“I must say I am sympathetic to their view,” Agnes said. “As you must be.”
“Yes,” Jane said. “That’s one of the reasons why I am in this line of work.”
If it were only her, Agnes thought, maybe. But not Nathan.
“There were legal cases in the 1970s claiming that the old land treaties had been violated,” Jane went on. “The distress was about too much land granted by treaty to the indigenous people having been transferred to non-Natives, and the Native people wanted both the land returned and restitution. I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but basically the Native Americans received money with an option to purchase lands for market value, but they also had to give up some lands. And not all the tribes were included in the suit.”
“The tract we are interested in was once sacred land,” Nathan said. “But we figure if the Wabanaki group can’t acquire it, better us than a developer.”
Agnes sliced her corn muffin in half—pointedly. “Certain people have their eye on this place, too, for development.”
“Actually, Native people had a summer camp in the Sank. Lots of artifacts have been found there,” Polly said.
“It wasn’t a burial site, was it?” Jane said.
“No. My father had someone come look at everything. It was a campsite, if you want to put it that way.”
“That’s all right then,” Jane said. “Burial sites are in a different category. The legalities are complex and, to be frank, subject to change.”
“We have our own burial site just across the road,” Agnes said. “My father is there, and Polly’s, and many others of ours. We have to figure out what to do about that, too.”
“We can manage that.” Nathan rubbed his finger pads.
Unctuous, Agnes thought. One of her father’s few but effective put-downs.
“Do you have a timeline in mind?” he asked.
He looked like Robert, not Archie. That was it. He looked like him but wasn’t him. And so she was resentful. That wasn’t mature, but it was understandable.
In her preparation for the meeting, Agnes had considered describing the setup of the trust, and their present estrangement from a principal shareholder, but she saw no reason to share that information with the members of the Dirigo Land Preservation Trust, because she wasn’t going to sign any part of Fellowship Point over to them.
“Not exactly,” she said. She delivered a big, ugly yawn. “I must apologize, but suddenly I am exhausted and need to go home for a nap. I just had cancer surgery.”
The table commiserated and fluttered. Agnes stood, Polly stood, leaving Nathan and Jane no choice. Meal over. No tour of the Sank. No promises. No let’s-talk-again-soons.
“It was nice to meet you.” Jane held out a comprehending hand.
Nathan frowned.
That was the end of that.
After they drove off, Agnes asked Polly about dessert.
“Thou art tough, Agnes Lee,” Polly said. “Come on.” They went out to the kitchen and ate lemon cake standing by the counter.
“Mmm. Did you make this?” Agnes licked her fork.
“I did.”
“I should accept more of your dinner invitations. Anyway, it wasn’t a waste to have them here. I learned that we have to find the right people to take over the Sank. People who really understand how special it is. Did you notice they never praised the land?”
“Oh, yes they did, Agnes! They had plenty of nice things to say.”
“But not the right things. I’m just so eager to get this settled. How many dopes are we going to have to talk to?”
“It was never going to be easy,” Polly said. “And there’s still the problem of Ar—”
Agnes held up her hand. “Do not speak that name.”
“Fine by me,” Polly said, and cut herself another thin slice of cake. “Meanwhile I’ve been getting ready for the hordes to descend. Want to see? When was the last time you were upstairs in this house?”
They both remembered—the day Dick died.
“I meant before that,” Polly said. She led the way up the stairs. “It’s so odd—we are in and out of the downstairs of each other’s houses all the time.”
Agnes shrugged. “Old-fashioned.”
The doors were all open but one. The master bedroom. They passed by without remark.
Polly led the way down the hall, giving a tour. The rooms were very plain, each containing a bed or two, a chest of drawers, a chair, and either a table or a small bookcase or both—more to do than in a nun’s room, yet congruent with Quaker values. The point of Meadowlea was that it didn’t change.
“I like these pictures,” Agnes said. “How do you know about all these artists?”
“Nessie, unlike thee, I actually leave the house! There’s a painter every two feet in Maine.”
“Well, that’s good. Artists are benign, more or less. Maybe not this one.” Agnes pointed to a painting of a Maine island, done in fastidious pointillism. “I don’t think dots were art’s finest moment.”
Polly looked at it. “I see your point. Har har. Why don’t I replace it with one of yours?”
“I’m not legitimate.”
“So what? I love your paintings. Your murals.”
“I can’t very well give you a wall. But… how about a Nan illustration? A pair of them. They would look nice in one of these bright rooms. Great-grandchildren will be along soon enough.”
“Thank you, Nessie. I’d love that.”
“I wish I could really paint,” Agnes said.
“I wish I could sing.”
“These kinds of confessions call for each of us to assure the other that it’s not too late. But we can’t do that. It is too late.”
“We will never be gymnasts,” Polly said. She opened a window in one of the guest rooms.
“Nope. Nor go to Egypt.”
Polly was walking ahead so didn’t notice when Agnes stopped and turned the knob to the master bedroom. But she sensed Agnes wasn’t following and turned to see where she was.
“Pol,” Agnes said. “It’s time.”
“No—”
“Yes. It has been a year. Come stand by me.”
“I guess you’re right.” Polly hung her head but joined Agnes.
The opening of the door. A great blast of heat! Surprised giggling—out of the era of their lives when they were girls together and new intense physical sensations altered their moods radically, usually in the direction of joy. Blasts of joy. Blasts of cold or heat or fear, blasts of pleasure in eating a peach or caramel, blasts of pain from wearing new shoes to an endless party or tripping and landing on your face. Blasts of life. They giggled more, and Agnes took Polly’s arm while they were still giggling and led her into the room where Dick had last slept.
A swift assessment. The room had been cleaned. Cleared of daily life. Both bedside tables were cleared off. Agnes crossed to the window, her modus operandi in any room. This was the best view, traditionally reserved for the person who held a share in the Fellowship.
“Dick loved this view.”
“It’s awfully close in here.” Agnes unlatched the sash and lifted the window. The screen could wait.