The Shape of Night(14)
“You’ll be glad you stayed. And October really is the nicest time of year.”
I’m already at the door when I think of one more question. “The owner’s name is Arthur Sherbrooke?”
“Yes. He inherited the house from his aunt.”
“Do you think he’d mind if I contacted him about the history of Brodie’s Watch? It would be interesting background for my book.”
“He comes up to Tucker Cove every so often to check on Ned’s progress. I’ll find out when he’ll be in town again, but I’m not sure how willing he is to talk about the house.”
“Why not?”
“He’s having a hard enough time selling the place. The last thing he needs is someone writing about the mouse problem.”
* * *
—
I walk out of Donna’s office, into the heat of a summer’s day. The village is bustling, every table taken in the Lobster Trap Restaurant, and a long line of tourists snakes out of Village Cone Ice Cream. But no one seems interested in the white clapboard building that houses the Tucker Cove Historical Society. When I step inside, I don’t see a single soul, and except for the ticking of a grandfather clock, it is silent. Tourists come to Maine to sail its waters and hike its forests, not to poke around inside gloomy old houses filled with dusty artifacts. I examine a glass display case containing antique dinner plates and wine goblets and silverware. It is a setting for a sit-down supper, circa 1880. Beside the place setting is an old cookbook, open to a recipe for salt mackerel baked in new milk and butter. It’s just the sort of dish that one would have been served in a coastal village like Tucker Cove. Simple fare, made with ingredients pulled from the sea.
Hanging above the glass case is an oil painting of a familiar three-masted ship in full sail, plowing through turbulent green waves. It is identical to the painting that now hangs in Brodie’s Watch. I lean in close and am so focused on the artist’s brushstrokes that I don’t realize someone has approached me from behind until the floorboard gives a squeak. With a start, I turn and see a woman watching me, her eyes enormous through the thick lenses in her glasses. Age has bowed her spine and she is only as tall as my shoulder, but her gaze is steady and alert, and she stands without the aid of a cane, her feet squarely planted in ugly but sensible shoes. Her docent name tag reads: MRS. DICKENS, which seems to match her almost too perfectly for it to be true.
“It’s a very fine painting, isn’t it?” she says.
Still surprised by her unexpected arrival, I merely nod.
“That’s the Mercy Annabelle. She used to sail out of Wiscasset.” She smiles, laugh lines creasing a face like worn leather. “Welcome to our little museum. Is this your first time in Tucker Cove?”
“Yes.”
“Staying for a while?”
“Through the summer.”
“Ah, good for you. Too many tourists just zoom up the coast, rushing through town after town, and everything blends together for them. It takes time to feel the pulse of a place and get to know its character.” Her heavy glasses slide down her nose. Pushing them back up, she gives me a closer look. “Is there something in particular I can help you find? Some aspect of our history you’d like to know?”
“I’m staying up at Brodie’s Watch. I’m curious about its history.”
“Ah. You’re the food writer.”
“How did you know?”
“I ran into Billy Conway at the post office. He says he’s never been so happy to go to work every morning. Your blueberry muffins are getting quite the reputation in town. Ned and Billy are hoping you’ll settle down here and open up a bake shop.”
I laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do you like living up on the hill?”
“It’s beautiful up there. Exactly the place you’d expect a sea captain to build his house.”
“You’ll be interested in this.” She points to a different display case. “These items belonged to Captain Brodie. He brought them back from his voyages.”
I lean in to examine the two dozen seashells which gleam under glass like colorful jewels. “He collected seashells? I never would have guessed that.”
“We had a biologist from Boston look at these specimens. She told us these shells come from all around the world. The Caribbean, the Indian Ocean, the South China Sea. Rather a sweet hobby for a big burly sea captain, don’t you think?”
I notice the journal lying open in the case, its yellowed pages covered with meticulous handwriting.
“That’s his logbook from the earlier ship he was master of, The Raven. He seemed to be a man of few words. Most of his entries are strictly about the weather and sailing conditions, so it’s hard to tell much about the man himself. Clearly, the sea was his first love.”
And it was ultimately his doom, I think, as I study the handwriting of a man long dead. Fair winds, following seas he had written that day of the voyage. But the weather is always changing and the sea is a treacherous mistress. I wonder about his final words in The Minotaur logbook, just before his ship went down. Did he catch the scent of death in the wind, hear its scream in the rigging? Did he realize that he would never again set foot in the house where I now sleep?