Page 70 of A Change of Location
“Up.”
They encountered no bears and few passing vehicles as they loped past farms and timber lands, and houses Hannah identified as Cape Cod style, Federal, or McMansion.
“I needed this,” he huffed. “Too much sitting. On the plane. In a hospital waiting room trying to read the Financial Times and the Wall Street Journal on my mobile while Mother had her blood and bone marrow extracted.”
She stopped to retie a shoelace. “If she’s nervous, she doesn’t let on.”
“I’m scared enough for us both.”
Back at the house they showered and changed. After breakfast, Neil Ballard remained on the porch with the dogs and his copy of The Portland Herald and waved to the others as they left for church in Hannah’s Subaru.
The service was similar to the one at St. Anne’s, Milverston, but the pews contained more worshipers and the priest’s sermon was considerably shorter. Sunday lunch at Bear Knoll was a casual combination of sandwiches and salads.
“When you see your grandfather today,” Gwen said to Hannah, “ask what time he’ll be bringing the lobsters on the Fourth. I’ll make your Granny Jane’s yeast rolls. And bake some sort of fruit pie. What should we have for dessert tonight?”
“Your daughter’s Eton mess,” Martin suggested.
“We’ve no shortage of eggs,” Hannah said. “I’ll whip the meringues.” She smiled at him. “You might be tired of strawberries by then.”
“No danger of that,” he assured her.
“Dad will be home for supper tonight. When you’re shopping, get something for him to grill.”
“Oh, he would enjoy that,” Gwen replied. “He hasn’t done kebabs for ages. I’ll buy lamb and mushrooms and potatoes.”
Martin followed Hannah to her car, veering from getting in on the wrong side at the last minute.
“A genius move on my part, bringing you and Isobel here,” she muttered before starting the engine. “She’s in her element planning meals and talking about her gardens and going to Portland art galleries.”
“She’s awesome.” He removed her hand from the steering wheel and kissed it. “So is her daughter.”
***
“A lord, is he?” Arthur Ballard was a stocky senior citizen whose face and arms appeared to be permanently tanned. “We had one in our family.”
“We did?” Hannah stared at her grandfather.
“On my ma’s side, long time ago. He’s written down in the old Desmond Bible. Far as I can tell, it’s the woman who brings the good blood into a family. Lord Desmond, he was.”
“An Irish title,” Martin guessed.
“Could be. Ma came from Ireland. After the war, when times were hard, her family sent her over here.”
“Grammy Jane came down from Quebec for the same reason.”
“Ayuh. She and her sisters. To work in the shoe factory in Brewer. Penobscot County.”
“What county is this?” Martin wondered.
“Cumberland,” they answered together.
Hannah wanted her grandfather to take their photo in front his stacked lobster traps, and patiently showed him how to press the camera button on her phone. When he realized Martin was about to send it to Poppy in England, he shook his silvery head in amazement.
“You young folk and them gadgets. Neil set me up with a computer and the email. It’s all but useless, ’cept for gettin’ long range weather forecasts and the tide chart. C’mon down to the wharf. If I know this one, she wants a swim.”
Hannah lifted her shirt to reveal a peacock blue swimming costume. “You’re right. I’m going in. His lordship wouldn’t survive the water temperature.”
She skinned off her shirt and shorts and slipped off her sandals. Without another word, she headed for the edge of the dock and dove into the water. She bobbed to the surface, shrieking. “Fuck, it’s cold!”
