By The Howling Read online

  In the middle of the night, Charlotte was awakened by the howling of a dog. It sounded like Sam. She felt tears in her eyes, thinking how similar Sam’s mournful howling was to what she felt like doing herself. Sam and her—both lonely and left out on their own. She squeezed her eyes tight and willed herself into sleep, aided by an eerie silence that followed the ending of the plaintive cry of the distant dog in the night.

  Chapter Five

  It had rained sometime in the night, which had brought up the smell of pine on the morning breeze, and Charlotte sat out on her screened porch off the back of the cottage and savored her coffee and toast while watching the river. It was the promise of mornings like this that had enticed her to retire near the water. For all the years she lived in Annapolis, with its many coves and access to the Bay via the Severn River, she had never had the privilege of living on the water but, rather, had lived in a small, but cozy old townhouse near the Statehouse.

  It was still early when she was finished with her breakfast, and she moved to the front door to retrieve the morning paper. She’d moved to the lazy side of the state, but she wasn’t ready to give up her news yet, so she was one of the few residents of Hopewell who received daily delivery of the Baltimore Sun. And then there was the local free paper that would appear on her doorstep each morning whether she wanted it or not.

  She could see, though, when she opened the front door, that it would be a while before she’d be able to read the Sun—and that she’d have to read it outside—because she discovered a wet and muddy-pawed Sam curled up on top of it in the center of the brick walk from the street to her door. The local paper was nowhere to be found, which wasn’t all that surprising, as delivery times for that were erratic.

  “Where have you been, Sam?” Charlotte asked, as he lifted his head dreamily, fighting to raise himself up from sleep and gave her a loving smile. “And what have you got around your neck?”

  Charlotte leaned down to find that Sam was attached to his leash still. Charlotte thought this was strange—not just that a dog Susan had let run free was wearing a leash, but also that if she’d taken him out on the leash, why had she left it on him? Charlotte didn’t want to criticize as it was an indication that Susan was trying to do the right thing—but leaving him out with a leash on his neck? Really. He could snag it on something and choke himself.

  Charlotte took one end of the leash, and Sam raised up and followed her—quite willingly—as, in her robe and slippers, she marched across the still-wet grass between her cottage and the Wells’ house and rapped on the front door. She was in the mood to give Susan a dressing down for her neglect of the dog and was fully prepared to tell her that she was going to report the treatment to the Wellses, even if they were in Turkey and not really able to do much about it—and she intended to carry through with the threat, if need be.

  But there was no answer to her knocking. And there was no answer either when Charlotte moved around to the back door. Being who she was—and not the least because she was tall enough to look inside them, Charlotte went around the walls of the house to look into the interior through the windows that weren’t covered with curtains—but there was no sign of Susan inside.

  She reasoned that Susan must have gotten an early start for the arts center. It was still more than an hour before they were to meet there, but Susan likely had other work to do there as well.

  Looking down at the food and water bowls at the back door, Charlotte could see that both were empty. She wondered how long it had been since Sam had eaten. She asked him that very question, but he just cocked his head and lolled his tongue out and wagged his tail at her.

  She decided not to assume he’d been taken care of this morning, so she filled his water bowl from the spigot and, while he was lapping at that, she went back into the cottage and decided to sacrifice the half of steak she’d saved from a meal two days earlier and took that out and put it in his food bowl. The way he leaped on that indicated to her that he hadn’t eaten in a while either. And he looked a fright with his muddy paws and wet fur.

  “Where have you been, boy?” She asked again. The look he gave her—the gratitude he showed for the food she’d brought him—tore at her heart. Charlotte returned to the cottage and changed into work clothes. Then she went into her basement and pulled out a large galvanized metal tub she had there and some old towels and dragged the tub out to the grass between the two houses. Unreeling the hose at the back of her house, she started filling the tub while wondering whether she had soap that would suit and trying to think of where she had put the sponge she used to wash her car. This might make her late to the meeting at the arts center, but she’d just use it as a teeing-off point for what she had to say to Susan about the care she wasn’t taking of Sam. And she certainly hoped that if Susan was inside her house, she’d come to the window and get an eye full of Charlotte doing what she should have done.

  For the next half hour, she fought with Sam in the tub—not because Sam didn’t enjoy having a bath—but because he enjoyed it too much. The process of drying him was even more of a hassle than washing him had been.

  When Charlotte was finished, she brought Sam and his bowls in on her back screened porch, deciding that one way or the other, his free-roaming days would be curtailed. Then she took her time showering and dressing for the meeting herself. She was going to be late, but that was fine with her. She wanted to get Susan’s attention. With the people Charlotte had worked with in the previous nearly forty years, Susan didn’t stand a chance against her—and Charlotte decided it was time to stop using velvet gloves in dealing with the unpleasant young woman.

  Charlotte’s ire and resolve dissolved the minute she stepped into the gallery at the arts center. Although she was a good forty-five minutes late, Susan wasn’t there yet. But Rachel and Jane were there, and both seemed just as happy as not that Susan wasn’t there.

  “The place was locked tight when we arrived nearly simultaneously,” Rachel said. “Luckily Jane has a key.” Jane and Rachel lived on either side of the building, and it had been Charlotte’s suggestion when the arts center first opened that at least one of them should have a key to the place in case of emergencies.

  “Susan wasn’t here, so we went ahead and did a preliminary scan of the paintings and have agreed between us on awards—subject, of course, to your concurrence,” Jane said, rather smugly. “Since Susan isn’t here, her votes can just not count as long as you agree with our selections.”

  Charlotte knew she should feel a bit put out that the two of them had moved ahead with the judging, but, truth be known, she had dreaded the responsibility to pick. She knew practically nothing about art.

  “Whatever you two have decided is fine with me,” Charlotte said. “As long as you have agreed. And, Jane, I’m sorry about yesterday. I know you didn’t enter your artwork in the competition purely because you had been promised that your paintings would be grouped with those on loan from the art museum. I think that Susan—”

  “Oh, I’ve taken care of Susan,” Jane said. The flash of malice in the woman’s eyes set Charlotte back on her heels a bit. This wasn’t the Jane Charlotte had come to know. But perhaps she had such a pride in her art that it brought out the assertiveness in her. Charlotte did think that Jane’s art must be very good; it sold in the Annapolis art galleries. Even to Charlotte’s untrained eye, it certainly looked a lot more professional than anything Charlotte had seen being produced in art class, with the possible exception of Todd Vale’s paintings. His were entirely different from her romanticized landscapes, though—much more brash and full of bold color. And certainty abstract to the point that Charlotte wouldn’t have know which side was up.

  Charlotte started to ask for an explanation of Jane’s comment, but Rachel cut in with a, “Well, let’s show you what we’ve decided and then, unless you don’t agree with our picks, we can all go home again before Susan arrives and spoils what’s left of our morning.”

  Charlotte had to give Jane credit for be
ing evenhanded. Despite Susan’s obvious preference of place for Todd Vale’s work, Jane and Rachel had selected two of his for awards, including for the “Best of Show” category.

  Sharing Rachel’s sentiment that they would be just as happy to avoid the arrival of Susan—and having lost steam on her determination to dress the woman down here and now about her treatment of Sam—Charlotte quickly concurred with all of Rachel and Jane’s selections and the three were on their way. Jane locked up again as they finished, and the two women were already entering Rachel’s house to share a cup of coffee that Charlotte had begged off of when Charlotte remembered that she was going to ask Jane what she meant by having taken care of Susan. If Jane had actually thought of something that would work in that department, Charlotte thought she could use some pointers on what to use on Susan herself.

  Charlotte walked back up River Street and when she got to her cottage, she squared her shoulders and walked on to the Wells’ house. Once more, though, there was no answer when she knocked on both the front and rear doors. The only greeting she got was an enthusiastic “come play with me” greeting from Sam when she walked between the two houses and he spotted her from his imprisonment on her screened porch.

  Perplexed, Charlotte walked back to the detached single-car garage at the rear of the Wells’ property almost abutting the tidal wall they’d had built at the river’s edge only to have her perplexity expanded when she saw that Susan’s compact car was in the garage. Susan was somewhere in the village, but Charlotte was certainly at a loss where that could be. Susan hadn’t exactly made friends here, it seemed, other than with the Vales. She would call them to see if Susan might be there.

  Returning to the cottage, Charlotte rang the Vales, but they didn’t pick up either. Perhaps the three of them had gone into Easton or Cambridge for the day, Charlotte thought.

  And then Charlotte decided she was tired of thinking. She went out on the porch and enjoyed the company of Sam for a few minutes—company that was mutually appreciated—and then she decided that since the meeting at the arts center hadn’t taken near the time she thought it would that the day was too beautiful to waste—she’s take the Penguin out again for a spin on the river before lunch. As she dressed for boating, she laughed at the thought of taking the Penguin for a spin. She was probably, she thought, the only one on the river who could literally spin a Penguin, however unintentionally.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte was out in the middle of the Choptank, her little Penguin revolving around and around in the river, having a mind of its own, when she struck the other boat. Right before that she had done something with the sail that righted the little sailboat and changed its course into a straight line, but she didn’t have time to do any more than trumpet a victorious “There you go” before she looked up and saw a blur of color and a startled face as she plowed into the side of a sleek Laser sailboat.

  Charlotte heard the explicative and splash as the other sailor went over the side of the Laser.

  At that moment, Charlotte changed from struggling whale in a teaspoon to first responder. Pushing her conscious thoughts aside and letting her instincts take over, she neatly turned the Penguin and hove back around to the side of the Laser and, being careful not to overdistribute her weight, first grabbed the bow rope of the Laser, which thankfully had not capsized in the collision, with one hand to keep it from drifting off and then brought it around to help the other in lifting a sputtering figure from the water and hauling the waterlogged Laser sailor into the Penguin.

  With a jolly laugh, Brenda Boynton brushed strands of wet hair from her face and sputtered out a, “Well done. And to think I was sailing over to help stop you from turning those circles.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Charlotte responded. “I’m a menace. I need to put out a flag calling off all other sailors from the Choptank when I’m riding the seas.”

  “You did that last maneuver smartly.”

  “That was lesson one at sailing school, and I hope now never to forget it again: train, train, train, and then let your instincts take over.”

  Charlotte looked at Brenda with mixed emotions of admiration and envy. Why, she’s beautiful even when half drowned, Charlotte thought.

  As if she’d read Charlotte’s thoughts, Brenda gingerly sat up in the Penguin, brushed wet strands of hair from her face, and took the rope holding her Laser back. As quick as she’d been pulled into the Penguin, she was deftly preparing to transfer into the other vessel—which she did with a grace that gave rise to Charlotte’s envy again.

  Once Brenda was back in her boat, she turned and, with one of those winning smiles that she seemed to have such a large fund of, said, “I guess it’s right back to the house for me and a shower and a shampoo.”

  “I’m so sorry for dumping you in the drink,” Charlotte said. “And I’m doubly contrite because I know you were only coming over to try to help me from my blundering efforts. I only wish there was something I could do to make it up to you.”

  “There is. Do you have luncheon plans?”

  “Not that I know of. I sort of thought it would be dark before I could get this tub pointed back at my dock.”

  “As you say, let your instincts take over. You did fine after the collision. How about giving me an hour and a half to wring myself out and counter the contamination of the river, and then you can take me to lunch in Easton—if you know of a good place to eat there. I wanted to go browsing through the antique stores there today. I didn’t bring nearly enough furniture to make the house feel livable.”

  “There’s a restaurant in the Tidewater Inn—the Hunter’s Tavern—and recently renovated. I’ve been meaning to check that out. Would that do?”

  “The Tidewater Inn’s still open?” Brenda asked. And then she laughed her tinkling laugh. “That should do fine. That would put us right in the heart of the antique market.”

  As Brenda expertly turned the laser and set its sails to take her back to the dock at her house, as imposing a view from the river from this distance as it was from the street, Charlotte couldn’t help but note that her spirits had lifted a mile following this little accident. Brenda Boynton conveyed contentment and had a pleasant effect on her that all of the art and literary activities Charlotte had engaged in since moving to Hopewell hadn’t managed.

  * * * *

  Easton, almost due north of Hopewell on the Choptank, and itself located on the Tred Avon with access to the Chesapeake Bay, was the county seat and the nearest town of any size. An eighteenth-century fishing village, it now was one of the gateways to the bayside resorts and a cultural center for the well-heeled Eastern Shore crowd. The Tidewater Inn, big and square and plopped down right in the middle of town, had been a high-pamper getaway target for travelers for nearly two hundred and fifty years.

  The cozy, warm-wood paneling and low ceiling of the inn’s Hunter’s Tavern proved a perfect spot for Charlotte and Brenda to let their hair down and become better acquainted. As they talked, they each spoke with some intimacy about their quite disparate careers and the conversation was maintained at a comfortable pace, aided by each showing more interest in the work of the other than in trumpeting their own success and importance, to the point that they were delving more deeply into their personal lives than either probably realized they were doing.

  “That’s how I often felt too,” Brenda was saying, “in the center of a scene shoot, all lights and cameras and attention on me, but feeling alone, so totally alone.”

  “Alone?” Charlotte said with a bit of shock in her voice. “Alone in a crowd of adoring fans.”

  “Yes, just like you were just saying about your own work.”

  “Was I? Did I say I was lonely even while in the center of the action? Yes, yes, I guess I did. I’m sorry, I’ve rambled so, and I’m sure I’ve bored you to death with my work stories.”

  “Oh, no. I’m finding them fascinating. As you’ve talked I’ve compared how we movie people portray people like you, and I find our at
tempts pitiful and far less exciting than reality. You should consult for the movies.” And when Charlotte chuckled at that suggestion, Brenda laid her hand on Charlotte’s forearm as it rested on the table top and, not seeing Charlotte blush at that small intimacy, reiterated. “You really should. I know of several producers who would snap your services up in an instant.”

  Charlotte was discombobulated at this suggestion, never in her wildest dreams ever considering doing such a thing, and she strove to move the spotlight back on Brenda. She felt she was getting very close to monopolizing the discussion, and, aware of the balance that had made their lunch so pleasant and the exchange so free flowing, she fought to hang onto that mood. This was the best time she’d had since moving to Hopewell.

  “Your work sounds so rewarding that I’m surprised you could pull yourself away from it. You obviously are in demand—one of the few women box office guarantees, according to the smattering of articles I’ve read on the movies—and you’ve had no trouble moving to mature roles—not that you’re old of course.”

  Brenda laughed. “Old is certainly preferable to sweet sixteen—and I’m sure you agree,” she said. Her laugh had sounded a bit hollow, though, and Charlotte looked sharply at her and was able to discern the flash of pain in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry. Did I tread too hard on your privacy?”

  “No, no, not at all.” There was a pause and then Brenda continued. “No, you haven’t. It’s good to be able to talk about these things with someone. I left because of the isolation and loneliness. I’m not sure why I thought it would be any better in Hopewell, which isn’t exactly the center of the universe. But it’s home—or was at one time. I didn’t really think. I guess I was in retreat.”

  “In retreat?” Charlotte asked.