question: Do strangers typically hang around on the island after dark? Please don’t think I’m being a nutty old broad, but I keep getting the feeling that someone has been spending the night on that ratty old sofa out in the barn. And I’d swear he or she is stealing food from me. I asked Bitsy Peck next door if she’d noticed anyone hanging around, but Bitsy looked at me like I was crazy. So did little Molly Procter, who has been helping me with the cats. You remember Molly, don’t you? Her parents split up, and she is one sad, lonely little girl. Anyhow, does any or all of this sound like your idea of normal island life? Answers, mister. I need answers. I’ve had no luck corralling Quirt, though I’m certain I will soon prevail. When I do I’ll be happy to bring him to you in the city. It’ll give me an excuse to visit you. I’m sorry to say our resident trooper is unwilling to take him. Her current roommate is not a cat lover, which should tell you everything you need to know about that arrogant, manipulative bum. I know, I know. I promised you I wouldn’t talk about Him anymore. I’m just so accustomed to saying whatever pops into my head that I can’t help it. You’re like a son to me. And Desiree is my best friend. The fact that you two aren’t together anymore, aren’t even speaking, makes me mad enough to spit. I still can’t believe you let that man take the love of your life away from you. But I suppose I just have to deal. You’ve certainly moved on. I saw you on TV today flirting with that Polynesian high school girl. You probably don’t even think about Desiree anymore. Or Dorset. That’s what the old hens at Town and Country beauty salon are saying. I choose to disagree with them in my own quiet way. Much love, Aunt Bella p.s. Between you, me and the lamp post: What in the hell did they do to your eyebrows???
To: Bella Tillis
From: Mitch Berger
Subject: Re: Annoying Cottage Query Dear Aunt Bella-You’ll be happy to know that the house is not, repeat not, haunted. That tap-tapping you hear in the walls at night is nothing more than the mating call of your friendly native powder post beetles. They are small, pill-shaped bugs that live in the chestnut beams. Every year when the weather turns warm they come out and bang their little heads (or whatever it is they have) against the wood to announce to their opposite numbers that it’s time to get busy. I am not making this up. They’re totally harmless. Well, not totally. They will, in fact, eat the house eventually. But it will take at least another 200 years, and I don’t want to fumigate. So you have housemates. Sorry I forgot to warn you. I promise you they’ll disappear back into the cracks in another few days and blessed silence will return. It’s all just part of the rich cavalcade of life on Big Sister. As to your question about strangers hanging around in the night: Sometimes high school kids sneak out there to get high and engage in recreational boinkage, particularly when it gets warm (see above re: powder post beetles). This is why the lighthouse is always kept locked. But they don’t usually stay over. And they for sure aren’t welcome to come in our houses and help themselves to food. If you think someone is doing this then you should definitely contact our resident trooper. Her name and number are listed in the phone book. For the record, Brandon didn’t “take” Des from me. She made the decision that was right for her and I have to respect it. It’s nobody’s fault. In the immortal words of that great philosopher Donald Rumsfeld, “Stuff happens.” I’d love to see you any time you can make it into the city. But I must warn you that I can’t take Quirt. He is a roamer, not an apartment cat. He belongs out there. I don’t mean to sound cold and heartless, but he would not be happy here. Molly’s a terrific kid. One hell of a first step to the hoop, too. I e-mailed her recently but never heard back. Tell her I said hey. And I’m sorry to hear about her folks. Best regards, Mitch p.s. Honestly, I have no idea what you mean about my eyebrows.
It was past midnight when he finished his dishes, by which time Clemmie decided she was in the mood to frolic. Mitch tossed her mousy toy up and down the hall and she chased after it with murderous intent until she’d tired herself out. Then she padded into the bedroom, jumped up on the big brass bed and waited there for him. She liked to sleep on his chest.
He smiled at her and said, “Clemmie, old girl, we are doing pretty damned good, know that?” Because it was true. Hell, if he’d had a sword, Mitch would have launched it triumphantly into the ceiling just like Tyrone Power had in The Mark of Zorro. But Mitch had no sword. So instead he wept.
CHAPTER 3
It felt very strange to be easing her cruiser thumpety-bumpety over the narrow wooden causeway out to Big Sister again. Des couldn’t help recalling the very first time she’d set eyes on this private Yankee eden with its choice handful of Peck family mansions scattered across forty acres of meadows and woods. That snug little carriage house where she’d first met a certain pudgy, sad-eyed widower named Mitch Berger. She’d driven down from Central District headquarters in Meriden that day to investigate the body he’d found. She was still a homicide investigator on the Major Crime Squad then. A lieutenant. One of only three such women in the state. And the only one who was black. She’d been hot stuff all right-until she stepped on the wrong toes.
Seeing the place once again, Des realized that Big Sister felt a lot like home. There was that strip of private beach where she and Mitch had walked together for the very first time. And the sandy, twisting path they took home the night they went skinny dipping in the moonlight. And the lighthouse where he’d proposed marriage to her.
It all seemed so long ago now. And yet it was still right there inside of her heart. She could feel her chest tighten as she pulled into the driveway next to Mitch’s plum-colored 1956 Studebaker pickup. He’d left it behind for Bella. Had no use for it in the city.
Quirt came running across the garden toward her when she got out, rubbing up against her leg and yowling in outrage over her prolonged absence. She bent down and picked him up. He wouldn’t let her hold him. Just squirmed in her arms until she released him. When Bella came out the front door to greet Des he darted inside the house.
“Oh, thank god!” Bella said excitedly. “I’ve been trying to get him inside for weeks. Quick, quick, close the door…”
Des shut the door behind them. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Find a good home for him-unless you want him.”
“Bella, you know I can’t take him.”
“I don’t know anything anymore,” Bella blustered, standing there in her ratty, ancient black ERA-YES sweatshirt and black stretch pants. She looked like an angry Jewish bowling ball. “I used to, but those days are over.”
Des let her rebuke slide on by. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” she said, glancing around.
Bella had opened up Mitch’s drop-leaf dining table and moved it in front of the bay windows, which gave the room a much homier air. There was a bowl of fruit on it. Also her laptop computer. Mitch’s sky blue Fender Stratocaster and stack of amps were stashed in a corner by the door. Des was surprised he hadn’t taken it all with him to New York.
“He said he hasn’t felt like playing his music lately,” Bella explained, following her gaze.
“He called that music?”
“To him it was. Which, being an artist, you ought to be able to understand. How is your drawing coming?”
“I’ve been a bit short on time lately.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means uh-huh.”
“Sounded like something more.”
“Then you’re having a conversation with yourself, not me.” Bella looked her up and down, brow furrowing. “Tell me, just exactly how many pounds have you lost?”
“Who says I’ve lost any?”
“I do. You’re nothing but skin and bone. As for your color…”
“My color?”
“It’s distinctly sallow. You used to glow. You don’t glow anymore.”
“Bella, is this a for-real prowler call or did you just lure me out here to tell me how lousy I look?”
“You don’t look lousy. You look unhappy.”
“Just step off, okay? Brandon and I are getting along great. Why can’t you accept that?”
