“Want some help, honey?” I called from my snug little office, which in an earlier time had been the borning room, right beside the kitchen.
“Just open the cellar door for me. I thought I’d rough together a better worktable for you. There’s not enough room on that thing you’ve got in your old storage room, which appears to be on its last gateleg anyway.”
“I know, but it belonged to Grandma. It’s got a certain sentimental value for me.”
“Sure, I get that. My idea is to move Grandma’s table to stand against the unshelved wall, and then to build you a new, bigger one under the light. Speaking of which, I got some track lighting, too. What you’ve got down there now is much too feeble for a workroom.”
“It has a sort of atmosphere,” I ventured. “Spooky and inspiring.”
“I don’t know how you can even see the labels when you’re putting together your herb mixtures. You ought to think of your workroom as a kind of laboratory, not some alchemist’s cave.”
Joe’s face shone with do-it-yourselfer enthusiasm. His eyes hoped for praise. What’s a gal to do?
“You’re wonderful, honey! I’m so excited!” I opened the cellar door and snapped on the light, noticing for the first time that it was a bit gloomy down there. Even the stairs were in shadow. “This is such a thoughtful idea. Will you have time to finish it, do you think, before Greenpeace sends you off to tilt at windmills?”
What’s the big furry-faced guy doing now? I ought to go first down the stairs. It’s a canine tradition, in case there are dangers down there.
But I held Scruffy out of the way while Joe trotted past me with an armful of boards. I heard them hit the cellar floor with a thud. Then he was back upstairs, barely winded. “Got about five more trips,” he said cheerfully, stopping for a quick kiss from his admiring wife.
“I’ll help you.” I had to let Scruffy go, which meant the dog danced around and in front of us with every trip from the overloaded rental car to the cellar.
By the time we got through, my workroom was a sea of boards, tools, and lighting equipment. How in the world would I be able to fill my orders while all this home improvement was going on? Oh well, it could have been worse. He could have got an urge to remodel the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a slab of salmon from its bed of ice.
Instantly, Scruffy was under my elbow, inhaling deeply. Hotdiggity-dog! Is that fish? I love fish. The fishier the better.
“I know you do. I remember all those times you rolled in dead fish on the beach and I had to give you a vanilla bath. But don’t worry. You’ll get your share in your supper dish tonight. Now move out the way so that I can get what I need for the sauce.”
Fish oil is good for my gleaming coat. We French briards don’t need baths. Baths are for retrievers, those saps. Hey, what’s with the green weed, Toots?
“Fresh dill. Now, will you stop nagging?”
“I haven’t said a word.” Joe, who was now washing up in the half-bath with the door open, felt the need to defend himself.
“Not you. Scruffy.”
“You really do talk to him, is that it?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
Hey, get used to it, bearded guy! What do you think I am, some kind of dumb animal? My senses are sharp and my paws are stealthy, so watch yourself, fella.
It was just as well that Joe didn’t hear what I heard.
Chapter Eight
During the next few weeks, my third eye, the clairvoyant eye, remained stubbornly closed to whatever dangers were brewing. Perhaps the constant pounding in my cellar workroom kept me distracted. There was definitely no chance of slipping into an alpha brain-wave state while Joe was at work in the house. I did my best to visualize him finishing the project soon—particularly before he was called away. Meanwhile, I was forced to put together my herbal orders in the kitchen, an additional mess, just when I was trying to focus on Thanksgiving, only a week away.
As I suspected, Adam hadn’t been thinking about driving up to Plymouth for the holiday but had been maneuvered neatly into it by Freddie. Becky seemed pleased to join us, too, as well as glad to throw cold water on Ron’s hopes that she’d spend the day enjoying the Lowells’ chilly hospitality and perfectly presented Norman Rockwell bird. “We’re in a bit of chaos here now,” I warned her, “but no doubt Joe will have everything shipshape by the time the turkey goes into the oven.”
“With Grandma’s secret Nine-Herb Stuffing? Which you keep promising to write out for me.”
“Of course, Grandma’s stuffing. I’m a firm believer in tradition.” I still relied on Grandma’s notebooks of handwritten recipes. Shipton women had always been famous for their herbal lore: not only for well-seasoned New England food but also for medicinal teas, herbal cosmetics, and useful potions of all kinds.
“Oh sure, Mom…you’re the quintessential traditionalist.”
“Actually, I am. Only my traditions go back a long, long way. Anyway, I’m looking forward to a lovely family party. Cathy won’t be coming east, but that was really too much to hope for. She and Irene are organizing a vegetarian feast for out-of-work theater friends.”
“I bet that will be a rockin’ good time.” Becky’s tone betrayed a trace of envy for her sister’s lifestyle.
“If you like tofu-turkey and chili. It’s a hand-to-mouth existence, Becky. Not for you or me, but the very insecurity seems to suit them. So far away from home, too—I’m just glad that Cathy has Irene to watch over her.”
“Wouldn’t you rather she found a guy to look after her?”
“I don’t even think I was surprised that she chose differently. Besides, I like Irene, and I think she’s good for Cathy. I’m just happy to see all you little birds fly off on your own chosen flight paths.”
“So you can fly off on yours?”
“You’re too canny, my dear.”
“Maybe I’ve inherited some of your sixth sense.”
I hoped not, but I didn’t say so. So many terrible things I’d seen—and seen twice. Once in my mind’s eye, and again when they happened. Remembering some of those occasions while Becky talked on about the merits of following hunches in her family law practice, I let myself gaze too long out my office window at the gold of the late-afternoon sunlight settling on the ocean. I felt myself slipping away. I saw a pair of hands wearing work gloves, carrying a canvas bag. Gardening boots, like Wellingtons. Bright green. The corner of a navy jacket. Now what was that? And where?
“Mom? Are you there?”
I gave myself a mental shake and zipped back to the present. “A sixth sense can be a mixed blessing, dear. Bad things happening to good people, you know.”
Thanksgiving was a case in point. But for me personally, it was a truly blessed day that filled me with a rich sense of well-being. I’d put the work gloves and green Wellingtons
