“Actually, I’m American,” interjected Rey with some amusement. “My ancestors have been here in the US since the fifteen hundreds. I am proud of my Hispanic heritage. I am actually descended from the Spanish explorer Juan Rodriguez de Castillo, but I am thoroughly American and proud of my service in the US Navy.”
Audrey’s face reddened, but she hadn’t finished speaking. “I thank you for your service,” she said, “but as a mother, and speaking for a father who is going through unimaginable grief, I urge the board to be cautious about putting our kids, especially at-risk kids, under the guidance of a—um—newcomer. We need to be very careful.” She paused and turned to Rey. “This is nothing personal. It’s not against you. I’m just for our kids,” she added before sitting down.
“Well, thank you for that,” said Roger. “As I said earlier, all liquor license applicants go through the same process and must provide proof of good character, financial information, and criminal records check. It’s quite a thorough vetting, I can assure you.”
“If I may,” said Rey, “I’d like to reassure the board that I am a father and I share this lady’s concern. As it happens, my two children will be working at the restaurant. My daughter, Luisa, handles the business end of things, and my son, Matt, will run the kitchen. I will be the executive chef, creating menus and developing recipes, which I envision as a part-time position. I’m not so young anymore and I’m ready to let the youngsters take over.”
“Quite understandable,” said Roger with an approving nod. “I do have one question, however. Why did you decide on Tinker’s Cove?”
“Ah,” said Rey. “I have been a Californian all my life, but now, alas, I have had several bouts with skin cancer and my doctors tell me I must avoid the sun. Maine, it happens, is very cloudy and the sun hardly ever shines.”
“Lucy,” hissed Corney, grabbing Lucy’s pen and stopping her note-taking, “don’t put that in your story!”
* * *
The old saw about the variable New England weather, that if you didn’t like it you should wait a minute, didn’t hold true on Saturday for Alison’s memorial service. The usually fickle sun put in a rare appearance, shining brightly in a clear blue sky as mourners gathered beneath the tall, white steeple in the simple clapboard Community Church.
Zoe accompanied Lucy to the service. Although the two girls hadn’t been close, they were in the same class at Winchester College, located on the outskirts of town. Winchester was a small, liberal arts college that prided itself on fostering close relationships between students and faculty, and Lucy knew that Alison’s death would be deeply felt by the entire college community. Young people weren’t supposed to die, and Alison’s death had been completely unexpected, so grief was compacted by shock and disbelief.
“It doesn’t seem real,” whispered Zoe as they stepped inside the dimly lit church. “I saw her on Tuesday. We sat together in American Lit. She had me laughing at the professor, imitating the way he said Thoreau’s name. ‘Not Thaw-row’, he said, ‘but thorough, rhyming with borough.’ The way she—” Zoe broke off with a sniff, and Lucy plucked a tissue from the little packet thoughtfully provided in the rack for hymnals and gave it to her. “It was just so funny,” continued Zoe, after giving her nose a good blow and wiping her eyes. “She was like that, and she was really nice, too.”
“Death’s never easy,” said Lucy, “but it’s easier to accept if a person is very old and had a good life, or if they’ve been sick and suffering for a long time.”
“It really makes you think,” said Zoe, and Lucy realized that this was probably the first time Zoe had truly confronted her own mortality.
As Lucy expected, the church was crowded and they were lucky to squeeze into one of the rear pews. Unlike the usual Sunday crowd, who greeted each other and chatted until the choir appeared, singing the opening hymn, this congregation was quiet and somber. The organist, Ruth Lawson, was playing a variation on the old hymn, “Amazing Grace,” and Lucy followed the tune, letting it fill her mind and soothe her jumbled emotions.
“For the Beauty of the Earth” was the opening hymn and Lucy had a tough time singing the familiar phrases, thinking of the intense emotion with which she’d greeted each of her children, and how bereft she’d feel if she lost any one of them. She hoped Alison had been loved like that, enfolded with love from her first breath.
Lucy found her eyes straying to the bereaved family in the front pews.
She recognized Ed Franklin, with that head of carefully styled white hair. His young wife, Mireille, was standing beside him, but Lucy could only catch a glimpse of her back. Her long blond hair was a dramatic contrast to her black coat.
The hymn ended, but before the congregation could sing the final amen, a primal cry of pain and anguish disturbed the usual pregnant pause. All eyes were drawn to a sobbing woman in the front pew opposite the one occupied by Ed Franklin and his wife. She was supported by two men, one young and one middle-aged, as she collapsed into her seat and the sobs gradually subsided.
“Her mother, Alison’s mother . . .” was the whispered message that rippled through the rather staid gathering of reserved New Englanders.
Rev. Margery Harvey, the minister known to all as Rev. Marge, was quick to move things along, calling upon those present to join in prayer. When the Lord’s Prayer was completed, she thanked everyone for coming and offering their support to Alison’s family—her father, Ed Franklin, her mother, Eudora Clare, and her brother,
