Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  I sipped my coffee, buying balance, then addressed myself to Jess.

  “The new midway manager, up from Fun Country, Jersey, is Peggy Marr. She’s the woman Management sends to solve its tough problems. She has a lot of flexibility and she’s not, as far as I’ve seen, afraid to use it. She might be a resource.”

  Jess nodded, and made a note on the pad.

  “Thanks. Anybody else?”

  “I hear a rumor,” Ahzan Dhar murmured, “that the former site of the Lonely Loon is for sale.”

  The Lonely Loon had been a . . . seedy even for Archers Beach . . . motel directly across from Ahz’s Market. It had burned down, so I’d heard, two winters ago. Suspicious circumstances, said the fire marshal, and everything froze in place until that got proved, or didn’t.

  Sounded now like one or the other had happened.

  “Be good if somebody bought that land, and put in something useful,” said Bob. “Place is an eyesore, even as a vacant lot, and it don’t do you one bit of good.”

  “No, it does not,” Ahzan agreed. “I hear another rumor.”

  Jess raised her head and looked at him, hard.

  “What’s that, Ahzie?” she asked.

  “That there is a company, from Massachusetts, that has inspected this site, and considers it would be a good location for a condominium building.”

  The assembled Twelve-to-Twelvers blinked.

  Often enough, condominium is fightin’ words. It carries a freight of bad stuff. Condos are usually purchased as second homes—as summer homes—by people from Away. The places are empty for that part of the year that isn’t summer; the folks who own them don’t vote, or volunteer, or do much of anything at first glance, except clutter the place up during the nice weather.

  Second glance, though—that reveals some details.

  The summer owners use services—water, sewer, electricity, so on—for which they pay. They pay town property tax on their summer house. During the weeks they live here, they buy wine and groceries at places like Ahz’s Market. They hire local folks to clean, to fix their cars and to keep an eye on their places during the months they’re not around. They shop in town. They eat out. They occasionally need this or that from the hardware store. They go to Neptune’s for a beer, and to listen to the music; the kids go to the arcade, and to the amusement park.

  Kind of a double-edged sword, condominium.

  Condominium projects built by out-of-state firms, that added another level of freight, because the condo fees and the purchase price would be siphoned right out of town, to someplace Away, just like Fun Country’s profits went to Jersey, and precious little trickled back up to Maine.

  “I’ll just do some research, if Madame Chair will approve,” Henry said, “and see if I can substantiate that rumor.”

  “Yes,” Jess said. “I approve.” She looked around, making sure she made eye contact with everybody gathered in. “Anything else?”

  It appeared not.

  “Thank you all for coming. I thought we ought to have another meeting in about a month—I know that puts us right in the middle of July . . .”

  “I’ll stand coffee,” Michelle said, “and donuts, too.”

  “That’s great—thank you! Can everybody make it on July 17, same time?”

  Nobody groaned, most replied in strong affirmative, with a couple hedging, on account of the demands of the Season.

  “Sure,” Jess said, nodding. “We all know how it goes. Nobody’s grading you. If you can come, please come. If you know somebody who ought to be here, bring ’em! In the meanwhile, park people, I’ll be stopping by and seeing when we can all sit down and talk. Might have to be after the park closes . . .”

  “My place can be open late for a meeting,” Bob said. “Coffee and muffins. Let me know ahead.”

  Jess beamed. “That’s great!” One more long engaging look around the table, and she pushed back her chair, indicating that we were done.

  I got up, caught Michelle’s eye, gave her a nod, and slipped away.

  “Well,” Gran said, “it’s quite a nice invitation, Katie. Will you be going?”

  “Of course! Can’t pass up the first social event of the Season. The question is, will you be going? Mr. Ignat’ could make quite an entrance, with you on one arm and Mother on the other.”

  Gran smiled faintly, but shook her head. “I think I’ll have to pass up the Season’s first social,” she said. “Nessa? Will you go?”

  My mother took the invitation in long fingers and considered it—not necessarily as if she were reading it, but as if she were testing the paper and the quality of the print job.

  “I think that I’ll remain undertree,” she said, meeting my eyes squarely. “We’re going to have to come up with some . . . explanation for me, aren’t we, Katie? Before I just appear in town.”

  I’d been thinking about that, off and on, though I was mildly startled to hear that she had, too.

  “More than that, you’re going to need—paperwork. I guess we can get Henry to work on that?” I looked to Gran.

  She shook her head. “Not Henry, no. Nessa, dear, first recover your health. Once we’re both . . . better able to cope, we can discuss these other matters.”

  I shivered, there under leaf, and looked at my grandmother hard.

  “How . . . tired are you?” I asked.

  She met my eyes, hers leaf-green and firm.

  “Very. I’m glad you came by today, Katie, and not just because I’m always happy to see you, but because I’ll be retiring to my tree . . . for a time. Bel thinks . . .” She took a hard breath.

  “Bel thinks I may have . . . lost voysin in the Land of the Flowers—and that’s what ails me. If that’s so, then my tree is the cure.”

  That . . . was frightening. And certainly losing a piece of one’s soul might make one tired and frail.

  “I understand. Please, rest easy. Mother—” I stopped, at a loss. Because I had been about to offer to bring her down to Tupelo House, but without that explanation, and, worse, with the formidable Peggy Marr living in the studio . . .

  Which reminded me that I hadn’t imparted that piece of news. I looked back to Gran.

  “I rented the studio,” I told her. “To a woman named Peggy Marr. She’s the new midway boss. Replaces Jens.”

  My grandmother only nodded.

  I shivered again.

  “Is there anything—”

  “No, Katie, thank you.” Gran smiled at me, tiredly, but with true intent. “I’ll rest easier, knowing you’re taking care of everything, down in the town.”

  “Have a good summer, Katie,” Mother added. “We’ll be fine here. The Wood will protect us.”

  Sure it would.

  I walked home down the beach, half-lost in thought. If Gran had lost voysin . . . people died from such wounds. And—Mother. It was a naked wonder that Mother had survived, given what her soul had been through. Most mortal people who cross over to live in Sempeki, the Land of the Flowers, succumb not to physical illness, homesickness, or even to old age.

  They die because their souls wear out.

  The Land of the Flowers, full to overflowing with jikinap as it is . . . is wicked hard on the human spirit.

  I walked slowly toward Dube Street, the wind off the water braiding and rebraiding my hair as I walked. No use saying I wasn’t worried; I was—and I made a note to track down Mr. Ignat’ soonest, and ask him for the story on Gran and Mother’s chances of full recovery. Gran had never been a stay-in-the-wood sort of dryad—or, if she had, it had been long before I knew her. And Mother was used to ordering a full and busy house, not lying around at leisure.

  And I . . . I could still use somebody—some particular somebody—to talk to.

  “Borgan,” I said and stopped, turning to face full into the wind, and the sea. “Borgan, I miss you. Come on past and I’ll—buy you a cup of coffee.”

  I waited; I waited for the count of one-fifty, without receiving an acknowledgment of any kind.
<
br />   I took a breath. Okay, fine. Damned if I was going to beg.

  Turning, I headed down the sand at a clip, and in a very short time was walking, sweaty and feeling grim, down the wooden walk that led over the dunes to my own front yard.

  I was met, not with the usual scene of a locked studio with storm shutters across the big front window, but with bustle and confusion.

  I stopped dead, trying to remember why the shutters were down and the window was open—why the door was open—when out of that same door came a woman with pink hair and purple eyes, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a pink spider on the shoulder.

  “Kate!” she called. “You’re just in time for a beer!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Thursday, June 15

  Low Tide 8:34 P.M.

  Moonrise 11:57 P.M. EDT

  We arrived at the reception fashionably late, by reason of a small tussle over a Prius.

  “Oh, c’mon,” I’d said. “It’s just right up on Archer Avenue—half a mile at most and a gorgeous night. No reason to drive.”

  “If you think I’m walking half a mile in these”—Peggy donated one of her more dramatic gestures to the cause, indicating the black lace over pink satin ankle boots with the three-inch spike heels that she wore in complement to the black lace circle dress with the plunging neckline and the short slashed sleeves—“you’re not well-informed. Also? Half a mile home again, downhill—in these—after a glass or two of bubbly? You want me to break my neck, Archer?”

  “Good God, no! I need you to live until the end of the Season.”

  “Or who would ride herd on the midway? You’re a cold woman, but I like you. Now get in the damn’ car.”

  I eyed the footwear.

  “Can you drive in them?”

  “I have a certificate—remind me to show it to you sometime. Now, so help me, if you’re not in that car by the count of ten . . .”

  It being clearly worth my life to argue with her, I slid into the passenger’s seat and pulled the seat belt into place.

  Privately, I thought Peggy was overdressed for an Archers Beach pre-Season reception, though I admired the foresight that had included party clothes in a road warrior’s go-bag.

  An analysis of my own closet, conducted prudently on Monday evening, had led to the inescapable conclusion that all I owned were work clothes—which is to say, T-shirts, sweatshirts, denim shirts, jeans—and sneakers. That being the case, I got myself down to Dynamite early Tuesday morning, to see if anything could be done.

  Mrs. Kristanos listened no further than, “The reception at Wishes on Thursday—” before sweeping me into the backmost corner, into which no T-shirt, beach towel, or bathing suit was allowed to come, and shoving me into the private changing room.

  Very soon thereafter, I became the proud owner of a garnet scoop-necked top that accentuated what I didn’t have much of, a pair of drapey black slacks, square-toed black ankle boots with a chunky, walkable heel, and a high-necked, quasi-Oriental jacket in black-and-garnet brocade.

  Mrs. Kristanos even had an answer for the accentuation, producing an item of what she called “firmware.”

  “Not that you need to be firmed,” she told me. “You’re too thin as it is. But the push-up is what that shirt needs, so you’ll have this, too, Kate, and you’ll wear it. Remember, I’ll be at the reception, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and bought what was good for me.

  The entire effect was maybe a little somber for a kickoff party, especially since I’d done my hair in a single braid rather than let it run loose over my shoulders, as per usual—but at least it pleased me. The push-up attended to the correct portions of my anatomy, the garnet shirt felt nice, the jacket sat well on my shoulders, the slacks were silky—even the boots were comfortable.

  Comfortable was good. Comfortable and neat was even better.

  Peggy guided the Prius down Dube Street, turned right on Grand, drove up to Walnut, made the left, and another at Milliken, just like she’d been living in town for months, instead of three days and change. This route bypassed Fountain Circle, which was a perpetual traffic jam during the Season, and got us to Archer Avenue with no muss, and no fuss.

  Two minutes later, she pulled into a parking space behind a pearly Cadillac Escalade, across the street from Wishes, which was lit up like Christmas.

  “Wow.”

  I got out of the Prius and stared at the cars parked up and down the hill; at the people walking in from the credit union’s parking lot, from around the long curve of St. Margaret’s Church, and up the hill.

  “This thing’s gonna be epic,” Peggy said, from beside me.

  “Looks like she invited the whole town, and all of Saco, too,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go in and show ’em how it’s done,” she said, tucking her hand in the crook of my arm and steering me across the street.

  “How what’s done?”

  “It, didn’t I say?”

  “You did,” I agreed.

  We crossed the street. Peggy seemed steady enough in her unlikely footwear, but she kept a good, firm hold on my arm, anyway. Which was, I figured, only prudent. Trying to run the midway with a broken ankle would probably be worse than trying to run it dead.

  “You know what,” I said, eying a tall and very thin woman in a bright red dress walking down the hill with a man in a black turtleneck, brown cords, and a tweedy looking jacket. “I bet she invited her artists.”

  “Her what?”

  “It’s an art gallery, like I told you—Maine artists only. So, what if she invited all the Maine artists she knows, and told them to bring their friends, too?”

  “Then she’s a smart cookie. You will introduce me to this woman. I like cookies. The smarter the better.”

  “As she is our host, I will certainly do so immediately,” I said, and added, as we approached the door, and stopped behind the crowd of people seeking entrance before us, “Or as close to immediately as humanly possible.”

  “Gotcha.”

  We inched our way in from the sidewalk to a space crowded with people.

  As I’d expected, there were a great many faces that were unfamiliar to me, but those were balanced by the number I knew intimately: Bob was actually wearing a suit, holding a plastic wineglass and looking like he wanted a smoke. Which he probably did. I introduced him to Peggy as we inched by, and he told her to come on down for a grilled blueberry muffin some morning.

  Mr. and Mrs. Kristanos came into view. I straightened, and caught her eye. She pursed her lips, looked me up and down and nodded, once.

  “Pass?” Peggy yelled in my ear.

  “Looks like it.”

  “Well, you oughta. Nice outfit; looks good on you. In case I didn’t say.”

  “You didn’t, but I figured if it was out of line you’d let me know.”

  “Got quite an idea of my character, don’t you?” she demanded, as I waved at Henry Emerson over a sea of heads.

  “Am I wrong?” I asked Peggy.

  “Ah, hell, no.”

  We wriggled by a knot of people dressed in improbable bright colors, who were clutching plastic wineglasses and little plastic plates on which cheese and crackers and grapes balanced precariously.

  Past that impediment to traffic was a wood-clad pillar that I thought I remembered, and beyond that, sure enough, was Joan Anderson, standing behind the counter, and chatting with a cadaverous woman in a black pants suit, her spiky white hair streaked with violet.

  “Our hostess is in sight,” I told Peggy, who was still clutching my arm.

  “Thank God. Any wine?”

  “Social duty first,” I said, even as I wondered how we were going to negotiate the gridlock between us and the counter.

  “Ms. Archer!”

  That was a familiar voice, though I hadn’t previously heard it at bellow. I pivoted in place and grabbed Kyle’s arm.

  The boy was dressed in a good sports coat over a nice blue oxford shirt, open at t
he neck—it’s not like it was a funeral, after all.

  “Kyle, this is Peggy Marr—Peggy, this is Kyle Roberts.”

  “Pleasure,” yelled Kyle.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Peggy shouted back.

  “Great. Kyle, we’d like to pay our respects to the host. Is there any way you can get us over there?”

  He looked over his shoulder, apparently measuring the distance, and calculating his own stamina.

  “Sure,” he said, turning back. “Follow me.”

  He wasn’t a tall lad, though he was taller than either of us, and wiry, rather than wide. However, he walked as if there was nothing and nobody in his way, and those people who did happen to stand in his path—

  Believed him, and stepped back.

  I kept as close to him as I could manage, so there was no chance of the path filing in again until we were past. Peggy clutched my arm and pressed herself against my side, which was a little disconcerting, but understandable, given the physics of the thing.

  In this manner, we eventually arrived at the counter, and there was Joan Anderson, smiling with what seemed to be genuine delight.

  “Kate! How wonderful that you could come! Who’s your friend?”

  “Joan, this is Peggy Marr, midway manager. Peggy, this is Joan Anderson, owner of Wishes Gallery, and our host for this evening.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” Peggy said, and looked around her appreciatively. “You sure know how to throw a party!”

  Joan laughed. “If I’d known it was going to be this successful, I’d have gotten a permit from the town to close off Archer Avenue for a street party!”

  “I thought part of the idea was to show off the gallery and the art,” I said.

  “It was, but who can see either in this zoo? If we’d set up outside, then people could have come inside in reasonable numbers and looked around.” She laughed again. “Lessons learned for next year. But, ladies! Neither one of you has a glass! This cannot be allowed to stand. Where’s—Kyle?”