Zee stirred the egg and some water into a paste as Jessina watched carefully. Then she filled the pot with water and put it on the grill.
“ARE YOU GOING TO PLAY mechanic all day, or are you going to join the party?” Ann asked, starting back up the ramp.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Mickey said, grumbling something about Zee and Melville wrecking the engine. He took the oars out of the oarlocks, where Zee had left them, and placed them back where they belonged.
“Look at this,” he said to Ann, pointing to the oarlocks, which were worn down almost to bare wood.
“Look at what?” Ann said.
“She wore out my thole pins,” he said.
“Your what?”
Mickey gestured to the wooden pins next to the oars. “These are antiques. She may be my niece, but she’s going to have to pay for them.”
“What are you complaining about now?”
Mickey pointed at the wooden dowels that served as oarlocks. Ann thought of the story, “The Once,” about Maureen and the story of Zylphia and her young sailor. It wasn’t the Miseries-she could see the Miseries just slightly to the northwest-but it was an island. “I’ll be damned,” she said, looking up at the house, where she could see Zee and Hawk standing arm in arm.
“She’s going to have to either pay me or replace them,” Mickey said again.
Still grumbling, he caught up with Ann, and they walked to the cottage.
MELVILLE HIKED TO THE LIGHTHOUSE at the far end of the island. He stood on the cliff, looking out toward Manchester, and thought about the day so long ago when another boat had broken down, and how he had stopped here and what that day had meant. Then he opened the bag he’d brought along and took out the book of Yeats’s poetry. He opened to the title page and to the dedication. He saw Maureen’s suicide note still tucked into the pages of the book, and just as Finch had thrown the book that day, he threw it now.
It seemed as if he’d been sorry forever, but he found he couldn’t be sorry any longer. As he watched the book fall into the blue ocean below, disappearing into the foam, he said the only kind of prayer he knew now, not one asking forgiveness, not anymore, but a prayer of gratitude: for Maureen, and Finch, and Zee, and Jessina, and Danny, for Mattei for helping Zee through, and Rhonda, Ann, Bowditch, and even Mickey, and for this new man Hawk who had come into their lives, and for Michael who had left them. He said a prayer of gratitude for the days he had left with Finch, and one asking for the wisdom he knew he would need as those days went on. Then he said a final prayer of thanks for all that had happened in their strange and surprising lives. And for all that was yet to come.
AUTHOR’S DISCLAIMER
Liberties taken. The weather. The houses. With the exception of the House of the Seven Gables, not one of the homes in this book is real. They are for the most part imaginary places set where real houses now stand. Don’t go looking for them, they do not exist. The same is true for the homes on Baker’s Island, which is a private island on which many generations of families have summered quietly. The only way we can visit Baker’s is by having a friend (or family member) who owns one of the cottages. I hope to get a second invitation one day. I have taken liberties of time with the factory in Lynn where Maureen worked when she met Finch. The factory was a real one, Hoague Sprague, and was owned in partnership by my great grandfather, Morton Hoague. It closed in the late 1950s, so Maureen could not have worked there.
I read many books in my research for The Map of True Places. For a suggested reading list as well as book club questions, please visit mapoftrueplaces.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First to Gary, for so many things, and for not letting go of the dream even when I thought it impossible. For research and for the phrases: “How can I help?” and “Whatever makes you happy.”
To Rebecca Oliver, for making it all possible and for her time in Austin and endless reading and rereading. To Laurie Chittenden, who is not only a great editor but who understands and respects the artistic process. To the whole team at William Morrow who have helped every step of the way, and in particular to: Liate Stehlik, Ben Bruton, Tavia Kowalchuk, Andrea Molitor, and Mac Mackie.
To Hilary Emerson Lay at Spirit of ’76 who read two early drafts and to Emily Bradford who read and read. To Sarah Anne Ditkoff for all of her help.
To the city of Salem, my chosen home. To Kate Fox and Stacia Cooper at Destination Salem. To all my friends at the House of the Seven Gables and in particular to Anita Blackaby and Amy Waywell, thank you for letting me write in your beautiful gardens. To the National Parks Service and the Friendship: Colleen Bruce, Jeremy Bumagin, John Newman, Martin J. Fucio, and Ryan McMahon. To Jean Marie Procious and Elaine von Bruns at the Salem Athenaeum. To Teri Kalgren and the staff at Artemesia Botanicals. To Laurie Cabot. To William Hanger at Winter Island. To Beth Simpson and everyone at Cornerstone Books. To HAWC. And finally to Dusty the cat and his family.
To the great town of Marblehead, the town where I and seven generations of my family grew up. To the Marblehead harbormaster, Charlie Dalferro. To Fraffie Welch. To Cathy Kobialka at Waterside Cemetery. To the Marblehead Garden Center and the Spirit of ’76 Bookstore.
To my writing group, the Warren Street Writers: Jacqueline Franklin and Ginni Spencer, who cheered me on through the first book and remained patient and dedicated through the second.
To Alexandra Seros for her friendship and for great notes and for making that first magic phone call.
To Fravenny Pol for her help with all things D.R.
To my early readers: Jeannine Zwoboda, who read and commented twice. Mark W. Barry and Mark J. Barry, who turned reading into a father/son competition. To Mandee Barry, Whitney Barry, and Sherry Zwoboda, who read on the raft at the summer house when they could have been doing other things. To Cayla Thompson. To my wonderful friend Susan Marchand, who read section by section. To Ken Harris and Debra Glabeau for expertise on pirates and Melville and for making us laugh far too much.
To the Greater Boston medical and psychiatric communities for patiently answering every question (there were so many). Thanks to Dr. Peter Bevins. And thanks to Lucy Zahray, “The Poison Lady,” for her lecture at Crime Bake and for her very interesting set of tapes.
To Hawthorne and Melville. And, of course, to Yeats.
And a bow and a prayer to my friends who didn’t live long enough to realize the happily-ever-after: Tommy, Chuckie, Robbie, Shirley, and Jay.
About the Author
Born and raised in Massachusetts, BRUNONIA BARRY lives in Salem, Massachusetts, with her husband and their beloved golden retriever, Byzantium.
www.mapoftrueplaces.com
