years gone? It was like shrubs. You put them in and they looked so tiny and inadequate, then before you knew it they had outgrown the space and you had to get a back-hoe to yank them out. Maybe Danny would go to col ege nearby. With al the col eges and universities in the Boston area, Mark had to pick one in Colorado and Samantha was considering Reed in Oregon.
Her mind drifted back to the present. A summer of women—three generations of women, to be precise. Pix's eighty-year-old mother, Mrs. Arnold Lyman Rowe, Ursula, was already in residence at The Pines, the immense
'cottage' Ursula's father had built for his family by the shore in the late 1890s.
In those days, the rusticators' journey was not a five-hour drive from Boston, but one stretching out over two days, starting with the embarkation from the Eastern Steamship pier on Atlantic Avenue—complete with steamer trunks, portmanteaus, wicker lunch hampers, hatboxes, and al the other bulky accoutrements necessary for a back- to-nature summer. Ursula Rowe reflected rueful y on the soft-sided nylon luggage that sufficed for her now and told her daughter there would never be a better way to travel than those long-ago voyages.
Mother. Pix blew another shril note on a blade of grass. Just as she was bewailing the departure of her fledglings, she was wondering how to clip Ursula's wings a bit, and once they were clipped, what would Pix do with her? Ursula resisted every effort to change her way of life and Pix was plagued with anxiety about al the things that could happen to her mother, stil living alone both in Aleford and on Sanpere, rattling around The Pines with only Gert Prescott coming in a few times a week to do for her. Yet, where else would Mother go? Mother and daughter got along very wel , but Pix was not sure how it would be if they were ever under the same roof. She had the strong feeling any roof Mother was under would soon become Mother's roof, and while Pix as a dutiful and loving child might be able to cope with this herself, Sam would not like it. At al .
As it was, when everyone was on vacation on the island at once, away from work and school, ready for leisure activities specifical y with Pix, she felt as if she were slowly being stretched to fit Procrustes's bed—pul ed in opposite directions by her loved ones. She could navigate the road between her own cottage and The Pines blindfolded.
But something was going to have to be done about Mother. She even refused to wear one of the Medic Alert medal ions supplied by Blue Hil Hospital. 'There are so many people going in and out of my house every day that if anything ever happened to me on this island, you'd know before I did,' she'd told Pix. There was some truth to this.
Sanpere was a close-knit community; some might even cal it too close-knit. But stil Pix worried. Mother was so stubborn.
Just like Samantha. Pix had unfortunately assumed any adolescent turmoil on her daughter's part would be over at age seventeen. Recently, it seemed Samantha was making up for lost time, a late bloomer—not that she stayed out until daybreak or had pierced her nose. But 'Oh, Mother' punctuated their conversations with alarming frequency. Lately, Samantha hadn't seemed very interested in completing her col ection of island mosses, last summer's al -consuming passion, and she was letting her hair grow, abandoning the style Pix favored for what she feared might be 'big hair.”
Pix looked around. It was now a typical Maine day, which meant the sky was perfectly blue, the air clear, the sun pleasantly warm. If she was at the shore, the water would be a slightly darker blue, with an occasional whitecap. She took a deep breath. For Christmas one year, her brother had given her a can of Maine air, the kind they sold to tourists up at Bar Harbor. She'd laughed along with everyone else, then late that night she'd gotten out a can opener and opened it, closing her eyes and burying her nose inside before it could mix with the Massachusetts molecules. She didn't think it was her imagination. There was a hint of balsam and a crispness, then it was gone.
She opened her eyes to look into an empty can that she quickly threw away before anyone could tease her. .
Arnold Rowe, her brother, an orthopedic surgeon, was thirty-nine, six years younger than Pix, and there were just the two of them. He and his wife, Claire, lived in New Mexico. Arnie was attentive to Ursula—from a distance —
and of course reaped al sorts of glory merely by showing up. He was the fair-haired son, and if Pix hadn't loved him so much, she might have resented al the attention he got, arriving in Sanpere on vacation or for fleeting holiday visits in Aleford when he would not be cal ed on to drive Mother to doctor's appointments, Symphony on Fridays, tea with her friends, the flower show, the .. .
Arnie and Claire would be arriving sometime in July.
Mother had had his boat taken out of storage and al was in readiness for his return. Gert would leave Arnie's favorite, a strawberry-rhubarb pie, for the first night's dinner, and then they'd see very little of the two Rowes, what with sailing, golf, tennis, cocktails, and dinners at their innumerable friends' houses on the island and mainland. They wouldn't see them, but the house would stil be in a whirlwind as they dashed from place to place. He'd leave with regret: 'Where did the time go? We'l take that sail to Vinalhaven next year, I promise.' Things would settle down, and Pix would find herself missing the clutter of Arnie's tennis things and golf clubs in the hal .
Al this reminded Pix: she had taken Mother's supply of sheets down to Aleford for the winter to wash and repair.
'You can't get percale like this anymore,' Ursula asserted, and Pix agreed. The linens were like silk. She'd have to unearth them, or her brother and his wife would be sleeping on mattress ticking. She laughed at herself and felt better.
Sure Arnie and Claire were a little self-centered, but they were also fun to be with and very generous to their nephews and niece. With no children of their own, they encouraged visits; Mark had once spent a whole vacation with them, exploring cliff dwel ings and learning about the Anasazi.
Pix stood up and stretched. The first day with one foot stil in Aleford was always a little difficult. It would take some time to get into her island rhythm—maybe another hour or two.
After returning home, she spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking. Samantha had left her a note saying she'd taken her bike over to Arlene Prescott's house but would be back by five o'clock, in plenty of time to go to Granny's. Ursula had invited them for dinner this first night.
Arlene was Samantha's best friend on the island. They'd known each other al their lives and each year picked up where the last had ended. They had been faithful pen pals when younger. More recently, the correspondence had degenerated to a few postcards. Presumably, teenage life on Sanpere was just as time-consuming as it was in Aleford—even with the closest mal sixty miles away.
Pix unpacked her clothes. It didn't take long. She smiled to herself at what Faith would say about her choice of raiment. On Sanpere, Pix lived in jeans, shorts, and turtlenecks or polo shirts, depending on the weather.
Tonight, though, she'd change into a skirt. Mother had worn pants al her life, but she didn't like to see them at dinner.
Pix donned a white wraparound skirt and, with a nod to Faith, paired it with a bold black-and white-striped Liz Claiborne shirt. She slipped on some red espadril es, washed her face and hands, combed her hair, and was ready. When Samantha came home, she eyed her mother approvingly. 'You look nice, except you forgot your lipstick.'
“No I didn't,' Pix replied. 'I'm on vacation.'
“Oh, Mother.' Samantha went off to get ready, a process that took considerably longer than her mother's titivations.
She emerged in what Pix knew was the latest fashion, but it stil looked like something she'd give to the thrift shop: a long flowered-print housedress with a crocheted vest on top. To complete the ensemble, Samantha was wearing a pair of heavy-soled black boots that managed to suggest the military and orthopedics at the same time. Sam's hair was at that in-between stage where everyone either comments, 'Are you growing your hair?' or says, 'You need a haircut.' Pix chose the latter.
“Your hair is so cute when it's short, and think how easy it is for the summer.' They’d had this conversation before.
Samantha explained patiently, 'I want it to look good when I go back to school. Up here, it doesn't matter what I look like and please, Mom, for the last time, I don't want to look cute. That's not the idea.'
“Wel , attractive, then' Pix knew she should shut up, but old habits die hard.
Her daughter nobly chose to ignore the remark. 'Why don't we go to Granny's? You know how much she hates it if we're late'
“We're never late!' Pix protested.
