The denim skirt would do nicely. It came to just below her knee. With it she’d wear a white button-down shirt. The sleeves were long, but she could roll them to her elbows. She zipped up the skirt and buttoned the shirt to one button above cleavage. She frowned when she looked at her reflection in the mirror, then undid the top button. She was going for that friend only vibe, not last stop on my way to the convent. Wide hoop earrings of hammered silver and a gathering of silver bangles for her wrist, a pair of strappy sandals, and she was almost, but not quite, ready when the desk called to tell her she had a visitor. She feathered her blond bangs, dabbed on a tiny bit of plum eyeliner that always brought out the green of her eyes, swiped on a little more mascara, dabbed lip gloss onto her full lips, hung her sunglasses from the V in the front of her shirt, and left her room.
Cass was halfway down the stairwell when she saw Owen waiting at the bottom, watching as she took every step. The look on his face made her so self-conscious that not until she got to the last step did she notice what he was wearing. Blue jeans. A white buttoned-down shirt, dark glasses hanging from the neck.
She stared at him for almost as long as he stared at her.
“What?” he asked.
“We look like the Bobbsey twins.”
“Who?”
“The Bobbsey twins. You know, Nan? Bert?”
Owen shrugged. “I don’t know them.”
“Seriously? You never read the Bobbsey Twins books when you were a kid?”
“I didn’t read much of anything when I was a kid.”
“Wow. You’re the first person I ever met who actually admitted they didn’t read.” She wrinkled her nose to show her disdain.
“I said I didn’t read when I was a kid, not that I don’t read now. I read a lot now. So forgive me if I don’t get the Bobbsey thing.”
“I just meant that we’re dressed alike. White shirt on top. Dark denim on the bottom.”
“Looks better on you. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She smiled and headed toward the door.
Owen caught up in one stride. “We have one stop to make before we get to where we’re going,” he told her as he opened the car door for her.
Well, he does have manners, I’ll give him that, Cass thought as she buckled her seat belt. “Where are we stopping? And where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He started the engine.
Was there anything more annoying than a cryptic man?
At the end of the drive, he made a right. She’d assumed he’d be turning left, toward town, where the restaurants were located. Even a newcomer to St. Dennis such as her knew that no restaurants were on the other side of town.
As they approached the bridge over the sound, she raised her eyebrows. “Cannonball Island?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” Owen nodded.
“There are no restaurants on Cannonball Island.”
“Says you.” He paused on the other side of the bridge and craned his neck as if looking for traffic, right before he made a turn to the left.
“I thought this road was one-way.” Cass frowned.
“Unofficially. It’s custom, not law. But there’s nothing coming the other way, and I don’t feel like driving all the way around the island to go five hundred feet to the general store.” He whipped around the curve, then made a quick right into the store’s parking lot.
“Why are we going to the store?”
“I need to make a pickup.”
“What are you up to, Owen? You promised me stories.”
“I’m going one better.” He got out of the car. “I’m bringing you a master storyteller.” He slammed the car door and took the steps leading to the door of the store two at a time.
The storyteller. Ruby Carter, of course. Cass could have kicked herself. She could have simply spent an afternoon at the general store and forgone the dinner with Owen.
The door opened, and Owen came out onto the porch holding Ruby’s arm, and a smile spread across Cass’s face.
Cass was delighted to see Ruby. They’d met several times, and Cass adored her. If anyone knew the island’s stories, it was this woman. And if anyone could take the edge off Cass’s actually spending the next few hours with Owen, it would be Ruby.
Hmmmm. Interesting move on his part.
“Miz Carter, I’m so happy to see you.” Cass turned in her seat to greet the old woman.
“Be happy to see you, too, Cass. Owen said you be needing some talk about the island folk and so on.” As usual, Ruby got straight to the point. Owen helped her into the car and snapped her seat belt for her before closing the door. “I suppose I know something there.”
“I’m sure you know everything there is to tell,” Cass said.
“Maybe not everything. Some be knowing more, maybe. But I know a bit. Can’t live one hundred years in the same place and not learn a thing or two, what is and what’s been. What people be saying and what they be thinking.”
“Well, I can’t wait to hear what you remember,” Cass said over her shoulder, then turned back to face the front of the car.
“Not a whole lot wrong with my memory,” Ruby told her.
“Well done,” Cass said softly to Owen.
“Thank you.” He was obviously pleased with himself.
They’d driven around the island—Owen, no doubt fearing Ruby’s rebuke, decided not to drive contrary to local custom. About two-thirds of the way around, Owen pulled into the driveway of one of the island’s only two-story houses and turned off the car. Cass studied the house before her. She hadn’t seen it before due to the thick stand of pines and cypress trees that grew across the entire front of the property. White clapboard, with a wraparound porch and lots of gingerbread trim, it was clearly Victorian in style, an anomaly on Cannonball Island.
Were they picking up yet another storyteller?
“Gigi, hand me that bag there on the floor next to your feet, please.” Owen had gotten out of the car and helped Ruby out. Cass had opened her own door, and Owen held it while she stepped down from the Jeep.
“What is this place?” Cass asked.
“Emily Hart’s.”
“Is this a restaurant?”
“Of sorts.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s a restaurant when Mrs. Hart serves folks at her dining-room table and you pay her for the meal. You pay her when you make the reservations, and if you don’t show up, you don’t get a refund. You eat whatever it is she cooked that night, information you should try to obtain before you ante up the cash, ’cause if you don’t like what she serves, it’s too bad. Like I said, no refunds. Got all that?”
“Yeah. Clear as mud. Do you know what she’s serving tonight?”
“She hadn’t made up her mind when I stopped by. But it doesn’t matter to me. Everything she makes is terrific. Now, would you please close Ruby’s door? I want to give her a hand here since the ground is a little uneven.”
Cass closed the back door and, equally confused and intrigued, followed Ruby and Owen up the steps. She’d never heard of Emily Hart, and there was no sign out front to identify the place as a restaurant.
The wraparound porch was wide enough to host a row of rocking chairs and was framed by a railing that could use a new coat of paint in the near future. The front door was painted black, the top half stained glass, and stood half-open. Rather than knock, Owen pushed it all the way into the foyer, held Ruby’s elbow as she stepped inside, then motioned for Cass to follow. Still uncertain as to what was going on, Cass complied, her curiosity piqued.
“There you be, Ruby. I been watching for you. Owen be good enough to stop over this morning to see if I had room for y’all. I told him there was always room at my table for Ruby Carter and her kin.” A short woman in her late seventies, Emily Hart was whip thin, had white hair piled atop her head, and was dressed in bright blue polyester pants and a matching top. Taking Ruby’s hand, she said, “Nothing like seein’ an old friend to make your h
eart feel good. Come on in, now. Owen, you go ’head and close that door behind you. The table be full now.”
Emily turned to Cass. “And who you be, girl?”
“Mrs. Hart, this is a friend, Cass Logan,” Owen said.
Emily studied Cass’s face for a moment. “She be a pretty one, Owen Parker.”
Owen laughed. “Just a friend, Mrs. Hart.”
A twinkle in her eye, Emily nodded. “That would make her smart as well as pretty. Now, y’all go on in and find your places. Dinner be ready in just a few.”
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Owen placed a hand in the middle of Cass’s back and ushered her to the end of the hall, then into a room on the left.
“Oysters to start. I know you be liking them. Always did, if I recall,” Emily replied.
“Best oysters in the world come from the Chesapeake,” Owen said.
“You be right as rain ’bout that, son.” Emily patted Owen on the back.
Owen stepped aside so that Ruby and Cass could enter the dining room. He held the chair at the head of the long table for Ruby, seated her, then held a chair for Cass.
Still just a bit confused, Cass smiled at the others who were already seated at the table, which accommodated ten. At the opposite foot sat a woman of around fifty, her brown hair streaked with gray, and next to her on either side were two men in their twenties. The others at the table were a man and woman who sat with their heads together as they whispered to each other, and a young couple who studied the others as if mentally taking notes.
“Now, just so’s you know, this be Mrs. Janet Hagen and her sons, Tim and Joe. They be from Pennsylvania. Ruby, you remember Tom Hagen, Ida and Harry’s son?”
“I do.” Ruby nodded.
“Tom—Janet’s husband, rest his soul—passed on last summer. Janet here brought their boys so they could see where their father growed up. We’re pleased to offer them our hospitality.” Emily leaned on the back of the closest chair. “Next to Tim there be Pat and Carl Wagner. Up from South Carolina.”
“You be Carl the third,” Ruby told him, her eyes narrowing.
“I am. Did you know my dad?”
“I knew your dad, but I knew your granddaddy better. He was a friend of my youngest girl, Hannah. You be the image of him.”
“I never knew him. He died before I was born.”
“Dredging for oysters in the bay, storm came from nowhere and churned up waves the likes of which we’d never seen. Carl and his brother, Allen, couldn’t get their boat turned around. It went down in twenty minutes, I heard tell, all on board.”
“I heard he’d drowned, but I never knew the details,” the young man said.
“You stop over to the store tomorrow, I’ll show you a picture of Carl and Al with my Harold, two days before their last.”
“Ruby owns the general store there by the bridge to the mainland,” Emily explained. “You be sure, now, to stop on up.”
“I definitely will.” Carl nodded.
Emily continued with her introductions. “Go far enough back, we all be related, one way or another. Now, these here young folks be Diane and Ed Jenkins. Diane’s mama grew up on the island, left to go up to college, and never did come back.” Emily turned to Ruby. “Know who her mama was?”
Ruby studied the woman’s face for a long moment. “I be guessing one of the Pratt girls. Both be gone for a while now.”
“My mother was Josie Pratt,” the young woman told her.
Ruby nodded. “Josie be a friend of my granddaughter Kathleen, Owen’s mama. Nice girl. Couldn’t wait to see the world, that one. I heard she was one to travel after she finished her schooling.”
“She did. She studied photography and worked for a magazine writing travel articles before I was born. She flew all over the world, taking pictures for them. She’s not doing well. The doctors say she has about another three months.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “We made the arrangements for this trip back in May, when things looked a little better and she wanted to see the island one more time. By the end of August, she realized she wasn’t strong enough to travel from New Hampshire to Maryland, but she wanted us to come and take pictures of different places on the island and in St. Dennis so she could see . . .” Diane swallowed hard. “Wanted to see the place where she grew up.”
“You stop over to see me and I’ll show you some pictures of Josie and Kathleen when they were just little things. And next time you talk to her, you tell her Ruby Carter said hello.”
“You’re Ruby Carter?” The woman’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard of you. My fraternal grandmother, Rebecca Singer, talked about you.”
“Your grandmother be buried right down the road. I expect you’ll want to pay your respects while you’re here,” Ruby told her. “The Singer graveyard be in front of the second house to the right of the first chapel you come to when you leave here. Little white fence be around the stones. You’ll find Becky Singer there.”
“No end to who knows who here,” Emily told them. To round out the table, she added, “This be Owen Parker, Ruby’s great-grandson, and his pretty friend . . .” Emily shook her head. “I’m sorry. Who you be again?”
“Cass Logan.”
“Right. So that’s who you all are. Now I got to be back in the kitchen or you won’t be eating until morning.” Emily grinned as she left the room. “Not that I don’t make as fine a breakfast as you’d get on the Eastern Shore. Folks been asking me, but I . . .” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared into the kitchen.
An awkward silence followed, but lasted no more than a moment.
“Mrs. Carter, what can you tell me about my grandfather?”
“How well did you know my great-grandmother, Mrs. Carter?”
“Do you remember my aunt Sherry, Mrs. Carter? My mother’s older sister?”
Ruby smiled and pointed to the pitcher of water in front of Owen, who lifted it and filled her glass for her.
Cass picked up her glass and met Owen’s eyes across the table. Jelly-jar water glasses? she mouthed.
“You get extra points if you can identify the brand, more if you know what flavor,” he whispered across the table.
“Welch’s,” Cass whispered back. “Grape.”
“Points for the brand, but it has to have been strawberry.”
Cass frowned. “How would you know that?”
“Because strawberry is the only kind Emily ever buys at the store.”
Ruby shot him a scowl. “You being disrespectful to Mrs. Hart?”
“No, ma’am. Just sharing a little island lore with Cass.”
Ruby glanced down the table, her eyes settling on Carl Wagner. “Your great-uncle Allen was a waterman by trade, but he painted some mighty nice pictures. Some of them be hanging down at the new art center. A few others in the dining room at the inn there on Charles Street.”
“You mean the Inn at Sinclair’s Point?” Carl asked.
Ruby nodded. “He had the knack, all right. But his daddy saw no future in painting. The year we moved over the store—that be me and my Harold and the last of our children who still be home—Allen’s daddy told him if he liked painting so much, he could paint the house for him.” Ruby smiled. “Allen not be one to argue, so he spent the rest of that summer painting that house. Wasn’t till the fall that his daddy realized he’d painted a picture of a whole slew of boats out on the bay on the side of that house.”
Emily’s granddaughters came in with plates of raw oysters. They placed one in front of each guest except for Diane Jenkins, who waved them away.
“That house is still standing,” Owen said. “And the painting is still there. It’s faded and weathered, peeled off in places, but you can see a few of the boats. I used to take the long way home from fishing out on the point just to walk past it. I saw something different every time.”
Cass studied the three plump oysters on her plate, then picked one up and slurped it down. She glanced across the table at Owen. In his hand, he held one of his
oysters, but he seemed to be more interested in Cass’s than his own. She smiled, picked up a second, raised it to her lips, and, still looking at him, tilted her head back and the oyster slid between her lips.
“Word was Allen’s daddy wanted him to paint over it all, said if he wanted the bay in his backyard he’d have built a house on the beach. But Allen’s mama wouldn’t hear none of it. Said it made her smile to see all those boats up close like that. After that, Allen sent away for paints and such, small canvases that he had sent to the general store so his daddy wouldn’t know he was still painting, and he’d pick them up on mail day.” Ruby glanced at Owen. “Some of his work be hanging down there in the Enright mansion, same as your sister Lisbeth’s.”
“I had no idea we had an artist in the family,” Carl was saying. “Where’s this art center? We’ll have to go there before we leave St. Dennis.”
Ruby gave directions.
Cass downed her last oyster and licked her lips. Owen was still staring at her.
“Are you going to eat that?” Cass said, her eyes on the oyster he still held in his hand.
Owen turned his attention to his oysters as the servers returned to collect the oyster dishes.
“You’re falling behind, Parker,” Cass whispered from across the table.
He downed the second. “Some things need to be savored.” He leaned closer to the table and whispered, “And sometimes you can’t wait.” He quickly popped the third oyster into his mouth and swallowed it in a flash.
A tiny smile crossed Cass’s lips. She turned her attention back to the conversation around them.
“What year would that have been, Miz Carter?” Carl asked. “When my great-uncle was painting?”
Ruby thought about it for a moment. “I’m guessing maybe it be around 1948 or so, then on till he passed. That be sometime in the fifties, thereabouts.”
The Chesapeake Bride Page 5