The Secret of Hailey's Comments

by Kristy Tate

  #

  I didn’t think I would sleep, but I must have because when I woke I was curled on the floor in a patch of weak-morning sun. I tripped over Wyeth as I opened the window to let in the clear air. The storm had seemed a dream, but bracken, branches, and green debris littered the small lawn, a testament of the violent weather. Daffodils had lost their heads, tulips had been broken, and a branch the length of a small car lay across the brick path. The neighboring islands that had disappeared in the clouds now sparkled out in the Sound. I heard gulls cry, birds sing, and the lap of the tide, but other than Wyeth’s wheezing, I heard nothing from inside the house.

  I pushed Wyeth with my foot. “Come on,” I whispered, “be a watch dog.” I hauled him up by his collar. He shook twice and then clicked after me to the door. I listened for my visitors. Hearing not even the raccoons, I went out onto the tiny landing. Slowly, quietly, I walked down the stairs. Wyeth stayed on the landing, then disappeared back into the bedroom presumably to lie back down.

  I was alone.

  An unsigned note was propped on the mantle. “Thanks for walls and roof.” Folded blankets and sheets sat in a neat pile on the sofa. A pot of water simmered on the stove and the refrigerator hummed. The electricity was back on. I sat down with a bowl of blueberries and cereal and wondered what to do next.

  Painting and waiting for more intruders seemed out of the question, but the blueberries gave me an idea.

  #

  After another check of the locks, which I realized was pointless since Phil had a key, I took a quick shower before Wyeth and I started toward the village. Fallen branches and rain puddles the size of small ponds occasionally detoured us. Squirrels chattered and Wyeth, maybe sensing my bad mood, ignored them.

  Crossing the headland, I spotted a bright triangle of blue where a dome tent stood on its side, stopped against a rotting tree stump. The campsite looked deserted, so Wyeth and I tramped up the hill to take a look. The wind blew stronger at the top pulling at my sweater and teasing my hair out of its clip. To the left I saw the sharp angled roof of what had to be Dunsmuir House. Even from a distance it looked imposingly grand, and I had to wonder what had made the Dunsmuir ancestor choose to build a mansion on lonely Lister Island.

  “To paint?” my inner art critic sniffed.

  “Everyone needs quiet some times,” I told the critic. “But to build a home and a life in such a remote location, screams of running away.”

  “What are you running from?” the critic questioned.

  I ignored her.

  To be creatively productive in anything, needs must be met. Shelter is basic. I needed to know I had a safe place to stay. If Phil Henderson claimed my cottage, even if he simply kept the key, I needed to leave.

  Artie, and maybe several other women I knew, wouldn’t mind sharing a cottage with a handsome stranger or two. But strangers negated the whole I-need-solitude-to-paint argument. I tugged on Wyeth’s leash and we headed down the hill.

  Wyeth looked at me and whined. I studied the bay, dock and boat house. Sun reflected a bright glare from the boat house’s tin roof and the weathered dock stretched out into the blue Sound. Everything looked peaceful, and more importantly, empty. What if the two men had arranged to meet at the cottage and I’d interrupted their plans?

  I was the interloper. I should go home. Hunching my shoulders, I trudged toward town. The dirt path spun out of the trees and ramshackle farms spattered the hills. An undetermined breed of dog left his place on a porch suspended by a lone post to bark at Wyeth. Fortunately, the dog stayed on his side of the low rock wall.

  Wyeth gave the dog a hostile glance and curled his lip. The mongrel returned to his porch, his tail slumped in defeat. Aside from the cottage and Jenson’s farm, Lister Island was, I decided, rather bleak.

  A few steps later a monster across the pasture caught my attention. I stopped to watch a man try and wrestle the wooly mammoth-like creature into a pen. The man wore jeans and a sweatshirt pushed up to his elbows. He swore like a sailor calling the animal, Twinkie. A young man carrying a switch appeared from behind the animal, trying to persuade the mammoth to cross a broken fence. For several minutes I watched the man verses mammoth dance until I realized I was watching Lucy, her husband and Jeff. I considered offering to help, but then decided since my mammoth experience was limited, I’d probably be in the way.

  Wyeth and I arrived at the village with muddy boots and paws. I debated on how to confront Lucy about renting out a cottage she didn’t own. Maybe someone prone to cow and mammoth emergencies, someone who fought to keep a small, most likely unprofitable farm from being sucked into a large, successful farm? I decided to first call Artie and arrange my ride back to real life. Maybe by then Twinkie the mammoth would be caged.

  I followed the dirt path through a thicket of trees and down a hill to the hub of town. The Sound, so angry, gray and frothing during the previous night’s storm, sparkled blue. Tiny whitecaps broke against the pilings. The sun reflected off the white-washed buildings and the church steeple. I raised my arm to cut the glare.

  A shrill voice called out. “Oh yoo-who!”

  A tiny woman stood in the center of the flower infested yard of Miss LaRue’s Lending Library. Her hand-embroidered dress—white with bouquets of yellow, fuchsia, and aquamarine—competed with the flower beds. A pink scarf, reminiscent of Artie’s bandanas, tied back her gray curls. I returned her wave.

  “These geraniums are giving me fits,” she called to me over the picket fence that separated her property from the road. She shook a trowel at me. “They’re completely overrunning my beds! I don’t know what you were thinking!”

  “What I was thinking?” I stammered. Wyeth stopped beside me and sat down to scratch his ear with his paw as if he were confused too. A fat tabby on the library’s window sill shook her tail at him. Wyeth stopped scratching, whined, and gave me a pleading look.

  “It’s out of control.” Two bright pink circles dotted the woman’s cheeks. I couldn’t tell if she’d had too much sun or if her make-up was also, as she said, out of control. She pointed her trowel at the offending un-geranium looking plants.

  “I usually don’t think about geraniums, or whatever those plants are,” I told her.

  The tabby stood, arched her back, and leapt off the sill and onto the porch bench. Wyeth straightened and tugged at his leash, whining. “Quiet,” I whispered, resting my hand on his head.

  “Well that’s a fine how-do-you-do.” The woman placed her hands on her hips and huffed.

  Suspecting senility, I smiled and extended my hand. “I’m Emma Clements. I’m renting the Dunsmuir cottage.”

  The woman blinked her eyes at me. “How strange. Why would you rent the cottage? But then why would you give me these lemon scented geraniums? You must know I don’t have time for all this nonsense.” She lifted her plastic clog and brought it down on top of a flower. Her violent action and a sudden, potent citrus smell surprised me. She brought down her other foot, crushing another stock. “What with the library, potpourri, jerky and all, I’m far too busy.”

  “I have some free time,” I ventured. “I could help you.”

  “Seems the least you could do,” she sniffed.

  Wondering if I had really done something to offend this woman or if she’d mistaken me for someone else, I tied Wyeth to her front gate. The tabby gave the dog an unwelcoming glare then turned and disappeared around the back of the house, her tail held high. The old woman handed me her trowel and followed the cat. I looked at the trowel, sighed, bent down, and dug in. The lemon scent was overwhelming.

  I had collected a small heap of pulled plants by the time the woman returned with an extra pair of gloves. Rocking back onto my heels, I slid on the heavy cotton gloves, before resuming my attack on the geraniums. We worked in sociable silence, our pile of plant debris growing inside the red wheelbarrow.

  “Have you lived on the island long?” I asked, not looking up from my work.

  “Pert’ near
all my life.” She looked up and wiped sweat off her forehead.

  I cleared my throat. “So, you must know who owns the cottage on the Dunsmuir property.”

  She didn’t look up from the geraniums. “The Dunsmuirs, of course.”

  “Not Phil Henderson?”

  “Well,” she viciously dug her trowel into the dirt. “The Hendersons lived there, but they didn’t own it. They worked for the Dunsmuirs.”

  “Including Phil?”

  The woman sat up and smiled. “That little rapscallion, I don’t know if he’s ever worked a lick in his life. The Lord love him, he’s a dear.” She bent back over her garden. “I haven’t seen him in a blue moon.”

  “Now, he and Jimmy Dunsmuir, they were a pair. Inseparable as boys, thick as thieves, running the island over with their high jinx.” She sat up, then slowly unfolded to stand, hands on hips, surveying our work. “Although, I think they had some falling out, eventually. Maybe it’d been over a girl. Things stopped being interesting when those boys were on the outs. Why, I remember when they caught a squirrel and let it loose in Doc Murphy’s living room. The Doc’s got a sense of humor, but Dora Murphy’s whatnot collection is as serious as a heart attack. She about gave herself conniptions over that loose squirrel.”

  She stripped off her gloves and tossed her trowel into the wheelbarrow. “Not bad,” she said, pushing at the upturned earth with her toe. “I’m tuckered for the day. Wait right here,” she instructed.

  I pulled a few more of the geraniums, feeling slightly used, like Tom Sawyer’s gullible, fence painting friends.

  The woman returned wearing a grin and fumbling with her apron pocket. She extracted a strip of jerky and handed it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, glancing at the lint covered strip of jerky.

  “You know I make the meanest jerky in the state. Go on,” she urged. “It’s head and shoulders above Tom Larson’s.”

  I shook my head, unwilling to meet her eyes or try the jerky.

  She sniffed. “Well, if it ain’t for you, your dog will love it.”

  She was right. I broke off a small piece and Wyeth chewed it for over ten minutes. He hadn’t finished by the time we reached the Jenson’s dairy.

  The signal on my cell didn’t return until I’d nearly reached the farm. I wanted to talk to Artie without being over heard, and although I wouldn’t mind seeing Dean again, I didn’t want him in on to my conversation. Unfortunately, the signal on my cell faded whenever I moved very far from Jenson’s cell tower. Making sure I was alone, I parked myself on the fence.

  Wyeth tried to ignore the goats who pushed their furry snouts through the rails. He turned away, refusing to acknowledge their plaintive bleats.

  When Artie answered, I heard a child belting out, “’Tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar there’ll be sun.’” And there was. After the storm, the sleepless night, and the handsome intruders, the sun was shining. My fears and worries seemed needless and immature.

  Artie squealed when I told her of the men I’d met, but she focused on Dean Jenson. “I knew you’d like him! I kept him a secret. Good one, huh?”

  I looked around—no one but goats. I held the phone close to my ear. “Okay, here’s the thing,” I shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot on the fence. “The two men from last night—the first, Phil Henderson from the Sudan, he claims to own the cottage.”

  “The Dunsmuirs own the cottage,” Artie said.

  “Then why did I find mail in the cottage addressed to the Hendersons?”

  Artie, uncharacteristically quiet, finally said, “You don’t want to know Phil Henderson. His parents used to live in the cottage because his dad was the gardener for the Dunsmuirs. Phillip Senior and his wife moved away while Phil, the guy you met, was serving time in prison for fraud.” It occurred to me this might have been the first time I’d ever heard of Artie saying anything unkind about anyone, let alone an attractive male.

  “Then why is he claiming to be the owner? Why does he have a key?” A goat pushed at my leg and Wyeth growled low and long.

  My phone bleeped. I looked at the oncoming call while I waited for Artie to think of an explanation. Gram, again.

  The child in the background finished a breathless, “Tomorrow,” And a clatter of tap shoes heralded the beginning of dance practice. “I need to think about this,” Artie said.

  “Artie, I’m going to take this other call.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Artie said. “Maybe you could stay at the Dunsmuir’s main house. I’ll call Lucy and try to arrange it. Although…I don’t know about this. This is very awkward. Do nothing rash until I get there!”

  I connected to Gram. When she asked what I was doing I told her nothing, thinking of the promise I’d just made to Artie. I turned my face to the sun. It felt warm, despite the breeze.“Good ,” she replied. “Now, listen to this-”

  “No! We promised no Hailey Comments!” The goat jumped away when I raised my voice.

  “But you just said you weren’t doing anything!” Gram read the letter anyway.

  I looked at the goat and he returned a black-eyed stare. Wyeth still lay at my feet like a shaggy carpet. A motor started somewhere near the barn and it occurred to me the Jensons had to have Internet access.

  “…stay vertical,” Gram said.

  “What?” I hadn’t been listening. I couldn’t admit to Gram, a great listener who hated to be ignored. “I couldn’t hear you.” The goat returned and nibbled at the corner of my sweater. I pushed him away.

  “My advice for Bar Browser.”

  The goat leaned in again and yanked off my sweater button. I reached after him and tried to steady myself. Stay vertical, I repeated as I balanced for a moment, arms outspread. When Wyeth bolted up, barking the phone flew out of my hand and over the fence. I watched it fall in a high, graceful arc into a puddle of brown murk. The muddy water swallowed the phone with a gulp.

  With an apologetic glance at my boots, I swung my legs over to the goat side. The creatures seemed hospitable as they milled around my legs. Wyeth barked in short, sharp remonstrations. He placed his paws on the fence and tried to nip any goat that came close. With only a few plaintive bleats, the goats wisely moved away. What had my long-ago Sunday school teacher said about sheep and goats? One of them ended up burning in hell.

  Chapter Five

  I looked up to see Dean Jenson standing near-by. I straightened, started to brush the hair out of my eyes, then stopped after catching sight of my filthy hands.

  He laughed. “What are you doing?”

  “Quiet!” I heard gurgling. I plunged my hand in the puddle and pulled out my phone. I flipped it open and looked at the screen—nothing but black bubbles.

  “Dead?” Dean strode toward me with an outstretched arm. He grabbed my elbow and helped me out of the muck. The mud valiantly tried to keep me rooted in the puddle and it made a deep sucking sound when I slipped his way. He briefly held me upright as I steadied myself by grabbing on to him.

  “Thanks,” I said, grimacing at the muddy handprint I’d left on his previously clean, white T-shirt. To hide my embarrassment, I focused on unrolling my jeans. “Your farm is the only place with cell service found on the island.” I slowly straightened and wiped my muddy hands on my jeans.

  “And now your phone is dead.”

  I looked at it sadly. “Drowned in goat urine.”

  “A terrible way to go. Would you like to use my phone?”

  I hesitated. Harold had scared me into the never-make-Hailey’s-private-line-accessible-to-anyone rule a long time ago.

  Dean noticed my reluctance. “Or my land line is always available.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I didn’t offer any explanations on why I preferred the land line to the cell phone. I let him think I wanted to see inside his house, which was, after all, partly true, although I knew he’d probably lead me into the store. My boots made a slobbery sucking noise with each step I took.

  “I’m sure Dina has a pair o
f dry shoes you can borrow,” Dean said.

  I wanted to do a happy dance when Dean led me up the wide steps of the Victorian, but I was afraid of sloshing mud on the beautiful oak porch.

  From a distance the Jenson home looked authentic but standing outside the glass-etched double doors I realized the house had to be relatively new. The wood flooring gleamed, every brass fixture shone, and the wide, generous windows were thick and sturdy.

  Dean rested his hand on a heavily gilded brass doorknob. “I’m sorry to sound inhospitable, but could you remove your shoes?”

  I sat down in a wicker rocker by the front door and slipped off my boots. Dean tied Wyeth to a porch pillar then stood over me. Seeing my dirty, wet socks, he added, “And socks.”

  My feet looked small, pinky and wrinkly from the water.

  “I can find you slippers,” Dean offered.

  I stuffed my dirty socks into my boots and gave Wyeth an apologetic ear scratching.

  Dean pushed open the doors, exposing a two-story living room filled with rustic pine and birch furniture that must have been custom-made to fit the room. Two ten-foot-high windows flanked a stone fireplace with a hearth so tall I could stand in it. A framed Frederic Remington hung above the heavily carved mantle.

  I gasped and moved closer to inspect.

  “It’s stuffed,” Dean laughed. He thought I was interested in a pheasant mounted on the wall.

  “Is it real?” I gave the bird an obligatory stare before moving to the Remington.

  Dean nodded and gave it a proud look. “Dina shot it.”

  I saw the familiar bold signature on the canvas. Frederick Remington, a three-hundred-pound cowboy artist who detested commercialism.

  I nodded at the bird. “Incredible.”

  “Have you seen the Dunsmuir place?”

  I shook my head. We stood a few feet below the pheasant and Remington. Dean had his arms folded tightly across his chest. He looked like a lord of the manor.

  “It’s fabulous. Of course, Dina plans to buy it, as well.”