by Lea Wait
“You’re sure you don’t want to take my car? Lobsters and mussels will stink up your new one.”
“It’s used,” he assured me. “A year old. And when have lobsters ever had a bad smell?”
After you’ve worked over a steamer for nine hours a day, I thought to myself. “Did you just buy it?”
“Two weeks ago, when I got the go-ahead from my occupational therapist that I could drive.”
Before that, Patrick’s mother, Hollywood actress Skye West, had hired a driver for Patrick. Ted Lawrence’s wealth wasn’t a novelty to Patrick, nor was his art. No wonder Ted had hired Patrick to help at the gallery. They had a lot in common: both had inherited wealth from parents, and both were artists.
I glanced at Ted’s hands.
I hoped he could be an artist again. If his hands wouldn’t do what he expected them to do, how would he cope? His new job at the gallery would be disappearing. Both Ted Lawrence and his gallery now had expiration dates.
“Where’s the co-op Sarah mentioned?” he asked.
“Downtown, next to the town wharf. But the farmer’s market closes at noon. Let’s head there first.”
“Where’s that?”
“Haven Harbor Elementary School parking lot,” I said. “I’ll get us there.” I’d been a student at Haven Harbor Elementary, a few years back. Jungle gym climbing, dodge ball, playing tag during recess.... Did students today do those same things? Or did they text their friends at recess?
“Yes, ma’am. Elementary school next stop.” Patrick smiled at me, and I smiled back. I couldn’t help hoping his hands really were all right to drive. I hadn’t driven with him since before the accident, back in June.
But he seemed in control of the car. I relaxed after he expertly backed the car out and made the first few turns.
“Ted’s kids seem to have accepted his illness, and their new cousin.”
Patrick looked dubious. “It looks that way. I can’t help thinking they’re putting on a bit of a show for their dad. Last night they were more upset about Sarah’s inheriting their grandfather’s paintings than they were about Ted’s cancer.”
“I wonder what Sarah’s thinking. She’s gone from not having a family, to being caught in the middle of a family that seems to squabble over everything.”
“Except lobster. I didn’t hear any complaints about the lobster bake.”
“We left before anyone was assigned to dig for clams, remember,” I pointed out. “I can’t see elegant Luke putting on high rubber boots and mucking about in mud flats.”
“He did it as a kid, from what I gather. Maybe it will bring back happy memories,” Patrick reminded me.
“Maybe. And maybe Michael will take along some encouraging libations.”
“No wonder Sarah agreed we should pick up some mussels. I don’t think we can count on those guys coming back with a bucket of clams.”
“I’ll bet none of them get town licenses, either. Although a few towns around will let individuals dig a peck without a license, especially if they’re just around for one day. I’d be surprised if any of those guys come up with even half a peck.”
“How much is a peck?” asked Patrick.
“Two gallons,” I answered. “Not that many. I’ve done my share of clamming, and it’s not easy. I’m glad we were assigned shopping.”
Patrick grinned. “Agreed.” We were silent for a few minutes, both thinking. Then Patrick said, “I still can’t believe Ted was able to hide stage four cancer from those of us who’ve seen him almost every day.”
“You’re sure he’s not having chemo, then. Or surgery. Or radiation.” What else did people do who were fighting lung cancer?
“I talked to him briefly this morning. He’s decided to let the cancer take its course until he’s in pain. Then his plan is to call hospice.” Patrick shook his head. “He has it all planned. He’s even written his obituary and planned his memorial service. He said he didn’t want to be a trouble to anyone.”
“How long does he have?”
“Under six months. Doctors don’t like to be pinned down about things like that.”
“What’s sad is that I suspect those who will mourn him most are Jeremy, who’s worked closely with him for years, and Sarah, who’s just found him. His own children haven’t kept closely in touch. Unless they’re all great actors, they don’t seem grief-stricken.”
“Maybe that’s why he wants the end to go naturally and quickly. Not to fight. He even said he was looking forward to being with Lily again.”
“If Gram had cancer, I’d be fighting it with her,” I declared.
“That’s the way I feel about my mother,” Patrick agreed. “But Ted’s the one who has to make the decision. He seems comfortable about what’s happening. All he wants is to get his will rewritten, and then get on with the business of dying.” He paused. “He may have the right idea. If I were dying, I’d want to make the decisions. Not have someone else make them for me.”
There wasn’t anything else to say. We were both silent as we pulled into the school parking lot.
Sarah was right. The farmer’s market was beginning to close down. People in Haven Harbor shopped early on Saturday mornings.
I headed for a farm stand I hoped would still have late-season corn. They’d started packing their truck, but one partially full basket of corn was still out. “Wait!” I called to the husky teenager hoisting a heavy carton of summer squash. “We need corn!”
He sighed and put the carton down. “How much, lady? We’re almost out.”
I glanced at Patrick. “Two dozen ears?”
He nodded.
The young farmer looked doubtful. “Count ’em yourself. Might have that many left. It’s the end of the season, you know.”
I nodded and started counting. Twenty-one ears were left. Some small, but they were fresh and they were corn. I couldn’t hope for more today. “I’ll take all you have left. All twenty-one.”
Patrick pulled out his wallet. He saw me looking. “Before you got there, Sarah gave me shopping money. It’s Ted’s. I’m not being sexist.”
“I never thought that!” I lied as the vendor handed me a large paper bag of corn and gave Patrick the change.
“We need potatoes and onions, too,” he added.
We walked past almost-empty booths of pastries, dried fish, Chinese egg rolls, homemade cookies, and boxes of multicolored squash and pumpkins. Finally we found a tent with both potatoes (“We need small to medium sized red ones. They cook faster.”) and onions, and bought fifteen of each. “There are nine of us, but someone might want more than one,” I pointed out. “Or one of the potatoes might explode.”
Patrick picked up the bags, holding them against his chest. His fingers didn’t close well. I bit my lip and didn’t ask if he needed help. He needed to manage his own way.
We loaded up the trunk of the BMW and headed for the parking lot on Water Street.
“I wonder if we should get clams, too?” Patrick asked as we headed to the wharf where the co-op was busy serving steamed lobsters and fried clams to people sitting at picnic benches on the pier. The place where I’d worked as a teenager.
I headed us away from the restaurant over to the small building housing the lobster pound. “We said mussels,” I said. “Maybe bringing clams would be insulting the clam diggers.”
“On the other hand, maybe they’d be grateful,” he said, opening the squeaky old screen door for me. The lobsters were sized in large metal tanks. I glanced at the day’s selection. Most vacationers preferred two smaller lobsters to one large—not only did they feel more privileged to have two lobsters, but (as those in the know were aware) the smaller lobsters were younger, and often tasted better. Most important today, they’d cook faster at a bake.
“Eighteen pound and a quarter soft shells,” I ordered.
“Streamed or to go?”
“To go. Do you have mussels?”
“Yup. How many you want?”
I thought qui
ckly. If the others hadn’t dug many clams . . . “Thirty pounds.”
“Having a bake?” the oilcloth-clad lobsterman who was weighing our lobster order asked.
“Yup. Sure are,” I said. “What about clams?”
“No clams today. Sold out early. Brought ’em up from Rhode Island, too.”
Importing clams to Maine? That only happened for one of two reasons. One was a heavy tourist season demand. The other was Red Tide.
“Any safe flats around?”
“Sure. A few. But it’s simpler to truck ’em in this time of year.”
Good. The clammers weren’t in danger of bringing home shellfish that could be dangerous to eat. Red Tide was the nickname for Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning, a bacteria that was sometimes found in clams. When Red Tide was near a flat, that flat was closed to digging.
“So, no clams,” said Patrick. “Red Tide? I haven’t seen any red water around.” He picked up the large bag of lobsters, who were thrashing about at the indignity of being out of the water.
I took the mussels. “Red Tide doesn’t always turn water red,” I explained. “And mussels are good, too,” I said. “Most of those sold here are farmed. Clean, and no problems.”
“People better be hungry tonight,” Patrick observed as we added sixty pounds of seafood to the trunk of his car.
“Can’t think of any reason they wouldn’t be,” I said as we headed to the patisserie to pick up blueberry pies (might as well be traditional) and to the nearest package store for Bradley’s Coffee Brandy before driving back to The Point.
Chapter Sixteen
“Barnard Andrews, Embroiderer and Box Maker, on Sixty Street, three doors above Market Street. Works, mends, and cleans all sorts of embroidery in the newest and neatest fashion, such as any kind of clothes for gentlemen and ladies, pulpit cloths, &c, either in gold, silver or silk, with all sorts of tassels. If there are any ladies that have an inclination to learn embroidery or any of the above-mentioned work, he will either attend them at his house or their houses.”
—Advertisement placed in a Philadelphia newspaper in 1768.
“Great!” said Sarah, looking at the piles of food in the back of Patrick’s car. “Abbie’s gone to pick up the clammers. When they get back they’ll start digging the pit.”
“Did they get any clams?” I asked, glancing over at Patrick.
“Not many, they said when they called,” said Sarah. “But I suspect they did find a lot of mud. I got the hose out to rinse off their boots and arms and anything else necessary.”
“Luckily it’s a warm day for September,” I said, not cracking a smile.
“It is. Close to seventy, I think,” she agreed.
“There’re a couple of gardening wagons in the barn. Put the food in that and cart it down to the beach,” directed Ted, who’d walked out to join us. “Then bring the wagons back for the coolers for the champagne and ice.”
“And the pies,” said Sarah, lifting the patisserie boxes out of the car. “Let’s not get these mixed up with the seafood. Plates and paper towels and glasses are on the kitchen table. Everything has to go down to the beach.”
“And don’t forget the fireworks. They’re in the barn, too,” Ted added, surveying the piles of food.
“I’ll make sure we get them,” Patrick assured him.
“Before you go down to the beach yourself, Sarah, I’d like to talk to you for a moment,” Ted said.
Sarah and I exchanged glances. Then Patrick and I headed for the barn, while Sarah went back in the house with Ted.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” I said.
“Could be anything. Maybe he forgot something else, or just wanted to thank her for all she’s done this weekend. She’s certainly worked hard enough.”
“Plus closing her store for a couple of days. Ruth Hopkins was going to sit in for her there, but she had an arthritis flare a couple of days ago, and has to stay home.”
“Must be hard for Sarah to run the business alone.”
“She does most of her buying in the winter when she either doesn’t open the shop, or keeps short hours.”
“Guess she won’t have to worry about that anymore,” said Patrick. “The sale of one of those paintings she’s going to inherit could support her for years. She won’t have to worry about living on the second floor of that little shop anymore.”
“I wonder what she’ll do. I can’t see her sitting around looking out at Haven Harbor.”
“Travel, maybe? Support a foundation or two?”
Patrick had experience with the challenges of having too much money. I couldn’t begin to guess what they would be.
Several wagons were in the barn. We each took one, planning multiple trips each. The path to the beach wasn’t smooth. And we didn’t want to pile too much on each wagon.
As we were loading up, Sarah ran out of the house. “Angie! You won’t believe what Ted just did!”
“What?”
“He gave me the portrait of my grandmother. The one his father painted in London in 1944! I’m thrilled!”
Patrick looked at her. “But Sarah, last night he said he was leaving you all of the Robert Lawrence paintings. You would have inherited it anyway.”
“I guess. But it’s so much better that he chose to give it to me now. It’s not just one of a bunch of paintings.”
I could see Patrick wince at her word bunch.
“It’s a family portrait. I’ve never dreamed of having anything like that.” Her grin was contagious. “And he wants me to take it home with me today. Now! He’s wrapping it for me. Will you come and help me carry it to my van, Angie? I’m so excited I might drop it. And I want to pad it with blankets and . . . I am so excited!”
“I can see that,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take the first wagon of food down the hill, and come back. If you finish securing the painting, you can join me then,” said Patrick.
“Thank you, Patrick! Come on, Angie!”
Abbie drove in with two of the clammers as we headed into the house. Jeremy must have taken his own car.
I followed Sarah into the house and through the rooms connecting the main house to the studio and storeroom. Ted was there, wrapping the painting in layers of padded brown paper.
“Just about got it covered for you, Sarah. Be careful now. It’s never been framed, so there’s nothing to protect it.”
“I’ll be so careful. I’ll cherish it forever!” Sarah hugged Ted so hard, I was afraid he’d fall down. “I’m so thrilled. You’re so kind, to let me have her. You have no idea how much she means to me, because of who she is—and who painted her—and because you gave her to me!”
Ted was clearly delighted with her reaction. “This is probably my last birthday, Sarah dear, but you’ve made it the most special one I’ve had in years. You pushed me to get my family together, and ordered everything and made it work. I even think, despite the occasional grumbling, that my kids have enjoyed the weekend, too. A few months ago I’d never have believed all three of my children would be digging a pit for a lobster bake, just like in the old days.”
“I’m so glad it’s worked out,” said Sarah. “Because you’re the best uncle ever!” He held her back as she flew at him again, clearly wanting to hug him.
“Calm yourself, girl. I’m an old man. Don’t want to die of a heart attack before the cancer gets me.” His smile was clear. He and Sarah may only have known each other for a few months, but they’d clearly grown close.
“Now, you and Angie take your grandmother out of this house and put her in your van. She belongs with you, not with anyone else. Not even with me, although I wish I’d known her and your father. They must have been special people to have resulted in you.” I saw tears in his eyes. “Now scat! Get that out of here!”
The painting wasn’t large—maybe two by three feet—but the packing made it larger. Sarah picked up one side and I took the other, and the two of us walked carefully through the rooms into the house,
being very careful not to knock the painting against any doors or walls.
I held the painting as Sarah unlocked her van.
Patrick and the clammers had already disappeared, most likely down to the beach.
Sarah debated for a few minutes where the painting would be safest, and then put it, painting side in, on the front seat, covered it with the blankets she kept in her van to pack around her antiques purchases, and fastened the seat belt over the blankets. It looked strange, but safe.
The sound of running feet stopped both of us. We turned toward the house. Silas Reed was running toward us. He was waving a gun.
Chapter Seventeen
“Behold this early sampler may
Show Readers on a future day
That I was taught before too late
All sorts of idleness to hate.”
—Sampler stitched by Susanna Muhlenburg of Trappe, Pennsylvania, in 1790. In addition to the verse she stitched a lengthy family record and three alphabets within a strawberry border.
“Stop! Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Silas’s words were slurred, but his weapon was serious.
I stepped in front of Sarah and her painting, wishing I’d brought my Glock with me.
But who brings a Glock to a lobster bake?
Silas did.
“Whoa! What’s wrong, Silas?” I asked.
Silas stood a few feet away, still pointing his gun at us.
“Ted Lawrence said he was changing his will, sure enough, and that supposed new relative of his was going to inherit it all. But he ain’t dead yet. She’s stealing one of his paintings. Sent us all down to dig a damned hole in the beach; thought none of us would know what was happening here? Well, I came up to the house to get some Bradley’s and found you out. You may be able to con that old man, but you can’t fool me. You give that painting back, and any others you’ve got in that van. Do it now, or you’ll be sorry you messed with my wife’s family.”
“I’m not stealing anything. I wouldn’t do that. Ted gave me the painting. It’s one his father did of my grandmother.” Sarah’s voice was firm.