“But still.”
Kathy smiled. “I know. It’s like one of the old Waterhouse Street open houses, isn’t it?”
That was a perfect description, Isabelle decided, because just as at those parties, she only recognized about half the people here. But by all indications, as small groups got together, broke up and then re-formed into new configurations, everyone was still connected to someone she knew.
“I’ll bet most of them stay straight through the weekend,” Kathy added. “Oh, god. I hope my plumbing survives the onslaught.”
She’d put the old outhouse back into service, but people were going into the farmhouse to use the facilities as well. The plumbing dated back to her grandfather’s time and had never been upgraded.
“I just hope the beer lasts,” Kathy said.
“We can always make a run to the marina tomorrow,” Isabelle told her. “We’ll probably need more food by then, too.”
“Well, don’t pay for it all yourself—take up a collection before you go.”
“Yeah, right. With this crowd?”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“I suppose,” Isabelle allowed. “Say, do you know who that guy is?”
She’d been noticing him on and off throughout the afternoon and evening, but every time she went to meet him, someone came up to distract her. As the evening progressed she found herself getting more and more curious about him.
Kathy peered in the general direction that Isabelle had indicated. “Which guy?”
“Just on the other side of where Jilly and Sophie are sitting. The one that looks sort of out of place.”
There was something old-fashioned about the cut of his clothes and his hairstyle, though it was hard to tell exactly what because of the poor light. Still, she couldn’t help but feel he’d be more at home on a turn-of-the- century street in Lower Crowsea than here on her island.
“We’re all out of place here,” Kathy said with a laugh. “Except for you, my hardy country girl.”
“You know what I mean. Who is he?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Kathy turned to her. “Do you like him?”
“I don’t even know him. He just looks familiar and it bugs me that I can’t place him.”
“Familiar as in you might have seen him around, or he looks like someone you do know?”
“A little of both.”
“So go ask him,” Kathy said, ever the pragmatist.
“I would, except I can never seem to get near to him. Whenever I try, that’s exactly the moment somebody comes up to me and asks me something and the next thing I know he’s gone.”
“Allow me to investigate this phenomenon,” Kathy said loftily, beginning to rise to her feet.
Isabelle pulled at the sleeve of Kathy’s sweater, making her sit down again. “Too late. He’s gone again.”
It was true. The place where he’d been standing was now occupied by two women having an animated conversation. Isabelle knew that the Oriental woman was a performance artist, but she couldn’t remember her name. The other woman was a complete stranger to her.
“Now
Mostly Isabelle had gotten used to life without her otherwordly friends. She still painted an occasional gateway painting and she kept all of them safely stored away, but it was starting to get to the point when their existence seemed to be nothing more than a dream—a fading memory from the past that she wasn’t sure had ever actually been real. But then something would remind her of them and the memories would tumble back into her mind along with a blazing shock of realization that couldn’t be denied. They had been real. And she missed them terribly.
Kathy’s casual mention of her numena reawoke all those old memories and feelings. Isabelle felt a sudden tightening in her chest, but she forced herself to remain calm, to not let the memories take hold and spoil her mood.
“If he is,” she said after a moment, “he’s not one of mine.”
“Hmm.” Kathy gave her a quick smile. “I wonder if that new protege of Rushkin’s has come far enough along in her studies to bring them across. Maybe
“Oh, please.”
“Well, you won’t.”
“Trust the voice of experience,” Isabelle said. “It doesn’t work out.”
Kathy shook her head. “Sorry, but I don’t buy it. The next thing you’ll tell me is that if your relationship with the first boyfriend you ever have falls through, then you might as well just give up on ever finding another one.”
“You could be right.”
“Oh, poo. You’re far too young and attractive to become a hermit—which is what’s basically happening to you. You do know that, don’t you?”
“This from the woman who hasn’t had a steady boyfriend for as long as I’ve known her?”
“That’s different,” Kathy told her. “I’m just waiting for you to bring across the perfect numena.”
Isabelle sighed with mild exasperation.
“So until then,” Kathy added, “we’re stuck with each other.”
“That I can handle.”
“Hey, Izzy!” someone called.
Isabelle turned to see an indistinct figure approaching them. It wasn’t until she stepped into the light cast by the fire that Isabelle recognized her as Nora. With her spiky brown hair standing at attention and her baggy jacket and jeans hanging loose on her slender frame, she looked like a gamine set loose from a Dickens or Hugo novel and gone feral in this setting.
‘jack’s here with the Maypole,” Nora said when she reached them, “except he doesn’t know where you want it.”
Initially Isabelle had planned to put it in the field behind them, but it was so full of tents by now that she couldn’t see how it would fit.
“Why don’t we do put it up in that meadow you took me to this morning?” Kathy said. “The one that had all those yellow fish flowers in it.”
“Trout lilies,” Isabelle explained for Nora.
“They didn’t look anything like trout to me,” Kathy said.
“They’re called that because of their speckled leaves.”
Nora nodded. “My grandmother’s got those in her garden except she calls them adder’s-tongue.”
“An even more apt description,” Kathy said wryly. “Anyway, I think it’d be the perfect spot.”
Isabelle agreed. “I’ll come show you where it is.”
“You’ll have to show Jack yourself,” Nora said. “I think I’ve had one glass of wine too many to go traipsing off into the woods about now.”
In the end, Isabelle and Kathy both went along to help. Isabelle had to grab Kathy’s arm for a second when she first stood up, because everything went spinning.
“Are you okay?” Kathy asked.
“Too much mystery punch,” Isabelle explained.
Kathy laughed. “Too much vodka in the mystery punch is more like it.”
Jack Crow was the last person Isabelle would have approached to help her with the Maypole. He worked in a tattoo parlor and looked more like a biker, with his leathers and all his tattoos, than someone who would have gone out with Sophie for a few months. But Jilly had assured her he’d be perfect, and now that Isabelle could see his work—albeit in the light cast by a couple of flashlights—she had to agree that he’d done a wonderful job. There seemed to be hundreds of streamers of colored cloth, wrapped around the pole to transport it, each one a different color and breadth, complementary colors vibrating against each other so that the entire length of the pole appeared to pulse. Looking at the pattern they produced made Isabelle think of the cloth bracelets she’d made from Paddyjack’s ribbons. Without thinking of it, her hand strayed to her wrist, but the bracelet wasn’t there. She’d
