Trouble Cove Read online

  The French lady, Madame Catherine Chatillon, wrinkled her nose at the rich aroma wafting around. We were given to understand such common fare beneath her. Quite likely, we were ourselves beneath her.

  We set to slopping up the broth from the very fish Michelson delivered this morning. Had that been only this morning? I could hardly believe the events of today were, indeed, today. A year might have passed since dawn.

  I peered into the inky darkness outside our windows and remembered when Michelson had turned his far-seeing gaze southward. “The sky grows heavy; the storm is upon us…”

  Wouldn’t he think we all looked ridiculous if he stood outside this window right now and gazed in to see us, gathered with such false cheer? This party hall could seat nigh onto a hundred. Here, we dozen sat and ate in a ridiculous pantomime of grander peoples and busier times.

  I might even now be dead, drowned and frozen at the base of those rocky cliffs. Yet, I sat and genteelly supped my soup. If Michelson hadn’t managed to turn us away from the false light, I would not now be sitting here. What could that strange imposter light have been?

  There had been something wrong about it. Something terribly wrong.

  I found I was simply sitting, staring at my spoon. I had made a horrible, nearly deadly mistake. My mistake. Still, I didn’t quite see how it had happened. I wished I knew someone to ask. I had seen a flickering light to the east, plain as plain.

  None here at this ridiculous table would know about such things. Nor would my adventure be viewed as appropriate dinner conversation.

  I looked at each of my dinner companions, one after the other. I knew them all as well as one can get to know people over the course of one summer. That is to say, they were strangers. One summer, what is that? I might never have seen them before.

  We dozen should not still languish here, weeks after the scheduled closing of the grand hotel ‘Oceanside.’ Nova Scotia’s lovely Cape Breton Island had been the stage for our magical summer, but summer was long behind us. The curtain should have dropped by now; we should have returned to our real lives.

  “Mrs. Brookeson?” Genevieve leaned over the table, nearly dipping her front frills in her broth. “I’ve ordered a few warmer clothes from home, but my sister here insists we’ll be on our way before I have need of anything very heavy.”

  Mrs. Brookeson didn’t so much as glance at her. “I have no intention of departing. My youngest is overseas in this miserable war in Europe. I will not step one foot into my own home until he returns.” She shot a look at Avery. “I thought I had made myself perfectly clear.”

  “Of course, Avery did tell me so.” Gen smiled. “I’m honestly pleased to stay, although of course I realize it has been terribly difficult for you.”

  Mrs. Brookeson bit back whatever snappy response came to her. Recently, she had become very polite to Genevieve. I found it odd. Mrs. Brookeson had seemed nothing but impatient with her, all summer.

  Avery smoothly said, “I’m sure my father is working out a way to recall him.” His words could not be true. One did not recall soldiers from battle on so little cause. He lies, I thought, he lies.

  Genevieve murmured, “None of us are in a rush to leave. This place is simply delightful.”

  Another lie. Nothing delightful remained at the resort. No summertime diversions carried on into fall. Without central heating, the oversized Victorian-style house was already uncomfortably cold. Colder every day. No one stayed because it was ‘too delightful’ to leave.

  Gen carefully did not glance at Avery, for that indeed would give her reason away. If she wrote this play, her final scene most definitely involved a white gown and a trip up the aisle.

  We all smiled as if it were, indeed, too delightful to contemplate departure. Were we nothing but a pack of actors?

  Avery Brookeson remained to support his mother, as surely his days of playing ‘the wealthy host’ here at Oceanside were quite done.

  The French lady persisted in presenting an air of mystery. The war in Europe raged on and suggested the obvious answer. She must be a refugee of sorts, though she never explained. A wealthy refugee to be sure, but avoiding the war nonetheless.

  As for the rest, they were society and mostly the adult sons and daughter of the wealthy. They could do what they pleased, but why did it please them to remain at a summer resort well into chilly autumn?

  Here we sat and shivered in our summer-time finery. Pearls and puffy half-sleeves were our costumes. Our lines were derived from magazines for the most part. Everyone expressed opinions on this season’s fashions, as if there were no other cares in the world. All this elegance, from fancy dress to shimmering chandelier, might be no more than costumes and props.

  Conversations washed over and around me without my taking part, while I puzzled over our odd circumstances.

  A choice of haddock with dill, or drowned in Hollandaise sauce provided the main entrée. Ariel and her sister Genevieve tried to discuss a famous Parisian café with Madame Chatillon. She pretended she did not understand them. Ariel slipped smoothly into French.

  Madame raised her eyebrows as if she could not understand that either and murmured “le accent.”

  She never wanted to talk to anyone.

  Osten offered a tray of sliced breads to Avery, then leaned a trifle close to him and in a low voice, said, “Two gentlemen in the smoking room.” Avery gave a curt nod and went back to rapt attention at whatever Genevieve was jabbering about.

  Two louts, no doubt; some pair of fools that Avery had enticed to make up numbers for poker. Avery would keep his poker night a secret. He kept up a gentlemanly profile for Genevieve.

  He didn’t care if I knew about the boozing and the gambling. In fact, he glanced at me and smoothly winked. Ah yes, he’d like me to fetch some of the resort’s booze in to the party later, no doubt. I sighed, but nodded. All part of my job. I was supposed to assist the manager, Osten, but most often, I waited on Avery.

  Avery must have felt my gaze still upon him as he half-turned as if to speak to me.

  Genevieve abruptly handed him the plate of breads.

  I stifled a laugh. If only she knew that my mind was filled with remembering the bravest sailor in all the world! I had no designs on a spoiled rich boy; no, none at all!

  “Another evening without any entertainment.” Mrs. Brookeson barely finished eating before she started impatiently from her chair. The older ladies followed her lead, setting aside their forks and following her to the front room.

  I said nothing. If I brought in cards, she’d snap and say there were too few players for a hand (and certainly wouldn’t want me to join in). If I offered to do a reading, she would snarl about my lack of theatrical ability. For no good reason, it seemed like she’d started to detest me these last few weeks.

  The younger set, all my age, wandered to the foyer directly after dinner. They were already gathered in a tight circle when I escaped the dining hall.

  I sank down on the carpeted stairs of the front hall and listened to their bubbly voices. Ariel and Gen were central. The pretty gal up from Ingonish giggled at something Avery said. Did she guess she was invited only to round out the numbers at dinner?

  I wrapped my thin-threaded, fancy-looking shawl tight around my shoulders and listened to the little party chattering.

  Avery’s low voice came clearly, “You’ll have to believe me,” followed by another flurry of giggles. The cousins, Doraleah and Edith laughed at anything he said, so one needn’t imagine he’d said something clever. They so hoped to catch a man from ‘good society.’

  I was as good as a friend when they needed something. So ‘not quite,’ so actually ‘the help’ when it came right down to it. Mark stepped to the threshold to shut the door, raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  I shook my head and waved him away. I didn’t need some last minute invitation. They carried on as if having fun, there in the chilly foyer. Was this the very best of their day?

  The very best of my day h
ad been earlier. In fact, it had been at the turn off of the high road, when Michelson had said, “I’m glad you sailed with me, Captain.’

  “Captain!” I wrapped my arms around my knees and leaned back against the stairs, remembering. How my heart had pounded when I realized I had almost turned Thistle onto the rocks. It was nothing to how my heart had pounded when the big, dark-eyed man called me ‘Captain.’

  Chapter Three

  A Day at the Inn

  “No need to dawdle about,” Cook snapped.

  I ignored her and puttered around the tea cart, checking and re-checking the spoons, the sugar dish, and then the spoons again. I had to pretend I wasn’t waiting about on purpose. Pretended, even to myself.

  Cook bustled around at the stove. She sighed heavily. “Do put that kettle back on the heat for me then. Mugs are right above.”

  I stretched up for the mugs warming on the stove’s top shelf. I didn’t mind helping out. The summer’s half a dozen kitchen helpers had all gone now. Constantly trudging back and forth must wear on Cook’s old legs.

  “Not these?” I held up the clunky mugs. Cook would never serve any of the resort guests the common blue ceramic mugs. She nodded, and I didn’t argue but gave them a quick rinse in the oversized sink. Busy work.

  Without any sort of notice, Mr. Michelson, our deliveryman, my yesterday’s sailing partner, shouldered open the huge side door and swung a wooden crate up onto the counter. He nodded to the cook. “Mrs. Buxton.” He swung back toward the door and then stopped short at the sight of me.

  He looked so astonished; I giggled. Then hastily I pressed my hands over my mouth.

  Cook snorted at my silliness. “Pour the man a cup of coffee then. One tablespoon sugar, one tablespoon cream.”

  Ah, the reason for the big mugs. He came nearly every morning, I knew, but I hadn’t guessed he stopped long enough for coffee. I fumbled around with the sugar jar, tongue-tied.

  In a deep rolling voice, he said, “Thank you, Captain.” The mug looked tiny in his hand.

  I had to make a real effort not to giggle again. Honestly.

  He leaned against the end counter and spoke to Cook. “You made it home all right yesterday?”

  “No waves made it over the road, but the sea came as near as it needed to be.” Cook shot me a look and realized I didn’t have my wits about me enough to remember to pour her coffee, too. “Mine is plain black.”

  I poured hers and then a cup for myself too, as if I ordinarily joined what must be their morning ritual.

  “Daro, all the bakery I ordered is never in that one crate?”

  The man nodded. “It is. All they’d send. There’s an outstanding bill.”

  Cook tsk-tsked. “I needed the lot. There’s no help left here. I must get all the breads and cakes brought in.” She looked at me. “You need to get after Mr. Osten about these bills, Elizabeth. We’ll not have happy guests if we run short at mealtime.”

  “Yes,” I murmured. Daro, I was thinking ‘Daro.’ What a strong name, like one of the great heroes of legend, a name of strength, but one with courage and kindness, too. I tried not to stare at him but, heavens above, you could imagine him as the hero in any story.

  “Of course, they’ll be paid. The Brookeson’s are wealthy,” Cook asserted.

  The big man looked down at his coffee. “There’s a current out there today, so I brought all the goods up by road. Stopped by here on my way down to Ingonish and borrowed the hotel’s horse and cart. I don’t expect it will be easy to make deliveries here much longer.”

  “It’s early yet, surely?” Cook looked anxious.

  “Hotel was supposed closed at the end of summer,” he said. “I expected to be boarding up the doors two months ago.”

  “Boarding up?” I repeated faintly.

  “Closing for the season. It can’t be long, now.” Cook busily set out the several loaves of white bread and canned fruits along the counter.

  If the missus was to be believed, we’d not be leaving anytime soon. I didn’t say it aloud, though.

  “No telling how long before we see real weather.” Daro sipped his coffee. “There’s nothing but open beach here.”

  “I know it Daro, I know it,” Cook fussed. “Nothing to stop the seas coming right up onto that fancy porch out there. Still, these engineers from far off must have known what they were about when they built the place.”

  He made no answer, and I finally ventured, “I’d just as soon stay for good.” The strong coffee about took the fur off your tongue, which must be what made me feel so giddy. I could hardly think of one sensible word to string after the next. I, so noted for smoothly assisting with sticky conversations!

  Our hero, I meant, the deliveryman; no, Daro, of course. Daro shot me a piercing glance. “Tell me, Captain, that light yesterday. You remember the light we saw, shy of the point?”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t think how it fooled me.” I wanted to crawl into a corner. “We were looking for the point light for such ages, then suddenly—a light. It was a stupid mistake.”

  He shook his head. “I saw it, too. Where no light sits. I walked the coast below McLellan’s this morn and found a few bits of burnt wood carried back in at the top of the tide. Can’t imagine why someone would have been burning stuff out there, in the midst of storm.” He set his mug on the side counter. “There’s something not right about it.”

  ‘Not right about it.’ I heard him say the words, but they didn’t give me any chill, didn’t tell me his suspicions. I didn’t cast my mind over old tales or poems, which might have offered some warning.

  “Fact is, more than half the lighthouses are dark now,” he said. “Part of the war effort.”

  “That’s as it should be,” Cook said. “Keep the enemy’s ships from using our navigational beacons.”

  “Yes.” Michelson frowned down at his coffee cup. His dark curls fell forward over his ears, and a thin line creased his forehead as he thought. The muscles in his forearms tightened.

  “Are you thinking the light might have been a signal light to the enemy?” Cook hissed.

  Oh, everything people spoke of these days had something to do with the war. It was as if every motivation, every effort was tangled up in some confusing political plot. Did enemy ships lurk off our coast? Were German soldiers poised to invade? It couldn’t be. Surely, the enemy had more than they wanted, fighting in Europe.

  “I don’t think so,” Daro said. I waited, full of hope, but he didn’t mention our sail, or say anything like how pleasant it was to see me today, nor mention meeting again.

  I hardly knew what to say. I couldn’t find the glib words I so easily chattered to Avery’s sort of man. Mr. Michelson’s thoughts seemed more important, somehow.

  Cook discussed the number of guests she had to feed this week, and what needed to be brought in, and all the while I sat perched on the corner stool, smiling in what probably seemed a silly, schoolgirl-ish way.

  Daro and I managed no other conversation.

  I watched out the side window while he stumped back down the path to the road and caught up the big bay mare’s reins. Too late, I thought I might have asked him about poetry. He certainly knew his Tennyson.

  Cook snorted yet again when she turned and caught me looking after him.

  “No use setting your cap for the likes of Daro Michelson. Every bit as arrogant as his father was, and a loner to boot.” Cook nodded almost to herself as she pulled items out of the crate. “I saw him gawk at you. That yellow frock suits you fine. I don’t guess you’re wearing it by mistake, neither. I don’t imagine he’s used to running into the likes of you.”

  “He saw me all day yesterday in a huge old oilskin coat.” I hoped I sounded casual. I began to set out a tray for luncheon. “What do you think he’s worried about?”

  “Storm. Like he said, it can get bad here. We’ve had years when wind and waves and sand came right up and over this stretch of road. There’s likely to be blowing snow. There are stretches
of coast road made impassible every year.” She glanced at the huge beam running up to the ceiling. “I’m sure this building will do well enough.”

  “We all know winter storms,” I said. “It isn’t like I am from all that much farther south. There was all that worry about the light we saw, too. I wonder what he’s thinking?”

  Cook stomped across the kitchen. “Heaven knows. It was nothing but arrogance, taking that boat out yesterday. Him so sure he could outrun the storm.”

  “We did.”

  “You forget about Daro Michelson. You go ahead and make up your mind to marry one of these swells. You’re more than a match for any of these society gals here. No need to spend all your days as poor as a church mouse.” She echoed my mother, near enough.

  The noon bell rang, and I scurried out the side entry with the tray. Beryl hustled in from the foyer where she had been tidying the sitting room.

  “The front room is cold,” she squeaked. “Them ladies won’t want ter’ sit out there today.”

  “Where else?” I asked. All summer we served out on the front porch. Late season though it was, it all still looked ready for a party, with white wicker chairs, swings, and settees arranged just-so, but oh-so cold. We’d switched to the front sitting room weeks back.

  If the sitting room felt uncomfortably cold now, where could I put them? The dining hall echoed with emptiness, and the kitchen wouldn’t do at all. I couldn’t think of anywhere better, and again set up the trays in the front, where the sky-high windows overlooked a perfectly stunning view of the ocean.

  Perhaps Mrs. Brookeson would remain upstairs. She’d be the only one likely to complain.

  People often wandered into the midday buffet in twos or threes and served themselves. Today, not one living soul waited for the breads, cold sliced brisket, pickles, or jelly tartlets. Cook would be fit to be tied if they’d all gone off Ingonish for lunch at the one pub there.

  Almost as I had the thought I heard Old George’s fine Russell Motorcar purring its way into the drive. So there had been a trip to Ingonish. I hoped Mr. Osten had settled George’s bill. There would be hell to pay if the old gent stopped showing up to chauffer guests around.