In the morning, rather than do up her hair, Carolyn tied a scarf around her head and did a bit of exploring. She found an old bicycle on the back porch. In a shed behind the house, she found an ancient can of oil and a tire pump.
She dusted the bike off, realigned the chain, and oiled it, turning the pedals with her hand to distribute the oil. To her surprise, the tires held air. The bike had a basket and a bell and reminded her very much of one she'd inherited from an older cousin when she was a young girl,
The rear fender scraped against the tire. She tried to bend it back into shape, causing the rusty metal to give way and come loose in her hand; that solved that!
The morning air was cool and fresh–a pleasant day for a bike ride. Town wasn't terribly far away. The ride was easy and pleasant. She had to apply the brakes a good deal of the way, where the grade was steep, but the tires held air. The seat was hard and wide. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but neither would it do any damage to her backside.
She felt quite pleased with herself as she pulled into town contemplating where to go first. She recalled the hiss, and more importantly its cessation when she'd tried to light the stove and decided the first stop was to see Mr. Gregg and inquire about getting someone out to the cottage to turn on the gas, check the water and electricity, and replace the boards in the back porch that had given way under her feet that morning.
She leaned the bike up against the front wall of "Gregg Real Estate and Professional Services" straightened her scarf, pulled her blouse smooth, and pushed open the door.
"Deke, I won't accept another excuse." The man seated at the desk raised a hand without looking up, "You take care of it today or I'm taking my business elsewhere."
Carolyn knocked on the doorframe. "Excuse me?"
"You're not Deke!" The man rose, his tone affronted.
"No, I'm not." She stepped into the room.
"Mrs...Mrs… now don't tell me, it's on the tip of my tongue."
"Mrs. Muir," she supplied.
"Yes, Mrs. Muir!" He looked suddenly pleased with himself as if he'd remembered her name on his own. First he looked sheepish, then alarmed. Red-faced and stuttering he said, "Mrs. Muir? No, you can't be. I mean, why? I mean, isn't it a lovely day to be vacationing at the beach?" He offered her a wide smile.
"Yes, it's a perfectly wonderful day, but that's not why I'm here." She was right in front of his desk now.
"Well, then why are you here? Mrs. Muir, we have an agreement, a signed contract. You rented Gull Cottage for the entirety of the month." He pounded his forefinger on the desktop for emphasis.
"Yes I did Mr. Gregg, but there are a few things…"
"Say no more, say no more. Ma'am, Gull Cottage is an historic home, and with that exalted status co, shall we say, quirks." He made air quotes. "They only add to its charm and desirability. You are already getting our rock bottom price, and that's only because it's nearing the end of the season. Usually that property rents at a premium, why we can't keep up with the demand."
Carolyn knew she was wearing her skepticism on her face. "Mr. Gregg, I agree that it's historic and charming, but I have the feeling that Gull Cottage hasn't been occupied for quite some time."
He interrupted her protest. "I assure you, madam, that Gull Cottage has been...occupied...quite without a break for years...nay, DECADES."
"Well, then perhaps that's what the issue is, perhaps it's been so constantly occupied that some features are worn out." Two could play this game.
"Are you having a problem? You know in these older homes, sometimes stairs creak, window latches don't stay fastened…"
"There's no gas. I can't light the stove, and some floorboards need to be replaced on the back porch."
The man looked surprised. "Is that all?" His tone was full of suspicion.
"Well, I'd like the water pressure checked, and some of the lights don't seem to be working but yes, that's mostly it."
"Are you sure?"
"I haven't had time to go over the cottage with a fine-tooth comb but that's a good place to start." Carolyn shut her eyes a moment and went through her mental list.
"No intruders? No crockery being thrown around? No sudden storms...inside the house?"
Now Carolyn was looking alarmed. If he expected that level of inhospitality in the house, why had he rented it out to her?
"Oh, hot water–there doesn't seem to be any, but I guess that could be related to the gas not being on."
"There are boilers in both the kitchen and the main bath." Mr. Gregg assured her. "You simply need to light the fire beneath them."
"Quaint." She rolled her eyes a bit, but it was mostly for his benefit. She didn't really mind the old boilers as long as they didn't leak. It did add to the charm and uniqueness of the cottage.
The man was now rummaging through a file cabinet. "Mrs. Muir, I'll need you to fill out a service request form. Itemize the work you want completed, then it will go to the board for approval and if the work is deemed necessary, it will be put on the docket and will be seen to in a timely manner by Gregg and Tuttle Home Improvements and Estate Sales."
"That sounds like a lengthy process, and I only have the cottage for four weeks."
"I'm sorry Mrs. Muir, but that's the best I can do. Schooner Bay is a busy town. Lots of tourists, lots of properties. I'm afraid it's a risk you take when you rent a property sight unseen."
"I have a contract Mr. Gregg, and the contract describes the house, and I quote…" She pulled the paper from her pocket. "All the comforts of home, with the privacy of a secluded getaway."
"Linens included," the man quoted along with her.
"Most homes I'm familiar with have running water, electricity, and gas." She pointed out. "At least the comfortable homes."
"I'll get someone out there at the earliest possible convenience." His mouth settled into a crumpled grimace.
"Today," Carolyn said with a smile, a firm smile.
"I'll do my best Mrs. Muir, but I have to be honest with you. Gull Cottage is remote, you see. It's not always easy to get workers out to a place that...secluded."
"Mr. Gregg, I rode my bike into town and it took less than twenty minutes. Gull Cottage is not that secluded."
"Well, you know these older houses," he sighed heavily. "Sadly, most repairmen these days are more familiar with modern conveniences. You can't send just anyone to work on antiques!" He was clearly pleased that he had settled on that word. "That's right Mrs. Muir, you can't expect me to let just anyone work on that fine cottage with its very special...needs and circumstances...and historical significance!"
"Can you at least get someone out there to blow out the gas lines?"
He shoved the pad of forms at her. "Just fill out the service request. Sign in here….and here, and initial here, here and...there!" He handed her a pen.
She let out an exasperated sigh.
"Mrs. Muir, things are a little differently in a community like Schooner Bay. I understand that you are used to the way things are handled in a big city, but here in a seaside town, the pace of life is slower. People have more patience and fortitude. Not the hurly-burly that you came here to escape from. You know what they say. Time takes time!"
She filled out the form, with its signatures and initials and handed it back to him.
"Is there any place I can buy a microwave or a hot plate?" She growled. She hadn't had breakfast or coffee and was feeling testy.
The man pointed a long finger towards the door. "Charity store, right across the street. Hardware store, two doors down."
"Thank you!" She spat the words out acidly. It was clear she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. She could make things work with a hot plate if need be. She frowned, her bike basket was rather small, and half the ride home was uphill. She recalled the taxi driver mentioning that the grocery store delivered, and said a silent prayer of thanks under her breath.
As she entered the charity shop, a bell above the door rang, but the old man seated in a tattered easy chair reading a paper didn't look up or rise in spite of the bell. His eyes slowly slid sideways toward her, then back to his paper.
"Holler if you need help," he offered from behind his paper.
Carolyn nodded, not bothering to reply, and began to peruse the shelves. There was a wide assortment of items placed in no particular order, and none of them had prices.
"I'm looking for something to cook with." She stood on her tiptoes to peer over the shelf at the man.
"Pots and pans?" He asked, neither raising or lowering the newspaper.
"No, I mean a microwave or a hot plate."
"No Ma'am," came the laconic reply.
"Nothing?"
"You might check the hardware."
"Thanks." Her tone was flat.
She would check the hardware, but since she was here, she may as well look around. The shop was fascinating in its own way, a conglomeration of old, new, junk, antique, broken, and immaculate items.
In one corner was an old refrigerator with the word "Bait" painted on the door, and the words "Soda Cold" beneath it. She didn't love the idea of purchasing soda out of the same fridge as worms, shrimp, and cut-up bits of fish, but she wasn't thirsty so she didn't remark on it.
On the far wall was a rack of clothing–women's wear that looked ancient, and kids clothes that looked worn, but modern. She hummed as she perused the clothing, pushing hangers aside to inspect the garments that interested her. "Well, that's cute!" She fingered an adorable, clearly hand-knit cabled wool sweater just about her son's size.
She found two pairs of patent leather shoes that would be perfect for her daughter to wear to school, and for herself, a sweater-style coat, a robe that appeared to have been fashioned from a blanket, and a real linen nightgown.
Her mood had improved dramatically. Retail therapy, she thought with a shrug. It made sense, her meeting with Mr. Gregg hadn't been very promising, but here she'd found a few treasures and felt a tiny bit of control returning. She brought the items to the counter–or rather the old wobbly card table that served as a counter, and set them down. "I'll take these."
The newspaper lowered. The man drew in a noisy breath as he rose to his feet. He cocked his head, peered at her selections, and said. "Four dollars."
It was a ridiculously low price.
"Four dollars, are you sure?" She wondered if he meant four dollars for the sweater or the robe.
"Yeap! Four dollars. Tax included." He rocked back on his heels. "Will you be needing a sack?"
"Yes, please," Carolyn said, as she fished the cash from her pocket and smoothed out a five-dollar bill.
"I don't have change," the man said, matter of factly. "But I can start you an account." He was reaching for a ledger on a shelf behind him.
"You write your name and address here, and you'll have one-dollar credit."
She was about to protest but didn't. After all, even if she never used her credit, five dollars for all her purchases was still a bargain. She signed her name, wrote Gull Cottage as the address, and closed the book.
"My bag?" she reminded him.
"Go to the hardware store, and tell them Len sent you. They'll give you a sack."
It seemed a funny way to do business, but then Schooner Bay and its people (or at least its men) were turning out to be a little bit peculiar.
"Thank you." Carolyn picked up the clothing and shoes and headed for the hardware store.
It was a step back into modernity. The store was brightly lit, the cash register was up to date, and the items on the shelves looked new. The floor was clean, the windows were clean and she could hear people speaking.
"Welcome to Crawley's" a plump woman behind the low counter said brightly, smiling at Carolyn, not behaving in the least as if it was unusual to see a new face in town.
"Hello. Um...Len said I could.."
"Get a bag? Sure. Hand me those things." The woman patted the counter.
"Thank you so much. I'm staying at Gull Cottage, and I'm afraid I wasn't quite prepared. Actually, I was hoping you might have a hot plate. I can't seem to get the stove to light." Carolyn found the words tumbling out of her mouth.
"Gull Cottage you say?" Two men who had been conversing turned towards her.
"Yes, I'm renting it for the month, and it's a bit more rustic than I anticipated." She needed their help, so she wouldn't chance insulting them by referring to one of their local historic sites as a "dump".
"Well, you'll be wanting more than a hotplate." The second man spoke, nodding knowingly.
"I am having trouble with the gas. I think the line needs to be blown out." She suggested as if she was familiar with the workings of an old house.
"Oh, and I could use some matches. I noticed there are a lot of kerosene lamps."
"There's electricity in some of the rooms." The first man explained, "But Claymore sees fit to keep it as authentic as possible."
Carolyn noticed that all three of the locals exchanged a look as if there was more going on than preserving history.
"And there doesn't seem to be a refrigerator," Carolyn added, "Just an icebox."
"Maybe it's not plugged in," the first man suggested.
"That's one thing Claymore did spend some money on." The woman's brows drew together, puzzled. "It's been converted. It looks like an old icebox, but it's a functioning fridge."
That did seem strangely out of place.
"Well, back then he had plans for the place." Man number two piped up. "First he thought he'd live there. Began putting some money in, but...well...I guess he didn't find it as hospitable as he hoped."
All three of them nodded.
"Then he tried renting it out." The woman was putting Carolyn's things into a bag. "But I guess it's too old-fashioned."
"Yes, well, it is a bit run down, and perhaps dated, but its bones are excellent!" Carolyn spoke the way she would have if she was discussing a remodel with her husband and his colleagues.
"Bones! I think you mean skeletons." The corners of the second man's mouth drew up.
She guessed that people had their own expressions for things everywhere you went. She had heard that Mainers were different– antiquated, still holding onto the past. That wasn't a bad thing until you wanted a hot bath in a centuries-old cottage.
"I've asked Mr. Gregg to send someone out, but it might take awhile. If you could show me where…"
She didn't have to finish her thought, the woman waved her to follow and led her to an aisle displaying small appliances.
She chose a hotplate, some light bulbs, and a plastic bottle of lamp oil.
After selecting a few other odds and ends Carolyn left the checkout with two additional bags to carry.
"Oh dear, and I haven't even gone to the grocery store yet." She looked at the bags in dismay. "I rode a bike to town."
"Go along and finish your shopping. Norrie here will run you home when you're finished, won't you?" The cashier leveled a look at the man.
He checked his watch. "Yeap." He gave a nod. "Long as I'm back before the dinner seating."
"Norrie runs the Lobster House," the woman explained.
"Why that's marvelous! I'll be a customer just as soon as I get settled," Carolyn said decidedly. The idea of a nice hot meal that she didn't have to prepare, sounded simply lovely.
Carolyn wasn't a bad cook, but she wasn't a very creative one. Martha had done the cooking. Carolyn could manage simple things, and simple was what she'd come here for.
She enjoyed the grocery shopping. It was fun to purchase only the things she wanted, not having to worry whether the kids would like it, not having to search high and low to find the items on Martha's list that she wasn't familiar with. Not having to consider Robert's tastes, her son Jonathan's allergies, and whether or not Scruffy preferred the lamb stew or beef chunk style dog food.
Usually, Martha had done the shopping, which was convenient, but there were items Carolyn had felt too guilty or ashamed to put on her housekeeper's running list on the fridge door. She couldn't expect the woman to include Carolyn's treats in the weekly grocery budget. Carolyn would shop, then tuck things into her own personal cabinet to keep them from Robert and the children–or Martha herself.
Carolyn loved being married and having kids. She appreciated the friendship of Martha as well, but today it was nice to indulge herself and buy what she pleased with no questions asked and no one looking over her shoulder.
She blushed a bit at the memory of adding things onto Martha's list (and clipping an extra ten dollars to the bottom of it) then telling Martha it was something Robert had requested when really it was to satisfy Carolyn's own craving.
Robert had had fewer scruples. He'd give Martha his own list and press the bills into her hand to pay for it, eliminating Carolyn entirely. Today she didn't have to worry about Martha, Robert, or even her own mother who had fussed and fretted more over what Carolyn did and didn't eat in the past two months than she had when Carolyn was a child.
She smiled as her hand swept past the black oreo cookies and instead grabbed a box of golden ones. Rather than plain saltines, she chose a box of Ritz crackers, and instead of bland American cheese, she bought herself gouda and sharp cheddar.
She bypassed the meat counter, picked up some canned items then looked wistfully at the frozen dinner options. That would have to wait until her oven repair was approved, or until she could guilt Mr. Claymore into bringing in a microwave oven.
She'd laid out the money for a hot plate but was not going to invest in a microwave for the sake of a few weeks.
"You're the lady who's rented Gull Cottage!" The grocery store cashier said in an accusatory tone to Carolyn.
"Yes, I have. It has a lovely view!" Carolyn showed her warmest smile.
"That's the finest stretch of beach for swimming." The cashier went on, placing the items in a box rather than bags.
"Is it very busy?"
"Not since the road washed out. It's too bad really. All those cottages used to rent in Summer. Now it's mostly locals." She handed Carolyn back her change and receipt. "Are you thinking of staying?"
"For the month." Carolyn eyed the box warily, it was going to be heavy.
"Well, that's too bad. When I'd heard the cottage had rented–well, it's nice to have new blood in town. Is it just you?"
Carolyn nodded, and felt slightly ashamed, as if "just her" wasn't enough.
"My children are staying with my parents." She added, to establish that she wasn't a woman without connections.
The cashier's eyes flitted to Carolyn's hand, where her wedding ring still shone and Carolyn spread her fingers to let the woman have a good look at it. It felt important that the woman knew she wasn't a divorcee–that she hadn't been rejected and she wasn't here looking to meet anyone.
"My husband passed away. There was an accident earlier this year." She hadn't really wanted to share this. She didn't want to be pitied or patronized, but she didn't see pity in the woman's eyes, or even in the way she placed her hand over Carolyn's.
"I'm glad you found us," the woman said, her eyes gentle with sympathy, and her voice full of real warmth.
"Thank you." Carolyn meant it. "Norrie is going to give me a ride back." She pointed to the door for some reason, then she felt foolish; it wasn't as if the man was standing there.
However, when she exited the store, Norrie was seated out front, red-faced inspecting his fingernails that he'd been cleaning with a penknife.
"I'm all set," Carolyn told him. "I just need to pick my bike up…"
Norrie lifted a hand and pointed to a large old car parked beside the small store. Her bike was already awkwardly half in and half out of the trunk. Her sacks of goods were in the back seat and Norrie went inside to fetch her box of groceries. She held the door for him as he came out.
"I appreciate this," she told him as he set the box into the back seat.
"Nice day for a ride." He noted.
"But you're not the taxi service." Carolyn went around to the passenger seat.
"Well, it's good to dabble in this and that. Keeps the wife's clucking out of my ears."
Carolyn smiled at the expression.
He turned the radio on and they intermittently heard music between bouts of static as they made their way out of town and up the incline towards her temporary home.
Norrie carried the heavy grocery box as far as the front door and left it on the porch, and leaned her bike against the collapsing rock fence.
"Mrs. Muir." He gave a little bow.
"How much do I owe you?"
He rubbed at his chin, looked down towards the beach. "Five dollars will do it; I as much came for the swim." He admitted.
She handed him a crisp new bill and thanked him again, then watched as his car pulled down the road toward the steps.
XXX
Carolyn was pleased to find the icebox/fridge was both cold and clean. The socket beside the sink operated the hotplate and given a minute or two to run, the water was clear, but not very tasty.
She opened up windows and shutters to let the Sun and breeze in, and left the back door open as she gave the kitchen a good sweep; sweeping the dust, dried bugs, and bits of flaked paint and plaster straight out the door.
She hummed as she worked, but she swore that she sometimes heard another voice humming with her. She shrugged, must have been the wind, or the sound of her own voice resonating in her head.
The nonperishable food still stood in the box on the butcher block counter in the middle of the kitchen. She hadn't wanted to put her food into the dark cobwebby cabinets and she wasn't sure she wanted to put quite that much work into the cottage to clean them all out.
She had come here for a rest, of sorts, and to sort out her mind, not to make up for however many years of lack of attention this old house had seen. She'd manage well enough with one bedroom, bathroom, sitting room, and kitchen to maneuver in.
Anything else required more time and effort than she cared to apply. For the rest of the day and a good bit of the next one, the broom was her best friend. Things were dusty, but apparently, the house had a solid roof and tight windows, for there was very little sign of water damage or mildew, even for such a damp climate.
She would have liked the convenience of a washer and dryer, but she supposed that was too much to ask for from a "quaint, historical, seaside rental".
The problem was that once she'd finished her sweeping and dusting, she was in bad need of a shower or bath and so far no one had shown up to address the gas line. She decided to head down to the beach. She'd been wearing a scarf around her hair, and a dip in the ocean would wash her clean from the dirt in her creases as well as be good for her mind. Though it seemed that cleaning the house had also cleared some cobwebs from her head.
She sat on the edge of the window seat and listened, her mind was quiet, blessedly quiet, a thing it had hardly been at all since her husband's accident. Usually, it was chewing on some problem or playing out scenarios or fretting over her uncertain future, but now it was just quiet.
If it didn't feel so gosh-darned good, she would have felt guilty. How dare she enjoy the solitude of her own mind, with her husband not a year in his grave. How dare she think her own thoughts with her poor children at loose ends. How dare she lose herself so thoroughly in a task that she forgot she was a widow, or a mom, or anything other than Carolyn.
Yet that was how she'd felt busying herself around the house, never once wishing Martha was there to help, or that Scruffy was at her heels so she didn't feel alone. Now that she thought of it, she was quite certain she'd heard whistling while she worked! There was no sign of the seven dwarves, so the happy sound must have come from her.
She smiled, this place was good for her. She wiped her palms on her jeans and went to her room to change into her bathing suit. She must be going mad because she was nearly certain she heard whistling as she stepped out of her dusty clothing. Could have been the wind, but the window curtains were still, in spite of the window being open. She looked around– same old room, same old bookcases, faded upholstery, and freshly made bed, but something was different.
She noticed that the sheet covering a framed painting had slipped down from one of the corners. Several of the rooms had furniture still draped in dust covers. In this room, a large painting, a telescope, and a ship's wheel had been covered as well. The desk, settee, and bed had been clear.
She adjusted the strap of her bathing suit and walked over to where the painting hung high on the wall. She covered her nose with her hand, anticipating a cloud of dust when she pulled the sheet free. She gave it a tug–lightly–in case it was caught on a corner; she didn't want to bring the painting down on her head!
She turned her face aside and tugged again, the sheet moved freely, and all in a whoosh it came down. She sneezed and was surprised to hear an echo. The room was far from cavernous, and the walls were lined with books and floors strewn with rugs, she couldn't begin to imagine what the sound was bouncing off of. She sneezed again, and again, there was an echo of a sneeze, but not quite like one of her own.
She looked up at the painting, a three-quarter pose of a sea captain, with a stormy sky and sea behind him. His bushy eyebrows were nearly hidden under his seaman's cap, and his sideburns and beard were threaded generously with grey. In spite of the storm he seemed serene; there was almost a teasing smirk on his weathered face, and the eyes were like the very sea itself. Even as she stood there studying his face, their color changed from grey-green to a piercing blue.
"Maybe YOU whistled at me!" She shook a finger at him. Then she turned to survey the room, her room–though now she realized that it likely had been his room. The binnacle and telescope that looked out to sea, the maps, and dusty cracked leather tomes, and the desk with the green felt mat, dotted with ink spots. The canvas curtains were reminiscent of a ship's sails, and she now recognized the wooden box on the mantle to be a tobacco box.
All around the room were items that spoke of the sea, not seashells or driftwood, but things from sailing ships and oddities that might have been picked up in a faraway port–a drinking stein, a carved whale's tooth, and propped in the corner, what looked like a pirate's peg leg.
"So, this was your room," she turned back to the painting. "Your house!"
She could have sworn the man in the painting had bowed his head towards her, ever so slightly.
"Well, Captain, whatever your name is, Thank you for sharing it with me." She bowed her head, ever so slightly, back.
A breeze blew in the window now, ruffling the sheet that still covered the telescope and binnacle.
"If I'm going to swim, I had better get to it while the weather holds." She spoke aloud now, as if the man in the painting was listening.
The breeze blew harder, fresher, and she went to close the window, not wanting rain to get in if she didn't make it back from the beach before some weather blew in. But as she approached it a sudden gust first blew the sheet free from the telescope, then shut the window with a bang, in spite of the fact that she had had to work the hinge several times back and forth to get the window to fully open, because of the rust on the hinge.
She bent to pick up the sheet and put it back, but it seemed nearly nailed to the floor. It must have gotten stuck on something, well, she didn't need to bother with it now. Besides, it might be fun to look at the sea and the sky with the telescope. She slipped into her beach shoes, grabbed a towel, and headed towards the surf.
When she got back from her swim the bedroom window was open once more, though she'd been sure she had turned the little handle that locked it.
But I didn't lock the house, she remembered. A shiver ran through her at the thought that while she'd been bathing someone might have come into the cottage, might have been watching her through that telescope at that very window.
Nonsense! No one had been in the house, or on the road. Outside of tourist season, and apparently these days even in the midst of it, the road to Gull Cottage was rarely driven on, and if it was, it was by someone coming to the beach.
It did seem a bit odd, she thought, as she wiped down with a wet cloth to get the salt off her skin, that so many antiques, historical books, and relics were kept in a rental house, especially one that stood empty so much of the time. Schooner Bay must be a very provincial town, and very safe if no one had taken advantage of the privacy to loot Gull Cottage of its many interesting belongings.
She made a sandwich and some cocoa and went to bed with a book titled "Sea Serpents and the Men Who Hunt Them". She guessed there were indeed many odd things living in the sea, but odder still was the effect too many weeks caught in the doldrums must have on the human mind for them to come up with the creatures depicted in the book. The drawings of monstrous serpents and strange multi-morphs with horns, beards, scales, and fur were not the musings of a healthy or settled mind.
There was something restful, however, about turning down the wick of the kerosene lantern and blowing out the flame. She turned on her side and pulled the coverlet up around her shoulders against the cool of the evening.
"Goodnight Captain…" she heard herself say before she fell asleep. She felt a breeze on her cheek, as soft as a lover's kiss as she drifted into sleep.
XXX