Independence Day. Amy Frazier

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СКАЧАТЬ wasn’t at all unusual for Pritchard’s Neck residents and visitors to bring noisemakers to the Fourth of July parade and speech as part of the celebration and the local color. Chessie could toot her horn till the mackerel ran without raising an eyebrow. But the sign gave Nick pause.

      In bold capital letters the board read, CHESSIE MCCABE ON STRIKE UNTIL HER NEEDS ARE MET. How many ways could that be taken? And how many people had noticed?

      Nick felt the color drain from his face.

      He heard a high-pitched, synchronized squeal from the front of the crowd. It appeared Gabriella and Isabel had just spotted their mother.

      Damage control his middle name, Nick gave the band leader a curt nod. Quentin Landry, one of Nick’s high-school faculty, responded immediately by having his students play a rousing exit march.

      Snapping photos as if in pursuit of a Pulitzer, the tourists who’d witnessed the literal airing of McCabe dirty laundry earlier crowded around a sweetly smiling Chessie. It would be just Nick’s luck if one of them worked for The New York Times Sunday magazine. His wife’s behavior—today’s behavior—certainly fit the eccentric mold outsiders often formed of Mainers, delighted in spreading in travel articles. But Nick—specifically, his career—couldn’t afford eccentricity.

      Grinding his teeth, he made his way off the bunting-trimmed podium.

      Gabriella and Isabel assailed him. “Dad—”

      “I’ll take care of it.” He gave each daughter a quick hug. “You know your mom—always on the cutting edge.”

      “But—”

      “Go get the picnic hamper. We’ll all four be on our way in just a sec.” He could only hope.

      The two girls stared at him.

      “I promise,” he said, grimacing.

      What had gotten into his wife? Because of her artistic nature, he expected her to be occasionally, creatively quirky. In private. She’d always been sensible in public. Supportive.

      Fully intending to keep his private and his public lives separate, Nick pushed through the crowd around the library entrance. “Excuse me,” he said, grasping Chessie’s arm and propelling her through the doorway into the small book drop foyer. “Show’s over, folks.” The sandwich board banged him in the shins.

      Closing the outer door with difficulty, he turned to Chessie. Heatstroke might be a reasonable explanation for her bizarre behavior this morning. But she beamed up at him, her hazel eyes clear and purposeful.

      “Performance art?” he asked, hopeful.

      “Absolutely not,” she replied with a seriousness that short-circuited his brief glimmer of optimism.

      “Are you angry with me? With the girls?” Arguing on one of his rare days off wasn’t his idea of fun. He hated confrontation on the home front. He relied on Chessie to negotiate peace.

      She cocked her head. “Angry is such a negative word.”

      “What then? Pick a word, any word. As long as it explains why you threw our laundry onto the front lawn. Why you’re wearing a…a picket sign.”

      “You noticed.” She sighed. Her angelic expression hinted at sarcasm.

      “Of course I noticed.”

      She patted his arm. “That’s a start.”

      “A start?” In exasperation, he rubbed his hand across his forehead. “I have one day to relax before summer school begins. The driver’s ed car’s in the shop. The state accreditation team’s making its first visit in two days. The air-conditioning in the science lab has been acting hinky. My best English teacher just told me she’s pregnant and won’t be back for the fall term…” He took a deep breath. “I wanted one day—one day—to recoup with my family.”

      “I needed fifteen minutes to work on an idea,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

      “An idea for a pot?”

      “Sort of.”

      “And we didn’t give it to you.”

      “That’s what I thought at first. But then I realized you three wouldn’t give it if I didn’t take it. Couldn’t take advantage of me if I didn’t let you.”

      As he tried to digest this, she flashed him a grin. Her megawatt smiles never ceased to take his breath away, but this one felt like a shot to the solar plexus.

      “And now that you’ve asserted yourself…” He hesitated, wary. “And now that we’ve taken notice…we’ll kayak to the islands for a picnic?”

      “Not exactly.”

      “Honey,” his holiday slipping away, he glanced at his watch “the tide’s only going to give us so much leeway.”

      “Ah, yes. Time and tide wait for no man.” Her shoulders drooped slightly. “The high-school principal’s credo.”

      “Are you trying to pick a fight? Is your p—”

      The librarian poked her head into the foyer. “Is there something I could help you find?”

      If only. “No, thank you,” Nick replied. “We’re okay.”

      As the librarian made her way back to her desk, Chessie glared at Nick. “No, my period isn’t coming,” she whispered, “if that’s what you were about to suggest. It isn’t always about hormones.”

      He backpedaled. “Chessie, give me some credit. Is your…pot you wanted to work on under deadline?”

      Nice save. His wrist, the one with the watch on it, twitched.

      “Not in the usual sense.” She narrowed her eyes. “I told you a trustee for the Portland Museum of Art loved the idea for this piece. She wants it for her private collection. And she carries such influence in the New England art world that a successful sale might be the opening I’ve been looking for. The opening that could take my career to the next level.”

      “I didn’t understand.” A library patron tried to enter the cramped foyer with an armload of books, but the heavy sandwich board Chessie still wore got in the way.

      “Sorry.” Awkwardly, Nick and Chessie squeezed farther back into the corner.

      “I know you didn’t understand,” Chessie continued, lowering her voice even more. “Neither did the girls. That’s just the point. But you will.”

      Nick felt queasy. He liked explanations. Concise and logical explanations stripped of a storyteller’s suspenseful pacing. He didn’t like surprises. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said, “Give me a hint.”

      “Let’s just say I’m having my midlife crisis. I’ve worked hard for it. I deserve it. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

      “Chessie. You’re only thirty-seven.”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ