and the absense of anything useful, she wouldn’t think to bend over and go to the very edge of the eave, as Ellie Jo did now, or to remove a section of the pink insulation that had been added only a handful of years before in a futile effort to modulate heat and cold. Fitting the papers between two joists, Ellie Jo replaced the insulation, went slowly back down the ladder, refolded it, and closed the hatch.
She had read these papers often, and she still could, but no one else would see them. They would remain under the eaves until either fire, a wrecker’s ball, or sheer age consumed the house, at which point there would be no one left who had known Earl, no one to think less of him for what he had done. He would forever be a good man in the eyes of the town, which was how it should be.
The Eaton Clarkes lived in a seaside community forty minutes south of Boston. Their elegant Georgian Colonial stood amid other similarly elegant brick homes, on a tree-lined street that was the envy of the town. Sightseers were few, inevitably choosing to drive along the water, and that suited the residents of Old Burgess Way perfectly. They liked their privacy. They liked the fact that their groundskeepers could easily spot a car that didn’t belong.
Spread in a graceful arc on a ridge, Old Burgess stood higher than even the seaside homes on the bluff. Indeed, had it not been for dense maples, oaks, and pines, and lavish clusters of ornamental shrubs, its residents might have had a view of the ocean, not a bad thing in and of itself. Unfortunately, though, that would have meant also seeing the overly large houses that new money had built at the expense of the more quaint summer cottages, now mostly gone. The residents of Old Burgess had no use for the nouveaux riches, hence the cultivation of their leafy shield.
They were dignified people. Most had either lived long enough in their homes to have raised a generation of children, or were that second generation themselves, raising the third. When they held parties, loud music ended at eleven.
Eaton and Dorothy had lived on Old Burgess Way for thirty-five years. Their brick home had white columns and shutters, black doors and wrought-iron detail, five bedrooms, six bathrooms, and a saltwater pool. Though there were times in recent years when the place echoed, they wouldn’t have dreamed of selling.
Eaton liked being with those who shared his values. He wasn’t the richest or most prominent on the street, but he didn’t have to be. A historian and best-selling author, he much preferred to blend in. Book signings were difficult for him in that regard, comprised as they were of total strangers. The class he taught at the university was another matter. Here were serious, talented students, mostly seniors as intent on gaining behind-the-scene tips on writing about history as they were into history itself. Blessed with a love of the past and a faultless memory, Eaton could talk spontaneously about most any time period in American life.
As for the behind-the-scene tips, this was easy, too. It was his life. Granted, connections opened doors, and he had them, as most of these students did not. His forebears had played a role at every stage of American history. Indeed, each of his books included the cameo appearance of at least one of them. That was the single common element in his body of work, eight books to date. And the ninth, due out in five short weeks? In it, Clarkes played the lead. One Man’s Line traced the history of the family as it wove among luminaries, gaining in prominence and wealth with each successive generation. The focus was history. This was, after all, what Eaton was known for. But the time span was greater than that, say, of his book on the demise of the League of Nations. And the personal element was strong, offering intimate details of the lives of his early ancestors.
‘The printer just delivered a sample of the book-party invitation,’ Dorothy reported, coming toward him from the library door. ‘I don’t think it’s right, Eaton. It doesn’t have the dignified feel I want.’
She put it down on the desk. Sitting forward, Eaton immediately saw the problem. ‘The ink color is wrong. This is blue-gray. We want green-gray.’
Dorothy frowned at the sample. ‘Well, if that’s all, it isn’t as bad as it could be. Still, they’ll have to send this back and have it redone, and if the envelope liners match this blue-gray, they’ll have to be reordered, too. By the time they get it right and print them up, we’ll be at the deadline for mailing. There’s no more room for error.’
Eaton didn’t want to hear that. ‘We should have let my publisher do it.’
‘But they did an awful job last time. These invitations go to people whose opinions we value. Would you show up at the University Club wearing a bargain-basement suit? Absolutely not. You like presenting yourself a certain way, and the invitation to your event is no different. This is the start of your tour, it’s on your home turf, and it’s important. Did you call Hugh?’
In a measured way, Eaton asked, ‘Did Hugh call me?’
It was a rhetorical question. The phone had been ringing since they walked in the door. If any of the callers had been Hugh, Dorothy wouldn’t have asked. No, the calls would have been from people hearing of the birth of Hugh’s child. Thinking about that put Eaton on edge.
He had two sons. While Robert was traditional, agreeable, and, Lord knew, successful, Hugh was the one most like Eaton, and not only in looks. Both were athletic. Both were intellectually creative. Both had chosen fields outside the family field and excelled.
If Eaton had a soft spot, Hugh occupied it.
‘Where is Mark?’ he barked.
‘You sent him home,’ Dorothy answered quickly, defensively. ‘You left him a note before we went to the hospital, don’t you recall? You said we were celebrating a new baby, so there wouldn’t be work today, and I’m not sure what work there is now, anyway, Eaton. He’s your researcher, and the book is done.’
‘He’s my assistant,’ Eaton corrected, ‘and, yes, there is work still to do – interviews to complete, speeches to outline. It used to be that all you had to do when you toured was sign your name to books. Now they want a speech. They want entertainment. Did I give Mark a paid day off?’
‘I don’t know, but if you did, it’s done, and it was not my doing, so please don’t yell at me.’
Eaton quieted. He couldn’t be angry at Dorothy. Hugh’s folly wasn’t her fault.
‘Did you call him?’ she repeated, albeit with deference.
Eaton didn’t reply. Rather, he sat back in his tall leather chair and looked at the books that surrounded him, floor to ceiling, shelf upon shelf. Like his neighbors, these books were his friends. The books he had authored himself sat together on a side shelf, clearly visible, though in no way singled out. While Eaton was proud of each one, they wouldn’t have existed without those that had come before.
One generation led to the next. Wasn’t that the theme of One Man’s Line? Early reviews were calling it ‘eminently readable,’ ‘engrossing,’ ‘an American saga,’ and while Eaton wouldn’t have used the word ‘saga’ – too commercial – he agreed with the gist. Ancestral charts appeared at various points in the book, growing more elaborate with the years. They were impressive and exact.
‘Eaton?’
‘No. I haven’t called.’
‘Don’t you think you should? He’s your son. Your approval means the world to him.’
‘If that were true,’ Eaton remarked, ‘he wouldn’t have married the woman he did.’
‘But did you see how pale and tired he looked?
