Message in the Sand

by Hannah McKinnon

  Now, when he showed up early to work as he had since the accident, Wendell remained alert for signs of the girls. Secretly, he feared seeing them. He would not know what to say or if he should say anything at all. Wendell was no good at this kind of thing. It was better to keep his distance, to stay in the background, taking care of White Pines as Alan would want.

  Jerry and Hank arrived shortly after, and the three loaded up the Gator with weed eaters and headed down to the lake. That morning they’d trim along the outer edge of the cattails and natural grasses that grew along the water’s edge. Alan was adamant about keeping the lake in its natural state, and he preferred to leave all vegetation alone for habitat areas. That way the waterfowl could nest and raise their young in the protective covering of the reeds and thicket. The mist was thick that morning, rising in cottony strands from the water’s surface. It was the very kind of scene Alan used to love, and often Wendell would see the man strolling along the lake with his dog in early-morning hours. There was so much he owed Alan.

  * * *

  When he’d first come back from Afghanistan, Wendell did not reenter civilian life easily. His father refused to speak of Wesley, and Wendell, who’d been some fourteen hundred miles away the night Wesley’s unit was attacked, could not help but think that there had been some failing on his part to protect his little brother; that his father wondered how one son had come home without the other. It could just as easily have been Wendell. Maybe it should have been.

  The moment Wendell’s plane touched down, Ginny was back from Boston. But he could not bring himself to see her. It was too painful; he didn’t expect her to understand that seeing her now was a glaring reminder of all that would never be. Even at the funeral, where Ginny sat in the pew behind him weeping softly between her parents, and later pressed her hand in his during the receiving line, Wendell could barely lift his eyes to meet hers. He couldn’t explain why, but the moment he met her tear-filled gaze a rush of shame filled him. It wasn’t fair that Wendell was home in Saybrook, safe and sound, without his little brother. It didn’t make sense.

  For a while, Ginny refused to give up. She left messages, begging Wendell to at least sit down and talk. Several times she drove to the farmhouse and knocked on the door, while Wendell stayed on the other side holding his breath. On her last night before she went back to Boston, Ginny stood below his bedroom and tossed pebbles up at his window. It was agony. She was leaving in the morning, and there was a nearly full moon, and Wendell had to will himself to stay put. Second to coming home without Wesley, it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But Ginny was so alive, so full of hope; she deserved someone who had the same to offer. He told himself these things as he lay in the dark listening to her stones plink off his bedroom window one after the other. If Wendell could have felt anything at all, he would’ve rushed downstairs and pulled her inside and begged her forgiveness. But he was numb.

  Once Ginny left, Wendell stuck to his pattern of self-isolation. He hung his National Guard uniform in the closet, stopped shaving, and spent his days rattling around the house. Eventually, old friends stopped calling. Neighbors stopped dropping off casseroles. Upon Wesley’s death, his father had retired from his first selectman position, and the two fell into an unspoken agreement of seclusion. It felt as if the farmhouse was holding its breath as he and his father coexisted in silence. Just when Wendell thought he’d lose his mind, he ran into Alan outside the market. Wesley wasn’t the only one who’d died while Wendell was overseas. Alan’s father, whom Wendell had worked for during the summers, had passed away while he was gone.

  Alan was standing in front of the community bulletin board outside the market entrance, and when he saw Wendell, he did a double take. “Wendell, welcome home!” Then, “I was very sorry to hear about your brother.”

  “As was I about your father,” Wendell replied. “He was a good man to work for.”

  Alan nodded sadly. “Well, it’s not the same, is it? He lived to be an old man.” Then, “The whole town was very proud of both you boys.”

  When Wendell didn’t say anything, Alan looked down at the flyer in his hand. “Hard to find good help these days.” He turned to the community bulletin board outside the market entrance and pinned it up. It was a help-wanted sign. “It was good to see you, Wendell. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

  Alan was halfway to his car when Wendell tore the flyer off the bulletin board. “Alan.” He held it aloft. “There is something you can do.”

  The work was draining and the days long, but White Pines was quiet and secluded. Alan liked the idea of a strong young veteran soldier managing the estate. Wendell was quiet, and Alan respected that. Wendell could pour himself into the job and work until near collapse, returning home merely to eat dinner and then fall into bed before rising the next morning to start again. For a while it quieted the dark thoughts in his head.

  Eventually, Wendell needed more, and since he wasn’t allowing himself the comfort of Ginny or his friends, he found it at the Spigot. It started with Friday-night happy hours at the local watering hole, where he found a dark corner stool at the bar. Sometimes he bumped into locals who offered him a beer or, worse, toasted the memory of Wesley. But the beers were cheap and cold and helped to pass the time. Before long, Wendell became a regular. Most nights after work he’d come in, starting with a bottle of beer and some wings. Ending with a glass of bourbon, neat, and a warm numbness that got him through the night.

  At first he was able to keep his growing nighttime habit out of the daylight, but after a while Wendell began to slip. A few times he showed up late and other times hungover. Alan didn’t say anything at first. But then Wendell missed a day’s work, and once, when Alan came to oversee him cutting a tree that had fallen during a storm, Wendell’s hands began to shake so badly that he felt the blade slip. Quickly, he drew it back and set the saw down in the grass between them.

  “Take the rest of the day off,” Alan said, relieving him of the chain saw.

  Wendell sat back on his haunches, trying to compose himself. “I’m just tired.”

  Alan glared at him. “You almost cut off your goddamn hand. Go home.”

  That night, Alan pushed the Spigot’s front door open. Wendell didn’t see him right away. The usual customers were saddled up at the bar when Alan tapped roughly on Wendell’s shoulder. “This stool taken?” He pointed to the empty seat.

  Wendell gave him a sharp look. This wasn’t Alan’s place, and he didn’t appreciate Alan tracking him down.

  “So, what are we drinking?” Alan asked, picking up Wendell’s glass and taking a sniff. “Ah. The good stuff.”

  “Hey.” Wendell took his glass back and the two exchanged a look.

  When the bartender came over, Alan pointed to the empty spot in front of him. “One for me, too, please.”

  Wendell was too angry to speak, but Alan didn’t seem to mind. Glass by glass, Alan kept silent pace. After his second, he started talking. He talked about growing up as the son of Alan Lancaster Sr., and how hard it was. “He was a great man in town but a tough bastard to live with. My sister never could get the hang of him.” It was the only time Wendell had heard him talk about his sister, Candace, and how she’d long hated White Pines. How she’d felt their father favored Alan, as a son, and how that distanced her from the family to the point where she moved overseas and kept little contact. “She’s never even met my daughters,” Alan lamented, now emptying his third glass. He set it down on the bar and turned to Wendell. “Your turn.”

  Unable to hide his curiosity, Wendell had been listening to the stories. If Alan wanted to keep talking, that was fine with him. But he had no desire to talk himself. “My turn?” he shook his head and held up his glass for the bartender.

  Alan leaned in. “Tell me about Wesley.”

  Wendell could’ve turned and punched him in the face. The urge hit him before the thought did. Instead, he pushed his empty glass away. “Not your concern,” he
growled beneath his breath.

  Alan didn’t hesitate. “You need to talk to somebody. Whatever happened over there—it’s eating you alive.”

  “What the hell do you know?” Wendell asked. Who did Alan think he was?

  “I know my father saw something in you all those summers you worked for him in college,” Alan said. His voice was as gruff now as it had been when he took the chain saw away from him earlier that afternoon. Wendell’s cheeks burned at the memory. “And I know you’ve come back carrying a burden that you can’t afford to carry any longer. So tell me.”

  Wendell scoffed. Alan was full of himself, so privileged. “Alan, you don’t want to know. You’ve probably never had a blister on your hand, let alone carried an eighty-pound backpack across a desert in hundred-and-ten-degree heat.”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “You’ve never followed your company commander through mountain villages asking civilians where the Taliban is.”

  “Never have, Wendell.”

  “Or stayed up all night on watch, bored to near death, only to suddenly hear the firecracker snapping that comes before a supersonic round passes.”

  Alan’s eyes were trained on his. “Go on.”

  Wendell did not mention how he’d received word of Wesley’s death by a suicide bomber while he was coming in from a night patrol. How a helicopter had landed to deliver the news and bring him back to base. What he shared was coming home alone. And driving to Bradley Air National Guard Base with his father in the truck to meet Wesley’s remains. “The look on my father’s face when he picked me up. I will always wonder if he wished he was picking up my little brother instead.”

  It was the first time Wendell had said it out loud. And Alan was the only person he’d ever said that to.

  “I want you to get help,” Alan said when Wendell was done speaking. He rested a hand on his back. “I’ll let you stay on at White Pines, but first you have to agree to get help.”

  Now, eight years later, Wendell still saw Dr. Westerberg on occasion. He was better, thanks in part to Alan’s intervention, and thanks to the therapy he’d received. It wasn’t just White Pines that had saved him; it had also been Alan.

  * * *

  As the men worked along the lake, Wendell turned the Gator back up to the barn and drove across the southern fields. By then the mist had dissipated in the morning heat, and the view was clear to the main house on the rise. There was no sign of the girls, but as he headed up the hill he noticed a tall figure walking down the upper lawn. It was a woman, and as he approached, she waved.

  Wendell pulled up to meet her and cut the motor, careful to wipe his palms on his jeans as he hopped out of the Gator. “Wendell Combs,” he said, extending his hand. “I manage the property for Alan.” He paused, realizing his mistake.

  But if it bothered her, she gave no indication. “Candace Lancaster. Nice to meet you.”

  She had a slight British accent, Wendell noted with curiosity. “I am very sorry for your loss,” he told her. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.” Then her gaze shifted to the green landscape behind him. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work, but I wanted a moment to speak, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course.”

  “As you can probably imagine, there is much to be decided. I have come over from London to see to the girls. However, it also falls upon me to manage my brother’s estate.”

  Was Candace Lancaster referring to White Pines or to Alan’s will?

  “Until we decide next steps, I would like to continue running things as my brother did. You are the general manager, I hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m the full-time manager, though there are two other men who assist me. My schedule is Monday through Friday, eight o’clock to four p.m.” He paused. “I’ve worked here since your father oversaw the property.”

  “Then you’re well acquainted with what needs to be done.”

  “I am. Right now we’re focused on mowing around the lake and trimming the orchards. Alan has an arrangement with a local farmer who comes in twice each summer to hay the upper fields, but that won’t be until mid-July, when the grasses come in—”

  Candace raised an elegant hand to stop him. “I don’t need all the details, please. I’m confident you have everything under control.”

  Wendell closed his mouth. Something about her abruptness made him wonder whether she was overwhelmed by grief or, rather, did not care to know the details of White Pines. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Please know I will take pains to make sure everything is taken care of, and I won’t bother you with any details unless something important arises.”

  Candace’s sharp gaze pivoted back to his, and she held it appraisingly. The only things familiar to him as far as being a Lancaster were the steely blue eyes, the same as Alan’s and their father’s. “Very good. Your paychecks will remain uninterrupted during the transition. If there is anything I need to be apprised of, please find me here at the main house.”

  “I will.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, the family attorney is coming by to review plans for the estate. I’d like to invite you to join in that meeting. Does four o’clock work?”

  Wendell considered. “That works for me.”

  “Good.” She turned and pointed to the house. “Until then, I’d like the crew to work on the areas surrounding the house.”

  Wendell scratched his head. The pear trees were next on the schedule, and he’d really hoped to start shearing them that afternoon. “I’d be happy to tidy the house beds for you, but this afternoon I’d planned to work on the orchard. Can the beds wait until later in the week? The pear trees really need to be sheared.”

  Candace’s expression shifted. “My mother’s pear orchard? I didn’t realize it still existed.”

  “It does. And it’s blooming now. I can take you to see it if you’d like.”

  She gazed in the direction of the east fields, to where the orchard lay. “I can’t believe they’re still alive…” she began softly. Then she shook her head quickly. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

  Wendell searched her face. Gone was the moment he thought he’d seen some flicker of emotion. He didn’t yet know her plans for the future of White Pines, but he’d thought that showing her the orchard might inspire some sentimentality and give him a chance to get a read on her thoughts. “Then I’ll plan to join you tomorrow at four o’clock,” he said instead.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Very well.” Candace was partway up the yard when she halted and turned. “Don’t waste time shearing in the orchard today. I’d rather the boxwoods along the front of the house get done.”

  “Are you sure? Alan liked the orchard done early in the summer.”

  “That won’t be necessary. What’s more important is the main house. I’d like to enhance the house’s curb appeal, that sort of thing. I’ll explain at the meeting tomorrow.”

  “Alright.” Wendell climbed back into the Gator and watched her retreat to the house. It no longer mattered what she explained at the proposed meeting. He already knew. Candace Lancaster had a new plan for White Pines.

  Twelve Julia

  Breakfast was plain steel-cut oatmeal. Again. Julia dragged her spoon through the gluey concoction and stole a glance at her aunt across the table. Candace had a cup of tea in front of her and was reading an article in The Atlantic. Her father’s magazine, Julia thought wistfully. Beside her, Pippa slumped in her chair. “Come on, Pip. One bite.”

  Pippa shook her head, ever so slightly.

  Candace glanced over the top of the magazine. “Don’t you like oatmeal?”

  Julia watched their aunt squint in disapproval, waiting for a reply. When none came, Julia spoke up. “She does. It’s just that we’ve never had it like this.” She glanced down at the bowl of gray mush. Would it have killed their aunt to add a spoonful of sugar? Or some cut pieces of fruit? Something kid-friendly. Candace h
ad made an effort, she supposed, but it had never occurred to her to ask the girls what they liked to eat.

  Now their aunt sighed. “Well, how does she like it?”

  Julia paused. “My mom used to make it with cream and fresh peaches from our fruit trees. But they won’t be ripe until—”

  “August,” their aunt interjected, glancing out the window facing the orchards. “Late-August sun makes the juiciest fruit.”

  Julia studied her aunt. Candace was a mystery. A complete stranger their father had never talked much about, except to say she’d not liked White Pines the way he had. That she was a city person, and as soon as she could, she’d traded New York for London, where she worked in some kind of finance. Which was why he’d moved his family to the Connecticut estate when their grandfather died and passed it down to him. But now, Julia realized, there might be more to the story.

  “Well, how about an egg?” Candace asked.

  This gave Julia a measure of hope. She turned to her sister. “You like them scrambled with butter. Right, Pip?” she asked brightly.

  “Why don’t you let her answer,” Candace said.

  But Pippa was not going to answer, Julia already knew. Just as she was not going to eat. And the small spark of hope Julia had felt for her aunt extinguished like a candle flame.

  “Pippa, would you eat a scrambled egg?” Candace asked again.

  Pippa stared at the bowl of oatmeal in front of her as if she couldn’t hear.

  “Pippa?” she said again.

  Julia couldn’t stand it a second more. “Can we just get her to eat something first, and then worry about her talking?” she cried.

  Candace looked at her sharply.