*
When summer came, Margaret’s desire to see the wild woods and smell the sea air of Maine grew too strong to ignore. She longed to shake off the city’s dreary winter days, to leave the business side of writing behind, and to refill her well of creativity. She routinely issued invitations to her editors and friends in publishing to join her when they could, and the members of the Birdbrain Club knew they were welcome anytime. Margaret often said she went there alone to think and write, but that usually lasted about two weeks, then visitors to Sunshine Cottage arrived steadily. Her annual routine was to meet with her editors, make a list of things to do, and gather research materials. On the day of departure, she filled her car with groceries and alcohol, then headed north.
Michael preferred to spend her summers in tony Bar Harbor. For decades, it was where her family and friends had gathered. When she was still known as Blanche and was a wealthy banker’s wife, she had lived at Le Selva, a castle-like home along the shore. She was active in the suffragette movement and was a leading hostess along that haute coastline. The superb Maine summer stock theater also was a draw for Michael. Famous actors, including Ethel Barrymore, Michael’s former sister-in-law, frequently made their way to those stages.
Michael rarely brought Margaret into her Social Register world. Early on, Margaret realized that the women of that set whispered among themselves that she was merely another of Michael’s eccentric adornments—a quiet wallflower with no noticeable personality. It was true that Margaret was fearful of speaking around that crowd for fear of embarrassing Michael because of her poor grammar and diction. However, the idea that she was merely a satellite hovering around Michael was insulting. So while Margaret was in Maine, she spent most of her time with Bill Gaston. She loved both him and Michael deeply but knew neither would ever fully commit to her. Bill teased Margaret about Michael and their attraction to one another but didn’t question her about it. She was happy to be with each of them whenever she could.
On this trip, Margaret stopped to pick up Dot, who was at home with her mother in Litchfield, Connecticut. The two remained close, and Dot, more than ever, looked like Margaret’s little sister. Dot continued to write and draw, contributing many works to her school’s literary journal before she graduated. She had completed her debutante season the year before and was working part-time at Abercrombie & Fitch. It was common for Margaret to spend a night with Dot and her mother on her way to and from Maine. They rode horses and let their dogs romp together.
Smoke, Margaret’s Kerry blue, was aging rapidly by now, but he was still a terror almost anywhere he went. Monty Hare, grateful to Margaret for buying up all the unsold seats on the opening night of his off-Broadway play, gave her a calmer Kerry blue. She named him Crispin’s Crispian, in homage to Shakespeare’s King Henry V’s rousing speech. Unlike Smoke, Crispian didn’t piddle on people at bus stops or attack other dogs on sight. He was fond of chasing cats and cattle, however, and on occasion nipped at people he thought threatened his mistress.
Once in Maine, Margaret and Dot parked in Rockland to wait for the ferry. They made a last-minute stop at the grocery store for long loaves of French bread, cubes of beef for the dogs’ stew, steaks, chops, and butter. The boat was delayed, so they stepped into the county clerk’s office to see what land or homes might be for sale. They were shown a list of properties, and a little house with a peaked roof looked just right. It was adjacent to the property Bill had shown her years earlier, where skunk cabbages and lush forests gave one the impression of being in the midst of a jungle.
That same afternoon, Margaret and Dot decided to tour the property with Bill. The little house was nestled into the hillside and backed by trees. There was no road, so it could be approached only by sea. The house had once been the home of the quarry master, and the land was dotted with pieces of granite—huge, rough slabs as well as smooth-cut columns—that never made it to their intended architectural structures. Where stones were extracted, large quarry holes were filled by underground springs. Like Cobble Court, the home’s basement had served as a winter shelter for goats and sheep and also had no electricity or running water. That didn’t dissuade Margaret. She was charmed by the apple orchard in the back and a door upstairs that opened out onto thin air. Its staircase had long ago become the victim of too many brutal Maine winters. Margaret quickly returned to the clerk’s office and bought it. The price was so low she was able to write a check on the spot for the full amount.
Margaret placed her rocking chair in front of the door that opened to nothing. In the mornings she watched the sun illuminate the flower-filled meadow, the sea, and the islands beyond. She watched the seals play in the ocean and the fog roll in over the hills. She placed her desk by the adjacent window and hung mirrors around the room to reflect the sea and light from every direction.
In the front of the house, there were stone steps to the first-floor entrance. Two small bedrooms lay off the main room, and a set of steep steps led to an upstairs kitchen with a small table and woodstove. If she needed to accommodate a large crowd of friends, rental houses nearby were usually available.
Margaret turned the well into a makeshift refrigerator. Perishables like butter and milk were suspended by appropriately labeled ropes. She stored wine in streams to be plucked out while on hikes or picnics. One of the granite quarry pools on the property was designated as a cold-water bathing spot. For those who didn’t want to plunge into the quarry’s freezing water, Margaret created an outside vanity next to a tree. She turned an old washtub upside down and placed a washbasin and pitcher on top. Above, she tacked a gold leaf mirror to the tree.
Margaret boldly named her new home the Only House. It was the only house that could be seen from the water, and it was the only home she truly owned. She was a writer who could support herself, and this little house on a flowery hill was all hers.
Fourteen
1944
So all the bunnies put their heads together—
as close as their whiskers would let them get.
And they wiggled their noses.
And hoisted their ears up and down.
And thumped their heels on the ground.
And they thought the way bunnies think.
“BOMB PROOF BUNNIES”
Unpublished