The Ebbing Tide by Elisabeth Ogilvie Read Free Book Online

these days, you know it? If they don’t want their roof shingled, they want some­thin’ else—”
    Joanna laid the envelope down without opening it. “I want my dinner first. I need to be fortified.”
    â€œThe old witch,” said Owen amiably. He sat down at the table, and opened the newspaper. Joanna set the food on, put coffee and water in the percolator and put it over the flames. Her mind worked as rapidly as her hands. It was true, she didn’t trust Aunt Mary, who was not her aunt but had married her Uncle Nate. The comfortable set of buildings over against the Eastern End woods, a good part of the woods themselves, all the fields between Long Cove and Schoolhouse Cove down to the schoolhouse, and the two coves, all this belonged to Uncle Nate’s Place, and in Joanna’s childhood it had been a well­ordered and prosperous farm that supplied the rest of the Island with vegetables, eggs, and milk. Then, because of his wife’s mysteriously bad health—which was pure legend as far as the other Bennetts were concerned—Nate Bennett had left and gone to the mainland to live. His sons hadn’t cared about the farm, and for a good many years now the Place had stood empty, the golden cow on the barn as empty a symbol of the past as a forgotten flag flying over a deserted fortress.
    Uncle Nate was dead now, and Aunt Mary was blooming; and for whatever reason she had written, Joanna was suspicious. Of all her relatives by marriage, Aunt Mary had liked Joanna the least. The boys would blarney around her with their bold charm, but Joanna would never stoop to charm anyone whom she despised.
    She read Ellen’s letter while she ate, and saved Aunt Mary’s letter to go with her coffee. “Put down your paper,” she ordered Owen. “If you’re still behind it. I’m about to read out Auntie’s letter.”
    â€œIf it isn’t the roof, it’ll be a paint job. Tell her I’ve got a defense job. I’m defendin’ myself from graspin’ women—”
    â€œCan you get your mind off that one track it’s been on for thirty­seven years, and listen? ”
    He flashed her a glowing grin, white against ruddy brown. “Darlin’ mine, read on.”
    â€œâ€˜Dear Joanna,’” she began, and scanned the pages quickly. “‘I am writing in haste, but know you will forgive me . . . when you hear . . .’” Her voice trailed off unbelievingly. “‘I have been lucky enough—’” She felt a chill going through her that was quickly replaced by burning heat. “‘I have sold the place.’” She read, her voice clearedged and expressionless. She laid down the letter and looked at Owen, who was not grinning now.
    â€œ The old witch ,” he said softly, but not amiably. “Ornery old witch.” His long arm shot across the table and he picked up the letter. “Who’s she sold it to? Rich New Yorkers? They want to turn it into a summer resort?”
    He scowled at the letter, his brows drawn ferociously. “Can’t read her scratchy writin’. . . Let me see . . . Sold it to a man, she says.” He snorted. “That tells us a great lot. Hey, you didn’t read the rest of it. She wants you to feed and sleep him for a week when he comes out to look it over.”
    The impact of her outraged astonishment pulled her out of her chair. “I won’t do it,” she said softly, knowing that if she lifted her voice she would storm. “I won’t do it. I won’t even answer the letter.”
    â€œShe’ll send him anyway. You know the old buzzard.” He crumpled the letter savagely in one big brown hand.
    â€œShe can’t do it.” Joanna came to a stop by the window, and stared out past the geraniums at the tawny field fenced in by a fringe of spruces. But she saw nothing. “She can’t! I know she always hated