by Robert Maxxe
"Thank you," Carrie said flatly, and walked on past the dump truck. Dodging another workman as he came out of the cottage carrying a garbage bin filled with chunks of plaster, she went inside.
Just over the threshold she halted, shocked by what had been done to the old house. Most of the interior walls had already been knocked down, along with the ceiling that separated the shop in the front from a small attic. To tear the core out of the place, a landmark of sorts, seemed a terrible desecration, not so different from the sacking of a temple by some invading Mongol horde. Carrie searched with angry eyes for someone to blame. But the air was dense with plaster dust. Sunlight slanting through the windows caught every hovering mote, making the powdery air appear almost solid. The workmen going about their jobs could have been ghosts passing freely through a wall. Drifting deeper into the plaster mist, Carrie scanned for a figure that wasn't breaking or sweeping or hauling.
She spotted the blueprints first. They were lying partially unrolled on a large plywood sheet that had been laid across two sawhorses to form a crude table. Her fury at the waste of Pooh's cottage canceled any conscience she had about snooping. Carrie leaned over the table and spread the plans for a better look. From remodeling her own shop she'd had some experience reading architects' drawings. She looked first at the title block, the box in the lower right-corner, where the name of the architect, the client, and the purpose of the structure were generally recorded.
A single line was neatly printed in the title block: "Design for Pace's." Evidently that was the name of the new store, Pace's.
The plan itself, thin white lines etched onto the blue background, showed that the interior of the cottage was to remain almost entirely open space. An entrance was indicated at the center of the front wall, and flanking this were two windows; another door was marked in the rear wall. A small square enclosure in a rear corner was marked "washroom." Otherwise the rectangular area enclosed by the outside walls was an unbroken field of dark blue. No space had been set aside for storage, display, or a private office. It was hard to imagine what kind of business the space could possibly serve. Then Carrie noticed another set of markings, apparently related to electrical installations. Along the two side walls fine lines had been drawn, broken at regular intervals by small circles cross-hatched with double lines—the architectural symbol for an electric outlet. There were four outlets along each wall, and one more at the back. Now it came to her: a hairdressing salon! No walls necessary, only furniture and portable partitions; and electric outlets for lights and hair-driers. But then she saw the flaw in her guesswork. In the area labeled as a washroom there were indications for plumbing—but nowhere else. A hairdresser couldn't function without a few additional sinks. . . .
"Can I help you?"
The man's voice, close behind her, startled Carrie. She spun around.
He was not a large man, just about her own height, but he had a presence, a posture that went beyond physical dimensions. He stood very erect and very still, dressed in a pale-gray single-breasted suit set off only by a plain dark-gray tie. At first Carrie took his unadorned clothes and stiff bearing as hints of a military background. Waiting for an answer, he merely gazed at her, unblinking. It might be this careful monitoring of his energies, Carrie thought, that was responsible for a face that was taut, pink, and unlined—far more youthful than his age would justify. He was not young, certainly. He had white hair that receded from his smooth wide brow in a wide arc, as evenly as a tide ebbing back over a round stone. The eyes were old, too, the whites no longer clear, and the gray irises clouded by both doubts and certainties given only to those who had seen and lived through much.
Carrie couldn't understand why she should feel so intimidated by the man. His expression was mild, the features really quite bland. He reminded her of pictures she'd seen of sedate businessmen from bygone eras—reminded her, come to think of it, of that meek President in the twenties, the chicken-in-every-pot guy, what was his name? But this man wasn't meek. Carrie felt herself in the presence of an immensely forceful personality, a man of extraordinary self-control. Mind over matter was a phrase that occurred to Carrie. The way he held himself—even the curious, ageless elasticity of his skin—suggested the sort of inner spiritual power exercised by Indian swamis, men who could control their metabolisms so that they could survive hours in airless chambers where ordinary men would perish in a fraction of the time.
He was still waiting for his answer. Patient. Motionless.
"Forgive me," Carrie said. "I didn't mean to get in the way. But I was passing, and I saw—"
"You shouldn't be in here, you know."
"Well yes, I do realize that. But I'm also in business here in town, and I knew Miss Bedford who used to live here, so I couldn't help being—"
"It's the insurance, you see. If you should get hurt . . ."
He paused, and she stared back at him, unable to will any response up into her throat. The man looked and sounded sincere, yet Carrie sensed emanations of danger, something fearsome about his will. If you should get hurt . . . Christ, was that some kind of veiled threat?
No, her imagination must be running wild. Why should she fear violence from this man? Her impressions were being colored by the violence she had seen done to the cottage. But it was all done in the name of business: she ought to understand that.
At last Carrie said, "I'm sorry, Mr.___"
"Peale," he offered, though he made no further gesture toward introduction.
"Mr. Peale," she repeated. "I'm Carrie Foster. I own Treats, the food shop down at the other end of Elm. Naturally being in business here, I wondered what kind of shop is opening." She gathered strength as she spoke, felt her indignation rekindled. Damn it, she did have a right to know.
"Of course," he said. "I understand perfectly."
And offered no explanation.
"Well, can't you tell me what's happening here?" she persisted.
"I'm sorry," he said cryptically.
"Aren't you in charge?"
"Just a representative."
He was answering her questions, yet providing no illumination. Carrie felt the urge to crack through his stony impassivity, shake him up.
"All right. Since you're representing the new tenant, I'll register my protest with you."
"Protest?"
"The way this place is being torn apart is shocking. It's one of the oldest houses on this part of Long Island, historic and irreplaceable."
"But don't you agree," he said calmly, "it would have been impossible for any business to use the place as it was?"
The patient, reasonable tone blunted her will to attack. "Did it have to be . . . gutted?" she asked plaintively.
"Great care is being taken to keep the exterior intact," he said. "Nothing must damage the charm of this lovely street."
He smiled so benignly that Carrie was almost won over. "Why won't you tell me what kind of store is coming in?" she asked.
"It's confidential," he said with the same definite vagueness. "But only for the moment. You're bound to know soon, aren't you?"
True enough, Carrie realized. This was hardly a covert installation. The new tenants were probably secretive to make sure they got a head start on any competitors.
A loud crash came from the rear of the cottage as a section of ceiling in the old kitchen was pulled down. A cloud of plaster dust soon billowed over Carrie, and she began to cough.
"You see, my dear," Peale said. "This is no place for you to be." He paid no attention to the dust himself. As it settled on the pale fabric of his suit, his white hair, and his chalky skin, the powder hardly showed.
Carrie cleared her throat. "I suppose you have all the necessary permits," she said.
"Indeed."
For one final moment she stared mutely at Peale. Then she said good-bye and started picking her way out across the rubble-strewn floor. Turning back at the front door, she saw Peale standing where she'd left him. Another clatter came from the rear, a fresh billow
of dust rose up, and the man seemed to be swallowed up by the pale cloud.
Outside, she took a deep breath, chasing the dust from her lungs. Several workmen passed, going between door and dump truck, and it dawned suddenly on Carrie that she recognized not a single one of them. A slight surprise. All the light construction work in Millport was shared between two local contractors. Carrie had used both at one time or another; she should have recognized at least one of the men. This job, she realized, was being done by an outside contractor.
She crossed the street to her car. A store that seemed oddly inadequate for commercial purposes, a contractor brought in from the outside—and Peale, his eerie serenity and his secretiveness. Was she wrong to think it was all a little strange?
Or was she just feeling overly sensitive and critical because of her relationship with Pooh? What really bothered her, Carrie guessed, was seeing the ultimate pointlessness of life expressed by the callous reshaping of the historic old cottage, all its ghosts and memories swept away.
But things had to change. She had other fish to fry, other responsibilities to look after.
Still, some remnant of anxiety wouldn't let go. And, distracted, Carrie drove away from Osgood's without picking up her pills.
3
Driving up to Treats, Carrie saw that both front display windows were piled knee-deep with autumn leaves. Before entering, she paused for a closer look. Patrick had opened up early, and now he was engaged in changing the display, doing one of his famous seasonal creations. Subtly placed among the colorful leaves were all kinds of gourmet delicacies, some accompanied by stuffed toy animals. In one burrow a group of tiny teddy bears surrounded a jar of the Greek hyacinth honey, elsewhere a velour rabbit hugged a bottle of white asparagus. The most artful feature of the scene were the collections of French bread, stuck onto wire matrixes to resemble trees that had shed their foliage. Carrie smiled in approval, and went inside.
She never entered the store without feeling a spark of pride in the accomplishment of putting it all together, making it happen. In the immediate aftermath of Mike's death, she hadn't known how she would be able to survive. She had always before existed happily in his shadow, been satisfied to play the role of business wife. Dressing up in expensive clothes, hanging on his arm to greet his friends, his clients, putting together elegant dinners at home, creating an environment that would set him off to advantage. Some of this she did without trying. A lithe, green-eyed brunette with clear smooth skin that tanned to gold in summertime, Carrie had the kind of athletic no-nonsense good looks that excited men without stirring the jealousies of women. By itself, meeting her had never failed to leave Mike's clients with a high regard for his judgment. But Carrie didn't rest on her natural attributes. Knowing the importance of socializing in Mike's business, she worked to hone her skills as a hostess. Genial, relaxed, winningly modest, she developed a knack for setting a mood where conversation flowed, friendships flourished, and deals were struck. And she provided one more element that made her parties succeed—delicious food. Carrie not only liked to cook, but enjoyed seeking out and testing unusual recipes. Though self-taught through trial and error, she became as accomplished in the kitchen as any cordon bleu chef. When she was newly widowed, forced to think of some way to pay the bills, she knew it would have to be connected to her abilities as a cook and her knowledge of food. And having decided to settle in Millport, the next step was almost automatic. As a summer resident, she'd always found herself driving to the Hamptons for good paté or French bread or fresh coffee beans. Millport was long overdue for a good specialty food store. By borrowing from people Mike had helped in the past, she was able to lease and renovate the space on Elm Street. On Memorial Day, not quite four months after receiving that crushing telegram from Munich, she had opened Treats for business. It was an overnight success. At the end of her second summer she had paid off all her investors. Over the next spring she had expanded into an adjacent space and begun carrying cookware and other kitchen items. By the end of this, her third year in business, Carrie expected to clear ninety thousand dollars profit. More than the money, however, she liked the way her sense of self had profited. It was good to be an independent woman, to feel that she no longer had to be timid about meeting any challenge life could throw at her.
"Morning, love," Patrick called out as Carrie entered. He was moving along the shelves against one wall, selecting a few more jars and cans he wanted to incorporate into the windows. "How do you like the theme?" Flourishing a hand toward the displays, he launched into an operatic rendition—no words, only trilled la-la-las—of "Autumn Leaves."
"Lovely," she said. "But I am a wee bit concerned about a possible fire hazard."
"Bitch bitch bitch," Patrick said airily, as he brushed past on his way back to the window and gave her a light peck on the cheek. "If it makes you feel better, I will don my asbestos jumpsuit and personally spray each and every leaf with fire retardant. You know, I don't want this establishment to be razed to the ground any more than you do."
Carrie dropped the subject. She knew from past experience that challenging Patrick's display ideas would only alienate him. She didn't want to do that; he was too valuable. If his schemes for the windows didn't exactly conform to her own tastes, she was aware nevertheless that his whimsical approach had become associated with Treats, had bestowed a certain style that was partly responsible for lifting the store to a new level of success. This had been true ever since he'd come to work for her at the end of her first summer in business.
Though Carrie had not advertised for help, he had walked into the shop that late September day to ask if there might be a job. He was slight, pixyish, with brown hair cut very short and brushed forward. Carrie surmised at once that he was gay. When he told her he'd been summering in Millport and had decided to stay on, Carrie detected some unaccountable hint of sadness in the decision. She suspected that there had been a broken love affair and that this very slight young man with the elfin face had been left behind, stranded. She wanted to help him, but the summer season was virtually over. The store was still busy, however, and she agreed to try him out for a couple of weeks, and play it by ear after that. A week later she'd arrived back at the store after a dentist's appointment to find one of the windows dressed with a large Miss Piggy doll, in veil and belly dancer's sequined skirt, sashaying through cabaret curtains made from long links of different varieties of salami and wurst. She couldn't help laughing, or noticing that for days after most of her customers came in laughing. Whether or not there was any connection to Patrick's handiwork, when Carrie did her tally of receipts on the following Monday, she discovered that business for the week was thirty percent ahead of her best previous total. Patrick was kept on.
Carrie waited while Patrick finished placing the last items among the leaves, then mentioned the food to be brought in from her station wagon.
"Incidentally," he said as they went outside together, "on the subject of razings to el groundo, have you caught the action at the other end of the street?"
He could only mean Pooh's cottage, Carrie realized. She reported her experience that morning, and described the details of the blueprints she'd seen, the absence of any installations except for electric outlets. "What does that sound like to you?" she asked, handing him the tray of quiches.
"Hmmm. A tanning parlor, maybe—just plug in a few sunlamps and you're ready to go. I certainly wouldn't mind having one around. I get so goddamn pale in the winter, if I ever fell into a snowdrift I'd just get shoveled away." They went into the shop and placed the food in the cold chests. "Or it might be a friendly little old porn shop," Patrick added. "Nothing needed but a few bare bulbs hanging over the magazine racks."
"Oh my God," Carrie said. "Don't even joke about that."
Was it possible? she wondered. No. Mr. Peale had said all the proper permits had been obtained. So the Town Council must have approved the building application, and they weren't about to allow any sinister outfit to open its doors on
the hallowed precincts of Elm Street.
Having given her blessings to the windows, Carrie took a quick walk along the shelves that ran down one side of the store, checking which needed to be restocked. But Patrick had already taken care of the job. Every shelf was filled, each canned or bottled item standing in rows of three across and stacks of four, all in perfect alignment. With their colorful labels facing squarely forward, each group made a geometric pattern. Carrie had conceived the design of the store, in fact, with these patterns in mind. Small square Italian white tiles on the floor contrasted with counters of black marble and complemented shelves painted with high-gloss white enamel. All the colors in the store came from the labels and the food visible in bottles, jars, or the glass-fronted cold chests. The design satisfied her enormously. Walking through the store surveying her neatly stocked shelves, Carrie often felt the same smug little thrill of a little girl playing "Grocery Store."
She went back to her office at the rear and occupied herself for the next hour doing paperwork and making phone calls to some of the local women who supplied the store with specialties. To meet the weekend rush, she asked Florence Ferris to make some of her pecan pies, and from Mary Rinaldi she ordered the cold spinach tortellini, always a big seller. The office was hardly more than a cubbyhole carved out of a corner of the rear storage room, but Carrie had made it into a comfortable place to work with a roll-top desk, a portable television set, and some Indian rugs on the walls. By leaving the door open she could monitor activity in the store according to the sounds that drifted back.
During the morning there was only a trickle of customers, but Patrick could be heard greeting them all by name and engaging them in lively conversation. Then toward noon, Carrie caught a snatch of a woman customer's exchange:
". . . don't know how they could do it to a lovely old place like that."