by Leslie Meier
“The country’s in a sorry state,” he said, as she approached. “The blue is supposed to be on the left. Always. You’d think people would know that.”
Lucy shrugged sympathetically. “Those outfits seem pretty warm,” she said, noticing that Chap Willis was sweating profusely in his blue wool jacket. “Did they wear them year-round?”
“You just got one set of clothes in those days,” replied Chap. “You were hot in summer and cold in winter.”
“I guess people were made of sterner stuff then.” Lucy fanned herself with her notebook. “You know, I still have some questions I’d like to ask you about Sherman Cobb.”
Willis surveyed the pier, where costumed soldiers were gathering and forming ranks, preparing to board the four ships moored alongside. Two were side paddle-wheelers, the third a five-masted fishing schooner named Archer and the fourth a sleek black sailboat with three tall masts named the Caleb Cushing.
“Sherman would have loved this,” said Willis, growing misty-eyed. “He was the one who tracked down the Caleb Cushing, you know. A genuine U.S. revenue cutter, circa 1860. Isn’t she a beauty?”
“She sure is.”
“O’ course she isn’t the real Caleb. The Confederates burned that ship.”
“What a shame,” said Lucy, scribbling in her notebook.
“Oops, I’ve got to go. They’re running up the Stars and Bars, and it’s too early. The Confederates haven’t taken her yet!”
Before she could protest, Cobb was gone. She decided to get a seat in the bandstand where she could enjoy the spectacle. She headed for the highest row of seats and sat down, watching the preparations. If she focused on the pier, she could almost imagine herself back in 1863, when Confederates aboard commandeered cruisers were raising havoc among fishing vessels in the Gulf of Maine. Of course, it took a certain amount of willpower to erase the modern buildings around the harbor, not to mention the McDonald’s sign.
The two sailing vessels were soon under way. The Caleb Cushing anchored out in the harbor under the Stars and Stripes and waited while the Archer sailed off to the harbor entrance. There it turned, raised all its canvas and the Confederate flag, and rushed the Caleb Cushing at full speed.
Surprised, the crew aboard the revenue cutter put up little resistance, and soon the Confederate crew swarmed aboard and lowered the flag, replacing it with their own. Everyone in the stands booed energetically. All attention now turned to a group of men on the dock, dressed in nineteenth-century garb. One man, sporting a top hat and luxuriant side-whiskers, appeared to be their leader.
Gesturing broadly, he indicated that the men should board the two side-wheelers and attempt to take back the Caleb Cushing. Soon the two paddleboats were steaming out into the harbor, neatly cornering the captured ship and forcing the Confederates to surrender.
Lucy joined the applause as the boats returned to the dock and the reenactors took their places on the flag-draped, raised platform. While she waited for the ceremony to begin, Lucy studied the enlarged photograph of Sherman Cobb that had been placed in center stage and draped with red, white and blue bunting.
That face, she thought, reminded her of someone. But who? Brown eyes, square jaw, hooked nose, all arranged in a pleasant and relaxed expression. A slight smile revealed straight, white teeth. Where had she seen that face before?
“First off, I want to thank you all for coming,” began Chap Willis, taking the podium. “We are here today to honor those brave men from both the North and South who fought so gallantly for their beliefs, and especially to commemorate those valiant citizens of Portland who, under the leadership of Mayor George Washington Tilley, rallied to defend their fair city from Confederate invaders in 1863.”
Everyone applauded, and a few folks even cheered. When the commotion died down, Willis continued.
“We also want to take this occasion to honor one of our own, Colonel Sherman Cobb, who played such a big part in bringing about today’s reenactment. It was a project very dear to his heart and it’s a shame he couldn’t be here with us as he has gone to answer that Final Roll Call. Now, I’d like to call for a moment of silence.”
With the others, Lucy lowered her head. The sudden silence was punctuated only by a distant honk from an automobile.
Willis cleared his throat and shook his head sadly. “A fine man. He first became interested in the Civil War, he told me, when he learned he had been named for the great general, William Tecumseh Sherman. He will be missed. And now, I’d like to introduce . . .”
Lucy jotted down the names, remembering Miss Tilley’s comment that her grandfather was the “hero of Portland.” Putting two and two together, she concluded that George Washington Tilley must indeed have been Miss Tilley’s grandfather. She snapped a few photographs of the crowd, then went out on the dock to photograph the boats. It would be an interesting story, she thought, something a little different for Pennysaver readers. And, she realized when she checked her watch, it hadn’t taken nearly as long as she had thought. She wasn’t expected home for at least four hours; she had time to do something for herself before Sara’s party.
Lucy could hardly wait for the AC to cool down her car. It had been sitting in bright sunlight, which had turned the interior into a sauna. She opened all the windows and turned the fan on high, enjoying the cool air on her face. She flipped down the sun visor and looked at her reflection in the mirror. These days she was constantly checking the crow’s-feet around her eyes and the little lines on her upper lip, as if constant vigilance could stop their progress.
Maybe Sue was right, she thought, spotting a new line at the corner of her mouth. Maybe that cheap drugstore moisturizer wasn’t doing enough. Sue had raved about the stuff she got at Markson’s, in the new Galleria. Lucy hadn’t been there yet, and everybody said it was worth the trip. This was her chance to see it without any distractions, and maybe she’d even get some of that Countess Irene face cream. How expensive could it be?
Chapter Seventeen
Parking, Lucy was delighted to discover, was located underneath the glittering Galleria and was free, with validation. She carefully tucked the ticket in her purse and headed for the elevators, leaving the dank garage behind and emerging into a bright, fragrantly scented fantasyland. Stunned, she stopped in her tracks and gazed at the glassroofed atrium, where long strands of crystal beads shimmered high above her.
“Watch out, lady!” A gruff voice reminded her that she was blocking the elevator door and she stepped forward, wandering past the tempting store windows. Gourmet cookware, soaps and lotions, imported linens, lacy bras and panties, fine stationery, leather luggage—it was a far cry from the outlet mall that had popped up near the interstate that sold seconds and discontinued merchandise.
Coming to the end of a row of shops, Lucy paused outside the cavernous entrance to Markson’s. Inside, tempting display cases were filled with jewelry, purses and shoes. Colorful scarves flowed from racks, baskets of trinkets were set out to tempt the reluctant shopper. In the distance she noticed the glimmering mirrors of the cosmetics department.
Lucy stepped forward, drawn by the promise of youth. She would find it, she knew, at the Countess Irene counter, where Natalie held the secret.
“Oh, dearie, you do need help,” said the heavily made-up woman in the pink smock. Her name tag identified her as Natalie. Her hair color, you didn’t have to be her hairdresser to know for sure, came from a bottle. Nobody had lavender hair naturally.
“I’m looking for a good moisturizer,” said Lucy.
“I’ve got just the thing,” said Natalie. “It’s our Revivaderm night cream. Heavy duty, but it still feels light on the skin. You won’t believe the difference. In just six weeks you’ll look ten years younger.”
Lucy studied the jar, looking for a price. There was none.
“Try it, dear.” In a second, Natalie had twisted off the top and was holding out the sweetly scented cream.
Lucy hesitated, then dipped in her finger.
It tingled slightly, and she could imagine her skin tightening and firming. It was fabulous.
“Oh, yes.”
“Some of my customers say this is better than, you know, sex.”
Lucy studied her face in the mirror. “Is that where these wrinkles come from? Kissing?”
“Kissing is no longer a problem, thanks to our Countess Irene lip moisturizer. It’s called ‘Smacker.’ Isn’t that cute?”
Lucy took the tube Natalie was proffering and spread the creamy unguent on her lips. It made them feel so silky.
“Of course, you will want to try our day cream, Preservaderm. It battles the effects of pollutants and UV rays, preventing skin damage.”
“Really? Day cream is different from night cream?”
“Oh, honey, you’ve gotta have both. Revivaderm replenishes and heals your skin while you sleep. Preservaderm protects the skin during the day.”
“I see. And they will make my wrinkles disappear? Especially these little ones around my eyes?”
Natalie nodded sagely. “Of course, the skin around the eyes is very delicate. You might want to try our Where’d You Get Those Peepers eye cream. Gets rid of puffiness without drying that fragile under-eye area.”
“I sometimes use tea bags,” confided Lucy. “I just soak them in cold water and place them on my eyes.”
Natalie’s widened in horror. “Then you should definitely try Where’d You Get Those Peepers. There’s absolutely no tannin. Tea is full of tannin, and you know what they use that for, don’t you? Tanning leather.”
Lucy took the little jar. It couldn’t cost much, she reasoned. It was tiny. And she certainly didn’t want her delicate under-eye skin to turn into leather.
“Do you mind if I ask you what cleanser you’re using?” inquired Natalie, her voice seemingly full of sincere concern.
“Soap and water.”
Natalie seemed ready to burst into tears at this horrifying news.
“No!”
“Actually, yes,” confessed Lucy.
“My dear, soap is so drying. It adds years to your face. You must promise me not to use soap anymore. Use anything but soap. Promise?”
“But what can I use?”
“Facial cleanser. Countess Irene Clean as a Whistle not only cleans, and I mean really deep-cleans your skin, but it also nourishes your skin with vitamin E.”
“I take vitamin E,” said Lucy, nervously eying the collection of products Natalie was setting aside for her. “I don’t think I need the cleanser.”
“Dearie, I’m going to be frank with you. You can’t afford not to take the cleanser.”
Lucy reflexively stroked her throat. “Really?”
“Trust me on this. Thorough cleansing is vital. Why, it’s practically the first thing our mothers teach us. Never go to bed without washing your face.”
Lucy nodded. Her mother had certainly warned her of the perils of sleeping with a dirty face.
“Prevention is worth a pound of cure,” continued Natalie. “That’s why I want to let you know about Countess Irene Throat Cream. It prevents that saggy, baggy look.” She leaned closer, whispering. “I had a woman in here yesterday, I’m telling you, she looked like a turkey. Her neck was that red and wrinkled. And the shame of it is, she could have prevented it by using Countess Irene Throat Cream.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a shame.”
Lucy didn’t want to look like a turkey. “I’ll take the throat cream, too. But that’s all. How much do I owe you?”
While she rummaged in her shoulder bag for her wallet, Natalie rang up the cosmetics and bagged them. “Two hundred seventy-eight dollars. Shall I put that on your Markson’s account?”
Lucy gasped. She had no idea these things were so expensive. How much did Sue spend on her face?
“This is embarrassing,” said Lucy. “But I don’t have a Markson’s charge account, and I don’t have that much cash with me.”
“No problem.” Natalie waved a hand tipped with highly polished lavender talons. “Why don’t you just take the basics today? Clean as a Whistle, Revivaderm and Preservaderm. They come packaged together in a special travel-size offer for only sixty dollars.”
Lucy felt a huge sense of relief. “That sounds great.” She watched as Natalie canceled the sale and rang up the new purchase. “I’m so sorry about causing you trouble.”
Natalie dismissed her apology. “It was no trouble at all. And I’ve given you plenty of free samples to try.”
“Thank you so much,” said Lucy, handing over three twenty-dollar bills.
“You’re welcome, dear.”
Lucy was floating as she left the store carrying the little pink bag with the Markson’s logo. She could hardly wait for bedtime, when she would wash her face with Clean as a Whistle and anoint her skin with Revivaderm. But first, she realized as she came down to earth with a thud, she had to get through Sara’s birthday party.
Actually, she thought, as she pulled off Red Top Road and into the driveway, now that the kids were older it was easier to throw a party. Bill was going to pick up a couple of videos on the way home, and she had plenty of soda and microwave popcorn on hand. All she had to do this afternoon was bake a cake and order the pizza. She would have plenty of time to experiment with her Countess Irene purchases.
Kudo bounded up to the car as she got out, and escorted her to the door, licking her hand to signal his happiness at her return. She scratched him behind the ears and went inside.
“Mom! You’re home!” exclaimed Zoe. “I made Sara’s cake for you!”
Lucy stood in the doorway, clutching her little pink Markson’s bag. She would have liked to put it down, but there was no place to put it. Zoe had managed to transform the kitchen into a snow scene, covering every surface with sugar and flour. The mixing bowl, with batter dripping down its side, sat in the middle of the table. The floor was covered with baking pans of assorted sizes. The temperature in the room was at least ninety degrees, thanks to the oven, which Zoe had set at five hundred.
Lucy yanked the door open and pulled out the layer pans, not surprised to find the cakes were burned to a crisp on the outside while the middles remained white and wobbly.
“I added lemon juice,” Zoe confided proudly. “’Cause Sara likes lemon cake best.”
Lucy didn’t have the heart to scold her. The little girl had meant well, after all.
“I wish you’d waited for me,” she said. “We could have made the cake together.”
Zoe looked down at the burned pans. “Maybe we could scrape off the burned part?”
“Baking a cake is harder than it looks,” said Lucy. “There’s always next time.”
Zoe took the bad news philosophically. “I think I’ll go outside and swing awhile.”
“You do that,” said Lucy, scraping the cake into the garbage. “I’ll call Dad and ask him to pick up a cake at the store.”
Left alone in the war zone that used to be her kitchen, Lucy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was saved from having to choose by the telephone. It was Bob.
“Hi, Lucy. Sue told me you want to see the contents of Sherman’s safe deposit box? She said you found the key?”
“I did. It was in his desk.”
“That’s great. I’d been meaning to look for it, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance.” He sighed, and his voice sounded tired. “Just keeping the practice going is taking everything I’ve got. I haven’t really had time to deal with his estate. Of course, there’s no rush. I’ve got a year before there’s any negative tax impact.”
“Right.” He might as well have been speaking Greek to Lucy. “Will there be any problem getting into the safe deposit box? I know banks can be awfully picky.”
“No problem. I have all the necessary documents. So when do you want to do it? It’s just the good old Five Cents Savings Bank on Main Street.”
“How long do you think it
will take?”
“Five, ten minutes, if we get there first thing Monday morning.”
That sounded good to her. Monday was already filling up; she knew it would take most of the morning to write up the Battle of Portland reenactment.
“I’ll meet you at the bank at eight-thirty.”
“Eight-thirty sharp,” promised Lucy, hanging up the phone.
Chapter Eighteen
The one bright spot, thought Lucy as she surveyed the scene, was that it was only four o’clock and the kids weren’t due to arrive for the party until six. Consoling herself with this thought, she bent to the task of picking up the pans off the floor so she could move around the kitchen without breaking her neck. That accomplished, she set the mixing bowl in the sink and began sweeping up the spilled flour and sugar with a dustpan and brush. A wet sponge, she reasoned, would only make things worse. Occupied with the task at hand, she didn’t hear a car pull into the driveway.
“Hi, Mrs. Stone.”
Startled, Lucy jumped.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” said a young fellow with his blond hair gelled into little points that stood out from his head like porcupine quills.
“You must be one of Sara’s friends,” said Lucy, hoping her heart would resume its normal beat soon.
“I’m Matt Zumwalt.”
“Well, hi, Matt. It’s nice to meet you.” She paused, neatly depositing a pile of flour and sugar into the dustpan. “You do know the party doesn’t begin for a couple of hours?”
“I’m sorry,” he said politely. “My mom had an errand on this side of town so she thought she’d drop me off.”