I SPENT MOST OF WEDNESDAY VISITING THE VARIOUS HIRED GUNS involved in Eileen’s wedding to tell them about the Renaissance theme. Like Eileen’s cousin, the caterer was suspiciously enthusiastic. He was losing sight of the practical, financial side of things.
I laid down the law and made a mental note to keep an eye on him. The florist was quite rational, so I suppose he shared my notion that flowers were flowers. The newly booked photographer seemed to find it all hilarious, until I broached the idea of putting him in costume, which he seemed to find unreasonable and insulting. I decided to give him twenty-four hours to come around before starting to look for another photographer. Eileen was paying him for this, after all. Eileen was inexplicably adamant on having the photographer in costume. It seemed idiotic to me: he would be taking pictures, not appearing in them, and even the most spectacular costume couldn’t hide the camera, film, lights, and other glaring anachronisms. Ah, well; mine not to reason why. I headed for the peace and quiet of home.
Michael was walking Spike past our yard as I drove up, and came over to say hello.
“I hate to bring up business,” I said, “but have you and the ladies figured how you’re going to manage Eileen’s gowns and the doublets? Without throwing your entire summer’s schedule off?”
“It kept them pretty busy yesterday, but they gave me the list of materials they needed this morning, and I’ve already called in the order. They’ll be starting tomorrow. We’ll manage.”
“That’s a relief.”
“And the beastly Barry’s measurements have been duly entered into the files,” Michael said. “It took us rather a while, as expected.”
“His absence was duly noted and much appreciated.”
“How was your day?” he asked, shifting Spike’s leash to the hand farther from me.
“I only managed to tick off three items from my list. But that’s life.”
“I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,” Michael said. “I had something I wanted to ask you.”
“If you’re willing to risk being shanghaied by Mother to talk about upholstery, be my guest.”
“Doesn’t look as if there’s anyone home at your house,” Michael said, falling into step beside me. “Only the porch light is on.”
“That’s odd. Mrs. Fenniman was supposed to come over for dinner.”
When we got closer to the house, I could see that it was completely dark, except for the front porch, where Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were rocking by candlelight.
“Hello, Michael,” Mother said. “How nice of you to drop by. Meg, why don’t you get us some lemonade. Take one of the candles from the front hall.” I began carefully making my way across the cluttered porch toward the front door. “The power’s out,” Mother said brightly, if unnecessarily, to Michael.
“Out like a light,” Mrs. Fenniman said, a little too brightly.
“When did it go out?” Michael asked. “I had power when I left the house to walk Spike.”
“Damn!” I said, as I barked my shins on an unseen object while climbing the front steps. “And yuck!” In grabbing the nearest step to keep from falling, I’d put my hand into something lukewarm and squishy. What on earth?
“I only left the house about twenty minutes ago,” Michael continued.
“Watch out for the Jell-O, Meg,” Mother said belatedly. “It’s just our house, apparently. I’ve called the electrician.”
“What seems to be the problem?” Michael asked. He tied Spike to a post and perched on the porch railing.
“The houshe is haunted,” Mrs. Fenniman said, spilling a little of her wine.
“Probably the fusebox,” Mother said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to hold dinner until the power is back on.” Considering how infrequently Mother actually cooked anything, especially in the summer, I saw no reason why we couldn’t have had our usual cold
supper from the deli by candlelight, but I knew better than to argue with Mother.
“Maybe we should all have another glash of wine while we’re waiting,” Mrs. Fenniman hinted.
“I’d be happy to see if I can do anything about the fuse box,” Michael offered. “Let me have one of the candles, Meg.”
“Woooo-ooooohhhh,” Mrs. Fenniman intoned, spookily, then spoiled the effect by giggling.
“That’s all right, dear,” Mother said. “Meg’s father is the only one who ever seems to be able to figure it out. I have no idea where he is; I looked around for several hours and then gave up and called Mr. Price, the electrician. Meg, have you seen your father?”
“Really, it’s no trouble,” Michael said. “I’m not exactly a wizard with mechanical things, but fuse boxes I can handle.”
“We could tell ghosh stories,” Mrs. Fenniman suggested. “I know plenty.”
“Dad said something about getting some more fertilizer,” I said.
“Oh, dear.” Mother sighed. “Not another trip to the farm?”
“It’s really no trouble,” Michael insisted. “I’d be happy to go look.”
“That won’t be necessary, dear,” Mother said. “There’s Mr. Price now. Meg, have you got the candles? You can light the way for him.”
“I expect he has a working flashlight,” I suggested.
“Don’t let him break his neck,” Mrs. Fenniman warned. “Only dam’ man in the county knows how to fix air conditioners. Year he had his gall bladder out the whole damn county like to fried.”
“You’re right, he probably does,” Mother said. “And he brought his boy to help him. Meg, see if you can get some coffee from next door or perhaps you could go up to the Brewsters. We’re going to need some caffeine to stay awake till dinner time.”
“I’ll go along with you and help,” Michael offered.
“I’ll get a thermos,” I said, and shuffled off behind Mr. Price back to the kitchen.
“Whole place could use new wiring, like most of these old houses,” I heard the electrician remark from the utility room, where the fuse box was. “Shine that flashlight here.”
Michael followed me into the pantry and held the candle while I rummaged for a thermos.
“As if it isn’t enough the power is out,” I grumbled, “we have to have Mrs. Fenniman getting soused. Mother should know better than to serve her wine. Last time she ended up in Eric’s treehouse singing arias from Carmen. Dad and I had to lower her down with a sling made out of a blanket and carry her home.”
“Sounds like fun,” Michael said. “If you’ll feed me, I’d be happy to stick around and help, in case your father doesn’t show up in time.”
“A little to the right,” came Mr. Price’s voice from the utility room.
“You don’t have to, you know,” I remarked. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay for dinner. But I think your mother’s business will still survive if you occasionally take a night off from being the neighborhood jack-of-all-trades and guardian angel.”
“That’s not why I offered,” Michael said.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said the unseen voice. “What the dickens …”
“Meg, I realize this is going to come as a surprise to you,” Michael continued. “But—”
He was interrupted by a loud explosion from outside the pantry door. It was followed almost immediately by a sharp thud, a second explosion from somewhere outside the house, and the sound of the assistant shrieking, “Oh my God! Oh no! Oh my God! Oh no!” over and over.
Michael and I ran out to find Mr. Price slumped against the
wall opposite the fuse box while the assistant tried to put out the flames that were dancing over his boss’s clothing. Michael grabbed the doormat and began beating out the flames, while I ran to the stove to grab the fire extinguisher. Dad picked that moment to reappear.
“Meg, were you fooling with the fuse box?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Price was,” I said. “See if he’s all right.”
Michael and I extinguished the flames. Dad found that far from being all right, Mr. Price had stopped breathing. I called 911 and yelled for someone to bring Dad’s medical bag while Michael took the increasingly hysterical assistant outside to calm him down and Dad administered CPR. Dad managed to get Mr. Price breathing again, and then the ambulance drove up. Dad took Michael aside for a few quiet words before jumping into the ambulance and riding off to the hospital with Mr. Price. I found myself wondering why in a crisis Dad always turned not to me but to the nearest male, even if it happened to be Michael, who was, after all, practically a stranger.
“I don’t see why your father had to go to the hospital with him,” Mother complained, as we watched the ambulance driving off. Apparently I wasn’t the only one in a cranky mood. “Perhaps we should go over to Pam’s for dinner.”
“Might as well; you’re not going to get any hot dinner around here tonight,” chimed in Mrs. Fenniman cheerfully. “When your fuse box fried Price, it knocked out the whole neighborhood!”
Just then Eric came running up.
“Grandma! Grandma!” he cried. “The doggie bit me.”
“You mustn’t tease the doggie, dear,” Mother said. “Let’s go see if your mommy can fix us some dinner.”
“I’m so sorry,” Michael began.
“Spike’s fault, not yours,” I said.
“But I’d still better take him home,” Michael said. “Meg, I need to ask you something.”
I strolled back to the house with him.
“Your dad wanted one of us to keep everyone away from the fuse box,” Michael said. “He wants to get someone in to make sure it wasn’t … tampered with. He’s going to call the sheriff from the hospital. Could you keep your eye on it while I take Spike home? Then I’ll come back and spell you.”
I stood on the front porch for a few minutes, watching Michael and Spike disappear in one direction and Eric and Mother and Mrs. Fenniman in the other. Then I walked down to the edge of the bluff where I could enjoy the breeze from the river while keeping my eye on the fuse box through the open back door. It was a beautiful night, and with the power out there were no radios, TVs, or air conditioners to drown out the slapping of waves against the beach, the songs of the cicadas, and the first warbling notes of Mrs. Fenniman’s rendition of the “Ride of the Valkyries.”