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Then, to me, under her breath, Mom says, “I hope we did okay. Those Robinsons are so particular. They always give it the white glove treatment after I leave and there’s always something we left undone, so ‘in all good conscience we couldn’t pay you the full rate.’ Good riddance, I say.”
I think I hear Mrs. E. calling me, but all is still when I creep up the stairs and press my ear to her door. Just as I get back down, Henry Ellington comes in, wearing a beige cashmere cable-knit sweater tied around his neck, carrying a briefcase, and accompanied by a scholarly-looking man with thi
Henry fishes a list of out of his pocket, written on the back of a bank deposit envelope, directs me to go to Fillerman’s Fish Market after the grocery store because they have the “freshest salmon.” Grandpa is always ragging on Fillerman’s, saying they soak their fish in milk to get rid of the fishy smell from being sold too old. For a second, treacherously, as if Dad’s words on Sandy Claw let loose a snake in my mind, I look at the one-hundred-dollar bill Henry has handed me and wonder how much of it I could keep if I hit up Grandpa or one of his cohorts for salmon instead. It’d be a service—the salmon would definitely be better.
“I’ll bring you all the receipts,” I say hastily, cutting off that train of thought.
“Of course.” Henry loosens the sweater, draping it over the kitchen chair. “A shot of bourbon, Gavin? Gwen, take Mother’s car.” He slides me the keys, anchored by a carved wooden seagull.
I should not be intimidated by Mrs. Ellington’s car, but even after our market drives and sightseeing tours, I still am.
The interior is cream-colored leather, the outside shiny ivory paint. It’s like it’s just left the showroom. I start to edge uneasily out of the driveway, tires crunching on clamshells. I feel as though I’m driving a gigantic marshmallow on wheels.
Just then the dark green Seashell Services truck wheels up, parking with a squeal. Tony gets out the front and Cass hops out the back, which is already heaped with hedge clippings. Tony shouts some words I can’t hear, jerking his chin to the passenger seat of the truck, and Cass ducks in and emerges with a weed-whacker. Tony leans over, cupping his hand around Cass’s ear to say something, jerking his head toward the Robinson/Tucker house. Probably he’s passing on the same information that Mom did. That they are demanding and high-maintenance. It strikes me how fu
Cass waves the whacker, pumps it in the air, and Tony claps him on the back. Then they both burrow into the boxwood bushes, no doubt looking for electrical outlets. As I start to drive away, I allow my glance to stray to the rearview mirror, linger on Cass’s backside. Tony’s plumber butt is much less appealing.
He wasn’t wearing gloves. Cass!
I hurry through the shopping list, frustrated because Henry has specified on the list that all these things need to be bought in particular places all over town. For God’s sake. In addition to the fish at Fillerman’s, there are rolls that can only be bought at a bakery in White Bay, then all this other stuff from Stop & Shop. Then Garrett’s Hardware for some kind of cedar plank for grilling the salmon. Which takes forever, because I can’t find it, the store is a bit of a mess, and the cute redheaded guy behind the counter gets totally distracted when some chick walks in wearing cut-off shorts. Plus I find myself lingering in front of the work-glove display. Should I? No, that would be weird. Very weird. Then sorbet and meringues at Homelyke, and then the liquor store, where Henry wants Prosecco. I don’t even know what that is, except that I’m not old enough to buy it, and Dom D’Ofrio, who works there, knows that all too well. I tell him it’s for my boss and he just rolls his eyes. “Never heard that one before.”
An hour and a half later, sweating, I loop the Cadillac back into the driveway, where Henry’s Subaru is still blocking the circular drive. I’m hauling the various bags into the kitchen when I hear his distinctive voice from the front hall. “This, obviously, is an Audubon. Great-Grandfather Howard, my mother’s side, invested heavily in art. We have several more at the Park Avenue house.”
“A print,” Gage’s voice says firmly. “Have you had the others authenticated?”
“No, naturally I came to you with this first. How can this not be an original?”
There’s a scraping sound, as though Mr. Gage is taking it off the wall. “Here. See. Henry, I assure you, you aren’t the first generation in any family to find your finances in arrears. Just yesterday I was sent to White Bay to take a look at a Tiffany necklace that had supposedly been handed down in the family since the 1840s. All the stones were paste. Useless. It happens more often than you’d think. By nature, my business is very discreet, so you don’t hear a thing. I have a client in Westwood who had copies painted of all the fine art in the house. His parents had been famous collectors. Told his wife he was nervous about theft and was putting the paintings in storage and displaying the copies. Sold the originals to me.”
“Sounds like a great marriage,” Henry Ellington says drily. “The point is, what do we have here of any value?”
I got paper bags, not plastic, and am setting them down really gently, hoping they won’t rustle and alert Henry to my presence, which I’m pretty sure is not wanted. I’ve had a lifetime of hearing “Other people’s stories, Gwen. All we owe them is a clean house and a closed mouth.” But it’s hard to close your brain. What’s going on?
“Henry, you know I’ll do all I can for you. Some of the furniture is of worth. The Eldred Wheeler Nantucket tea table in the foyer would amount to about eight hundred dollars. So would the Walnut Burr table here in the dining room. The china cabinet Meissen vase on the fireplace mantel would be about three hundred. The most valuable asset I’ve seen is the Beechwood Fauteuil armchair in the sunroom. That would be just under two thousand.”
Henry says, “Gavin,” in a hoarse voice, then clears his throat. “None of that adds up to anything of significance, not to mention the fact that Mother would notice if the dining room table and her favorite chair disappeared. I’m sure you understand my position.”
They’re standing just on the other side of the kitchen door. My heart is jack-hammering in my chest. I feel like I’m about to be caught, fired in disgrace, as though I have stolen all the valuable things in the house. I bend over carefully, pick up the three grocery bags I’ve already carried in and inch back out the kitchen screen door, so grateful it doesn’t squeak like ours at home.
Then I stomp up the stairs, slam it open loudly, walk thunderously into the kitchen and call, “I’m finally back! Sorry, Mr. Ellington! There was—traffic on the bridge and um, Garrett’s was out of the cedar plank, so I had to look around. Mrs. E. isn’t up yet, is she?”
Tops of his cheekbones flushed, Henry swings open the kitchen door. “No, not at all, Gwen. Haven’t heard a peep from her. She usually sleeps over two hours, doesn’t she?”
I’m sure I too am totally red in the face. As I pile up the grocery bags, I knock over the cut glass vase of hydrangeas. It scatters across the table, nearly tumbling off, and the water drips onto the floor. I grab the roll of paper towels and clean up as Henry turns to the wet bar, asking Mr. Gage if he wants a refill. He doesn’t, but Henry sure does. While he’s rattling ice on the counter and breaking it into little pieces with this weird hammer thing, Mr. Gage says, “If I may look around a bit more? The upstairs?”