"No thanks," I said, backing away. "We've got our hands full of groceries."
Which was true, but Rob still glowered at me as he strode off down the beach, Spike skittering along at his heels. Michael and I headed back to the cottage.
"I wish Aunt Phoebe would come back," I said, glancing down the lane.
"Don't worry," Michael said. "Everything will be fine."
I always get nervous when people say that.
Chapter 10
The Puffin Before the Storm
"There you are!" Mrs. Fenniman said, pouncing on us the second we entered the cottage. "It's about time someone showed up to do some work around here!"
Before we knew it, Mrs. Fenniman had drafted us into hurricane preparations. Apparently, Dad had vanished shortly after Michael and I left, leaving her with only Rob to order around.
Fortunately, Aunt Phoebe's house was built along sensible lines, with working shutters. All you had to do was close them and make sure the latch was secure, thus sparing us the nightmare of boarding and taping that some residents had to do. Rob and Dad had apparently managed to deal with the shutters before they debunked. Probably took them all of half an hour.
Michael and I weren't so lucky with the lawn and deck furniture. Before dashing off to deal with Victor Resnick, Aunt Phoebe had left orders for us to bring every movable object inside. Mrs. Fenniman took her quite literally. The deck alone housed a dozen plastic chairs, three tables, a gas grill, half a dozen sets of wind chimes, and several dozen wooden planters or clay pots, with or without vegetation. The yard contained two picnic tables, three birdbams, a rain gauge, a sundial, a second grill, a badminton net, a croquet set, a set of horseshoes, a pair of flagpoles, several dozen more flower boxes, an awesome assortment of lawn ornaments, and a never-ending supply of bird feeders and bird-houses. We finally convinced Mrs. Fenniman that the slate flagstones and the bricks bordering the flower beds could probably cope by themselves. And since the garden shed was already overflowing with junk not actively in use, we had to drag everything into the house and shove the furniture around until we could fit it all in somehow.
We had nearly finished and were looking forward to resting when Mother suddenly appeared on the upstairs landing, her hair falling down her back. She was wringing her hands, looking fit to give a bang-up performance of Ophelia's mad scene.
"Have you seen your father?" she demanded.
"Not since this morning," I said.
"Don't worry, Margaret," Mrs. Fenniman said. "He'll be fine."
"Where's Phoebe?" Mother asked.
"Up at the village," I lied, not wanting Mother to start worrying about Aunt Phoebe, too.
"You go back to your nap," Mrs. Fenniman put in. "She'll be back anytime now, and James, too."
"What if something has happened to him?"
"What could happen to him?" Michael asked.
"He said he was going to go out to Green Point and watch the hurricane hit the island," Mother said. "I told Phoebe not to let him go, and now she's gone, too."
"Oh Lord. I thought he was kidding about that," I said.
"You should know your father by now," Mother said pointedly.
"Well, at least he didn't go off with your aunt Phoebe to tackle Victor Resnick," Michael put in.
So much for not worrying Mother.
"Victor Resnick?" Mother repeated. "Is he on the island?"
"Yes, why wouldn't he be?" I asked. "He owns a house here."
"Oh dear," Mother said. "Your father doesn't know Resnick is here, does he?"
"Of course he knows, Mother," I said. "We all heard it from the Dickermans last night."
"Oh dear me," Mother said. She drifted down the stairs, looking preoccupied.
"Where did you say Phoebe was?" Mrs. Fenniman asked.
"Probably up at Victor Resnick's house, giving him a good thrashing," I said.
"I'm sure your father is doing no such thing," Mother said. "That's absolute nonsense."
She strode out into the kitchen, leaving the swinging door flapping wildly.
"Not Dad--Aunt Phoebe," I called after her. "Why on earth would Dad want to thrash Victor Resnick?"
"Well, he's a birder, too, isn't he?" Michael said. "Probably upset about what everyone thinks Resnick's doing to the birds."
"Birds! Don't be silly," Mrs. Fenniman said with a cackle. "The green-eyed monster, more likely."
"Green-eyed monster?" Michael and I said in unison.
"They were quite an item, your mother and Victor Resnick," Mrs. Fenniman said. "Of course, that was a few years ago, before she met your dad."