New England White by Stephen L. Carter Page B

antiques, or at least a talent for fleecing tourists, and opening Old Landing. The village was a good twelve miles from Elm Harbor. Thanks to the wisdom—or recalcitrance—of the zoning board, the Landing, unlike the other shore towns in the county, had yet to be fully colonized by professionals who commuted to the city. It was full of Frank Carringtons, who simmered with resentment toward the university folks who moved in and raised prices and elected Democrats to the town council, but, at the same time, craved the hard cash they dropped into the till.
    “What about him?” said Frank, when Julia had stated her business.
    “Was he here?”
    “I’m a businessman,” the dealer explained, intonation Yankee-flat. He was winter pale and New England lanky, and wore his tawny hair in a younger man’s style. His shop was long and dark, crowded with antiques, half of them hidden in shadow. “I do business with anybody who walks through that door. Now, some of our merchants up here don’t like minorities. I’m not like that. You know I’m glad you folks are here.”
    Yes, she knew, because he told her every time she came in to make some little purchase, or, now and then, some big one.
    “We need more minorities,” he announced, in the same tone he might have used to suggest that Pleasant Road needed a stoplight. “All kinds,” he added piously.
    Julia, examining a girandole, said nothing.
    “How’s Pres?” Frank asked, still punching, because the Landing still marveled over her firstborn. Four years after Preston’s early graduation, the regional high school had not recovered from the discovery that its resident genius was black. Nor had Lemaster, the relationship between father and son forever spoiled, on both sides, by the discovery that the son was the smarter of the pair. “Still doing the Landing proud, I bet!” said Frank, smiling weakly.
    “Preston is fine.”
    “Brightest black kid anybody around here ever saw,” he said, meaning it as a compliment. “Now, tell me about the rest of the family.”
    Julia refused to be distracted.
    “What did he want, Frank?” She glanced at Jeannie, who was standing in the front window, admiring the porcelain Christmas village. A sign warned visitors not to touch, but any minute now, her mother knew, Jeannie would pick up one of the pieces and, possibly, break it. “Kellen Zant. When he was in here. What did he want?”
    “Same thing everybody wants. To buy something.”
    “He bought something from you? Kellen?”
    “Some reason he shouldn’t?”
    “What did he buy?”
    A moment’s hesitation, as if figuring out how much to charge for the information. Frank was tall but hunched, as if his height was greater than his ambition. His eyes kept straying over Julia’s shoulder, toward Jeannie, who was now kneeling. “Remember that nineteenth-century cheval mirror you looked at last month?”
    “Of course.” She also remembered how Frank Carrington had wanted eighteen hundred dollars for it, which was daylight madness.
    “He bought it.”
    “Kellen bought the cheval? Why on earth would he buy the cheval? Kellen didn’t know squat about antiques.”
    “Well, he bought this one.” Puffing up with pride. “Paid full price, too.”
    “But it doesn’t make any sense. What would Kellen do with an antique mirror?”
    Again Frank’s eyes cut toward Jeannie, who, true to form, had lifted the little train station from its base. She held it close to her face and peeked inside. Rules applied to those less perfect than she. “He said it was a gift.”
    “A gift?” A moment’s unreasoning jealousy. “For whom?”
    “For you.”
    Julia glanced at her daughter, not wanting to be overheard. She actually put a hand on the older man’s arm, drawing him deeper into the gloomy shop. “That’s not funny,” she said.
    “It’s not a joke, Julia. He asked me what you liked, and I told him.”
    “But—”
    She stopped, not sure how to make the point. Yes, sure, she