CHAPTER 20
Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and clear, but with a cool breeze that made it perfect weather for running. Bill’s temper had eventually cooled, helped by a Skype session with his grandson, Patrick, in Alaska and his favorite supper of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Both he and Lucy were in high spirits as they parked the car alongside the town common and joined the crowd of people gathered around the registration table for the 5K race. Everyone was talking about the cornucopia on the bandstand, which was already full to overflowing with donated food for the Food Pantry. Bill had volunteered to help collect the canned goods that were the entry fee for the race, along with a nominal $10 fee, but since he had to work with only one hand he was assigned instead to distributing the highly coveted Turkey Trot T-shirts. Many of the competitors were wearing shirts from previous years. Each featured the cartoon running turkey and the year in big, bold numbers. The older the shirt, the greater the prestige.
After signing in and receiving her T-shirt, Lucy pulled it on over her running togs and got busy stretching out her muscles. She didn’t have any real hope of winning the race, especially since her training had been so spotty, but as she checked out the other runners who were also busy warming up, she realized that there were very few in her age category. Most women her age, she figured, were much too busy this morning getting their turkeys stuffed and in the oven to even think of running in the race. Maybe, she thought as her competitive spirit rose, she might actually have a chance of placing and getting a medal. It was certainly worth a try. Vowing to give the race every bit of energy she could, she joined the other runners assembling behind the starting line. She noticed lots of familiar faces, including Phyllis’s husband Wilf, several of Dot Kirwan’s kids, and even Roger Wilcox, chairman of the board of selectmen.
Rev. Marge offered a short prayer and announced that this year’s donations for the Food Pantry had topped all previous records. Then she raised the starting gun, said the traditional “Ready, Set,” and pulled the trigger.
They were off. Runners who had placed in previous years’ races got the best positions just behind the starting line, and they led the pack. Others, like Lucy, had to wait a bit before they even reached the starting line. As she shuffled along, Lucy pictured the route in her mind, picturing the race course. The route was clearly signed and led from the town common along Parallel Street with its antique sea captain’s homes, then gradually climbed up to Shore Road. There the route passed roomy shingle-style summer cottages and newer McMansions and offered beautiful views of the bay dotted with rocky, pine-covered islands and bound by Quissett Point in the distance. The course then turned at the gate to Pine Point, the Van Vorst estate, and continued along a pine needle strewn path through the woodsy Audubon sanctuary, emerging onto Church Street by the old cemetery and continuing down Main Street to Sea Street, where the runners descended to reach the finish line in the harbor.
Lucy was trapped in a crowd of runners when she reached the starting line where she gave a wave to the cheering crowd of onlookers and jogged along with the group. The pack of runners began to thin out as they proceeded alongside the town common and Lucy could finally begin running. The race attracted runners and walkers of various levels of fitness. Some were keen competitors who raced regularly, while others were simply out for a pleasant bit of exercise that also happened to benefit a good cause. That meant that the pack stretched out for some distance along the course, with the dedicated competitors far out in front of the rest, followed by slower runners and finally, the walkers bringing up the rear.
Reaching Parallel Street, Lucy found her rhythm and began passing the slower walkers and joggers. The running became automatic. The steady thump-thump of her running shoes hitting the asphalt became a kind of background music, and her mind began to wander as she left Parallel Street and began the climb up Shore Road.
There, the air seemed to thin and a brisk ocean breeze refreshed and cooled her heated body. The sky and ocean were deep blue, a few oak trees still held on to rattling russet leaves, and dark green pointed firs stood sentinel on the rocky coast. The handsome homes that lined the road, most only occupied during the summer, had interesting architectural features that captured her imagination. Here a spacious porch where the railing was dotted with drying beach towels all summer long, there a tall tower where a telescope could be seen in the window, pointing out to the sea below.
Approaching the Franklin mansion, Lucy was struck once again by its enormous size. It almost seemed terribly foolish, perhaps even tempting fate, to build such a grand house. A house was meant to shelter its inhabitants, and this house had clearly failed. Ed was dead, so was his daughter, Alison, and now his pregnant wife couldn’t wait to leave.
A water station had been set up in the mansion’s driveway and Lucy grabbed a paper cup, slowing slightly to swig a few gulps before discarding the cup in one of the barrels set out for the purpose. Something about the house caught her fancy. She thought the large, hulking edifice looked a bit like Ed Franklin himself. There was something unsettling about it, just as there had been about the man. Something a bit off-kilter or out of proportion. Something not right. And then she saw a young woman with long blond hair stepping out
