Hamm Loose Jr. was a piece of work, too. When Polly’s boys were young and taking tennis lessons at the Deel Club, Hamm Jr. had found ways to create disturbances when they were serving, and he peed in the showers with gusto. It was outrageous of him to mention Fellowship Point in a newspaper article. Development would destroy the beauty of the place, of course—but more than that, the hallowed thirty-five-acre tip of the peninsula called the Sank （short for “sanctuary”） would become desecrated, and the bird species that had flourished there under the fellowship’s aegis for nearly a hundred and fifty years would scatter and potentially go extinct. Eagles’ nests, including a towering structure built by golden eagles, had been occupied uninterrupted for decades. The thought of yachts and condos displacing those priceless dwellings made Agnes’s heart literally hurt. She had to block the possibility if it was the last thing she did.
A few days earlier, she’d called her lawyer to make certain she had an accurate understanding of how to break the Fellowship Point Association agreement. As she’d thought, Fellowship Point was owned in shares by five families. In each generation one family member held the share. At any time, the agreement could be dissolved if three association members voted to do so. Subsequently the land could be sold or split up more conventionally. The possibility had never before arisen, but circumstances had never been this dire.
Only three families had held a share for a while now. The other two original families had died out and forfeited their shares, which had gone to the remaining shareholders. Two houses had been unoccupied for years and should probably be torn down. Cousin Archie still held WesterLee—his grown children stayed there sometimes, or he loaned it to friends—but he’d built his own house on the other side of the peninsula, a monstrous exercise in why-pay-less. Agnes was sure she could persuade him to break the agreement without much trouble, especially in light of wolves like the Looses sniffing around. The dismantling had to happen while the two old ladies were both breathing and compos mentis. Meaning, ASAP. After Agnes and Polly died, only two people stood to inherit the shares, Polly’s eldest son, James, and Cousin Archie Lee. They loved Fellowship Point, but how much? Did they have a price at which they’d be persuaded to sell? It was a better plan to never tempt them.
“So, Polly. We can’t wait any longer to dissolve the association. I want to start writing to land trusts immediately. You’re with me on this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely. I mean I have to talk to Dick, but yes. I think so, yes.”
Polly’s deference to Dick irritated Agnes, as always, but she let it go and pressed on. “There are different sorts of arrangements that can be made, easements and tax things and so on. I want to make certain that the Sank is protected forever, even when I’m not here.”
“I fully agree.”
“Good. Let’s get this settled this summer. I’ll set up appointments. The land trust people will want to see the place, and we can figure out what’s best.”
“We’re going in June, as usual. When are you going up anyway? You’re here late this year.” Polly looked at her quizzically, as if puzzling something out.
“I’ll go soon.” Agnes changed the subject as swiftly as possible. “Now I’m hungry. Mrs. Blundt!” she called out.
Mrs. Blundt emerged from the kitchen, her hands prayerfully clasped at her waist. She was in her early fifties, ruddy and round, with an open face framed by a nimbus of gray curls.
“Whatever you created smells irresistible,” she said. “Will you please bring it in?” She turned to Polly. “All afternoon the most divine scent has been wafting around the apartment.”
Polly nodded. “I noticed it the second you opened the door. What is it?”
“Zucchini cake with vanilla icing,” said Mrs. Blundt.
“Oooh,” Polly said. “My mouth is watering.”
Mrs. Blundt frowned, turned, and left.
Agnes picked up an envelope from the side table. “Now for Robert’s letter.”
“Me? Or you?”
“You still have my glasses on.”
She handed the envelope to Polly, who sighed as she drew the pages out. “It’s so sad about Hiram,” she said. “Poor Robert. Is he all right?”
“Maybe the letter will tell us.”
Polly frowned. “Can you not tease for five seconds?”
“Sorry. Go ahead,” Agnes said, thinking of her teasing ancestors, especially her father. A handsome man could get away with it.
“Let me get these pages opened…” Polly took a sip and began.
Dear Agnes,
It was good to speak with you the other day. Hearing your voice—well, I felt better. I remember once when a pious visitor expressed shock over you and Polly laughing in the graveyard. “If you can’t laugh at death what can you laugh at?” you barked. I have reminded myself of that these days.
It’s difficult to know how best to mourn—what’s efficient, effective, and honorable. I hit on an answer today. I thought you’d want to hear about it.
I parked my car right off Shore Road at the top of Point Path. It snowed overnight, so the ground was dusted and a light wind blew, rattling the iced branches. I pictured Hiram, and how his gait expressed his essential traits: dignity, caution, sense of purpose. I don’t know where he is now, and I, like you, have never been tempted to subscribe to any notion of an afterlife. I am content to remember him as he was. He was so often on Fellowship Point, even after we moved away. Where better to think of him?
I came to the bottom of the hill and stood at the north end surveying the whole point. I looked straight down the full length of the path to the Sank. From that distance, it appeared as an olive rounded dome that made me wish I could paint. It’s an Arthur Dove, for sure. Then I took a deep breath, and the full feel of the place came to me—the pine scents, the birdcalls, the booming of the rolling ocean. I headed straight down and checked on the eagles’ nests. All looked well, no signs of trespassing or disturbance. I won’t check again until after the eaglets hatch, if any do this year. I walked by the site of the summer camp and all around the shoreline, then back up Point Path. By the graveyard I thought of old friends and older inhabitants of what my father—and yours—called God’s country. Thank you for offering a place for him there, but my mother wants him in her churchyard. His spirit will always be on Fellowship Point in any case.
I’m looking forward to taking this walk together very soon.
Yours as ever, Robert
“What decent men,” Agnes said, “Robert and Hiram both.” She looked up and saw that Polly’s eyes had filled.
Polly wiped at her face. “Will you excuse me a moment?” She stood.
“Use the one in my bedroom. It has a view.”
Polly handed back the letter to Agnes and made her way through the apartment. Agnes skimmed it again. She’d spoken to Robert a week earlier, after Sylvie, her housekeeper at Leeward Cottage, had called her with the news that Hiram Circumstance had dropped dead at seventy-eight. Agnes had known Hiram all her life. He’d lived on Fellowship Point for many years before buying his own house farther up the Cape, which she’d helped him do. He’d been the carpenter and the caretaker and the landscaper, ever reliable, highly competent, and very serious. Agnes trusted Hiram. And she’d liked him so much. He’d treated her with the same respect he’d showed her father when at age forty she took over his share of the association. Her animals had always been happy to see him, either jumping up on or rubbing against his legs, depending on the species. Pets could like the wrong people, she’d seen it, but they loved him for cause. She was pleased that Sylvie had used the phrase dropped dead to describe what happened to Hiram. It enabled Agnes to see him loping down a road, looking up at the high branches or the sky, suddenly jerking downward, crumpling, his straight slate-colored hair shading his eyes, his flannel-lined coat wrinkling, his worn corduroys buckling along with his knees. Hiram dropped dead. Too bad, but at least he hadn’t expired, or passed, or left this world, or gone to his maker, or even had a heart attack. He deserved a straightforward death.