by Mari Labbee
Her hair was cut in a bob that she wore wavy, and it suited her brand of cheekbones perfectly. She always wondered why some women of her age chose to wear their hair in that regrettable helmet hairstyle she saw so often; a little white puff, horrible.
She ran a hand carefully over one cheek. Her skin had held up very well; smooth, mostly unlined, and proudly nonsurgically enhanced. Too many women of a certain age were looking dangerously like transvestites these days. In fact, a good number of her patients would fit that description.
Angela was a throwback to another era, a more glamorous one, and she commanded respect simply by walking into a room, inspiring awe in most who met her. She was the epitome of calm composure, and she was rarely, if ever, flustered. In her line of work, that perception was of the utmost importance.
After showering and slathering on her favorite scented lotion, she walked back into her bedroom and stopped to inspect the cream-colored suit she’d taken out last night to wear today but decided it wouldn’t do. Instead, she brought out her smoke-gray pantsuit and paired it with a thick, red patent-leather belt and red pumps.
In the car, on the way to her office, she wondered about this Bri and what she would be coming to see her about. She could guess, of course, and she ventured her guess would be correct. Part of her was curious, and that was the reason she agreed to a meeting, but the other part of her wanted nothing more to do with the house on Jackal’s Head Point.
Bri kept checking the time and was surprised each time to find that no more than five minutes had passed since the last time she checked. Around her, Pegottie Harbor busied itself as the time passed, but she was hardly aware of it.
What would she say to Angela Buonaterra when she called? Bri ran through scenarios in her head. She sounded deranged in all of them and decided not to ask Angela anything over the phone. This required a face-to-face meeting-today, if possible.
At one minute past ten, Bri tapped out the number on the slip of paper Dana had given her, into her cell phone. The receptionist’s chipper voice answered after the third ring.
“Dr. Buonaterra’s office.”
Doctor? It threw Bri off balance for a moment. For some reason, she hadn’t imagined Angela Buonaterra would be a doctor.
“Hello?” the receptionist asked after hearing silence.
“Oh,” Bri said, “I’m sorry; may I please speak to Angela—I mean—Dr. Buonaterra?”
“Are you a patient?”
“No…but…I believe she’s expecting my call. This is Bri, Sabrina, Hall.”
“Would you mind holding?”
“No, of course not.”
Bri had never been so nervous in her life. A few moments later, Angela picked up the line.
“Angela Buonaterra here.”
“Dr. Buonaterra, hi, I…uh…” Bri stammered, “I’m Bri Hall. I bought your house, the one on Jackal’s Head Point.”
“Yes.”
“Dana called you earlier and said I could…well…I’m terribly sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering if I could meet with you.”
“Is there something wrong with the house?” Angela asked.
Was there something wrong with the house? Well, it was all in how you looked at it, Bri thought. She had to get her thoughts together. As assertively as she could and with a direct and forceful voice, one that said it would not take no for an answer, Bri responded.
“I’d like to come by your office—today, if possible. I do have some questions about the house, and I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Silence.
Angela thought a moment and then slid the appointment book on her desk toward her and glanced through it quickly.
“Well…I have a very full day today…but…I have a free half hour at five thirty.”
Relieved, Bri sighed. “That’s fine. Thank you, Doctor. I know you’re a busy woman, and I appreciate this.”
“All right, I will see you at five thirty.” With that, Angela Buonaterra hung up. Bri was elated, and then she had to call back because she hadn’t gotten the address. The receptionist gave her the address and directions.
What to do now? The drive to Boston was about three hours, and it was just past ten. It was hours before the appointment, and going home was not an option, but then she wondered if Matt would even be there after reading her note. He hadn’t tried to call or text her. She was leaning against the rail of the pier, staring absently at the boats in the harbor as they headed out for a day at sea. It had warmed up considerably in the last hour, and she felt the sun beating down on her shoulders when suddenly it hit her, the library! There had to be public records, old newspapers; maybe she’d find a story or an article about the house. Of course! She couldn’t get back to her car fast enough.
The county library was near the old water tower, a few miles from Pegottie Primary School, where she made a right turn off the main highway. This was a particularly beautiful area that had been designated a nature preserve. Trails, all named after local birds and flowers, wound their way through the woods and met the main road at several spots. Bri drove the long curving road to the library; dappled sunlight danced on the hood of her Miata and the blacktop ahead of her. She reached the parking lot and turned in. One school bus and two cars were parked neatly against the building.
The library was an austere one-story red brick building with two white columns at the entrance, that somewhat resembled those of the Parthenon. White trim surrounded narrow rectangular windows, giving the building a very colonial look. Once inside, it was immediately evident that she had arrived at story hour.
The library was organized into two halves with four rooms. The two at the front were the youth or teen section and the children’s section. Two adult sections on either side took up the back section. A wide hallway, which housed the reference and checkout desks and several rows of computers, separated two halves. Bri glanced into the children’s room, where a woman was speaking to the librarian, whom Bri identified because she wore a name tag pinned to her cardigan. Two younger women, teachers’ aides most likely, had their hands full quieting the preschoolers sitting in a circle. Story hour was about to begin.
The librarian would be tied up for a little bit, so Bri wandered over to the adult sections, sure she could find the periodicals on her own. As she stepped into one of the rooms, she cringed at the sound her footstep made on the hardwood floor. Feeling self-conscious, she stopped. There was something about a library that was a little like being in a church; you never wanted to be too loud, should the finger of God come down to shush you.
“Can I help you?”
Bri jumped.
The librarian had surreptitiously snuck up behind Bri. Hands clasped in front of her, she stood waiting, smiling sweetly. She definitely knows how to sneak around the place, Bri thought. Her name tag spelled out Millie.
“Um…yes, you can, Millie. I need to see old newspapers from this area. Especially anything that might have covered Jackal’s Head Point.”
The librarian raised her hand and ran a finger over her chin.
“Hmm, we do have some periodicals, but I’m not sure which ones might cover that area. You’re welcome to look through them, though. Maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
She turned around, and Bri followed her across the hall into the room on the opposite side. There she led Bri to two desks that held microfiche machines.
“Have you ever used one of these before?” the librarian asked.
Bri shook her head no.
“Well, there’s nothing to it. Here, have a seat, and I’ll show you how to operate it.”
A short while later, Bri was looking at old copies of the Sentinel, a local weekly about four or five pages long that was published before Pegottie became an incorporated city.
Images whizzed by on the screen, and she scanned the corners for the dates. Her heart sank when she got to the oldest issue the library had: December 12, 1892. Matt told her the house had been built some
time in 1831; she would need to go much further back. Before giving up completely, she decided to make use of the time and see if any issues that were more recent might have any mentions that might be useful.
She read about the dedication of the courthouse built in 1919 and the openings (and closings) of schools throughout the years. She read about the Triple-T Cannery that opened its doors in 1920, and then she read about the inevitable close after a valiant two-year struggle that followed the 1929 crash and the start of the Great Depression. The war years brought naval ships to the harbor, and the USO had an office in town, where seemingly everyone, especially all the young single women, volunteered. During the war years, the paper nearly doubled the number of photographs it had carried until then.
She read marriage announcements and obituaries, stories about building-site dedications and store openings. She was on autopilot. Suddenly a small article caught her attention. The story appeared on the bottom corner of the second-to-last page of the June 21, 1960, issue, accompanied by two photographs. Excited, Bri leaned in close and inspected the faded black-and-white photographs.
There was a long shot, and even though it was fuzzy and faded, she could make out the corner of the house, just the edge of the roof peeking out from the woods, which were much denser than today and had nearly engulfed the whole of the house. The clearing wasn’t as expansive as it was today. Oaks and pines surrounded the house. Bri stared, amazed at how different Jackal’s Head Point looked in the photograph. In the second photo, a man stood, beaming a wide and happy smile. A young, pretty woman stood smiling at his side. A young girl stood in front of the woman, and another girl, younger than the first, stood in front of the man.
“New life for old Jackal’s Head Point Lighthouse,” read the headline, followed by a brief copy:
Mr. Antony Buonaterra has great plans to renovate the house and lighthouse on the point known as Jackal’s Head.
Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, the former restaurateur said he is looking forward to restoring the house and the lighthouse to their former glory.
“I have always loved working with my hands. And my dream is to live by the sea,” said Mr. Buonaterra. “This is my dream home.”
The caption below the photograph read—
Antony Buonaterra, Anna Buonaterra, and daughters, Angela and Francesca. Pegottie welcomes its newest neighbors, the Buonaterras!
Bri read it several times, as if doing so might unlock a clue or give her some kind of insight, but, of course, it didn’t. So that was Angela Buonaterra, Bri thought, inspecting the photo closely. From the caption, she surmised that Angela was the girl on the right, the older one, standing in front of her mother. She had thick, dark hair parted down the middle that hung past her shoulders and typical Italian looks with strong features. Bri guessed that Angela must have been about thirteen or fourteen in the picture, which would make her…she looked up at an imaginary point on the ceiling. “In her sixties, if I’m right about the age in the picture,” she whispered to herself.
After lingering for some time on the small mention, she pressed the button on the microfiche machine, requesting a copy of it, and continued her search, but there was nothing else. The last issue of the Sentinel was published in 1975.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked as Bri stepped into the empty lobby. Story hour was over, and the library had once again become a calm oasis.
“Yes,” she answered automatically but then thought about it. “Well, no, not really. Are these newspapers the oldest you have? You see, I’m doing research on a property in the area, and I need to go back to about 1830 or so.”
The librarian nodded. “I’m afraid that’s as far back as we go…” Bri’s shoulders slumped at the librarian’s response, but then the librarian added, “If you’re willing to drive a little bit, the historical society has quite an extensive archive of this entire area. They have publications going much further back, and I believe they have not only newspapers but also dailies, weeklies, and periodicals from almost every county in this area.”
There was hope.
“But call them before you go. For the most part, it’s staffed by volunteers, but they try to keep regular hours.”
The librarian gave her the information, and Bri thanked her as she hurried out of the library. She was about to call but looked at the time. There was no way she would be able to go out to the historical society, do her research, and get to Boston in time for her appointment with Angela. As it was, she had to allow for traffic and should get going. It would have to wait until the next day.
She punched the number into her phone; a recording for the historical society came on and asked her to leave a message. A little frustrated, she did and hoped someone would get back to her sometime today.
Angela Buonaterra had a moment between patients and sat back in her plush leather chair to enjoy a cup of tea. She thought about Bri, the caller from this morning, the new owner of the house. For years she had wanted to sell that house, but only recently had it become possible to sell it. It shocked her that an offer had materialized so quickly; it hadn’t even been listed, and the real-estate agent had called with an offer two days after Angela had contacted her. She’d been prepared to see it sit for several years and to field offers with all sorts of conditions before she was rid of it. But the offer was more than enough, and the conditions were surprisingly few: chimneys swept, road cleared, fresh gravel, electric and plumbing in working order, and that was it. And it had all gone smoothly, maybe too smoothly. It was as if it had been—she could only think of one word—ordained.
And then today the phone call.
She would wait for Bri to ask the questions. She would volunteer nothing. Her receptionist’s voice on the intercom interrupted her thoughts. “Mrs. Cole is here.”
Angela set down her half-empty cup of tea and pressed the intercom button. “Show her in, please.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Boston traffic could be relied on to be one thing—tangled. It was always the same. She hadn’t been here in years, but nothing seemed to have changed. The city was a puzzle of one-way streets that were perpetually under construction, and the combination was a nightmare for Bri, who had driven in the city only twice—including this time. She squinted as she approached street signs, trying to read them, and then panicked as she passed them unread. Nobody gave her a break, and she wasn’t able to slow down long enough to read anything. She alternately glanced down at the directions (dictated to her by Angela’s receptionist) and the road ahead. GPS was unreliable; it kept rerouting her around the detours, and there had been three so far. The rain had started shortly after she left the library, and windshield wipers flapping noisily back and forth added to the misery all the way down.
Cambridge.
“Oh no!” she exclaimed at the sign that just whizzed by indicating she was headed for Cambridge—that’s not right. Cars zoomed by, their drivers entirely certain of where they were going. She was the only one completely lost, but she knew one thing for sure—she was headed in the wrong direction.
The rain gave the city’s beautiful historic buildings a somber, gloomy look, and, she would say, a touch of menace, but that might just be due to her current frame of mind. People hurried along, heads down, looking to get out of the rain, adding to the sense of foreboding already gnawing at her.
She had left Pegottie early enough to make it in time for her appointment with Angela, but she hadn’t anticipated the rain, nor had she anticipated the unplanned tour through Cambridge. Behind schedule now, she began to get anxious; she had to find Angela’s office.
The Park Plaza hotel, just across from the Public Gardens. Angela’s receptionist told her the office was two blocks away from the Public Gardens on the same street as the Park Plaza hotel. She traveled up and down Commonwealth Avenue twice before she found Arlington, which took her to the Park Plaza Hotel, tucked away on a hidden street. It was five fifteen. She spied the valet at the fr
ont of the hotel and decided that was her best bet; she wasn’t going to search for parking now. She sprinted the half block to Angela Buonaterra’s office and arrived huffing and puffing but with several minutes to spare.
Dr. Buonaterra’s third-floor office was austere but very chic, decorated in soothing tones of tan and cream with dashes of green and coral thrown about. Several watercolors were hanging on the walls, landscapes, and a few modern color studies, all designed to soothe. Bri was alone in the waiting room. There was a reception counter where the receptionist sat behind a frosted glass partition. If it hadn’t been for that, it was like being in someone’s living room. She buzzed, and a young woman of Japanese descent slid the glass partition open.
“Ms. Hall?” she asked cheerfully.
The receptionist surprised her. “Yes, I…uh…have an appointment,” Bri stated the obvious.
“Of course, Ms. Hall, have a seat. The doctor will be with you momentarily.”
“Thank you.”
Only now did Bri relax. She had made it. Sighing, she plopped down in a plush leather chair opposite reception and looked around. No diplomas. She wondered what kind of a doctor Angela was. The door to Angela’s office had a simple plaque that read thus: A. Buonaterra, MD, PhD.
At five thirty exactly, Angela’s office door opened, and a woman stepped out. She was middle-aged, average looking, and puffy-faced from what seemed like a crying jag; she dabbed at the corners of her eyes and gave Bri a weak smile as she exited. A moment later the receptionist slid open the glass partition.
“Dr. Buonaterra will see you now.”