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.
“Rustic,” Jim repeated as if bracing for some negative reaction. “I warned you.”
“It’s lovely,” Annie said with a smile. “I grew up in a house without electricity, and as far as I can tell it didn’t hurt me a bit.”
Jim cast a surprised glance at her. “England?” he said.
“Australia. A sheep station in the Outback, and I adored every moment of it. I suppose there’s a backhouse here. A loo.”
Jim laughed, relaxing. “Two, actually. One in the woodshed, the other in the barn. But Lily had a conventional bathroom installed at her son’s insistence. Flush toilet, shower, tub, sink. There’s a diesel generator in the woodshed that powers all the modern extravagances. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The tour continued, and the more she saw, the more Annie fell in love with the old homestead. Memories of her childhood home in Australia came flooding back, the sounds of children thundering down the back stairs into the kitchen, the squeak and clank of the hand pump as her mother drew water at the kitchen sink, the tang of wood smoke from the stove, the soft glow of oil lamps in the evening and the smell of good food cooking.
The entire farmhouse had a warm, friendly feel. The bedrooms were wallpapered in old-fashioned prints, the curtains were plain cotton muslin hung on wooden dowels and the floors were covered with handmade rugs of braided wool. The place was simple and clean, and Annie couldn’t believe her good fortune in being able to rent it for the summer. “Mrs. Houghton must have hated to leave here,” she said softly as Jim showed her what had been Lily’s bedroom, the queen four-poster angled so that she could prop herself up against the headboard and gaze out at the harbor as the sun rose on a Maine morning.
“Lily always hoped that she could live out her life here.”
There was a phone in the back hallway off the pantry. “It works,” Jim said as she lifted the receiver, “but no guarantees. The line just sort of lies on the ground and runs through tree branches for over a mile. Lily never wanted electricity in here, but her son insisted on a phone. Lester means well, but he can be overbearing at times. Still, he was right about the phone. Lily used it to call for help when she fell and broke her hip.”
“Where does Lester live?”
“Oh, he’s a hotshot lawyer. Went to Bowdoin College on a scholarship and took a position with one of those big Boston law firms. Makes a ton of money. Married a woman who doesn’t like Maine, so Lester doesn’t come north much. He wants to move Lily to a nursing home down near him, but she’s having none of it. Said if she couldn’t die at her farm, the very least she could do is die in Maine.”
“How sad.”
“Yes,” Jim said. “Strange, how things turn out. If she’d married me, she’d never have gone into that nursing home. But then again, she wouldn’t have had this
