I walked up the hill as far as the Snuggles. Fee deserved to know she’d been right about the photo.
Their Scottish terrier ran to meet me, with a tail wag that involved his entire rear half. I squatted, petting him. “Hello, Mackie.” He rolled over, exposing his belly.
“Come in, come in. Your mother’s here,” Vee said, leading the way to the kitchen.
Fee and my mother were seated at the kitchen table. On it was a teapot, a sugar bowl, and a creamer.
“Not at work?” I asked my mother.
“I go in at one and work until close.” The long holiday shopping season would be a marathon for Mom. Not that she was afraid of hard work. Like my dad, she’d worked her tail off at the Snowden Family Clambake for twenty-five years.
I sat down and gratefully accepted a cup of tea. The Snugg sisters served coffee to their B&B guests but didn’t touch the stuff themselves.
I put the copy of the yacht club photo on the kitchen table. “You were right,” I told Fee. “It is Caroline Caswell.”
“And is that,” Vee said, pointing, “Franny Walker? Chapman, she was then. My word, she was beautiful. This photo brings it all back.”
“Not just Fran Walker,” I said. “It’s all of the couples who were in the restaurant that night. Henry Caswell. Phil Bennett. Deborah. Barry. The Smiths.” I pointed to each one as I named them.
“Well, I’ll be.” Fee was astounded, even though she’d been the one who remembered the photo.
“Did you know them?” I asked.
One by one, the women shook their heads. “Not really,” Fee said.
Fee and Vee were almost ten years older than the group in the photo; my mother was ten years younger. I could see why none of them had much of a recollection of this particular group of teenagers.
Then Vee said, “Rabble Point Road.”
“Yes!” my mother exclaimed. “They’re the Rabble Point set!”
“Rabble Point set?” I asked.
“They were a group of families that summered on Rabble Point Road, out near the end of Eastclaw Point,” Fee said. “It was a summer colony, with a tennis court, beach access, and a deep-water dock. The families were all very close, as I remember. Parties every night. Now that I see them in the photo, looking so young, I know this group. They were the children, the older children, the first group born after the war.”
“Except for Franny,” Vee said. “Funny, I don’t remember her being part of that group. Her parents certainly didn’t live on Rabble Point Road. Her dad worked in maintenance for our father on the golf course, and her mom worked as a housecleaner and took in laundry.”
The Snugg sisters’ father had been brought from England to serve as the golf pro and manage Busman’s Harbor Golf Club. As a result, they lived in the same half-in, half-out world I did. Their father was well respected and they lived surrounded by summer people, but at the end of the day, he was their employee.
“Well, she was certainly with the group that night,” Mom said, pointing to Fran.
“What happened to Rabble Point?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s gone,” Fee said. “The cottages were bulldozed years ago.”
“Bulldozed? Why?”
“I don’t know. It happens with summer families. Children grow and move to the other side of the country or around the world. Too many heirs inherit to share the place. They sell up. At least, that’s the usual,” Fee answered. “My word, it’s been a long time since I’ve been out to the end of Eastclaw Point.” Their duties at the Snuggles kept the sisters tethered to the B&B in good weather.
“Do you recognize the couple in the center of the photo?” I asked. “Or the man in uniform? Or the woman with Barry Walker?”
All three of them shook their heads. “I can’t dredge up a name from my old memory banks,” Fee said. “I can tell you only that they look familiar. I’m sure they were part of that Rabble Point group.”
Mom stood. “Thank you for the lovely tea. I’ve got to get to work.”
I drained my cup and stood too. “Thank you, ladies. And Fee, thanks for remembering Caroline in this photo.”
“Yes,” Fee said, “but now that you know, what will you do?”
Ah, that was the question.
*
I stood on the Snuggles’ porch for a moment, zipping up my coat against the cold. Across the street, I saw Mom pull out of the driveway in her ancient Mercedes and head to work.