Catta stood at the top of the Indian Head cliffs and watched a gull attempt to fly while suspended in a strong headwind. He was so close that he could have leapt into the open air and touched it. He shouted and the gull turned and looked at him, and then went back to his struggle with the wind. Soon the gull worked free, dove downward into the shear, and then he was gone.
Through the hole where the bird had been, Catta saw the flat, red metallic barge, passing the bellbuoy and then turning to traverse the longest edge of the island toward the lonely corner of Seven that lay farthest from the clearing. Penny had stopped following him a little way into the woods and now she sat at the very front of the barge, her feet dangling in the whitecaps. Catta laughed out loud and shouted as loud as he could. They would never hear him, not at this height and distance, not against the wind and the motor. And then Penny’s head spun around. She waved enormously with her whole arm, like someone drowning, and Catta was suddenly happy. He shouted again, and then he waved and Penny waved and Edward Peck waved, too. The barge disappeared around the corner, and Catta turned and hurried home for lunch, taking the trails for better speed.
19
Just before Wilkie left for Seven, his wife had asked him—had essentially demanded—that he ride a horse on the beach. Among the rock and penury of Northern Maine, it was a geological freak that there existed here a mile-long white-sand beach in a crescent shape, in a protected harbor facing the open sea. It was called the Long Beach. There were also stables with friendly horses available to ride. He had made the tactical error of telling Lucy both of these things, not knowing that his wife had one time ridden a horse on a beach, in Mozambique, and that for her it lingered as an enduring moment of bliss.
When he arrived on Seven, Wilkie dutifully told Lila that he would like to go riding. She was surprised, since she knew that John Wilkie hated both horses and riding, two notable facts that, apparently, he had not yet found the time to share with his relatively new and deeply equestrian wife. The mornings were unstructured here, and Wilkie was sure that in the end Lucy would enjoy the story of his attempt, even if it was mostly about his own abject fear of a miniature pony. Lila said to check in at the Staff House, where a farmhand told him to saddle the brown horse in the barn, and now Wilkie stood in front of six stalls containing six brown horses. It was possible that saddle the brown horse was a euphemism for something else.
Each stall had a chalkboard with a name on it. The name of the horse was important, because it was possible that, if his ride went especially badly, Hillsingers and Quicks alike would retell this story for a thousand years. The ideal horse would be named something neutral, after a shrub, for example, or someone’s maiden aunt. It would be unfortunate to die on a horse named Cupcake. A young farm girl named Sheila had been assigned to guide him, and she seemed to know the personalities of all the horses in outstanding and almost certainly fictitious detail. They settled on a brown mare named Maple.
Sheila walked both horses out of the barn and, since today the universe was clearly conspiring against him, they met Cyrus and three farmhands headed down the hill toward the dock. One did not like to look bad in front of Cyrus. Sheila mounted her horse in one motion, apparently assuming that Wilkie would need no help.
“Nicely done,” Cyrus said to his niece.
There was no way for him to follow that particular act with this particular audience, and anyway, he wanted to tell Cyrus something.
“Cyrus, could I speak with you for a moment?” Wilkie said while Sheila rode her horse around them in tight, impressive, and wholly unnecessary circles.
“Careful, Mr. Wilkie—Maple there is a killer,” Cyrus said as he waved the other farmhands down the hill. “How can I help you?”
Wilkie did not know exactly why Billy told him that Lila had slept at the New House last night. It was an important thing for Hillsinger to know, but it was also, Wilkie thought, the type of news whose messenger might be shot rather than thanked. He would pass it along and hope that it reached Hillsinger by some other route.
“This is just a touch sensitive,” Wilkie said to Cyrus, using his voice of professional secrets. “Last night, Lila Hillsinger slept in Hannah’s—the late Mrs. Quick’s—old room in the New House.”
“Her attic room,” Cyrus said.
“I only mention it,” Wilkie said, “because the anniversary of Hannah’s passing is coming up. Small gestures might be especially welcome right now.”
“Small gestures,” Cyrus said, repeating.
“I mean some little thing for Lila,” Wilkie said. “It could be anything—are there peonies on the island? They were Hannah’s favorite.”
“I’ll check the garden.”
“That’s just one idea.”
“I guess Martha could make summer pudding.”
“There—fantastic. Thank you, Cyrus.”
20
Jim Hillsinger dove into the harbor, bracing for the cold. The day was nearly perfect, bright and blue, and he watched the pines on Indian Head rise higher as he swam out. Coming around the orange buoy, it was essential to avoid the chain, which filtered all the tidal waste: seaweed and fish guts and God only knew what else.
As Hillsinger turned and headed back toward the houses, he saw Cyrus lifting the lid on the lobster pot next to the dock. Cyrus was fundamentally good at his job, which was to know everything happening on the island, and Larry Hott, the lobsterman, usually delivered his catch first thing in the morning. Which meant that Cyrus would already know the lobsters were there, and he was using them as a pretext. Cyrus had something to tell him. Hillsinger switched to freestyle and tried to look smooth on his last few strokes in to the dock. When he climbed the ladder, he was glad the sun was out.
“Good swim?” Cyrus said.
“You should try it,” Hillsinger said.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“You say that every time.”
“Always mean it, too.”
“One day I’ll get you out there.”
Cyrus laughed.
There was a pause.
“Wanted to tell you,” Cyrus said, “that we got a nice flat of berries in today from the mainland.”
“Excellent.”
“Martha thought she would make summer pudding for the Migration dinner tonight.”
“That’s kind of her,” Hillsinger said. Something was going on here, but he could not yet tell what it was.
Summer pudding was a dessert of the invisible-hand school, stale bread left to soak with fresh berries and—if you were savage—sugar. Martha was entirely savage.
“Martha understands Mrs. Hillsinger’s feeling poorly,” Cyrus said.
“Say again?”
“Feeling the loss of Mrs. Quick.”
“What gave her that impression?”
Cyrus paused, and looked out to the orange buoy.
“Sorry if we’ve been misinformed.”
“Has Martha noticed a change?” Hillsinger said.
“Only her pilgrimage to Mrs. Quick’s room in the New House,” Cyrus said.
“Ah.” There it was, Hillsinger thought. The story was out.
“Let her know that me and Martha feel the loss, too.”
“Thank you, Cyrus,” Hillsinger said.
Hillsinger turned and walked slowly up the ramp while buttoning his dry shirt on his wet torso. He had not brought a towel today due to the bright sun, and now he regretted it.
21