In order to distract myself, I take Shadow to the beach. Otherwise, I would be chewing my nails over Cecily Foster’s machinations and drinking too much coffee. Pete has promised to do what he can to stop it. But, I wonder, can he? Who am I kidding? I may be out and about and picking up random bits of shoreline detritus, but I am sick with worry. Almost as soon as I let my thoughts drift to the problem, Shadow is there, grabbing my unfocussed gaze into his brown eyes. Woof. It is an uncanny echo of something that Susannah writes: “The dog holds his eyes upon my own as a sheepdog will eye his charges into motion.”
“Are you a sheepdog?” I ask.
Shadow shakes himself from nose to tail and then play bows to me, clearly hoping I’ll throw this nice piece of driftwood for him.
My only consolation against Cecily’s threat is that she doesn’t know where I am. Pete has promised me that all contact will be through him. I picture him, this little man dressed in suits made for boys, standing up to the legal giants of the Foster family’s firm. His fists are balled, his chin is lifted, and he has a pugnacious look on his beardless face as the giants aim their lances at his chest and run him through.
I shake my head, much like my dog shaking his to clear his thoughts. No. Pete may be small, but he’s big enough to give the Foster’s firm a run for their money. This I have to believe, and then wonder how I’ll be able to afford him; there has been no suggestion of any more pro bono for Rosie Collins.
The day has grown chilly, the October sun giving way to an early dusk. Daylight saving time will be ending before long. I’ll be going to bed at six-thirty if I’m not careful. Shadow and I head back to the house.
There is a car in the yard. I don’t recognize it, a black Lexus with Connecticut plates. No one is in the car. Shadow is on the alert, his smallish ears at attention, his whippy tail straight out, slightly elevated. He lowers his head but doesn’t growl, withholding judgment.
The grass muffles our footsteps as we go around the side of the house to the back. There is a woman standing there, her back to us as we approach. She’s staring up at the house, her fingers just touching her mouth, as if hiding a reaction.
I let the fear-inspired tension go, giving space for curiosity. “Hello?”
I’ve startled her. She’s a slender woman, dressed in good jeans and a pair of really nice boots. “I’m Carol. Carol Baxter.”
I notice that my dog’s tail is beating a happy rhythm. “Rosie Collins.” And, because it seems appropriate, I add, “Project manager.”
“And who’s this?” She’s clearly not put off by a big wire-haired mutt who is giving her the canine once-over. She bends at the waist and gives him a good thumping pat.
“Shadow.”
She straightens. “After my grandfather passed, my grandmother got a dog kind of like this one.”
Baxter. I get it. “You must be from the Homestead Trust.”
“I am. I’m sorry for dropping in like this, I should have given you warning. But would it be possible for me to take a look inside?”
The flippant side of me might have said: “It’s your house,” but I have nothing to be flippant about. I smile and gesture toward the back door. “Right this way.” And, like any tenant, I hope that I’ve left the place in good order. Which, of course, it isn’t. A lot of it is under plastic while the second-best parlor’s ceiling is being pulled down. “It is a bit of a hard hat area, so watch your step.” I lead her inside; all the while my mind is spinning. Have I just met my mysterious benefactor? Do I have the guts to ask?
Happily enough, my kitchen, the only room under my control, is tidy and the woodstove is still warm to the touch, lending it a cozy feel. Carol stands in the middle of the room, then steps to the table, touches the surface, and points to the standing lamp that I’ve placed beside it. “My grandmother’s lamp. I remember it so well. I knocked it over once and let my brother take the blame.”
“Mrs. Baxter?”
“Gramma to me, but yes. Henrietta Fitzwarren Baxter. The last of the family to live here. Can you imagine?” Carol runs a hand over the mantel, where I’ve set a collection of crocks that Tucker pulled from the crawl space beneath the kitchen ell. I’ve placed them in descending order of size. “Can you imagine all these Baxters in an unbroken chain being born, growing up, and dying here?”
“It’s an old house.”
She moves toward the first parlor. “Can I go in here?”
“Just watch your step. The workmen aren’t very good at picking up their toys.”
We spend half an hour touring the house and inspecting the work. I assume that’s why she’s here, to see if the bills are in line with the progress being made. I’ve tried hard to keep it that way.
We venture up the stairs to the two bedrooms, both of which are packed with the detritus of generations of Baxters. I don’t know why, but I apologize. “I’ll be doing an inventory in the next few weeks.”
“I used to sleep up here. Spent the nights worrying about mice crawling into bed with me. I was such a city kid.”
“They’re persistent, but we’ve pretty much conquered them.”
Back downstairs, I offer Carol a cup of something, tea or coffee. I want to ask her one important question: Why me? Why did the Homestead Trust take on an ex-con as a project manager? More to the point, what’s the connection between the Homestead Trust—the Baxter family—and the Advocacy for Justice? Is there any?
Carol accepts a cup of tea and we go outside with our cups to sit on the stone bench. A nor’easter has been predicted for three days, and I can feel the moisture in the breeze as we go out. The sky above us is a grim gray color, streaked by the contrails of jets leaving Logan. The brand-new cedar shingles on the back of the house seem to glow against the scrim of gray.
Carol sighs. “Wow. A lot has changed, what with the restoration. But, you know, there’s still enough of what I remember to get me all sentimental. Like this bench. And that gnarly apple tree. I used to climb it.”
“Did you live here? With your grandmother?”
“We came every summer for two weeks up until I was in college. Then, well, once Gramma passed, no one had the time or interest in the house. But no one wanted to sell it, either. So it just sat, and we, the children and grandchildren, put together a family trust to keep the house in good-enough repair and pay the taxes and insurance all these years. We’re all finally at a point where we can get the old place in good repair and begin to use it again.”
My tea is cold. I set my cup on the edge of the granite bench. Carol is looking out over the yard, which I have brought back under control with the help of a good mow crew. The breeze ripples through the trimmed rye grass. The stone with Boy painted on it is prominent, and Carol touches it with a toe. “Gramma’s dog.”
Shadow, who’s been lying quietly, shifts and rests his chin on my feet. I ask my question. “Why me?”
She doesn’t do the “What do you mean?” dodge. “You were recommended to us.”
“By whom?”
I have spent enough time with evasive women, women who keep their secrets closely held. There is a shuttering of the face. Eyes dart to the side; hands touch lips. No, I didn’t take your shampoo; no, I didn’t touch your stuff.
Carol drops her eyes to the ground, digs a little rut into the soft dirt with the toe of her boot. “A friend.”
“Yours, or mine?”
Carol takes a deep breath and my heart beats in dread and joy. She touches my knee. “You ever take a pinkie pledge?”
“Uh, yeah, when I was a kid.”
“Well, I took one and I have to keep it.”
Shadow leaps to his feet as I burst into laughter.