pound across the rocks toward Fairley and certainly didn’t mimic the dogs by hurling herself to the rocks at his feet, and she didn’t carol a chorus of woo-woo-woos. Still, it’s fair to say that as Gabrielle hurried toward him, the ruffles of her shirt caught the salty air like the sails of a boat catching a fresh breeze. When she reached him, he transferred his right hand from Demi’s smooth black head to Gabrielle’s shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. I was startled. Malcolm Fairley had struck me as the kind of male Yankee whose typical object of public affection is a Labrador retriever.
Gabrielle didn’t seem to share my surprise. After returning his kiss, she stated the obvious: “You’re here!” That extraordinary voice of hers, at once mellow and husky, made the banality sound warm, genuine, and wildly seductive.
“Anita offers her apologies,” Fairley said, “and Steve’s. They should be here in time for dessert.”
Nature had designed Gabrielle for talking about romance. “So! We get to meet the boyfriend,” she said with satisfaction. “Serious?”
Fairley just smiled and nodded. I’d already heard enough, though. His voice had hit my gut like a mallet pounding a gong. Although it was far less distinctive than Gabrielle’s, I’d recognized it instantly. It was the voice I’d heard during those fleeting, dreamlike moments of halfawakening. The man who’d promised anonymity to his quiet companion? The man who’d talked of death? Malcolm Fairley. I’d have known that voice anywhere.
Chapter Seven
I’M CURIOUS about the Pine Tree Foundation.” I ripped a leg from my lobster’s body.
Effie O’Brian’s response was a bit snippy. “I would’ve assumed Norman Axelrod’d talked you to death on the subject.”
Her husband, Quint, called her on the slip. “Effie, find another expression, if you don’t mind.”
Quint O’Brian, I’d managed to discover, was Gabrielle Beamon’s nephew. Although he and Effie looked barely old enough to be out of high school, they’d graduated from Oberlin three years earlier, married soon after that, traveled in Europe, and then settled in as the caretakers of the Beamon Reservation. Because of Effie’s chattiness, I hadn’t had to ask many questions, and those I’d asked had been vague enough to hide my ignorance. Quint and Effie’s house, she told me, was on the private road to the right of the reservation parking lot, opposite the road to the guest cottage and main house; I remembered seeing it on Gabrielle’s map. Effie used one room as a pottery and weaving studio. Quint, she informed me, was a cabinetmaker. The couple shared a homespun look. Effie’s long, dark hair was French-braided. She wore layers of flowing cotton garments. On her feet were Birkenstock sandals over thick woolen socks. Quint had cherubic blond curls and was dressed in jeans and a multicolored woolen jacket that looked Guatemalan or Peruvian, but may have been handcrafted by his wife. Without actually looking like the Campbell Kids, the O’Brians radiated a New Age version of red-and-white soupy wholesomeness. Effie was at that very moment pouring steaming vegetable soup from a thermos into a small pottery bowl. She’s already told me, with a censorious look in her husband’s direction, that as a vegetarian, she didn’t eat lobster or clams.
“Quint,” she’d explained, “is a pesco-ovo-lacto-vegetarian, meaning that he eats fish. And eggs. And milk.”
“Meaning,” Quint had expanded, “that to a purist like Effie, I’m not a vegetarian at all.”
They’d locked eyes and burst into laughter.
“We have an ongoing purer-than-thou competition going here,” Quint told me. “Pardon us. We’re obnoxious.” They weren’t. Or I didn’t find them so. In fact, when Wally Swan finally disinterred the lobsters, steamers, com, and potatoes, Quint and Effie invited me to eat with them. They also went out of their way to include the Pine Tree
Gabrielle didn’t seem to share my surprise. After returning his kiss, she stated the obvious: “You’re here!” That extraordinary voice of hers, at once mellow and husky, made the banality sound warm, genuine, and wildly seductive.
“Anita offers her apologies,” Fairley said, “and Steve’s. They should be here in time for dessert.”
Nature had designed Gabrielle for talking about romance. “So! We get to meet the boyfriend,” she said with satisfaction. “Serious?”
Fairley just smiled and nodded. I’d already heard enough, though. His voice had hit my gut like a mallet pounding a gong. Although it was far less distinctive than Gabrielle’s, I’d recognized it instantly. It was the voice I’d heard during those fleeting, dreamlike moments of halfawakening. The man who’d promised anonymity to his quiet companion? The man who’d talked of death? Malcolm Fairley. I’d have known that voice anywhere.
Chapter Seven
I’M CURIOUS about the Pine Tree Foundation.” I ripped a leg from my lobster’s body.
Effie O’Brian’s response was a bit snippy. “I would’ve assumed Norman Axelrod’d talked you to death on the subject.”
Her husband, Quint, called her on the slip. “Effie, find another expression, if you don’t mind.”
Quint O’Brian, I’d managed to discover, was Gabrielle Beamon’s nephew. Although he and Effie looked barely old enough to be out of high school, they’d graduated from Oberlin three years earlier, married soon after that, traveled in Europe, and then settled in as the caretakers of the Beamon Reservation. Because of Effie’s chattiness, I hadn’t had to ask many questions, and those I’d asked had been vague enough to hide my ignorance. Quint and Effie’s house, she told me, was on the private road to the right of the reservation parking lot, opposite the road to the guest cottage and main house; I remembered seeing it on Gabrielle’s map. Effie used one room as a pottery and weaving studio. Quint, she informed me, was a cabinetmaker. The couple shared a homespun look. Effie’s long, dark hair was French-braided. She wore layers of flowing cotton garments. On her feet were Birkenstock sandals over thick woolen socks. Quint had cherubic blond curls and was dressed in jeans and a multicolored woolen jacket that looked Guatemalan or Peruvian, but may have been handcrafted by his wife. Without actually looking like the Campbell Kids, the O’Brians radiated a New Age version of red-and-white soupy wholesomeness. Effie was at that very moment pouring steaming vegetable soup from a thermos into a small pottery bowl. She’s already told me, with a censorious look in her husband’s direction, that as a vegetarian, she didn’t eat lobster or clams.
“Quint,” she’d explained, “is a pesco-ovo-lacto-vegetarian, meaning that he eats fish. And eggs. And milk.”
“Meaning,” Quint had expanded, “that to a purist like Effie, I’m not a vegetarian at all.”
They’d locked eyes and burst into laughter.
“We have an ongoing purer-than-thou competition going here,” Quint told me. “Pardon us. We’re obnoxious.” They weren’t. Or I didn’t find them so. In fact, when Wally Swan finally disinterred the lobsters, steamers, com, and potatoes, Quint and Effie invited me to eat with them. They also went out of their way to include the Pine Tree
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