PROLOGUE - PRIVATE PURSUITS "Whispering is rude. Whispering and giggling at the same time have no place in polite society." The fire has burned down to a single flame, flitting across a bed of ash. Shadows dance across the ceiling. They twine around each other and then dart away, like lovers with commitment issues. "Will you tell me something?" he asks. His voice is deep and conspiratorial as he traces the lines of her ribs with his fingertip. Her long red hair pools across the pillow.
"Anything," she whispers. "But I can''t promise to tell the truth." "Gertrude, just put me out of my misery. Tell me who else you''re sleeping with." "Everyone." She giggles. Her laughter seeps into the velvet drapes and the brocade cushions, dampened by the room''s oppressive elegance. That''s the thing about old money--it hides things.
It takes each ugly truth, salacious lie, brutal kiss, and tepid embrace, then swallows them whole. "Now my turn. A guilty secret, please. What''s the worst thing you''ve ever done, or ever wanted to do?" she asks as she studies the naked jealousy on her companion''s face. "Kill you," he says, then grabs her wrists and presses them back against the headboard. "I love it when you talk dirty to me. But why?" "Because it sounds like fun," he replies, running his lips across her neck. "Darling, I don''t think you know what that word means.
" Her laughter rings out again--and this time, not even the woven tapestries, the high ceilings, or the crown molding can stifle it. CHAPTER ONE - INTRODUCTIONS "When a man is introduced to a lady, he does not offer his hand unless she makes the move first. A casual, ''How do you do?'' is sufficient. A spontaneous, ''It''s so nice to meet you,'' is fine--but never obligatory." I make a left onto Sea Street, walking past the library, the drug store, and my grandfather''s dilapidated boat repair shop. The dry cleaner waves to me as she walks door to door with a basket of freshly pressed linens, each tablecloth with the owner''s initials embroidered into the corner. She opens the door to Muriel Grant''s house and leaves her laundry in the front hallway. We don''t lock doors here.
We don''t have crime in Eastport, Maine. Well, not really. And we don''t have secrets, either. At least, none that we can keep. The milk truck from Long Lost Farms rolls up beside me, Leo Mills chewing a piece of straw at the helm. I see him note the stop sign, grin, and then barrel forward unchecked. Oh, and traffic laws here are less of a rule and more of a casual suggestion. I continue down Water Street, past the row of crumbling red-brick buildings and the bronze mermaid sculpture with her corroded seashell brassiere.
Eastport is the most easterly town in the United States, one last outpost of New England kitsch, gazing longingly across the water at Canada. In the 1700''s it was the Wild East, a frontier town of traders and explorers. In the 1800''s it was the smuggling epicenter of New England. In 1900 it was a commercial hub for canned fish, and in 1964 it is (essentially) purgatory. The sardine factories have all closed and our dwindling human population is outnumbered by seagulls ten to one. The bell chimes as I breeze into Primp and Ribbon Alterations. Mrs. Pridmore watches from behind the cash register, the ruffles on her blouse fluttering in silent indignation.
In a shocking turn of events, I''m five minutes late. "I''m so sorry," I wince, but it''s hardly an award-winning performance. Then I hang up my purse and set to work. I watch the hours tangle up together from my perch behind the pink Singer Featherweight. Nine-thirty is the faded indigo of Ben Jordan''s torn overalls. Ten o''clock is the pearly-white of Lydia Peyton''s First Communion dress. Ten thirty is the unfortunate green lace on Annie Porter''s sweet sixteen dress (I don''t have the heart to tell her that it makes her look like an overstuffed peacock). And at eleven Florence Pelletier swings by to make my life a living hell.
This is the third fitting for her black cocktail dress this week. As she swishes sixteen layers of crinoline in my face, I imagine how I would murder her. "Should the skirt be bigger?" she purses her lips together as she sways her hips from side to side, analyzing the orbit and trajectory of her petticoats. Eastport is a decade behind the fashion world, so the slim lines and dropped waists of the 60''s haven''t hit us yet; our silhouettes are still trapped in 1950. "I want to make a splash this weekend at Webster Cottage." "The summer people are having a party?" I ask as I pin up her hem, my voice unnaturally bright as my lips twist into a poor imitation of a smile. "Florence, you''ll knock them dead." Mrs.
Pridmore evaluates my acting skills from behind the cash register. As Florence struts outside, she turns to me. "Couldn''t you just pretend to care?" "I''m trying," I reply honestly. Nothing is harder for me than small talk. "Try harder. Service with a smile, Billie!" she says with an eerie, vacant grin. At noon Mrs. Pridmore retreats to the stockroom for her daily sandwich/soap opera ritual, and I make my rounds.
My first stop is the library. I look both ways as I slip a mangled copy of A Spy in the House of Love through the book drop, then retreat before anyone can charge me for it. My second stop is Fernald''s Pharmacy, where I beeline for the hair aisle. "Has it already been six weeks?" Bobby Fernald asks as he rings me up for the box of ''blushing violet'' hair dye that my grandmother requests like clockwork. "Already?" I laugh, because it feels like an eternity. Next up is the post office. My saddle shoes squeak across the linoleum floor as I open up my P.O.
Box to find two envelopes lurking inside. As a little girl, I dreamt about working in a museum. I fantasized about long marble hallways filled with dusty rays of light, and flirting with archeologists while they assembled dinosaur skeletons. I imagined sweater vests falling to the floor while stone tablets were pushed aside in the antiquities archives, and heavy petting in the decorative arts gallery. With these scholarly pursuits in mind, I enrolled in a course on cultural linguistics. I planned to land a position translating archaic texts, marry the dreamy archeologist, and live out my days in nerdy splendor. But it turns out that dead languages aren''t exactly a hot commodity. And now they''re just killing me, as I''m slowly but surely rejected from every museum in the country.
I frown at the first envelope from the Triton Classics Archives, addressed to Miss Wilhelmina McCadie . Anything bearing my legal name is trouble, because whoever sent it knows nothing about me. I skim through a passive-aggressive rejection letter, then crumple it up, and toss it in the trash. Then I direct my glare to the second envelope. It''s thin. Rejection-letter-thin. And it doesn''t even have my name on the front, just my P.O.
Box. The two stamps on the front are unusual, but don''t spare the envelope from my ire. There is no reason to open it if I already know what''s inside. My hand hovers over the bin. "Billie!" Mr. Townsend pokes his head out of the mail room, as I hastily stash the rejection letter in my purse. I''d hate to offend the postman by throwing out unopened mail in front of him (is that a federal offense?). "A guava for you," he beams, his white hair glinting in the fluorescent lights.
Mr. Townsend regularly gifts me exotic produce. I think it''s because he sees how sad I am whenever I check my mail, so the guava is a sticky consolation prize. I thank him, then continue on my way. The flower market is bursting with peonies, and Mingo''s Bakery is overflowing with students coated in cookie crumbs. I hurry past the row of cannons from the War of 1812 then squeeze past Leo Mills as he clutches a milk crate against his starched white chest. An army of housewives watches my progression from the big bay windows in the Salon by the Sea as they sharpen their talons and coif their beehives, in preparation for their nightly battle with a pot-roast. The briny sea air sweeps in around me as I approach the pier, but I hardly notice, because to me, it just smells like home.
A desultory catcall from the navy ship that has pulled in to refuel, as I climb down to the breakwater and totter across the large granite boulders. I eat my guava, gazing out at Passamaquoddy Bay. Lobster boats haul up traps, seals bask in the shallows, and I dangle my feet off the edge of a sun-warmed rock. The fruit is tangy on my lips and sticky on my fingers as I reach into my purse. The envelope is egg-shell white, made of fine cotton paper. No return address, just my P.O. Box scrawled neatly across the front.
On the back is a wax seal that crinkles as I break it. My dearest Gertrude, What is it about human nature that compels us to destroy perfection? Perfect: your lips. Perfect: your delicate hands. Perfect: your red hair gleaming in the sun. All my life, I''ve dreamed of meeting someone just like you--elegant to a fault, steadfast in demeanor, and devastatingly sexy. Our weekend in Bermuda is the closest I''ll ever come to heaven. Do you remember when the power went out, and you lit our suite with candles? The line of your body in the flickering lights will be engraved in my memory for as long as I live. We walked down to the beach and made love in the sea.
The water glowed in the moonlight, but it paled in comparison to you. By this point, you probably know that I had you followed. I must apologize--hiring a private eye was rather childish of me. When he called to tell me that you were meeting with your ex,.