washed clean by the sun and the passage of years. Still, it was well cared for and in good shape, with white doilies carefully placed on its rounded armrests.
As she settled onto the sofa, Candy scanned the room. The hardwood floors gleamed, and someone had dusted recently. A dark-paneled grandfather clock in the far corner kept the beat of time. Atop an old Magnavox TV set, an arrangement of fresh flowers in a crystal vase brightened the place, offsetting the dark, aging oil landscapes and family portraits that hung on the walls.
Opposite her, against the interior wall, stood an antique mahogany cabinet with glass panels of artfully engraved glass. No doubt its very talented creator had intended the eventual owner to display fine china dinnerware within, or perhaps crystal goblets or priceless keepsakes, or even trophies of some sort. But Wilma Mae displayed empty ketchup bottles, arranged as proudly and artfully as if they were indeed trophies.
The elderly woman settled into a matching armchair and leaned forward to pour. As they drank their tea, they chatted about Wilma Mae’s tidy home, the weather, Candy’s job at the newspaper — and the ketchup bottles.
“They’re very dear to me,” Wilma Mae explained with a wistful smile on her face. “I just think they’re so lovely — all those different shapes and colors of glass, not to mention the history behind them. You probably won’t believe this, but in many ways my life has been defined by a bottle of ketchup. That one right there.”
She pointed to a bottle prominently displayed at the center of the mahogany cabinet. “That was the one that started it all. It dates back to 1947, though I have some bottles that are much older, of course. But that one is special.”
The bottle, Candy noticed, was the typical tall, narrow shape, tapering from shoulder to neck, with a metal twist cap and its original label still in place. “Is it valuable?” Candy asked.
“Oh no.” Wilma Mae waved a dismissive hand. “Probably worth no more than thirty or forty dollars, though some of my bottles might fetch a few hundred. But that one is special. It has sentimental value. It was used by none other than Cornelius Roberts Pruitt himself when he was vacationing at the Lodge up on Moosehead Lake in the late 1940s.”
“Cornelius Roberts Pruitt?” The name sounded familiar to Candy. “Wasn’t he the father of Helen?”
“The very same. The Pruitts used to be one of the richest families in New England, which was saying something. They still have a lot of money, of course, and still own a lot of land hereabouts. You’ve been out to Pruitt Manor, haven’t you, and met Helen?” asked Wilma Mae, referring to the Pruitt clan’s current matriarch, Helen Ross Pruitt, who often summered at Pruitt Manor, an English Tudor-style mansion located out on the point near Kimball Light.
Candy nodded. “Maggie and I were out there last fall for tea,” she said, remembering how exciting that day was, and how thrilled Maggie Tremont, her best friend, had remained for weeks after.
“Well, back in those days — the thirties and the forties — the Pruitts used to visit their summer cottage, as they called it, just about every year. They came up right after Memorial Day and brought the whole extended family with them — grandparents, cousins, nieces and nephews, and of course the dogs — anyone who wanted to come. They used to drive up in a caravan of vehicles, with the family riding in cars and all their belongings following behind them in trucks. It was quite a spectacle when they rolled into town. They spent the summer exploring the Maine coast and the rest of northern New England, and they had a ball.” Wilma Mae slapped her knees for emphasis. “They rode horses with the Rockefellers on Mount Desert Island, sailed down to the islands of Casco Bay, hiked up Mount Katahdin with some of the Roosevelts, drove over to see Franconia Notch and the Old Man of the Mountain — they were just regular tourists who loved the region. Anyway, for one or two weeks every summer, Cornelius would visit the Lodge at Moosehead Lake. Sometimes he brought a few of his children, but most times he came alone. He told the family he needed to get away on his own for a few days to cleanse his soul and commune with nature, but mostly he just wanted to commune with his mistresses.”
At this, Wilma Mae giggled softly and blushed so bright red she looked like she might catch fire. She fanned herself with her hand. “Oh my, it’s getting warm in here, isn’t it? It must be the spring sun — or the hot tea. It’s an herbal blend, you know — chamomile, calendula, red clover, that sort of thing. I think it also has lavender in it. I picked it up at Zeke’s General Store yesterday, when I was out running errands. I find it very soothing, don’t you?” She reached for her cup and held it with both hands as she took a sip, looking over the rim at Candy.
“Oh yes, it’s very good, and it is quite hot,” Candy said with a knowing smile. “I can see where it would make you quite warm.”
Wilma Mae nodded appreciatively, set her cup back down on its saucer, and pressed on, her color lightening just a bit as she continued the story.
“Well, you may not know this,” she said, “but I was a waitress at the Lodge for several summers back in the forties, and I used to serve Mr. Pruitt — he was always Mr. Pruitt to us, never Cornelius. He was a very stern man, very proper, with a long face, dark eyes, and unruly brown hair, which he tried to keep slicked down. Even on vacation he dressed for all his meals. One morning at breakfast, he was chatting with his table guests and turned a bottle of ketchup —
“Was she one of his mistresses?” Candy asked, finding herself drawn into the story.
“Oh yes, for quite a long time. Several years, I think. But the affair ended that morning.” Wilma Mae gave Candy a grave expression. “I didn’t care much for her. None of us did. She was a snooty socialite up from Boston, and she could be quite cruel and condescending to the help. Her husband made his money in timber and land speculation before and during the war. She traveled without him quite often, which made sense, since she was nearly twenty years younger than he was. And she was probably thirty years younger than Cornelius. She’d been meeting him at the Lodge for several years, or so I heard. But that morning she was so upset at him for ruining her morning dress with the ketchup that she told him off, right then and there, in no uncertain terms, and stomped out of the room in a huff, with her boa flying!”
Candy laughed. “That must have been quite a scene.”
“Oh, it was!” Wilma Mae said, her eyes lighting up. “She checked out of the hotel that very morning and, as far as I know, never saw him again. It caused quite a bit of scandal, but more importantly, Cornelius was without a mistress for the rest of the week.” Wilma Mae paused and blinked several times. “So... ”
“So... ?” prompted Candy.
Wilma Mae cleared her throat. “So, naturally, Cornelius needed companionship for the rest of his stay.” She hesitated, and when she spoke again, her voice was hushed, almost a whisper. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I became his companion.”
Candy’s eyes widened in surprise. “His companion? You don’t mean... ”
“Oh yes, it’s true,” said Wilma Mae with a firm nod of her head. “I was deflowered by none other than Cornelius Roberts Pruitt!”
Three
Wilma Mae’s blush returned, but this time she paid it no attention. “I suppose you might think I was some sort of hussy, but I can tell you I was not. I was an innocent girl, still a virgin at the time. I knew nothing of the ways of the world. But Cornelius did. He was a very charismatic man, with an air of confidence and power that was, well, intoxicating to someone like me.” She added in a whispery voice, as if sharing a secret, “And he had lots of money!”
She laughed sweetly and pointed to an aged black-and-white photograph in an ornate gold frame that sat among many others on the dark mahogany side table against the wall. “That’s him there,” she said, then added thoughtfully, “His nose was a bit crooked and his teeth were yellow, but he had lovely hands and beautiful eyes. And he smelled good.”
Candy rose from where she sat on the sofa and crossed the room to the table. She stooped and peered intently at the photograph Wilma Mae had pointed out. It showed a tall, dark-featured man standing on a sloping
