“Beats me,” Hattie said with a shrug. “For a while, I would’ve told you Europe, but that’s the stuff of yesteryear, courtesy of that pesky Hitler turd. Now I’m stuck at Pop’s house. I guess I’m not from anywhere at the moment. Just hangin’ round, seeing what’s what. Getting conned into setups with handsome young Harvard men.”
“Five dates!” Ruby chirped. “But who’s counting?”
“I think someone is, but it’s not me or Topper.”
As Hattie playfully elbowed Ruby’s side, Mary stopped dead in her tracks, the gravel rolling beneath her Robeez sandals.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, eyes burrowing into Hattie’s face. “You’re just … idling?”
“That’s the long and short of it, I suppose. Listen, sometimes a gal’s gotta idle.”
“Hear, hear,” Ruby said.
“But surely you have somewhere to be when the summer ends,” Mary pressed. “No one stays on the island save the fishermen and Quakers. You don’t have a job, I presume.”
“I did, at a magazine in Paris. But they canceled my contract.”
Hattie chucked her cigarette into the road and reached for another, only to find she was all tapped out. She whipped out a packet of Wrigley’s.
“Want one?”
She passed a stick Ruby’s way.
“I don’t understand,” Mary said.
“Geez, back off,” Ruby said. “Before this Bundles for Britain deal you weren’t exactly lighting the world on fire with your industry.”
“Aw, sweet Rubes,” Hattie said with a cluck. “Always coming to my defense. I don’t mind the question. Honestly, Mary, I haven’t a clue what I’ll do next. Ain’t it grand? So many options to consider. Now.” She clomped one foot on the ground. “Shall we proceed? The badminton fund-raiser’s not gonna run itself.”
She linked arms with Ruby, and even with old Mare, and together the girls continued down the road.
25
Wednesday Afternoon
After the vote, Cissy takes her disappointment and vanishes into the fog, that famous grey lady.
Bess would’ve worried that her mom never made it back from the meeting but, thank the Lord, there’s solid evidence of Cissy’s comings and goings. A swapped-out ball cap. The Young Family windbreaker discarded on a chair. Fresh bike tracks in the mud.
It’s small comfort because, truth be told, Bess is pissed off. She can’t even track down the woman, as Cissy is about as reliable with her phone as Palmer Bradlee. Bess calls her mother repeatedly, but the kitchen counter never picks up.
“Yes. Absolutely,” Cissy said when Bess asked if she’d leave Cliff House after the vote.
Sure. After the vote. Pinky swear.
Alas, they’re no closer to moving than when Bess arrived on the scene. Ninety-nine years of stuff, with only about six months of it packed. What is kept or what goes into the green Dumpster her dad ordered should be Cissy’s call, not Bess’s. To speak nothing of the sheer manpower needed. It’d taken Bess two full days to haul her crap out of the San Francisco place and she’d lived there five years, with one other person, and most of it she left behind.
Cliff House, on the other hand, is a veritable museum of all things Young-Packard-Codman. This “house of women” is stocked to the gills with artwork and jewelry and old clothes. There are papers and books and crystal bottles of amber-colored perfume. One drawer reveals an old camera and scrapbooks filled with articles written by a Harriet Rutter. The name is familiar. It’s sprinkled throughout the book, though not in any meaningful way.
“Oh, Cis,” Bess grumbles, stacking dozens of musty magazines. “You’re a pill even when you’re not around.”
As if on cue, the front door clicks open. Bess peers around the corner to see her mother hard-charging through the foyer.
“Caroline Codman!” Bess snaps. “You stop right there. Where have you been? I was worried out of my mind.”
Not exactly true, but it sounds better than “I want to strangle you with one of the twelve jump ropes I found in your closet.”
“Goodness, Bess!” Cissy almost leaps out of her Keds. “You scared me. What are you doing creeping around?”
“I’m the one creeping around? Mother, where have you been all day? We’re supposed to be packing and it’s pretty crappy to make me do all the work.”
“Here we go again. What a fussbudget.”
Cissy tugs on her ponytail and then breezes right past Bess and on into the kitchen.
“Uh, hello?” Bess says, pattering after her.
She enters the room just as Cissy plunks a brown burlap sack onto the counter.
“What have you been doing today?” Cissy asks as she pulls groceries from the bag.
Eggs. Milk. Yogurt and cheese. Bess’s stomach nosedives.
“Cissy!” she barks. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Unloading groceries. And you really shouldn’t talk to your mother that way.”
Cissy opens the fridge and places five large peaches inside.
Peaches!
“Please explain,” Bess says, “why you’ve bought a sackful of perishables when we’re supposed to move?”
Speaking of perishables, Bess thinks and glances out the window. Down on the shore, the waves break with intensity.
“We should be clearing out,” Bess says. “Not adding on. The movers are coming first thing tomorrow. There are rooms for us at Tea Time.”
“Oh gosh, Polly is so sweet,” Cissy says, and sniffs a half-used carton of OJ. With a satisfied nod, she slides it back into the fridge. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
“We can’t stay,” Bess says, trying not to get all shrieky and indignant.
It’s maddening and aggravating, and now Bess wants to strangle Cissy for real. But none of this should come as a shock. Cissy is many things, but never hard to read. A smart person would’ve seen this coming a mile away, even in the Nantucket fog.
“You promised!” Bess says. “You said after the vote you’d move. I love you, Cis. And I love your fire. But, good God, we have to leave.”
“Look, dear, I do hate breaking promises.”
“Do you, though?”
“But there’s no time for moving or packing right now. I’ve called for an emergency town meeting later this week and I need to prepare. After that we can talk about my temporary relocation.”
“Jesus,” Bess groans. “Another meeting?”
“Yes. I just had a little confab with the SBPF and one very smart attorney. You see, if this coming winter is anywhere near as bad as the last, our whole stretch of Baxter Road will fall into the Atlantic.”
“I know! That’s why I’m trying to get you to move!”
“Our lawyer pointed out that if this happens, the water, sewage, and electrical services that Nantucket is legally required to provide will get cut off.”
“Didn’t we go over that last night?”
“Yes, but here’s something I didn’t quite appreciate,” Cissy says with a clap. “The selectmen were against my armoring project because of the cost.”
“I didn’t get the impression that it was about money.”