Heroes are My Weakness (9 page)

Barbara used her hand to sweep the leftover toast crumbs from Annie’s breakfast into her palm. “Knitting keeps a lot of us busy during the winter. Otherwise I start fretting. My son’s living in Bangor now. I used to see my grandson every day, but now I’m lucky if I see him every couple of months.” Her eyes clouded, as if she wanted to cry. She stood abruptly and carried the crumbs she’d collected into the kitchen. When she returned, she hadn’t quite regained her composure. “My daughter Lisa’s talking about leaving. If that happens, I’ll lose my two granddaughters.”

“Jaycie’s friend?”

Barbara nodded. “It seems like the fire at the school might be the last straw for her.”

Annie dimly recalled the small frame building that had served as the island schoolhouse. It perched just up the hill from the wharf. “I didn’t know there’d been a fire.”

“It happened in early December, right after Theo Harp arrived. An electrical fire. Burned the place to the ground.” She tapped the table with the tips of lacquer-red fingernails. “That school educated island kids for fifty years, right up to the time they left for high school on the mainland. Now we’re using an old double-wide—all the town can afford—and Lisa says she’s not goin’ to let her girls keep going to school in a trailer.”

Annie didn’t blame the women who wanted to leave. Life on a small island was more romantic in concept than in real life.

Barbara toyed with her wedding ring, a thin gold band with a very small diamond. “I’m not the only one. Judy Kester’s son’s getting lots of pressure from his wife to move in with her parents someplace in Vermont, and Tildy—” She waved her hand as if she didn’t want to keep thinking about it. “How long are you staying?”

“Till the end of March?”

“In winter, that’s a long time.”

Annie shrugged. The terms of her ownership of the cottage didn’t seem to be common knowledge, and she intended to keep it that way. Otherwise, she’d look as if she were being controlled by someone else, just like one of her puppets.

“My husband’s always telling me to butt out of other people’s business,” Barbara said, “but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t warn you that staying out here by yourself is going to be hard.”

“I’ll be fine.” Annie said it as if she believed it.

Barbara’s worried expression wasn’t encouraging. “You’re far from town. And I saw that car of yours . . . With no paved roads, it won’t be any use this winter.”

Something Annie had already figured out.

Before she left, Barbara invited Annie to the island Bunco game. “It’s mainly us grandmas, but I’ll make Lisa play. She’s closer to your age.”

Annie quickly accepted. She had no desire to play Bunco, but she needed to talk to someone other than her puppets and Jaycie who, for all her sweetness, wasn’t exactly a stimulating conversationalist.

A
NOISE AWAKENED
T
HEO
. N
OT
another nightmare this time, but a sound that didn’t belong. He opened his eyes and listened.

Even through the fog of leftover sleep, it didn’t take long to figure out what he was hearing. The sound of the downstairs clock chiming.

Three . . . Four . . . Five . . .

He sat up in bed. That clock hadn’t worked since his grandmother Hildy had died a good six years ago.

He pushed back the covers and listened. The melodic chimes were muted, but still clearly audible. He counted.
Seven . . . Eight . . .
It went on.
Nine . . . Ten . . .
Finally, at twelve, the chimes stopped.

He looked at his bedside clock. It was three in the morning.
What the hell?

He got out of bed and made his way downstairs. He was naked, but the cold air didn’t bother him. He liked discomfort. It made him feel alive.

The light from a quarter moon seeped through the windows and painted jail bars across the carpet. The living room smelled dusty, unused, but the pendulum of Hildy’s wall clock swung in a rhythmic
ticktock,
its hands pointing to midnight. The clock that had been silent for years.

He might spend his working life with time-traveling villains, but he didn’t believe in the supernatural. Yet he’d walked through this room before he’d gone to bed, and if the clock had been ticking, he’d have noticed it. Then there were the unexplained noises.

There had to be an explanation for all of it, but he had no clue what it was. He’d have plenty of time to think about it, though, because he’d never get back to sleep tonight. Just as well. Sleep had become his enemy, a sinister place inhabited by the ghosts of his past, ghosts that had grown all the more menacing ever since Annie had shown up.

T
HE ROAD WASN
’
T AS ICY
as it had been eight nights ago when Annie had arrived, but the potholes were more pronounced, and it took her forty minutes to make the fifteen-minute trip to the village for the women’s Bunco game. She tried not to think about Theo Harp as she drove, but he was never far from her thoughts. It had been three days since their confrontation in the turret, and she’d only seen him from a distance. She wanted to keep it that way, but something told her it wouldn’t be that easy.

She was grateful for the chance to get away from the cottage. Despite her hikes up to Harp House, she’d begun to feel better physically, if not emotionally. She’d put on her best pair of jeans and one of her mother’s white menswear shirts. Pulling her renegade hair up in a messy, curly twist; slicking on some toffee-colored lipstick; and swiping her lashes with mascara was the best she could do with what she had. Sometimes she thought she should give up mascara to make her eyes less prominent, but her friends said she was too critical and that her hazel eyes were her best feature.

On the right side of the road, the big stone wharf jutted into the harbor where the lobster boats were moored. Enclosed boathouses had replaced the open sheds she remembered. If things were as they used to be, summer visitors still stored their pleasure craft inside, right along with the lobstermen’s traps and buoys awaiting fresh paint jobs.

Across the road from the wharf, a few small eateries were shuttered for the winter, along with a gift shop and a couple of art galleries. The island town hall, a small, multipurpose, gray-shingled building that also served as post office and library, was open year-round. On the hill rising behind the town, she could just make out the snow-topped headstones of the cemetery. Higher up the slope and looking out over the harbor, the gray-shingled Peregrine Island Inn sat dark and empty, waiting for May to bring it to life again.

The village’s houses had been built close to the road. Their side yards held stacks of wire lobster traps, reels of cable, and junk cars that hadn’t yet found their way to an off-island dump. The Rose home looked much like the others: square, shingled, and functional. Barbara let her in and took her coat, then led her to the kitchen through a serviceable living room that smelled of woodsmoke and the hostess’s floral perfume.

Mint green tieback curtains framed the window over the sink, and a souvenir plate collection hung above the dark wood cabinets. Barbara’s pride in her grandchildren was evident in the numerous photos displayed on the refrigerator.

A still-handsome octogenarian whose high cheekbones and broad nose suggested she might be some combination of African and Native American sat at the kitchen table with the only young woman other than Annie, a petite brunette with a snub nose, black-framed, rectangular glasses, and a medium-length bob. Barbara introduced her as her daughter, Lisa McKinley. This was Jaycie’s friend, and the one who’d recommended Jaycie to Cynthia Harp for the housekeeping job.

Annie soon learned that Lisa was both Peregrine’s volunteer librarian and the owner of the island’s only coffeehouse and bakery. “Bakery’s closed until May first,” Lisa told Annie. “And I hate Bunco, but I wanted to meet you.”

Barbara gestured toward her refrigerator photo gallery. “Lisa has two beautiful girls. My granddaughters. They were born here.”

“My punishment for marrying a lobsterman instead of taking off with Jimmy Timkins when I had the chance,” Lisa said.

“Don’t mind her. She loves her husband,” Barbara said, before she introduced Annie to the other women.

“Doesn’t it bother you, being out in that cottage all alone?” The question came from Marie, a woman whose deeply etched lines descended downward from the corners of her mouth, giving her a sour expression. “Especially with Theo Harp as your only neighbor.”

“I’m pretty fearless,” Annie replied.

The puppets in her head fell all over themselves laughing.

“Get your drinks, everybody,” Barbara ordered.

“You couldn’t pay me to stay there,” Marie said. “Not while Theo’s at Harp House. Regan Harp was the sweetest girl.”

Barbara jiggled the dispenser on the wine box. “Marie has a suspicious nature. Don’t pay attention.”

Marie wasn’t deterred. “All I’m saying is that Regan Harp was as good a sailor as her brother. And I’m not the only one who thinks it’s strange that she took that boat out with a squall blowing in.”

As Annie tried to take this in, Barbara directed her toward a seat at one of the two tables. “Don’t worry if you’ve never played. There’s not a steep learning curve.”

“Bunco is mainly an excuse for us to drink wine and get away from the men.” Judy Kester’s comment didn’t merit her big laugh, but Judy seemed to laugh at almost everything. Between her good humor and the dyed, bright red hair that projected from her head like a clown’s yarn wig, it was hard not to like her.

“Real intellectual stimulation isn’t allowed on Peregrine,” Lisa said tartly. “At least not during the winter.”

“You’re still mad because Mrs. Harp didn’t come back last summer.” Barbara rolled the dice.

“Cynthia’s my friend,” Lisa said. “I don’t want to hear anything bad about her.”

“Like the fact that she’s a snob?” Barbara rolled again.

“She’s not,” Lisa countered. “Just because she’s cultured doesn’t mean she’s a snob.”

“Mariah Hewitt was a lot more cultured than Cynthia Harp,” Marie said sourly, “but she didn’t go around looking down her nose at everybody.”

Despite Annie’s own issues with her mother, it was nice to hear her spoken of fondly.

As Lisa took her turn, she explained to Annie, “Cynthia and I became friends because we like so many of the same things.”

Annie wondered if that included their decorating tastes.

“Mini-Bunco,” someone said at the next table.

The game was as easy to learn as Barbara had said, and Annie gradually sorted out the names and personalities of the women seated at both tables. Lisa fancied herself an intellectual; Louise, the octogenarian, had come to the island as a bride. Marie’s personality was as sour as her face, while Judy Kester was naturally funny and cheerful.

As the island’s volunteer librarian, Lisa soon turned the conversation to Theo Harp. “He’s a gifted writer. He shouldn’t be wasting his time writing trash like
The Sanitarium
.”

“Oh, I loved that book,” Judy said, her boundless good humor as bright as the purple sweatshirt that proclaimed her
WORLD
’
S
BEST
GRANDMA
. “Scared me so bad I slept with the light on for a week.”

“What kind of man writes about all that torture?” Marie said, pursing her lips. “I’ve never read anything so grisly in my life.”

“It was the sex that made the book sell so good.” This observation came from a ruddy-faced woman named Naomi. Her towering height, harshly dyed black bowl cut, and big voice made her an imposing figure, and Annie wasn’t surprised to learn she captained her own lobster boat.

The most stylish member of the group—and the owner of the local gift shop—was Naomi’s Bunco partner Tildy, a sixty-year-old with a thinning blond crop, cherry red V-neck sweater, and layered silver necklaces. “The sex was the best part,” she said. “That man has some imagination.”

Although Lisa was about Annie’s age, she was nearly as puritanical as Marie. “It embarrassed his family. I don’t object to well-written sex scenes, but—”

“But”—Tildy cut in—“you don’t like sex scenes that actually turn people on.”

Lisa had the grace to laugh.

Barbara rolled the dice. “The only reason you didn’t like it was because Cindy didn’t approve.”

“Cynthia,” Lisa corrected her. “Nobody calls her Cindy.”

“Bunco!” Silver crosses bobbed at Judy’s earlobes as she slapped her hand down on the bell at her table. The others groaned.

They switched partners. The conversation drifted to the price of propane and the frequency of power failures, then to lobstering. In addition to learning that Naomi had her own boat, Annie discovered that most of the women, at one time or another, had served as sternmen on their husband’s boats, a hazardous job that entailed emptying heavy traps, sorting the contents for keepers, and rebaiting the traps with grotesquely smelly bait. If Annie hadn’t already dismissed any fantasies about island life, their conversations would have brought her back to hard reality.

But the primary topic was the marine forecast and how it affected the transport of supplies. The big ferry that had brought Annie to the island ran only once every six weeks during the winter, but a smaller boat was supposed to come over weekly with groceries, mail, and supplies. Unfortunately twelve-foot swells had kept the boat on the mainland last week, so the islanders had to wait another week for the next scheduled run. “If anybody has extra butter, I’ll buy it off you,” Tildy said, tugging on her silver necklaces.

“I have butter, but I need eggs.”

“No eggs. But I have some extra zucchini bread in the freezer.”

Tildy rolled her eyes. “We all have zucchini bread.”

They laughed.

Annie thought about how little food she had left and how much more organized she needed to be when it came to ordering groceries. Unless she wanted to end up eating from cans all winter, she’d better call in her order first thing tomorrow. And pay for it with more credit card debt . . .

Judy rolled the dice. “If the ferry doesn’t make it next week, I swear I’m going to roast my grandkids’ guinea pigs.”