might be watching from below, and looked up into his face. “I suppose Barbara used to tell you that.”
“Damn it, Sarah, that was a wholly—okay, I get your point. Who’s in Miffy’s boat?”
“I do believe that’s Miffy herself at the tiller, and Lionel handling the sheets. Aunt Appie must be riding herd on the boys. Wouldn’t you know?”
“Some people have a natural taste for martyrdom,” said Max. “Your cousin Lionel doesn’t appear to be one of them, though. To my untutored eye, he and Miss Tergoyne don’t seem to be doing too badly.”
The red sloop, which had been far behind, was beginning to work its way up through the scattering of bright sails and shining hulls.
“They’re doing very well,” Sarah agreed. “Here, want a squint?”
She handed him back his spyglass. “Miffy’s a surprisingly good sailor, and Lionel’s first-rate. He even crews for Bradley at Newport.”
“Who takes care of the kids that day?”
“It’s hardly a one-day affair. I expect Vare’s always been stuck with them. Maybe that’s why she decided she’s through with men. Look, they’re pulling ahead. Fren will be livid.”
“Poor loser, is he?”
“The absolute worst. He’ll be smashing everything in sight at the club tonight, I shouldn’t wonder. The steward keeps a special set of plastic dishes for when Fren Larrington gets skunked in a race. I’m glad we’re not going to be there. Which brings us to the question of what I should take to Miriam. Do you suppose she’d care for some fresh lettuce out of the garden?”
Max said lettuce would be great, so they strolled down to the garden, fought off the gulls, and gathered a fine assortment of early vegetables. Sarah took the stuff back to the house to be washed and crisped in cold water until they were ready to leave; then they went along to find out what progress, if any, was being made among the ruins. They discovered Jed Lomax and his nephew dismantling what little was left of the boathouse and throwing the charred remains into the caretaker’s truck.
“You mustn’t do that,” Sarah cried. “The arson squad is supposed to come and find out how the fire started.”
“They already been,” Mr. Lomax told her. “Brought the insurance adjuster with ’em. Leastways he come about the same time. Pawed around through the ashes for a while and couldn’t find nothin’, so they went away again. Pete an’ me decided we’d better get rid o’ this mess here. Leave it layin’ an’ you’d have a pack o’ young hoodlums up here tonight tryin’ to burn what’s left of it. Don’t worry, Miz Kelling. We’re keepin’ our eyes peeled. If we turn up anythin’, we’ll let you know.”
“What’s your personal opinion, Jed?” asked Max.
“Them damn brats o’ Mr. Lionel’s, if Miz Kelling don’t mind me sayin’ so. I dunno what else it could o’ been, ‘less somebody snuck up in a rowboat an’ took a blowtorch to the shingles.”
“Hardly seems likely, but you never know.”
Max sauntered down to the water’s edge. Sarah followed him. The tide had turned by now, and the stone foundation was bared. They could see where somebody had hacked a date into the rocks. That must have been the year the boathouse was built: 1887. Just short of a century.
One might have visions of dashing young men in thick white flannels and brightly ribboned straw boaters helping muslined young ladies with veils and parasols in and out of well-cushioned punts, if one hadn’t known the Kellings as Sarah did. In fact, the men would have been wearing whatever came handy and the women fending for themselves in draggled cotton skirts and muddy canvas shoes.
There wouldn’t have been any cushions. They’d all have been sunburned and insect-plagued and firm in their conviction that they were setting a good example to the rest of the world. Perhaps the boathouse hadn’t meant as much to the world at large as the Kellings might have thought it did, but its
“Damn it, Sarah, that was a wholly—okay, I get your point. Who’s in Miffy’s boat?”
“I do believe that’s Miffy herself at the tiller, and Lionel handling the sheets. Aunt Appie must be riding herd on the boys. Wouldn’t you know?”
“Some people have a natural taste for martyrdom,” said Max. “Your cousin Lionel doesn’t appear to be one of them, though. To my untutored eye, he and Miss Tergoyne don’t seem to be doing too badly.”
The red sloop, which had been far behind, was beginning to work its way up through the scattering of bright sails and shining hulls.
“They’re doing very well,” Sarah agreed. “Here, want a squint?”
She handed him back his spyglass. “Miffy’s a surprisingly good sailor, and Lionel’s first-rate. He even crews for Bradley at Newport.”
“Who takes care of the kids that day?”
“It’s hardly a one-day affair. I expect Vare’s always been stuck with them. Maybe that’s why she decided she’s through with men. Look, they’re pulling ahead. Fren will be livid.”
“Poor loser, is he?”
“The absolute worst. He’ll be smashing everything in sight at the club tonight, I shouldn’t wonder. The steward keeps a special set of plastic dishes for when Fren Larrington gets skunked in a race. I’m glad we’re not going to be there. Which brings us to the question of what I should take to Miriam. Do you suppose she’d care for some fresh lettuce out of the garden?”
Max said lettuce would be great, so they strolled down to the garden, fought off the gulls, and gathered a fine assortment of early vegetables. Sarah took the stuff back to the house to be washed and crisped in cold water until they were ready to leave; then they went along to find out what progress, if any, was being made among the ruins. They discovered Jed Lomax and his nephew dismantling what little was left of the boathouse and throwing the charred remains into the caretaker’s truck.
“You mustn’t do that,” Sarah cried. “The arson squad is supposed to come and find out how the fire started.”
“They already been,” Mr. Lomax told her. “Brought the insurance adjuster with ’em. Leastways he come about the same time. Pawed around through the ashes for a while and couldn’t find nothin’, so they went away again. Pete an’ me decided we’d better get rid o’ this mess here. Leave it layin’ an’ you’d have a pack o’ young hoodlums up here tonight tryin’ to burn what’s left of it. Don’t worry, Miz Kelling. We’re keepin’ our eyes peeled. If we turn up anythin’, we’ll let you know.”
“What’s your personal opinion, Jed?” asked Max.
“Them damn brats o’ Mr. Lionel’s, if Miz Kelling don’t mind me sayin’ so. I dunno what else it could o’ been, ‘less somebody snuck up in a rowboat an’ took a blowtorch to the shingles.”
“Hardly seems likely, but you never know.”
Max sauntered down to the water’s edge. Sarah followed him. The tide had turned by now, and the stone foundation was bared. They could see where somebody had hacked a date into the rocks. That must have been the year the boathouse was built: 1887. Just short of a century.
One might have visions of dashing young men in thick white flannels and brightly ribboned straw boaters helping muslined young ladies with veils and parasols in and out of well-cushioned punts, if one hadn’t known the Kellings as Sarah did. In fact, the men would have been wearing whatever came handy and the women fending for themselves in draggled cotton skirts and muddy canvas shoes.
There wouldn’t have been any cushions. They’d all have been sunburned and insect-plagued and firm in their conviction that they were setting a good example to the rest of the world. Perhaps the boathouse hadn’t meant as much to the world at large as the Kellings might have thought it did, but its
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