southern Maine, with its seaside lobster pounds, its craggy shores with their dark, frothy waters and mysterious coves, its Portland pubs and chowder houses. He recalled Exeter, New Hampshire, with its plenitude of colonial houses and quiet lanes, and his mood somewhat lifted.
"Sounds excellent, podnuh," Jim said.
"Let's go, sure," Maureen said as Cara cheered.
They rose slowly, and navigated through the crowded tables beside the vast open window. A thirty-something man dressed in a suit, walking the opposite way, stepped on Jim's foot.
"Ow!" Jim winced and shot the man a hard, puzzled look. The man made brief eye contact with an odd, faintly hostile look, and stepped quickly away in silence. Jim shook his head and walked on. They passed the doorman and emerged onto Newbury, with its flickering gas lamps and its two streetside rivers of pedestrians.
Jim thought of the man's face, and the disturbing look he had detected in the eyes…
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jim snickered as they drove past the throngs of twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings coursing up and down the sidewalks through the light fog. After an evening rain, the mist now rose from the wet concrete and cobblestones and the fog blew steadily in from the ocean.
"Maureen, almost every time I come up here to Portland, it rains. But I still really love visiting. Interesting architecture, too. All these gray and brown nineteenth century buildings. They're not as old as what's in Beantown, though. Reason being this city burned the first Fourth of July after the Civil War. The fire ignited in one of the boathouses over there. Spread across the city."
Jim stared at the crowds. Their attire was not as conservative and professional as in Boston, but instead generally somewhat relaxed, even at times bohemian and grungy. Their pace seemed slower.
"There's one place I must take you next time, here on Commercial Street. The one and only J's Oyster. The jewel of the Old Port! The oysters are better across the street though. At J's they only serve Chesapeakes. But the atmosphere's what I like most. Laid back, unpretentious. The barmaids have a lot of spunk, too. Pretty entertaining lot, if you ask me."
Maureen remained silent. Why had she fallen into another strange mood? She probably didn't feel like stopping at Liam's house.
"So Maur, I wonder how the old warrior's faring at the race."
"Right now the Figawi's still underway for some, over for others, no doubt. Mom's in Nantucket by now at some fête, awaiting the outcome."
Jim slapped a hand on the dashboard. "I say the old man wins it all."
"You might have spoken too soon. He's older, slower. And it's not his boat. He doesn't know most of the senator's crew."
"Ah, Maur, sweetie," Jim said. "Where's your faith in the Commodore?"
"I'll go with realism."
"So, excited about my new digs? In Back Bay, no less?"
"Your new place could use some work. The carpet needs replacing. The walls need spackling and a few coats of paint. And it's just crazy how those floors aren't level. I guess a ton of settling can happen in an 1880s garage. But your roomie seems just fine. And the view is really something to write home about."
"Location, location, location is the crux of it," Jim said. "I take a few steps out the door and I'm on Newbury or Charles, or on the Common or Public Gardens."
"We'll ask your roommate and the landlady if we can refurbish the walls, at least?" Maureen turned and her gaze seared into his. "Well, it'll be a bit strange now. I'm just so used to you having a place to yourself."
"But Franco's giving me a month-to-month. That deal in downtown Boston's worth more than gold. We've worked together and he knows I'm good for the rent. And besides, we get along."
"You have had some good luck, if you think about it all," Maureen said, her eyebrows raised in emphasis, "from the time that you first landed in New Hampshire last September."
"I have, haven't I?"
In a few moments Maureen was asleep. Jim drove on in silence. Soon he pulled up in front of Liam's house and parallel parked. Maureen awoke with a start. Even at the front door, she still looked half-asleep.
"Greetings," Liam said in a near whisper, opening the front door. "Come on in. Glad you guys could make it. Good to see you, Maureen."
"Nice to see you again, too, Liam."
She and Jim walked through the door. "Exeter really is beautiful. I like the house."
"Why, thanks. It dates from 1844. There are lots of stories about this place. But many Exeter homes are much older."
"Liam! Good to be back on Court Street!" Jim stood just inside the corridor, holding up the six-pack of Geary's Ale. "A little somethin' for the hospitality."
"Thanks," Liam mumbled, taking the beer with an approving nod. "Come on in, take a seat." Liam shut the door and motioned down the foyer toward the parlor on their left.
Jim followed Maureen down the creaky dark boards into the parlor. Maureen chose the refurbished Victorian couch. Jim sat at her side and threw an arm comfortably across the top of the sofa.
Liam walked to the kitchen to store the beer in the fridge, and returned to a wooden rocking chair. "So how was the trip up?"
"You mean the trip down," Maureen said. "Not so bad. Except Jim devoured eight pieces of fried chicken at that Popeye's just off the interstate in Kennebunk."
Liam's eyes shone with a familiar twinkle. "I've seen him in action many times with that stuff. In college, in Tennessee. Down in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and in Kennebunk. I've seen this fool eat a whole box, usually after a long night."
"I know the sight." Maureen smiled and shook her head.
"Should we take a little drive to the market, get some lobbies and some treats?" Liam looked from Maureen to Jim.
"Sure," Jim and Maureen said together.
"Then maybe," Jim said, "you can show Maureen here some of your treasures."
They piled into Liam's old Subaru station wagon parked in the driveway. Inside lurked a faint smell of mildew and some other stench, much like spilled milk.
As Liam zoomed down Court Street, Jim came close to exploding in a fit of laughter when he looked into the backseat. Maureen's face
contorted, her lips grimly sucked inward. Her eyes squinted as if she had taken a massive bite of a lemon.
"Maureen, roll down that window," Jim said as he manually cranked down his own. "You look like you could use a li'l fresh air, sweetness."
Maureen shot him her death glare. Jim bit his cheek to keep from roaring with delight.
"See this brick hotel on our left, Maureen?" Liam said. "That's Blake's Inn. The Republican Party, very different in those days, was founded there in 1853. It was converted into an apartment building for a time. My dad stayed there when he was a kid, while my grandfather renovated the house you just saw."
Jim, of course, knew the story. Newly home from the war, Liam's grandfather combined his G.I. Bill money with the savings he had accrued years before as a plumber, and he purchased the home. The old man died several years back. Just last spring his widow passed on to join him.
Liam became the caretaker of the old house, something to which he did not entirely object. He fell into a situation where he could restore an old house, while operating his business as an antique and militaria dealer.
The Subaru turned right onto Front Street, continued a few hundred feet down the hill, passed the old white clapboard Congregationalist church and the gazebo on the left, and hooked right onto Water Street.
"This was once the capital of New Hampshire, Maureen," Liam said, "during the Revolution."
"This is one pretty street," Jim said as they passed colonial inns and the nineteenth century brick buildings housing bookshops and delis. They crossed the Swampscott River Bridge and passed a yellow colonial festooned with three Betsy Ross flags. Liam turned left onto Portsmouth Avenue. Soon, Liam stopped in a very familiar parking lot.
"Remember this joint, Jim? On The Vine Marketplace. Maureen, your boyfriend probably spent a few thousand bucks at this place in his first months in Exeter. Oh, they love him in there!"
"Let me guess," Maureen smirked. "Seafood?"
"You've got that right," Liam said.
Inside they navigated through the rows of vegetables toward the rear section, which boasted a great variety of meat and local seafood. Basket in hand, Liam veered away from them into another aisle. Jim toted his handbasket back to the produce section and selected some asparagus, a couple of lemons, and a large bag of salad greens. He led Maureen over to the seafood and meat counter.
Jim approached the curved glass. The large bowl of sea scallops, the tank boasting lobsters even twenty-five pounds in weight, and the section of filet mignon, prime rib, haddock, halibut, bluefish, swordfish, and a wide variety of clams sparked remembrance of many great meals that previous autumn.
"Hey, I remember you," said the young man from behind the counter. He was a Mainer, from the Casco Bay area. He wore a slightly stained apron. His black hair was austerely shorn in a half-inch-long crew cut, topping a pale face that drooped with an unmistakable somberness.
"Tommy, whatcha say, man? I was just thinking how long it's been. You haven't been around the last few times I shopped here."
"I'm usually in Durham, at UNH. Classes taking all my time. Hear you moved down to the big city."
"I did. Tommy, meet my girlfriend Maureen." Jim placed his hand gently on his girlfriend's back. "Maureen, this is Tommy."
Maureen gave him half a nod and even less of a smile.
"I've witnessed quite a few of Jim's record purchases here. I've seen him buy a ten pound lobster, but his friend there never buys more than a pound and a half."
"I ate the ten pounder by myself," Jim laughed. "I got quite sick. After five pounds, you feel queasy."
"Gross," Maureen said. "I've seen the photos. Unforgettable."
"Ha!" Jim said. "And we haven't addressed all the clams I've bought off y'all!"
"Littlenecks, mahoganies, cherrystones, quahogs, steamers, Essex clams," Tommy said. "Jim here was the human vacuum cleaner! Well, what can I get you guys? Five lobsters and thirty pounds of clams?"
"Actually, Tommy, let me consult with my queen here," Jim said, swinging his gaze slowly around to Maureen. "Want a lobster? And some clams? Or would you like some breaded haddock or some swordfish?"
"I'll take a little swordfish and some clams."
"Easy 'nuff," Jim said. "I'll take lobsters: a pound-and-a-half and a four-pounder, then a half-pound of swordfish."
Tommy paused, his eyes twinkling with humor as they fixed expectantly on him. "That all, chief? Just that?"
"And I'll take five pounds of steamers, and two pounds of littlenecks."
Tommy laughed. He grabbed the littlenecks with his gloved hand and began tossing them into a hanging scale.
Liam appeared beside Jim. "Recognize this distinguished gentleman of Exeter? An old friend of yours."
Jim turned and felt his heart leap, and then begin to pound within his chest.
That morning Jim had feared he would run into Father Ben around town. But Exeter wasn't a tiny country hamlet, and Jim gambled he could slip in with Maureen and show her around and not introduce her to his first new friend and employer in New England, a man who had fervently prayed Jim would join the ranks of the priesthood.
"I recognize this guy," Father Ben said. "But does he recognize me?"
"Of course, Father Ben." Jim gave him a warm hug.
He spotted the disappointment in Father Ben's face. So he was still frustrated with him after all, that Jim vacated the parish house and moved into the oldest neighborhood of the very worldly city of Boston, to end his religious discernment and resume dating.
"Parishioners ask about you all the time. Ken Stockbridge, Elizabeth, Father Francis, and all the others. You should stop by and see us sometime."
"I will, I promise. I'm sorry, Father," Jim mumbled, glancing about. "I've meant to."
"Is this your new lady?" Father Ben smiled warmly at Maureen.
Tommy continued to toss the clams into the scale, casting curious glances at the scene before him.
"Maureen Henretty," Jim said. "I've written you about her. Good things, Maureen, don't worry." Jim winked. "Meet Father Ben Shaughnessy, pastor of St. Stephen's Catholic Church here in Exeter."
"You have a very good man here. He can sleep and eat and drink too much at times, but he's a good soul, no doubt. And Jim, you have a lady of charm and poise. You two feel free to visit us sometime. And you, too, Liam."
"We will, Father," Jim said. "We'll see you soon, definitely."
Father Ben gave Jim a look that mingled skepticism, sadness, and affection. "Now I must return to my shopping. I'm having Dave Emmersley over for dinner. We're still planning the construction of the new church."
"Good luck with the project. And please tell Dave and the others I said hey."
"I'll do that… No Blood," Father Ben said.
Maureen shot a quizzical glance at Father Ben, then Jim.
Father Ben laughed. "Ask your boyfriend for the source of that old moniker. Nearly the entire town of Exeter called him that. Now take care. God bless." He turned back toward his cart, and wheeled it around a corner toward the bread section.
"No Blood, eh?" Maureen looked with amusement at her boyfriend.
"Yep, I remember No Blood," Liam said. "This bayou boy didn't adjust very well to the cold. As they sometimes say here in northern New England, Jim had no blood."
Jim stared in silence at the spot his old friend had left. Had it merely been a refuge, that period of priestly discernment months ago? Or had it been a period of serious introspection? Or had Father Ben pressured him into a discernment program once he learned it was something Jim had lightly considered for years?
Jim knew all three were true, to some extent.
But perhaps he should have told Father Ben his thoughts last year in real time: that he increasingly did not feel the priesthood or even the diaconate was for him. Had he led on Father Ben? He didn't think so.
Had he led on Maureen? His growing sense of their relationship being threatened—was he keeping that from her?
Jim looked
over at her. She was staring uncomfortably at the ground.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
"So, Liam." Maureen broke her silence, cutting herself a small slice of Cabot Extra Cheddar and placing it on a shredded wheat cracker. "You must give me the tour I've been hearing about from No Blood here. Let's begin with this room." She pointed behind Liam, her glass of Chardonnay in her other hand. "Say, with that print on the wall."
"Oh, that daguerreotype? That's Colonel Elmer Ellsworth," Liam said. "Lincoln's friend. He was the first reported casualty killed in action in the Civil War."
"He's kind of handsome," Maureen said, "in a mid-nineteenth century way."
"The ladies of the North agreed. He was a cross between a heartthrob and a war hero—"
"Nah, Liam!" Jim said, already halfway finished with his first beer. "First you should show her your man room!"
Liam led them through the cellar door and down the stairwell, and flipped the light.
"In-ter-es-ting," Maureen said, drawing out the syllables with sarcasm. She stood with one arm on her waist, the other lifting her glass of Chardonnay like a diva. "Actually, this is neat. In a guy sort of way."
The basement spanned the entire outline of the house. Brick pillars punctuated the floor every twenty feet in each direction. Despite the low ceilings and the concrete floors, Liam had expended much effort in outfitting the room. Against the wall, topping a wide dresser, rested a flat-screen television. Black leather couches formed a square in the basement's center. Inside this formation lay a grizzly bear rug. Liam's late grandfather Norman, an avid hunter, had brought it from Alaska decades before.
Against the other wall stood a dark oak hutch containing a few bottles of high-end bourbon and Scotch. Beside this stood a 1960s-era refrigerator, in remarkably good condition. It contained enough cold beer, Jim and Liam often joked, for a post-game celebration by the entire Boston Red Sox.
Next to it rested a large wine rack holding an eclectic and expensive assortment of wine. Beside the rack stood an antique table topped by a square humidor, with two compartments. Cigars from the Dominican Republic, Brazil, and other countries filled one, and in the neighboring compartment, strictly Cubans. Liam often opened the basement windows and puffed one after he made a big sale, or scored a big purchase, in his antiques and militaria business.
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