Nadia Nichols - A Full House

“I certainly hope not,” Annie said. “I should think you’d want to avoid guns and bullets for a while.”

“I fully intend to,” he replied, “but all those talks we had about Maine brought back good memories of my grandparents’ camp. Seemed like a good idea to find a cabin like the one they owned, and it just so happened that the only rental I could afford isn’t more than twenty miles from yours. Inland, of course. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

Annie gathered her startled wits and laughed. “Actually, I doubt that it is, Lieutenant, but I hope you and Amanda have a good time there this summer. And, thanks. I owe you big-time for Sally.”

Annie was halfway down the corridor, still smiling, when it occurred to her that she didn’t mind in the least the prospect of running into Lieutenant Macpherson somewhere along the rocky coast of Maine. In fact, she hoped she did. No doubt about it, a handsome good-natured man like Jake, a couple of steamed Maine lobsters and a nice bottle of wine suited her right down to the ground.

NEITHER ANNIE NOR SALLY had ever visited Maine before. Whenever Ryan wanted to spend time with his daughter, he simply flew to the city, using the opportunity to touch base with all his old friends and colleagues, as well. Although Sally had complained about having to leave the city and didn’t say an awful lot on the long ride up, preferring to keep her headphones on and listen to her CDs, Annie was sure the girl was excited. She felt the excitement herself when they crossed into Maine. It was as if they’d embarked on a rare adventure.

Ryan’s house was on the outskirts of Bangor, a modern ranch with attached garage and a lawn that looked as obsessively manicured as any golf course. Trudy was watering a circular flower garden in the middle of the lawn it when they arrived. She looked very pregnant. Annie hadn’t seen her since before the divorce and couldn’t help smiling as she noted how much weight Trudy had gained. Perhaps it was all attributable to the pregnancy, but Annie doubted that Trudy would ever return to her young and nubile sexiness. Trudy was seventeen years her junior, so Annie felt her satisfaction was completely justified.

Ryan was at the clinic, for which Annie was grateful. She helped unload Sally’s bags and carry them to the house, and stayed just long enough to give Trudy the phone number and address of the house she was renting in Blue Harbor. Sally trailed her back out to the car, scowling.

“You’re not going to dump me here when Dad’s not even home.”

“Honey, he’ll be back in an hour or so. Trudy could probably use some help in the garden after you unpack your things and get settled in. Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll call you tonight.”

Sally glanced back at the house and then lowered her voice. “Can we go back home if this doesn’t work out?”

Annie gave her daughter a parting hug. “I bet you and your dad are going to have a grand old time. And you can always come and spend some time with me if you like.”

Trudy came out of the house and walked down to the car. She laid a hand on Sally’s shoulder and to Annie’s grateful surprise she said, “Your father’s coming home early today. He wants you to help him pick out a golden retriever puppy. Think you can do that?”

An hour later Annie was cruising along Route 1, entering the village of Steuben. The driving was slower than she expected and she amended the travel time between Blue Harbor and Bangor by an additional forty minutes. The drive was lovely, the afternoon sunny and cool, and the air that gusted through the open window was clean, salty and delicious.

Blue Harbor was like a place out of the past. Annie felt the tranquility flowing into her as she drove slowly through the coastal New England village. She found the Realtor’s office with no problem and met the agent who’d arranged the house rental. His name was Jim Hinkley and he was a spry, lean, seventy-nine years of age with piercing blue eyes and a lively interest in just about everything.

“I hope you like the old place,” he said, grabbing the key out of his desk drawer. “It’s one of my all-time favorite saltwater farms. I’ve known Lily Houghton, the owner, since she was a young girl. Used to court her back in high school, when she was still a Curtis. We were sweethearts for a time, but then she took a shine to that fancy-talkin’ Ruel Houghton.

“The only good thing Ruel ever gave her was his grandparents’ house, and Lily loved it. She was an artist, you see. She made a studio out of the old boathouse and did her painting there. She was good, too. Made quite a name for herself. It broke her heart when her son put her into the nursing home this spring, but he thought staying out there all by herself after she fell and broke her hip was just too risky.” He shrugged into his jacket. “I’ll take you out to the old place. It’s a ten-minute drive, just follow me and you won’t get turned around.”

The farm lay at the end of a mile-long dirt road on a high point of land overlooking the Atlantic. They passed through a gate at the entrance of the drive and Jim unlocked it. “It’s all Houghton land from here on in, all five hundred acres of it. Prime for development and worth a fortune, but Lily would never sell. Of course, now that she’s in that nursing home, I don’t know what her son will do. I’m not sure Lily has any say. I guess she gave Lester power of attorney. She hates developers, though. I do know that. They’ve been after this peninsula since Ruel died, and she’s refused to sell even the littlest piece of it.”

The first half mile of road wound through tall pine woods that gave way abruptly to a bright, greening sweep of field. Massive stone walls ran along both sides of the road, protectively enclosing an orchard on one side, rolling pasture on the other. Annie tried hard to take it all in but her senses were overwhelmed. The blue sky, the green pasture laced with wildflowers bending in the sea breeze, the gnarly old apple trees, some still blossoming, the great drifts of lupine blowing blue, purple and pink along the stone walls, the sharp ping of gravel against the undercarriage of the Explorer, all served to heighten her keen sense of anticipation as she craned for her first glimpse of the farmhouse.

She was not disappointed when at last it came into view. The stalwart boat-roofed Cape Cod was connected to a long, rambling ell, which was connected to a big old ark of a barn in a perfect example of classic New England architecture. All the buildings, including the barn, were painted white. The house and its attached string of outbuildings were oriented east to west, as most old farmhouses were, to take advantage of the sun. It was also positioned on the point of land so that it faced the magnificent harbor views to the south.

Unkempt but vigorous flower gardens flanking the south side of the house and the ell were a riotous bloom of color. Annie parked beside Jim’s car and joined him on the porch while he fished in his pocket for the key. “Wow,” she said, holding her hair away from her face in the stiff breeze and gazing out across the sparkling harbor.

“The view’s great, but if you recall, I warned you that the house was rustic,” Jim said, turning the key in the lock.

Annie drank in the spectacular scenery a few moments longer before following Jim inside. He paused for a moment to let her appreciate the kitchen. There was big cast-iron combination wood-and-gas cookstove with warming ovens above and a water jacket on the left hand side, a deep soapstone sink big enough to float a small boat, and a pitcher pump mounted to the counter beside it. The wide pumpkin-pine floorboards, the deep-silled windows with their plain cotton-tab curtains, the old farm table flanked by six sturdy chairs, the wall cupboard with its old blue paint and the kerosene lamps in their wall sconces completed the country feel of the room.