by Leslie Meier
Things were different back then,” she said, with a shrug. “I’m sure there was plenty of that going on, but it was all very much hidden, secret.”
“That’s true,” agreed Rachel. “And even today there are hate crimes against anyone who’s perceived as different.”
“But we don’t know that Dorcas was the victim,” suggested Lucy. “From the message on the card, it seems she may have been the perpetrator.”
“Or the accuser,” added Miss Tilley.
Lucy sighed. “I’d love to be able to meet Dorcas and talk to her.”
“I bet she has a story to tell,” agreed Rachel, pushing away from the table and picking up Lucy’s and Miss Tilley’s plates. “But first, who’d like some dessert?”
“Dessert? How did you ever manage that?” marveled Lucy.
“Oh, easy. It’s just brownies from a mix.”
“I know I shouldn’t, but I’d love a small one,” admitted Lucy.
“With a scoop of ice cream,” insisted Miss Tilley.
Lucy was pleasantly full when she left, having enjoyed both the meal and the company. But as she walked back to get her car, her mind was full of questions: Was Dorcas/ Doris really the recipient of the card? Was she still alive? Did she really hide the card because of her parents? And finally, what did she lie about? As she walked along, back to her car, Lucy was more determined than ever to find out.
Chapter Three
Once she was back in her car and on the way home, however, she decided that before she did any more investigating into the mysterious Dorcas Pritchett, she really had to find the Christmas cards she’d bought on sale last January and, she thought, tucked away with the Christmas decorations. They weren’t in the plastic tubs of tree ornaments or with the lights; they weren’t even with the holiday place mats and napkins in the sideboard. Frustrated at her own lack of memory, and wondering if this was the early onset of some dreaded dementia, she went upstairs to Bill’s attic office to search in the storage area under the eaves. There, on her hands and knees, she didn’t find the missing boxes of Christmas cards, but she did find a banker’s box full of old papers among the retired furniture, trunks, and stacked artwork.
Curious to see if there was anything about the purchase of the house that might have mentioned the previous owners, she dragged the box out of the dark, dusty space into the brighter and cleaner office and began to flip through the old files. She’d never been terribly organized, so old bank statements and electric bills were mixed in with the kids’ school papers and even artwork. She smiled to see Toby’s kindergarten class photo, featuring an adorable group of kids and a dark-haired Lydia Volpe, who was now gray and retired from teaching. She touched a faded Mother’s Day card made from construction paper and liberally sprinkled with glitter. It was signed by Zoe, spelled with a backward e. Lucy brushed the cascading glitter off her lap, remembering the days when glitter was everywhere, seeping out of the cracks, thanks to the three girls’ art projects.
Working her way through the box, she saw how the kids progressed through school, growing taller in the class photos. The awkward writing became more controlled and the text more sophisticated. Sara’s fifth-grade report on otters featured an accomplished crayon portrait of an otter family and well-organized information, and had earned her a big red A. Fingering the aging paper, Lucy remembered that Sara had fussed and fretted, breaking into tears as she struggled to make the report perfect. That was Sara, she thought, always a bit of a perfectionist, and she wondered how she was getting along at her internship in the geology department at Boston’s Museum of Science.
While Toby, Sara, and Zoe had regularly and reliably received A’s and B’s on their report cards, Elizabeth’s cards told a different story. She got A’s on the subjects that interested her, like English and history, but her science and math grades were disappointing. If only she’d try a little harder and put in a bit of effort, Lucy remembered thinking at the time. She was certainly bright, but motivation was lacking. And glancing at the conduct grades, Lucy grimaced. Elizabeth didn’t pay attention, failed to follow instructions, and was even suspended at one point in her junior year for smoking pot.
As Lucy stared at the notice the principal had mailed to the house informing them of this infraction, and the punishment, she felt all the shame and frustration she had felt when she opened the envelope and read it. That had been an especially difficult year when she and Bill hardly recognized their eldest daughter, who seemed to be constantly in trouble. Worst of all, she remembered, had been the discovery that Elizabeth had lied to them on several occasions. She’d told them she was staying over at a girlfriend’s house, and they later discovered she’d been out with a boy, drinking beer in the conservation area. She’d denied using drugs then, but there was the pot incident when she was caught smoking the illegal substance in the high-school girls’ room. The only thing that gave her desperate parents any hope at all was the surprising discovery that she’d gotten the highest SAT scores in her entire class, including the math portion of the test.
Growing up was hard, thought Lucy, wondering if Dorcas had been a bit of a rebel, like Elizabeth. A girl like that would have chafed at small-town life in the conservative fifties, when conformity was highly prized. Nowadays there was a sense of nostalgia for mid-twentieth-century furniture and decoration, which Lucy found awkward and unappealing. She preferred a sturdy antique wooden table or chest to a garish piece of kidney-shaped Formica with spindly black wire legs. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help smiling at saucy greeting cards that mocked the stifling conventions of that period, when women were supposed to be thrilled to stay home and keep their homes sparkling clean thanks to the miracles of modern chemistry. Modern chemistry that also provided the tranquilizers that got them through those long, boring days with nothing better to do than get busy with Mr. Clean.
She wondered if Dorcas had done something that got her in trouble, something that she didn’t want her strict parents to know about. Perhaps she’d been caught on an illicit date, or drank some liquor, or shoplifted. If she’d gotten caught doing something like that, she might have pinned the blame on somebody else. Somebody who didn’t appreciate being ratted out, and then sent her the card.
It must have been a terrible shock to open that card, and Lucy felt a certain sympathy for young Dorcas. She knew that kids frequently didn’t realize that their actions had consequences; this was something most people learned the hard way. Dorcas must have been both ashamed of herself, and fearful of being discovered, and her first impulse was to hide the card and try to forget all about “GB.”
Lucy was about to replace the lid on the box when she noticed the file tab labeled House, which she’d overlooked. As she’d suspected, the file contained all the papers pertaining to the purchase of the house on Red Top Road, including the mortgage application. The price, which had once seemed so steep, now seemed laughable. Of course the mortgage had grown through the years as they refinanced several times, using the money to help pay for the kids’ college educations and various home improvements.
As Lucy remembered, the purchase and sales agreement specified that the seller of the house was the Seamen’s Savings Bank, but the accompanying title search indicated that Amos Pritchett had indeed been the previous owner. There was no further information, apart from the notation that the property had reverted to the bank.
Lucy was thoughtful as she replaced the lid on the box and shoved it back into the storage area. She wondered what would happen to their house if she and Bill suddenly died in an auto accident or a plane crash. It would go to the kids, but since it was still mortgaged, they would probably have to sell it, hopefully gaining a profit for themselves. Why didn’t Dorcas, or her mother, inherit the house? Why didn’t they make an effort to retain the property? Houses were usually a family’s most valuable asset, and it seemed odd that the supposedly conservative and no-nonsense Pritchetts would have let it slip through their fingers.
She closed the door to the
storage area, then stood and stretched. She really needed to think about dinner for Bill and Zoe, who always came home hungry. She smiled at the thought that maybe she wasn’t so different from those mid-twentieth-century housewives she’d mocked! What is that proverb? she mused, heading back downstairs. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
She made her way downstairs to the kitchen, where Libby greeted her with a halfhearted wag of the tail before settling herself back on her cushy dog bed. Lucy was shocked to see by her prized antique regulator clock on the wall that it was almost four o’clock, when she was expected at the Hat and Mitten Fund meeting. Back when their kids were small, Lucy and her friends had been shocked to see that many of the local children didn’t have adequate winter clothing, so they established the fund to remedy the situation. At first they collected used and outgrown winter gear, which they relied on the schoolteachers to distribute. As time went on and the fund’s reputation grew, they began to hold regular fund-raisers that allowed them to buy new winter clothing for the kids, as well as backpacks and school supplies. The fund also sponsored an annual Halloween party, which was always highly anticipated, and collected toys at Christmas, which were distributed through the food pantry. Today’s meeting was planned to sort and organize the toys, which would be wrapped and labeled according to type and age.
She quickly took a look in the freezer, where she found a container of beef stew she’d made a couple of weeks ago, and transferred it to the fridge. It wouldn’t thaw entirely, but it would be easier to get out of the plastic container, and it would be a quick meal. Then she headed over to the Community Church, where she met Pam in the parking lot and greeted her with a hug.
“Looks like we might get a white Christmas,” observed Pam, sniffing the air as they made their way up the path to the basement parish hall.
Lucy cast her eyes to the sky, where thick gray clouds were gathering, and found herself shivering despite her warm down parka. “It does feel like snow,” she agreed, grabbing the door and holding it for Pam.
Rachel and Sue were already inside the large room, along with numerous boxes and piles of unwrapped toys and dozens of tricycles and bicycles.
“Wow,” marveled Lucy, “this is amazing. Where did it all come from?”
“Ask Rachel,” Sue said as she gave her a little bow and flourished her perfectly-manicured hand. She was dressed for the work session in skinny jeans and an oversized turtleneck, along with a cozy pair of fur-lined boots.
“It’s really thanks to Bob,” said Rachel, smiling as she named her attorney husband. “He handled the Toyland bankruptcy and got his bar association buddies to buy up all the toys at a huge discount to donate to the fund.”
“That was back in June. How come you never mentioned it?” asked Lucy.
“She’s a sly one,” agreed Sue.
“Come to think of it, I wondered why there was no liquidation sale,” said Pam.
“It was at the Toyland owners’ request,” reported Rachel, smiling sympathetically. “They were embarrassed and didn’t want a lot of attention. They preferred a quiet, private resolution to their financial problems.”
“Well, it’s super for us, and the kids,” said Sue. “I guess we’d better get to work. I suggest we start by sorting into three piles—boys, girls, and unisex. Then we can subdivide the piles by age.”
The women stripped off their coats and rolled up their sleeves, unpacking the toys and stacking them in the appropriate groups. After about an hour of steady physical work, fetching and carrying, Lucy plunked herself down on a metal folding chair. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m beat,” she declared.
“We need nourishment,” suggested Rachel. “I thought this might happen, so I brought a thermos of tea and some banana bread.”
“Bring it on,” declared Pam. She ducked into the adjacent kitchen and returned with borrowed mugs, a sugar bowl, and a child-sized milk carton. “I don’t think the Sunday school will miss one little milk.” She set it down on a table. “It was probably left over from last Sunday,” she added by way of rationalization.
“I’m sure we’ll be forgiven,” said Lucy, “considering all our good work.” The four dragged chairs over and gathered around; then Rachel poured the tea and Pam sliced into the banana bread. Sue sipped at a mug of black tea while the others munched on banana bread, which they all agreed was delicious and just what they needed.
“My mom’s recipe,” said Rachel, looking around the big room and the mountains of toys with a look of dismay. “We’re going to need more help. I don’t know how we’re ever going to get through all this.”
“I know,” agreed Pam, nodding her head, which made her ponytail bounce. “I don’t know about you guys, but I really don’t have the time. I’ve got a ton of things to do, and I’m beginning to feel frantic.”
Lucy chewed her banana bread thoughtfully. “Me too. I’ve got my job, and the family’s Christmas, and I haven’t even found the cards I bought after Christmas last year for half price at the IGA, much less written them.”
“Join the club,” said Rachel, refilling her mug from the thermos and adding some sugar. “I have to confess, I really hate those bragging letters. I got one today from my college roommate whose son just got into Stanford business school, her daughter just had twin girls, the whole family loves getting together at the condo in Maui, and her husband was named one of the top society divorce attorneys in Town and Country magazine.”
“I know just how you feel,” agreed Pam. “Those bragging people are always the first ones to send out cards, too. It’s like they can’t wait to let you know how great their lives are and how pathetic yours is by comparison.”
“It isn’t even how successful they are, that’s so bad,” mused Lucy. “It’s the fact that they’re so organized, they’ve got Christmas under control.”
“Oh, and those photos of the happy family in matching red sweaters,” stated Pam, sighing. Her only child, Tim, was a confirmed bachelor living in London.
“Never mind,” advised Sue, with a knowing expression. “If you ask me, those letters and photos are mostly wishful thinking. Next thing you know, the boy genius has moved into the basement, the daughter is having an affair with her obstetrician, the wife has joined a cult, and the divorce lawyer husband is filing for his own divorce.”
“Talk about ‘wishful thinking,’ ” Pam said as they all dissolved into laughter.
“If only,” added Rachel, laughing so hard she had to wipe away a few tears.
“But I’m serious,” protested Lucy, holding her stomach, which ached from laughing. “Where do you think I stashed those cards?”
“Check your pantry,” advised Sue. “Since you bought them at the IGA, you probably put them away with the groceries.”
“Good idea,” said Lucy, standing up and brushing her hands. “I’ll do that. Now what are we going to do with all these toys? It’s an awful lot of extra work for the food pantry volunteers.”
“I have an idea,” began Pam. “You know how the Salvation Army sets up Christmas Castles and invites parents to pick out toys for their kids?”
“But we can’t invite everybody,” objected Rachel. “The bar association insisted that the toys go to needy families. We’d have to get financial statements from the parents and verify that they’re qualified.”
“The food pantry already has that information on file,” suggested Lucy. “Brendan Coyle knows all those folks and could distribute tickets when they pick up their food, and then they could come here and choose the toys.”
“Brilliant,” said Sue, nodding sharply. “Is everyone agreed?”
They were. “And now we’ll all have something to put in our bragging Christmas letters,” said Pam. “We get to play Santa Claus for real.” She grinned wickedly. “It’s hard to beat that.”
Chapter Four
A light snow was falling on Monday morning when Lucy drove her all-wheel-drive SUV to the Jacob Pratt House, which wa
s the headquarters of the Tinker’s Cove Historical Society, to view the exhibit of vintage Christmas cards. The snow wasn’t deep, but was coming down steadily and settling on the electric wires, gathering on the branches of the balsam pines and outlining the bare limbs of trees. It covered up all sorts of eyesores like derelict cars and collapsing outbuildings, and for a day or two at least, the old Maine town would be as perfect as a Christmas card. Then, of course, the lingering snow would turn gray and ugly from the car exhaust and woodstove smoke, but that was in the future. For now, in this moment, Lucy was listening to carols on the car radio and enjoying the temporary beauty of the falling snow.
When she arrived at the Pratt House, a tiny little gray-shingled Cape-style antique that had been lovingly restored by the society, and stepped out of the car, she was struck by the peace and serenity. It seemed as if she was the only person in town who was out and about as she noticed there were no other cars in the parking area. She wondered briefly if she was too early for her appointment, or if perhaps the society president, Hetty Furness, might have decided to stay home and pamper her recently-replaced knee, when a little red MINI Cooper rolled up the drive and stopped beside her.
“Hi, Lucy, I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” said Hetty, who had rolled down the window.
“Nope. Just got here.”
Hetty was rolling the window back up, and struggling a bit to open the door.
“Let me help,” said Lucy, grabbing the door handle. When the door was open, she gave Hetty a hand to help her out of the car, but once she was on her booted feet with cane in hand, Hetty shook off Lucy’s assistance.
“Thanks, but I’m fine, once I’m up,” she insisted, taking off up the snow-covered brick walkway with Lucy hurrying to catch up. The stairs to the porch posed a bit of an obstacle to Hetty, but she grabbed the handrail and hauled herself up the three steps, taking them one at a time and leading with her good leg. Hetty then produced a huge ring of keys and unlocked the front door, which was decorated with a fragrant balsam wreath. The house was cool when they stepped into the hallway, but Hetty zoomed over to a modern thermostat on the wall. In a few minutes heated air began to flow through the vintage registers.