Riptide

Chapter 6

They sat in rocking chairs on the back porch of the store, drinking birch beer pop and gazing out over a meadow to a dark row of pines. Under Bud's probing, Hatch had related some of his adventures as an epidemiologist in Mexico and South America. But he had successfully steered the conversation away from his own reasons for returning. He didn't feel quite ready to start the explanations. He found himself anxious to get back to the boat, hang his portable grill over the taffrail, throw on a steak, and sit back with a sinfully dry martini. But he also knew that smalltown etiquette required his spending an hour shooting the breeze with the old grocer.

"Tell me what's happened in town since I left," he said to stopper a gap in the conversation and forestall any probing questions. He could tell Bud was dying to know why he'd returned, but that Maine politeness forbade him to ask.

"Well, now," Bud began. "There've been some pretty big changes here." He proceeded to relate how the new addition was built onto the high school five years ago, how the Thibodeaux family home burned to the ground while they were vacationing at Niagara Falls, how Frank Pickett ran his boat into Old Hump and sank it because he'd had a few too many. Finally, he asked if Hatch had seen the nice new firehouse.

"Sure have," said Hatch, secretly sorry that the old wooden one-berth house had been torn down and replaced with a metal-sided monstrosity.

"And there's new houses springing up all over the place. Summerpeople." Bud clucked disapprovingly, but Hatch knew perfectly well there wasn't any complaining at the cash register. Anyway, Bud's idea of houses springing up everywhere translated to three or four summer houses on Breed's Point, plus some renovated inland farmhouses and the new bed-and-breakfast.

Bud concluded with a sad shake of his head. "It's all changed around here since you left. You'll hardly recognize the place." He rocked back in his chair and sighed. "So, you here to sell the house?"

Hatch stiffened slightly. "No, I've come to live here. For the rest of the summer, anyway."

"That right?" Bud said. "Vacation?"

"I already told you," Hatch said, trying hard to keep his tone light, "I'm here on a rather delicate business matter. I promise you, Bud, it won't be a secret long."

Bud sat back, slightly offended. "You know I wouldn't have any interest in your business affairs. But I thought you said you were a doctor."

"I am. That's what I'll be doing up here." Hatch sipped his birch beer and glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

"But Malin," the grocer said, shifting uncomfortably, "we've already got a doctor in town. Dr. Frazier. He's healthy as an ox, could live another twenty years."

"That's nothing a little arsenic in his tea wouldn't fix," said Hatch.

The grocer looked at him in alarm.

"Don't worry, Bud," Hatch replied, breaking into a smile. "I'm not going into competition with Dr. Frazier." He reminded himself that his particular brand of wit wasn't especially common in rural Maine.

"That's good." Bud gave his guest a sidelong look. "Then maybe it's got to do with those helicopters."

Hatch looked at him quizzically.

"Just yesterday it was. Nice, sharp, clear day. Two helicopters came by. Big things they were, too. Went right over town and headed out toward the islands. Seen them hovering over Ragged Island for quite a spell. I thought they were from the army base." Bud's look turned speculative. "But then again, maybe not."

Hatch was spared having to reply by the creak of the screen door. He waited while Bud lumbered inside to attend to the customer. "Business seems good," he replied when Bud returned.

"Can't hardly say that," Bud replied. "Out of season, population's down to eight hundred."

Hatch thought to himself that this was about the size Stormhaven had always been.

"Ayuh," Bud went on, "kids just up and leave now when they finish high school. Don't want to stay in town. They go off to the big cities, Bangor, Augusta. One even went so far as Boston. We've had five kids leave town in the last three years. If it weren't for the summerpeople, or that nudist camp on Pine Neck, I don't think I'd have two extra pennies to rub together."

Hatch merely nodded. Bud was obviously prospering, but it would have been impolite to disagree with him in his own store. The "nudist camp" he referred to was actually an artists' colony, located on an old estate in a pine forest some ten miles up the coast. Hatch remembered that thirty years before, a lobsterman pulling traps had seen a nude sunbather on their beach. The memory of a Maine seacoast town was long indeed.

"And how's your mother?" Bud asked.

"She passed away in 1985. Cancer."

"Sorry to hear that." Hatch could tell Bud meant it. "She was a good woman, and she raised some fine ... a fine son." After a short silence Bud rocked back in his chair and polished off his birch beer. "Seen Claire yet?" he asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

Hatch waited a moment. "She still around?" he replied with equal nonchalance.

"Yup," said Bud. "Been some changes in her life. And how about you? Any family?"

Hatch smiled. "No wife. Not yet, anyway." He put down his empty bottle and stood. It was definitely time to go. "Bud, it's been great visiting with you. I think I'll go and fix myself dinner."

Bud nodded and clapped him on the back as Hatch pushed his way through into the store. He had his hand on the screen door when Bud cleared his throat.

"One other thing, Malin."

Hatch froze. He knew he'd gotten off too easily. He waited, dreading the question he knew was coming.

"You watch out with that licorice," Bud said with great solemnity. "Those teeth won't last forever, you know."