Heroes Are My Weakness(20)

The room’s light blue walls, red bedspread, and yellow chairs were supposed to evoke van Gogh’s painting Bedroom in Arles, while the life-size trompe l’oeil mural on the longest wall depicted the front end of a taxi crashing through a storefront window. She hoped to God that mural wasn’t the legacy because she couldn’t imagine how she’d get away with selling an entire wall.

She imagined her mother in this room, feeding the artists’ egos in ways she never did her own daughter’s. Mariah believed artists needed nurturing, but she’d refused to encourage her daughter to draw or act, even though Annie had loved doing both.

“The art world is a vipers’ pit. Even if you’re enormously talented—which you aren’t—it eats people alive. I don’t want that for you.”

Mariah would have done so much better with one of those naturally feisty little girls who didn’t care about others’ opinions. Instead she’d given birth to a shy child who lived on daydreams. Yet, in the end, Annie had been the strong one, supporting a mother who could no longer care for herself.

She set her coffee mug aside as she heard the unfamiliar sound of a vehicle approaching. She went to the living room and gazed out the window in time to see a battered white pickup stop at the end of the walk. The door opened and a woman who looked to be in her early sixties climbed down. Her bulky figure was wrapped in a gray down coat, and a serviceable pair of black boots sank into the snow. She wore no hat over her big blond bouffant but had looped a diamond-patterned black and green knit scarf around her neck. She leaned into the truck and withdrew a pink gift bag with raspberry tissue paper frothing from the top.

Annie was so happy to see a face not connected with Harp House that she nearly tripped over the painted canvas rug in her hurry to get to the door. As she opened it, a dusting of snow blew off the roof.

“I’m Barbara Rose,” the woman said with a friendly wave. “You’ve been here nearly a week. I thought it was time somebody checked in to see how you’re doing.” Her bright red lipstick stood out against her winter-pale complexion, and as she came up the steps, Annie saw a few flecks of mascara lodging in the faint puffiness under her eyes.

Annie welcomed her inside and took her coat. “Thanks for sending your husband out to help me that first day. Would you like some coffee?”

“Love it.” Beneath the coat, stretchy black pants and a royal blue sweater clung to her ample body. She took off her boots, then followed Annie into the kitchen, bringing along the gift bag and the strong floral scent of her perfume. “It’s lonely for any woman by herself on this island, but out here in the middle of nowhere . . .” The quick hunch of her shoulders turned into a shudder. “Too many things can go wrong when you’re alone.”

Not exactly the words Annie wanted to hear from a seasoned islander.

As Annie made a fresh pot of coffee, Barbara gazed around the kitchen, taking in the collection of kitschy salt and pepper shakers on the windowsill, the series of black-and-white lithographs on the wall. She seemed almost wistful. “All kinds of famous people used to come here during the summer, but I don’t remember seeing much of you.”

Annie switched on the coffeemaker. “I’m more a city person.”

“Peregrine sure isn’t a good place for a city person in the dead of winter.” Barbara liked to talk, and as the coffeemaker began to gurgle, she spoke of the exceptionally cold weather and how hard it was for the island women during the winter when their men were out in rough seas. Annie had forgotten about the complicated laws regarding when and where commercial lobstermen could set their traps, and Barbara was more than happy to fill her in.

“We only fish here from early October to the first of June. Then we concentrate on the tourists. Most of the other islands fish from May to December.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier when the weather’s warmer?”

“That’s for sure. Although, when it comes to pulling up traps, a lot of things can go wrong, even when the weather’s good. But lobster fetches a higher price during the winter, so there are advantages to fishing now.”

Annie finished making the coffee. They carried the mugs out to the table that sat in the front bay. Barbara handed Annie the pink gift bag, then took the chair across from her. It held a black-and-white scarf knitted in the same diamond-pattern as Barbara’s.

Barbara used her hand to sweep the leftover toast crumbs from Annie’s breakfast into her palm. “Knitting keeps a lot of us busy during the winter. Otherwise I start fretting. My son’s living in Bangor now. I used to see my grandson every day, but now I’m lucky if I see him every couple of months.” Her eyes clouded, as if she wanted to cry. She stood abruptly and carried the crumbs she’d collected into the kitchen. When she returned, she hadn’t quite regained her composure. “My daughter Lisa’s talking about leaving. If that happens, I’ll lose my two granddaughters.”

“Jaycie’s friend?”

Barbara nodded. “It seems like the fire at the school might be the last straw for her.”

Annie dimly recalled the small frame building that had served as the island schoolhouse. It perched just up the hill from the wharf. “I didn’t know there’d been a fire.”

“It happened in early December, right after Theo Harp arrived. An electrical fire. Burned the place to the ground.” She tapped the table with the tips of lacquer-red fingernails. “That school educated island kids for fifty years, right up to the time they left for high school on the mainland. Now we’re using an old double-wide—all the town can afford—and Lisa says she’s not goin’ to let her girls keep going to school in a trailer.”