48

The life in us is like the water in the river. It may
rise this year higher than man has ever known it,
and flood the parched uplands …

Walden, “Conclusion”

The rocking seesaw of Hope’s emotional life went up and down all summer.

Hearing the bang of the screen door and Ananda’s light step on the stairs of the back porch, she would run out to say hello, her pulse quickening, and see in his face the bright reflection of her smile.

But Jack Markey was a powerful presence, too, with his obvious competence. There was a forcefulness of argument in his professional success, in knowing that he was an important person in an important concern. Ananda Singh was not, after all, one of the richest bachelors in the world, or he wouldn’t be working in a hardware store.

The fact that Ananda was her father’s friend and Jack Markey his enemy was upsetting, and Hope preferred not to think about it. But she was her father’s daughter. Her mind and heart and lungs, her ankles and knees, were steeped in the essence that was Oliver Fry. It was the element in which she had been raised. Turn against it as she would, she couldn’t get rid of it. It was part of her.

But Jack was wearing her down. Lying beside him on the warm grass of the sloping ground above the North Bridge, Hope felt herself drifting into the acceptance of anything, anything, as he kissed her and kissed her.

“Oh, look,” she murmured over his shoulder, “a falling star.”

And then to her surprise he stopped kissing her and sat up and stared at the sky.

“There’s another one,” said Hope.

Jack seemed shaken. “I’ll take you home,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Well, all right,” said Hope, wondering what was the matter.

For a lot of people the first week in August was the beginning of vacation. A great many Concord people went away. They were vacationing on Cape Cod, or sailing in Maine, or cruising among the Norwegian fjords, or digging up pottery shards in Mozambique.

The town was left to the small grubby band Sarah Peel had brought with her from Boston and to tourists in brilliant summer togs.

But one day Mimi Pink stood in the doorway of the Porcelain Parlor and beckoned to Bonnie Glover. “Come here a sec, Bonnie.”

Bonnie obeyed.

“What’s different today?” said Mimi.

Bonnie looked up and down the street and shrugged her shoulders. “God, I don’t know.”

“Can’t you tell? Doesn’t it look better? They’re gone. They’re all gone.”

“You mean …?” Bonnie brightened. “You’re right. I don’t see a single homeless person.”

“Let’s hope they’ve gone back where they came from.”

“How fabulous.”

It was true. Sarah Peel was gone, and so were all her friends. They had not gone back to Boston. They too were taking a vacation. Theirs was a holiday from sleeping in Monument Square and bedding down in suburban garages, it was a vacation from barking dogs, a furlough from surviving without help from anyone except the good women of the Open Table, who by now had increased their schedule of free meals from one day a week to three.

On the morning of the first day of August, Marjorie and Roger Bland drove to the airport and flew to Nantucket. On the afternoon of the same day Sarah and her friends moved into the spacious house on Musketaquid Road.

It was securely locked, but locks didn’t stop Sarah Peel. Sarah had a way of leaking in through the cracks. She could dissolve herself on the outside of a building and rematerialize within.

This time she got in through a cellar window.

There was a washing machine under the window. Sarah heaved herself down to the floor and called to the others, “Wait a minute. I’ll open the front door.”

Obediently they ran around the house and walked into the front hall as Sarah grandly swung the door open.

“Oh, isn’t this nice,” said Dolores Mitchell. “Look, Christine, they’ve got a piano.”

Christine sat down at once on the piano bench and played Chopsticks. The rest of them dispersed all over the house. It was a dream of sudden possession like the granting of three wishes, like winning the lottery.

Palmer Nifto had a nose for good things. He ferreted out the liquor cabinet right away, because it was locked. The lock was no problem. Palmer went downcellar with Carl Browning to look for a crowbar. In the basement they found Roger Bland’s well-appointed workshop, with a drill press, a shaper, a couple of fancy table saws, a band saw, and a planing machine. A row of bins held lumber.

“Hey, this here piece is teak, I’ll bet,” said Carl. “And look at this one, bird’s-eye maple.”

The tools hung neatly on a pegboard. Palmer found a crowbar, took it upstairs, inserted it under the padlock of the liquor cabinet, and gave it a couple of strong jerks. The cabinet opened with a wrenching squeal.

“Hey, Carl, look at this,” said Palmer, reaching past the wrecked door. “Nothing but the best. Beefeater, Jack Daniel’s, real Russian vodka.”

There were cries of rapture from upstairs, where Almina Ziblow had unzipped a garment bag in Marjorie Bland’s closet and discovered a mink coat. Almina came down the stairs majestically, her hand sweeping the banister, the long coat flopping behind her on the stairs.

Dolores and Christine and Bridgie and Bobbsie settled down in the family room in front of the TV to watch a soap opera. “Oh, I remember her,” said Dolores. “That’s Vanessa. What’s happened? She must be sick.”

They all stared avidly at Vanessa, who was lying unconscious on a hospital bed. Her boyfriend, Dirk, was shouting at the doctor, insisting on her right to die, but the handsome doctor refused to pull the plug because he had fallen in love with Vanessa himself. Well, no wonder. She really did look beautiful, lying there with her long lashes sweeping her cheeks and her lovely hair tumbled on the pillow.

The doorbell rang. Everybody froze. Dolores switched off the TV. Sarah went to the door and opened it cautiously.

A little girl stood on the porch. “Oh, hi,” she said. “I’m Emily. Hasn’t Mrs. Bland gone yet? I’m supposed to take care of her horse.”

“Oh,” said Sarah, thinking fast, “didn’t she tell you? I’m house-sitting for them and taking care of the horse. And, you know, the plants and all.”

“Oh, okay.” Emily looked pleased. “That’s great. My best friend, she invited me to Lake Winnipesaukee, only my mother said I can’t go because Mrs. Bland was counting on me. Oh, boy, now I can go after all. Gee, thanks.”

Sarah closed the door and grinned at the others in relief. “Hey, everybody,” said Palmer Nifto, coming in with a bottle and a tray of glasses, “how about a little Chivas Regal?” Then he looked up. “Good Lord, who’s that?”

Somebody else was coming down the stairs. It was Audrey Beamish, the silent woman. Audrey had discovered a bureau drawer full of Marjorie Bland’s nightgowns and negligees. She had torn off all her clothes and gowned herself in the laciest, the filmiest. She had pulled her hair out of its prim little clips.

“Well, say now,” breathed Palmer, handing her a glass.