“Well, he’s been extremely kind. He had someone bring me my favorite bing cherries in a big pail when I first got here.”
Poppy nodded knowingly.
“That was you?” Katie smiled.
“Of course that was me. But he told me to do it, so let’s us girls give him credit. He can be very thoughtful, my George,” Poppy said without any conviction. “Now, I did teach him the Porter family values that come from years of adversity in the sea. Did you know both sides of his family started whaling off the coast of Nantucket in the later 1600s?”
“I did not, but I figured with the compass in the living room, maybe . . .”
“They hunted the world’s oceans for whales, whose blubber was burned into valuable whale oil, in ships named the Aurora, the Catawba, and the Essex, the latter having been sunk by a whale who crested . . .” Katie pondered all the nautical equipment in the cottage, the harpoons, and the scrimshaw while Poppy recounted Porter adventures through the centuries until she concluded with, “Well, now, let’s go to the buffet before I tell you what I need you to do.”
Famished after the dissection of colonial whaling techniques, Katie followed Poppy into the screened-in buffet area. Young children ran around in dripping wet bathing suits. J.Crew–clad mothers chased after them. Out-of-touch fathers focused on getting food and drink after a punishing game of tennis with their college fraternity brothers. On the way, Katie saw that Huck was now giggling on the diving board with another young boy his age. The friendly lifeguard was egging them on to jump, which allowed Katie to relax.
Gray plastic tray in hand, Katie then perused the Episcopalian culinary choices before her: prison-grade turkey burgers on slightly frozen buns with slices of sweet pickles; deviled eggs (over-boiled and now covered with yellow, dried crust); and chef’s salads of processed lunch meats filled with air bubbles. For a more substantial warm meal, the gourmet offering included cod soaked in a nondescript, pasty white sauce, white rice with carrots, and tomato aspic. The “chef” had thrown a few courageous flakes of parsley on top as a show of WASP whimsy.
Back at the table, Katie explained her rapport with George as best she could to the probing matriarch. “Your son is very thoughtful and deliberate, and certainly raised well. I can see he gets his handsome face from his father in the sailing photos. At the education conference, the moment he spoke to me, I was taken by his intelligence and honesty.”
“Interesting,” answered Poppy. She crossed her arms over her plentiful bosom and twitched her teeny nose.
“He’s also wonderful to my son, Huck, so what more can any woman ask?” Katie’s face told two stories: her mouth curled up in a smile at the thought of George’s kindness toward Huck, but her eyes penetrated Poppy’s with a nagging hesitation she couldn’t shake.
Poppy may have been wearing a large sun hat with big cotton peony blossoms plastered all over it, a hideous pink caftan with bold orange stripes that screamed, “Palm Beach!” and sunny yellow pants that didn’t match anything except the Seabrook beach chairs. But, like her great-great-grandfather who hacked whales for blubber, she was a hardy woman who didn’t shy from the obvious.
“Relax, child.” Poppy patted Katie’s wrist with her freckled hands, her bright-pink nail polish playing off her sun hat. “Your independence is something to cherish. You can have the cottage no matter what. I am aware of your mother’s passing and how close you were. I know you upended your life to come here. I hear the tutoring company hired you from afar. You must have a good reputation in your community.”
“My training as a learning specialist might lead to a special ed job at the Bridgehampton Middle School.” Katie cleared her throat. “I just want to say that if I do stay in the fall, I have no intention of staying in the cottage that you so generously have offered me. And I hope you got the first month’s rent?”
“George told me you wouldn’t come if I didn’t cash that so-called ‘rent’ check. You don’t need to pay anything. No one does. If you insist, I will, but it seems wrong to.” Poppy shook her head. “My son and I have the other cottage several streets away.”
“Well, I can’t say I can match you with a similar family history, but my son, Huck, and I are grateful. And yes, please cash it. I’ll be looking at the account until you do.”
“Would your son Huck like to come see my museum?”
“I’m so sorry, come see what?” Katie was finding Poppy more entertaining by the minute.
“There’s a small whaling exhibit in our attic in the main cottage culled from Nantucket—you know we are descendants of the great Coffin family?”