As he set up, he found himself looking around, choosing theme and viewpoint, arranging landscape elements. Sitting down, he gazed out at the scene through a viewing frame, squinting to better understand the distribution of color and mass. The light gray of the shell heaps in the foreground made a perfect contrast to the distant purple bulk of Mount Lovell. No need for a quick pencil sketch here; he could go straight to the watercolor.
Opening the portfolio, he carefully removed a large sheet of 240-pound, cold-pressed paper. He taped it to the easel, then ran his fingertips appreciatively over the pure linen rag. An expensive indulgence, but worth every penny: the paper had a tooth that would hold the paint and make detail work easier, even with the kind of wet-on-wet style he favored.
He unrolled the cardboard from around each of the brushes, then examined his selection: a square-end, a couple of sable rounds, a goat-hair mop, and an old quarter-inch flat for dry-brushing clouds into the background. Next, he half-filled a palette well with water. Reaching into the paintbox and removing a tube of cerulean blue, he squeezed the paint into the well and stirred, momentarily annoyed that his injured hand wasn't healing as quickly as it should. He dampened the paper with a cotton ball, then glanced out at the landscape for a long moment. Finally, fetching a deep breath, he dipped a brush in the well and laid a flat blue wash over the top two-thirds of the sheet.
As the brush ran along the paper in thick, broad strokes, Hatch felt something coiled tight within him begin to come loose. It was healing work, painting this landscape; cleansing work. And it felt right, somehow, returning to this place. In the years after Johnny's death, he'd never been able to come back to the Indian shell heaps. And yet, returning to Stormhaven a quarter century later—and especially now, after the discovery of his brother's body—Hatch sensed himself turning a corner. There was pain, but there was also an end to pain. His brother's bones had been found. Perhaps—if he could decide on a fitting memorial—they would be removed from the earth where they had lain for so long. Perhaps there would also be time to understand the fiendish mechanism that caused his death. But even that was less important now. He could close the chapter and move on.
He returned to the painting. Time to lay down a foreground. The stony pebbles of the beach were an almost perfect match for his yellow ochre. And he could mix the ochre with the tube of Payne's gray to catch the color of the shell heaps.
As he reached for another brush, he heard the sound of an inboard coming upriver. Looking up, he saw a familiar figure scanning the riverbanks, the tanned skin dark under a large-brimmed straw hat. Bonterre caught sight of him, smiled and waved, then nosed the Thalassa launch gently toward the shore and killed the motor.
"Isobel!" he said.
She anchored the boat on the beach, then came toward him, removing the hat and shaking her long hair back. "I have been spying on you from the post office. They have a nice old telescope there. I watched you take your little boat into this river, and I got curious."
So that's how she's going to play it, he thought: business as usual, no dewy-eyed empathy, no treacly references to what happened the day before. He felt vastly relieved.
She jerked her thumb downriver. "Impressive houses back there."
"A group of wealthy New York families used to come up to Black Harbor in the summertime," Hatch replied. "Built all those houses. FDR used to spend his summers at Campobello Island, ten miles north of here."
Bonterre frowned. "FDR?"
"President Roosevelt."
She nodded. "Ah. You Americans, so fond of abbreviating your leaders. JFK. LBJ." Her eyes widened. "But look at you! Painting! Monsieur le docteur, I never expected such artistic depth."
"You'd better reserve judgment until you see the finished product," he replied, dabbing in the shingle beach with short brush strokes. "I became interested in med school. Helped me relax. I found I enjoyed watercolors most. Especially for landscapes like this."
"And what a landscape!" Bonterre said, pointing at the shell heaps. "Mon dieu, they are enormous!"
"Yes. The oyster shells at the bottom supposedly date back three thousand years, and the ones at the top are early seventeenth century, when the Indians were driven out." Hatch gestured upriver. "There are several prehistoric Indian encampments along the river. And there's an interesting Micmac site on Rackitash Island."
Bonterre moved away, scrambling up the oyster-covered bank to the bottom of the nearest heap. "But why did they leave their shells in just this place?" she called back.
"Nobody knows. It must've been a lot of trouble. I remember reading that there may have been some kind of religious reasons."
Bonterre broke into laughter. "Ah. Religious reasons. That is what we archaeologists always say when we do not understand something."
Hatch chose another brush. "Tell me, Isobel," he said. "To what do I owe this visit? Surely you have better ways to spend your Sundays than following old bachelor doctors around."
Bonterre grinned mischievously. "I wanted to find out why you had not asked me for a second date."
"I figured you thought I was a weak reed. Remember what you said about us northerners having had the marrow sucked from our bones?"
"That is true enough. But I would not call you a weak reed, if I understand the term. Perhaps a kitchen match would be a better analogy, non? All you really need is the right woman to ignite you." She carelessly picked up an oyster shell and sent it spinning into the water. "The real problem will be making sure you do not flare out too quickly."
Hatch turned back to his painting. In this kind of sparring, Bonterre would always be the victor.
Bonterre approached him again. "Besides, I was afraid you were seeing that other woman."
Hatch looked up.
"Yes, what is her name: the minister's wife. Your old, old friend."
"That's all she is," Hatch said, more sharply than he intended. "A friend." Bonterre scrutinized him curiously, and he sighed. "She's made that very clear to me."
Bonterre arched her brows. "You are disappointed."
Hatch lowered his brush. "To tell you the truth, I don't know what I expected when I came home. But she's made it clear that our relationship belongs to the past, not the present. Wrote me a letter, in fact. That part hurt. But you know what? She's absolutely right."
Bonterre looked at him, a smile slowly forming.
"What are you grinning at?" Hatch said. "The doctor and his romance problems? You must have had your share of peccadilloes."
Bonterre laughed out loud, refusing to be baited. "I am grinning with relief, monsieur. But you have obviously misunderstood me all along." She slid an index finger along the back of his wrist. "I like to play the game, comprends? But only for the right man will I allow myself to be caught. My mother raised a good Catholic."
Hatch stared at her for a minute in surprise. Then he lifted the paintbrush again. "I'd have guessed you'd be closeted with Neidelman today, poring over charts and diagrams."
At this change of subject, a cloud passed over her face. "No," she said, good humor suddenly gone. "The Captain no longer has the patience for careful archaeology. He wants to rush, rush, vitement, and to hell with everything else. He is down in the Pit now, preparing to excavate the bottom of the shaft. No screening for artifacts, no stratigraphic analysis. I cannot bear it."
Hatch looked at her in surprise. "He's working today?" Working on Sunday, with the medical office unmanned, was a breach of regulations.
Bonterre nodded. "Since the discovery of the spire, he has been a man possessed. I do not think he has slept in a week, he is so busy. But do you know, despite all his eagerness, it still took him two days to ask my dear digger for help? I told him again and again that Christophe, with his knowledge of architecture, was the very man he needed to reconstruct the supports. But he did not seem to listen." She shook her head. "I never understood him. But now, I think, I understand him less."