A Northern Light(75)

The hotel itself looked as pretty as a painting. Red, white, and blue bunting had been ruched all around the porch and the balconies. The red roses were in full bloom, and the blue hydrangeas, too. Every window was lit, even the dock was aglow with lanterns. Tables, made out of boards and sawhorses, covered with stars-and-stripes cloths, sagged under the weight of all the food and drink. All you could hear was laughter and music.

The lawn itself was teeming. There were people everywhere. Scores of tourists in linen suits and fancy dresses, and local people in their faded and mended Sunday best. Even Hamlet was turned out for the occasion, with a red-white-and-blue ribbon tied around his neck. My pa was there. He stood talking with Frank Loomis and George Burnap and a few other men. He nodded when he saw me. Weavers mamma was talking to Alma Mclntyre. My aunt Josie was interrogating poor Arn Satterlee about Emmie Hubbard's land and who was after buying it. I did my best to avoid her. She had told the whole county how selfish and uncaring I was to have gone to the Glenmore. She was only mad because Pa wouldn't allow Abby to clean her house and she now had to pay a girl from the village to do it. Uncle Vernon was talking to the Reverend Miller and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Becker. Mrs. Loomis was filling her plate with macaroni salad. Emmie Hubbard, looking thin and anxious, was swatting her kids away from the pie table. She didn't have the money to bring them, but Mr. Sperry always let them in for free. No one was supposed to know, for Mr. Sperry didn't like people thinking he was soft. Mrs. Hill, Fran's mother, had taken Fran aside and was scolding her for something. Probably for sneaking off to the Waldheim after Ed Compeau. Fran was making her eyes all big and serious, trying to look as innocent as the day.

Weaver zoomed by again, an empty pitcher in each hand. "Discuss," he said.

"Confer," I replied.

Confabulate was my word of the day and Weaver and I were dueling with it. It means to chat or talk familiarly. I like it a lot because it is a word that winks at you. It has shades of the word fable in it, as if it wants you to know that that's what most conversation is—people telling each other tales.

"Matt? Where should I put these? Mrs. Hennessey handed them to me on my way in."

It was Royal. He had a pie in each hand. I was aware of people's eyes on us. It made me feel special and proud. I took them from him and placed them on the dessert table.

"I'm going to talk to Tom L'Esperance," he said, squeezing my arm. "I'll see you later," and then he was gone.

I passed Belinda Becker on my way back to the kitchen. She was wearing a very pretty dress of dotted swiss tied with a pale blue sash and was leaning on Dan Loomis's arm like she couldn't stand up without him. Martha Miller was with them. She stared at me long and hard with a face sour enough to shame a lemon.

I saw Minnie and Jim. They were standing down by the lake. Minnie's face was turned up to her husband's. She still looked tired to me, but she was smiling. He was, too, and before they headed back up to the lawn, he bent his head to hers and kissed her. Right on the mouth. I knew it was sweet, what they had. Despite their troubles. And I hoped I would have something like it.

"I thought you hated him," I said, as Minnie waved and ran up to me.

"You'll understand when you're married," she said, kissing my cheek.

"Smug little witch."

"Who's smug? Why didn't you tell me about Royal Loomis? It's all anyone's talking about!"

"I tried! You had a crying fit and passed out on me. I have lots to tell you, Min. So much—"

"Minnie! What kind of pie do you want?"

"Coming, Jim!" Minnie yelled. She kissed me again and ran to her husband.

I watched her go, watched her fall in with the endless and needless fussing women make over unimportant things like pie and lemonade, and remembered with a twinge of jealousy how we had once belonged only to each other. Now she belonged to her children. And Jim. And their home, their life. Not me.

I felt a thump on my head. Weaver trotted by with a tray in his hand. "Speak."

"Talk," I said, swatting at him.

"That's weak," he said.

"So's speak?"

"Mattie! More chicken, please, ja?" It was Henry. He was manning the barbecue grill.

"Right away, Henry," I said, gathering my skirts in my hands to run back inside. He was also sharpening a carving knife. Even though it was dusky, I saw it and wished I hadn't. I knew it was only a silly superstition, but it made me nervous.

Before I could run back inside, Ada came up to me, grabbed my hand, and said, "Royal and Martha Miller just had a fight!"

I blinked at her. "Royal? That can't be. He was just here. Did you see them fighting?"

"No."

"Then how—"

"My nosy brother Mike. He was pissing out back of the boathouse. They didn't know he was there. He said he couldn't see anything and couldn't hear everything, but he did hear Martha tell Royal that it looked like his broken heart had healed up mighty quick."

My own heart felt like lead. "He told me he was going to talk to Tom L'Esperance."

"Tom L'Esperance? He's nor even here. I'm going to find Mike and see if he knows more. Maybe I can find Royal, too."

"Ada, don't...," I started to say. Then I heard my name shouted and felt arms around my waist. It was my littlest sister. "For heaven's sake, Beth, what's all round your mouth?"