A Sense of Place: Dressed for the Season

Comfort and Cuisine: Making Whoopie

 

 

    Last year on a trip to Sugarloaf to ski, we visited the Touring Center to cross country ski. The skiing was fabulous, so much so that we returned home and purchased our own equipment, but a discovery at their refreshment concession will never be forgotten.

    Pumpkin Ginger Whoopie Pies.

    Don’t misunderstand – we love those rich chocolate whoopee pies as much as anyone else, but these luscious sweets were unbelievably scrumptious, leaving us lusting for another taste.

Sadly, it was the end of the skiing season, so we never got back to ask them for the recipe (and, for all we know, it may be a closely held secret). Therefore, we’ve embarked on a mission of discovery, and find that these pies, if not exact duplicates, are decidedly delectable. Furthermore, they are simple to bake, with no exotic ingredients – unless you are in the midst of putting a batch together and find you have no cinnamon in the house – and whip up quickly.

    On the first batch, my husband had eaten three before the last of the cookies were baked. Now, that’s a testimonial!

Pumpkin Ginger Whoopie Pies

    Cookies:

    2 cups flour

    1 teaspoon baking power

    1 teaspoon soda

    1 teaspoon cinnamon

    1 teaspoon ginger

    ½ teaspoon salt

    ½ cup (1 stick) butter

    1 ¼ cups sugar

    2 large eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten

    1 cup canned cooked pumpkin

    1 teaspoon vanilla

    Preheat oven to 350°F. Light grease baking sheets. Combine flour baking powder, baking soda cinnamon, ginger and salt in medium bowl. Beat butter and sugar in large mixer bowl on medium speed for 2 minutes. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Add pumpkin and vanilla extract and beat until smooth. Stir in flour mixture until combined. Drop by heaping teaspoons onto prepared baking sheets. Bake for 10 to 13 minutes or until springy to the touch. Cool on baking sheets for 5 minutes, then remove to wire rack to cool completely.

    Filling:

    4 ounces cream cheese, softened

    6 tablespoon butter, softened

    ½ teaspoon vanilla

    1 ½ cups powdered sugar

    Beat cream cheese, butter and vanilla in a small mixer bowl at medium speed until fluffy. Gradually beat in powdered sugar until mixture is light. Assemble pies when cookies are cool.

Time - Past Tense and Real: Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus ...

 

Ornaments from Moosehead Historical Society Collection

Santa Claus, the jolly old fellow who today is the signature to Christmas celebrations in America - where did he come from, anyway? Well, sources say he likely was derived from the Dutch figure of Sinterklaas, a legendary figure who is said to have brought gifts into the homes of good children during the evening and overnight hours of Decenber 24. But the Dutch are not alone, a nearly identical story is attributed by Greek and Byzantine folklore to Basil of Caesarea, with a feast day on January 1. Originally, St. Nicholas was portrayed wearing bishop’s robes, but today his attire has evolved to the red, fur trimmed suit, the image most popular in the United States and Canada.

Christmas celebrations in the early 1900s in the Moosehead region almost certainly included a Santa Claus figure, as evidenced by the collection of decorations held by the Moosehead Historical Society (see picture above). While no specific information is available about these decorations, according to society Executive Director Candy Russell, it is believed they came from the Eveleth, Crafts, Sheridan House, and, for the most part, appear handmade. In addition to a large number of Santa figures, there is also a sleigh, reindeer, and other figures appropriate to the season.

There is an old song whose lines tell a tale of “over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go” via horse drawn sleigh for Christmas. Christmas in the Moosehead region in the early 1900s may have been much more simple and surely involved family, according to a member of an old Greenville family, but there wasn’t a lot of sleigh riding to Grandma’s house, as families generally lived three and four generations deep in one house. Christmas would have been celebrated with a family gathering around good food and the simple exchange of gifts, most of them likely homemade.

Time - Past Tense and Real: Ice Travel

Notwithstanding the heavy doing (sic), lumbermen are doing a good business generally, this winter, The piles of lumber on the several landings are making a good show. Men are arriving every day, looking for work, and all seem to get a chance without waiting long.

Messrs. Morrison & Hunting run a line of stages to Lily Bay and Roach River and Messrs. Clark and Hilton have a line on the same route. Mr. Savage and Mr. Luce both run a stage from Kineo to the head of the lake, so that travelers have good accommodation to all points of the lake.

Mr. Walker’s line of stages to Kineo are having plenty to do. He runs a daily stage that has full loads each way. The road across the ice is well bushed, so that travelers have no trouble keeping to the road.

January 27, 1887.

Photo and brief courtesy of the Moosehead Historical Societt; archived brief, author unknown

Ways and Means: Take a Winter Walk

Take a Winter Walk

Snowshoes have been used for thousands of years. The current belief is that snowshoes developed in central Asia some 6,000 years ago. As people migrated from east to west, they brought their shoes with them. Along the way, changes were made for different types of snow conditions.  Originally they were instruments of practicality – a way to stay on top of the snow because the hunter/traveler peoples of long ago needed to eat during the winter, too! They relied upon their hunting skills to feed their families, skills that included the power of observation. These ancient hunters observed the feet of some animals, like snowshoe hares, were able to travel easily in the deep snow and tried to mimic them for themselves.

The first snowshoes were made of bent small branches, trimmed and lashed together and on the feet with animal rawhide and sinew. As time went by, ash became the wood of choice, though birch, willow and spruce have been used, as well. North American Indian tribes are credited with perfecting the features with four distinct styles: Alaskan, Ojibwa, Michigan and Bear Paw. There are still craftsmen that make these same meticulous style of snowshoe and now modern technology has added its own footnote – with light tubular metal framing, a special shape not much bigger than the wearer’s foot, neoprene or polyurethane decking and nylon harnesses to easily attach the foot to the snowshoe. These modern snowshoes are light, durable and easy to use. 

Snowshoes are an increasingly popular vehicle for getting out and about on the trails during the snowy winter months. Winter has its own special beauty and snowshoeing is not only a great form of exercise, but also a perfect way to explore the woods and trails that are transformed by the blanket of snow. Snowshoeing is an inexpensive sport all the family can enjoy. Take along a pair of ski poles. They are a great asset, helping with balance and making it easier to go up or down hill.

It’s important to dress right for this increasingly popular sport – you want to be comfortable with moving and you want to be warm but not overdressed. Snowshoe footwear begins with a thin synthetic sock and then a synthetic and wool blend sock. Most of the modern snowshoe harnesses can adjust easily to any winter boot that’s comfortable for you – no need for special footwear.

For most weather conditions, snowshoers will be most comfortable with fewer clothes than most observers would expect.  A layer of synthetic polypropylene or bi-polar underwear (tops & bottoms) will protect the snowshoer from evaporative heat loss, while a wind barrier layer will protect from convective heat loss (wind).  Both layers will be all that is required for most half-day (up to six hour) snowshoe outings.  An additional insulating layer such as fleece should be stored in your daypack for the stops along the trail.  Otherwise, the caloric expenditure of snowshoeing is usually more than sufficient to maintain body temperature. 

It is important to constantly be aware of the need to stay hydrated, especially during the dry winter months, so don’t forget to include water with perhaps an energy snack when your are out on the trail.  

The beauty of snowshoeing is that you do not need a trail or pay a user fee to enjoy an hour or a day.   Any area with public access that is covered with snow is a viable snowshoe adventure.  Snowshoers are able to traverse areas that would be all but impossible to traverse during other seasons, as the snow depth and frozen water provide the floatation necessary for the snowshoes. 

The development of snowshoe trails has been a recent phenomenon, as Nordic ski centers and nature centers have been taking advantage of snowshoeing’s dramatic growth while Nordic skiing has been in a steady decline over the past five years.  It is certainly easier to snowshoe on packed trails, but users should spend some time off trail to truly take advantage of the floatation and maneuverability of the snowshoes.

Stationary and moving water should be avoided until the ice depth is at least 4 inches deep.  And certainly, watch your step near streams or ponds – an unexpected immersion into ice cold water should be avoided.

             Snowshoing is also gentle on the natural world - The depth of the snow will protect the vegetation from damage and impact from the snowshoes.  If you venture above the tree-line, it is of utmost importance to stay on a designated trail, as the fragile alpine vegetation is even more vulnerable to damage caused by human impact, even though they may be snow covered.  The traction devices on the bottom of the shoes can mar exposed rock above the tree-line, in the same way as crampons.           

Interestingly, snowshoeing provides a welcome relief to non-hibernating animals, as the snowshoe trails will harden up overnight, making it easier for animals to traverse a region the following day.  The slow speed of snowshoers does not seem to startle wildlife in the same way as cross country skiing and snowmobiling.

In the Moosehead Lake area we have many special places for snowshoeing. Pat and Dave Vaughn are the owners of Moosetracks Cabins on the shores of Prong Pond, just east of Moosehead Lake; they have been thoughtfully designing and enhancing snowshoe trails on their property. You can plan a family get-away and explore miles of these nicely marked trails before returning to your cozy cabin and relaxing. Learn more by visiting them at www.moosetrackscottages.com

Some nine miles from Greenville on the road to Kokadjo are the 925 acres of Lily Bay State Park. Located on the eastern shore of Moosehead Lake, the park maintains about eight miles of trails that are ideal for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. Lily Bay State Park serves up trails that hug the lake’s meandering coastline. Trails also follow the park roads into camping areas, where skiers and snowshoers can gaze at the distant mountains while having lunch. Surface quality: Skier tracked, snowmobile packed. You can read more at Trails.com: Lily Bay State Park | Beaver Cove Maine Cross Country Ski Trails | Trails.com http://www.trails.com/tcatalog_trail.aspx?trailid=SGN018-027#ixzz16pFNK1b8

According to the Appalachian Mountain Club’s Website, “Growing interest in winter recreation led to the creation in 1886 of AMC's Snow-Shoe Section, a special division of the club focused on encouraging winter activities and developing the new winter excursions. The Snow-Shoe Section—one of three such groups to appear in the Northeast around this time—had 46 original members. Their first annual report stated that 26 of the members owned snowshoes and were "tolerably familiar with their use."

Twenty of the section's original members were women, and from the start they took part in the most serious winter summit attempts, despite the day's social norms—and the customary long skirts that could quickly collect snow and ice along their hems.” Talk about tough! These women were no sissies!

Today the Appalachian Mountain Club has a strong presence in the Moosehead area – there are three wilderness traditional sporting camps to choose from for your modern snowshoeing adventure. These camps are located in the famed 100-Mile Wilderness area surrounding the northernmost points on the Appalachian Trail. The camps feature warm private cabins and delicious home-cooked meals. They have an extensive network of trails and ponds to explore, or you can just relax and enjoy the natural beauty surrounding their remote location. Find them at www.outdoors.org/lodging/mainelodges

Character: The Lupine House

PROLOGUE

June 2005

Maggie Stanton, a disgruntled expression clouding her face, sat slumped at her desk staring into the artificially bright face of her computer screen. She had been at this for weeks, visiting online realtor after realtor, looking for that perfect place. She had browsed through every state that intrigued her. There was a strong possibility in Oregon, but no, she preferred the east coast. She had considered the South, but it came with too much heat and humidity to suit her. She had scoured the Mid-Atlantic States and ventured into New England, but without luck, so far.

Maine, Maggie thought. That’s still my first choice. She had searched already the coast, from York to Washington County. Downeast had some distinct possibilities but she had yet to see something that moved her enough to get the specifics.  She raked her hands through her thick hair and leaned back in her chair.  Perhaps a lake, she mused. I’ve always been partial to salt water, but if the lake was big enough and its shores still largely untouched … maybe it would hold some of the mystery and primitive power of the sea.

Maggie straightened and Googled Maine Lakes Region. Up popped entries for Sebago, Belgrade, Rangeley and Moosehead, all well-known tourist spots that she recognized. Farther down the list, an odd name caught her eye – Pejebscot. A click later and she was looking at a stunning blue vista cradled in the rugged arms of mountains and dotted with myriad islands. Reading on, she learned the lake was considered a rough gem, more than twenty-five miles long and ten miles across at its widest point. Its northern half was flanked by working forest, while its southern shores hosted several communities that had been carved out of the wilderness centuries before. Pejebscot, she learned, was not only the name of the lake, but the name of the county in which it was located and the name of the town at its foot – the lake’s largest and the county’s shiretown.

After rooting for more than an hour through the online realtors in Pejebscot, Maggie found herself peering at a large, rambling Victorian perched on a hillside overlooking the lake. Over 20 acres of land came with the property, proclaimed the realtor’s ad. A grainy virtual tour revealed that house had seven bedrooms and a sweeping central staircase. There were also several fireplaces and a large kitchen with a wood cookstove and a more modern range of dubious condition. Magnificent views, stated the ad. Unlimited potential. Could be a charming bed & breakfast. Needs some cosmetic touches.

The view was magnificent - with that point Maggie had to agree. She could see the graceful lines of mountains and hills behind the broad expanse of lake. It reminded her of a place she had visited as a small child – someplace in Switzerland. It was the kind of place landscape artists of old would have to paint. Perfect, she said to herself. It’s perfect. She emailed the realtor and before the end of the following day had made arrangements to see the place.

Maggie Stanton had reached a crossroads in her life, much of it having to do with what she would do with that life now that her husband was gone. James had died three years before, and the suffocating fog of Maggie’s grief threatened to consume her until, on a whim, she had signed up for a local cooking class. Her best friend Marsha had cajoled her endlessly:  Let’s do it, Maggie. It’ll be fun and who knows, you might really like it.

Maggie resisted at first, in a halfhearted way. It had been getting easier and easier to wallow in that helpless world of consuming sorrow. She rarely went out. Even dragging off to do the shopping had been painful. Life became an endless session of tears and more tears. She knew Marsha was right. No amount of mourning would bring him back. It was time to move on – not to find another life partner, certainly not – but to find something to do with her leftover life.

The cooking class turned out to be one of the best things she had ever done. For the next twelve weeks, she and her classmates chopped, sliced, sautéed and garnished their way through traditional and modern cuisine from all corners of the world. Maggie found she had an especial affinity for Mediterranean fare. She loved the combinations of fresh vegetables, fruits, meats and seafood, and of course the generous use of olive oil.  Her mother had once told her that olive oil was the secret not only to longevity, but to young skin as well. Not that I care about that any more, Maggie thought.

By the time she was on the road to Maine, Maggie had become an accomplished and confident chef. She figured that would dovetail nicely with her plans for the bed and breakfast.  As she drove over the Piscataqua Bridge separating Maine and New Hampshire, her breath caught in her throat. The expanse of the sapphire river and a glimpse of the mountains in the distance were invigorating. She felt a small thrill tickle her solar plexus – maybe starting over in Maine would break the cycle of her grief. She found herself anticipating, really looking forward to seeing Pejebscot.

Four hours later and a half an hour off the interstate, her car crested Campbell Hill, and she drew in her breath sharply at the stunning view that played out in front of her.  The Web site hadn’t lied; Pejebscot Lake stretched north in an array of such acute beauty it made her heart ache. The road dropped sharply down the backside of the hill and she could just make out a church steeple and the hint of white clapboards. There was only one road leading into the small town and the real estate office was on the outskirts. A pleasant-looking woman in jeans and a plaid shirt smiled up at Maggie as she came through the door.

“Welcome to Pejebscot,” the woman said.  She stood up extending her hand. “My name is Denise. Are you ready to see one of the nicest properties on the lake?”

“You bet,” grinned Maggie.

They piled into Denise’s Jeep and headed up the East Cove Road on the right side of the lake. Denise offered running commentary as they drove along. “You’ll love it here,” she said. “The people are so friendly… this is one of the most beautiful places in the world … oh, over there is the Pierce Hill Inn… very nice, used to belong to a governor… and that place there on the left? They call it the Gordon House… story goes the original owner was on the Titanic…” On and on she chattered as the Jeep wound up over a large hill. Maggie’s head was spinning. But, she smiled and nodded and tried to take it all in.

 On the backside of Pierce Hill, Denise turned down a dirt road on the left. There was a gate a short distance down, and she hopped out and unlocked it. “This place has been empty for some time,” she explained. They drove down the road, which wound gently downhill toward the shore. Leafy maple and birch covered the hillside. When the road curved to the left, the house came into view – it was larger than the pictures showed – and had a big attached barn. Maggie gasped thinking, yikes! This is it!

“Here we are,” Denise chirped. She and Maggie climbed out and stood in the drive. The house loomed before them. It had three stories and a slate roof. There was a charming tower on one side and a beautiful wrap-around porch overlooking a gently sloped lawn that dropped a good hundred yards down to the lake. The house’s grey clapboards were in dire need of paint and some of the porch spindles were missing, but the building appeared to be basically sound as it hunched on an old granite foundation.

Maggie and Denise walked around the house; a couple of windows on the second floor were cracked, and a number of the ground floor shutters were missing. The lawn was unkempt, but lovely. It was late June and wildflowers bloomed everywhere, the overgrown grass rippling gently in the breeze. There was a tangle of small trees growing behind the barn, and Maggie noted the remnants of an old stonewall and some rusted farm equipment. Denise appeared to read her mind. “Yup,” she said. “This was a working farm fifty years ago. They supplied produce to some of the big sporting camps that used to be here on the lake. This place was really jumping once upon a time,” she grinned.

As they walked up the steps to the porch, Maggie noticed lilies and iris struggling through the weeds. Lots of gardening to do, she thought to herself. The porch creaked under their feet, as Denise turned the key to the front door. The large heavy portal opened to reveal an ornate center staircase, dusty hardwood floors and two high-ceilinged rooms on either side. There was furniture in both rooms, covered by yellowed, dusty sheets. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in here,” Denise said apologetically. “The owners haven’t wanted anything touched until the place sold. But, I believe all the furniture is included.”

Maggie lifted the corner of one of the sheets and peered underneath. A magnificent mahogany side table glimmered at her. It had a marble top and ostentatiously carved legs. “The furniture stays?” she found herself asking.

CHAPTER 1

June, 2008

Opening the door to his dusty pick-up, Ed Keenan unwound his lanky frame from behind the steering wheel. A freelance photographer, he’d been up in the Allagash on assignment, camping and canoeing his way down from Johnson Pond to Chamberlain Lake. He liked – no, loved – his job, but he was ready for some good food, a long, hot shower, and a real bed. The Lupine House, he thought, was going to fill the ticket.

Facing west over Pejebscot Lake, the inn’s porch beckoned invitingly. Rocking chairs and occasional tables were grouped on its forest green expanse. The house itself, three stories of Victorian architecture clad in tan clapboards with more forest green accented by russet red for trim, was topped by a slate roof. Sunsets would be incredible here, he thought, especially from the top floor of the rounded tower on the right.

Ed had researched the place when he’d picked up the assignment to do a story on the fabled brook trout fishery in the protected waters of Allagash Lake. Pejebscot was an interesting little town of just over three thousand inhabitants, but its history was rich and the region was largely unspoiled. There might be a photo essay there that he could pitch to a magazine once he had put it together.

The Lupine House had its own story, he was sure. Although it had been purchased by a woman from Colorado a few years ago, the inn dated back to 1893. In fact, according to his preliminary research, it had stayed in the same family until its recent sale, which came after the passing of an aged couple, and was furnished with family antiques.

The inn certainly was vintage and the restoration, while clear, was to the period. A large barn that telescoped out to the rear was more simply painted in tan and green, and a small apple orchard preened in the sun to the back of the barn. Although classified as a bed and breakfast, dinners were also served on a reservation-only basis. Ed could cook a mean trout, but he thoroughly enjoyed what some would call “cuisine” and the Lupine House had a five-star reputation for dining.

Tucking his shirt into his jeans, he climbed the broad front steps and entered the house, coming face-to-face with an ornately graceful staircase that doubled back on itself. A reservation desk had been artfully adapted to the stairwell underneath and a voice from the nether regions called out, “I’ll be right with you.”

Less than a minute later, a woman came walking out from what appeared to be the kitchen.

“Hi! I’m Maggie Stanton. May I help you?”

As a photographer, Ed had an eye, and he quickly scanned, and appreciated, what he saw. He knew, from the background material he’d found online, that Maggie Stanton was the proprietor of Lupine House, but there had been no pictures of her in the Web ad. Ed was about six feet and he estimated she came to about his shoulder. She had wavy, shoulder-length auburn hair with chestnut highlights and green eyes flecked with amber. Dressed casually in a sleeve-less blouse and shorts, he could see the muscle definition in her arms and calves. A sprinkle of freckles under a light tan gave her a youthful aspect, but he judged her to be only a tad younger than his own forty-one years.

“Ed Keenan,” he responded, taking off a weathered “Gone Fishin’” cap to reveal a full head of sandy brown hair just beginning to frost at the temples. “I have a reservation,” he added. Suddenly conscious of a day-old stubble of beard, he scratched his chin while his sharp blue eyes surveyed the rooms on either side of him – a dining room to the left and a sitting room to the right, both of which looked like they belonged in someone’s home rather than in a commercial establishment.

“Oh, yes! I have you right here. You’ll be staying a week? Breakfast comes with the room and if you want to eat dinner here, you need to let me know in the morning,” Maggie explained.

“Let’s see. I’ve given you the Judge’s Room – that’s at the top of the stairs and to your right. The bath has both a shower and an old-fashioned soaking tub – but let the hot water run a bit before getting in – it takes a while to get upstairs,” she continued.

“The Judge’s Room?”

“Ah, yes, that would be Judge Henry. Most of our rooms are named after the Danforth family members, but the district judge was a friend who stayed with them when he had court in town.”

“I didn’t see any other vehicles in the parking lot. Am I your only guest at present?”

“Goodness, no! We’re not full – that would be all five rooms – but we do have guests in Mistress Penny’s room and Grandmother Danforth’s suite. They are out exploring the region right now, but all are expected for dinner this evening. You did say when you made your reservation that you would like to have dinner here tonight?”

“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it, right after I take a long, hot shower!” Ed replied, as he took his room key, picked up his duffle and headed up the stairs.

“Mistress Penny and Grandmother Danforth and Judge Henry … hmmm … is there some history you can share about these folks?” he asked, turning back to her.

“Oh, there are tales to tell, for sure, but you’ll have to wait until dinner. I have to get back into the kitchen right now. We serve cocktails in the sitting room beginning at 5. Perhaps some of the other guests can help fill you in. Oh, and there’s the Pejebscot Historical Society and museum, if you really want to dig. Excuse me,” Maggie said as she returned to the back of the house.

At the top of the stairs, Ed viewed an array of rooms, each of which had its own name labeled on a brass plaque. To his left was Grandmother Danforth, the suite that obviously included a tower room. And, as Maggie said, the room to his right had Judge Henry on the door.

Using the old-fashioned key, he entered a large bedroom furnished with a double-sized mahogany tester bed, with a matching dresser and wardrobe. Mahogany bed tables flanked the bed and sconces provided lighting on either side. Large windows faced west and north and the bath opened just right of the room’s door. A faded Oriental rug covered the hardwood floor. The walls picked up the pale slate blue from the Oriental pattern and the bedspread and drapes echoed the color.

The sun streamed in, warming the cool colors and pooling on the carpet. A small bookcase under the east window held a collection of artifacts and old books and the room felt like someone lived there. Ed put his duffle on a chair by the dresser and gratefully sank onto the bed. As he did, he felt a small whoosh of air brush his back. Now, where did that come from? He quickly looked at the windows but both were closed. The only things moving in the room were some dust motes in the ray of sun as it cut across to the bed.

Shaking his head, Ed decided the whisper of air must have been a release from the mattress when he sat on the bed. Letting the sun’s heat wash over his limbs, he realized how tired he was and felt a drowsy lethargy creep over him. He’d been up since dawn and it had been a long drive on bumpy, logging roads coming out from John’s Crossing on Chamberlain. Well, it’s only 3 p.m. I think I can allow myself the rare luxury of an hour’s nap, he thought, swinging his legs up on the bed and laying back onto the pillows. I wonder if Maggie has a picture of Judge Henry flickered through his mind as he nodded off.

***

Slipping her hand into a mitt, Maggie open the oven door and slid out a tray of fresh baked rolls. The stove was a stainless commercial range, one of the many improvements she had made since buying the old Danforth estate three years ago. Carefully placing the pan on a rack on the counter, she began to assemble the ingredients for a Marsala sauce for chicken. Dinner at the Lupine House was a relatively simple affair. Guests were allowed to select from a limited menu each morning and she prepared fresh meals each evening. Tonight there was a dilled salmon entrée in addition to the Chicken Marsala. Salads of fresh greens, homemade soups and breads, garden vegetables and dessert delectables rounded out her offerings.

Maggie thoroughly enjoyed cooking; she was good at it and it came to her naturally. The chopping and mixing gave her focus and, when she first opened Lupine House, helped her shape a future as she healed from the tragic death of her husband six years in the past.

She met James in 1990, when she was a junior in Golden State University. Originally from upstate New York, she had chosen to go to college in Colorado because of the skiing and because the school was a long way from home. That it also had a fine history department, her major, was a bonus.

James Stanton was a bonus as well. Two years older than her 19, he had graduated from Golden State the year before, earning a chemical engineering degree, and was taking the year off to ski-bum on the patrol at Aspen. Maggie had been skiing with friends and fallen; though not hurt badly, she had gone down the mountain in a toboggan with James holding the bars.

The chemistry was electric and deepened into a passionate love within months. James came back to Golden State to get a masters degree in his field during her senior year and the two married in 1992.

James was originally from Washington State, but neither he nor Maggie wanted to leave Colorado. James got a position with a pharmaceutical firm and Maggie worked at the Boulder Library. They lived for their time together, going skiing most weekends in the winter and hiking, biking and rafting in the summer. Though they tried to have children, Maggie never got pregnant. They bought a small house in Boulder, enjoying the work of making it their own. James was handy with tools and Maggie had an eye for decorating and landscaping. They were each other’s best friend and more in love than ever after a decade of marriage.

The explosion rocked the library building. Instantly Maggie knew; she physically felt the hole rip in her heart. The accident at the pharmaceutical firm’s factory in 2002 killed James instantly. Maggie felt like she had died herself.

Six years later, she is again a nurturing soul. However, now it is guests, people who sometimes stay a night and never return, or others who come back each year. All of them bask in the warmth of Maggie’s welcome and Maggie, in turn, genuinely cares about each of her guests, counting some as friends. She loves cooking for them and making sure they are comfortable. She also thoroughly enjoys joining them in the sitting room for coffee or an after dinner drink and lively conversation. Lupine House is her home. But it is different; she is safe from real intimacy and there have been no lovers.

Breaking off the tough ends of asparagus, cut from her own bed, Maggie noted a subtle change in the sound of the pipes. Someone is taking a shower upstairs, she thought. Not the Wainwrights as they were just driving in after being out on the lake all day with their son; they rented a boat from Lakeside Marine. This was the second year the family had come to Lupine House. Not Don and Carol, either. She could see the Hastings walking in the gardens through the kitchen window. This was their first time here, like the man who arrived this afternoon. He was an anomaly. It was unusual to have a single man as a guest. Generally it was couples or small families; rarely a single woman booked a night or two. This guy looks like he’s been in the woods, she thought. I wonder if he cleans up well.

***

He did. Maggie watched him surreptitiously from the kitchen door as he settled his angular frame into a chair by a window in the dining room.  His hair was brushed back; he had on a soft worn flannel shirt, clean and serviceable still. His jeans looked new; his feet were slipped into handmade moose-hide moccasins.  He had a book tucked under his arm, which he opened when he sat down – Henry Beston’s “Outermost House”.

The Wainwright family chattered happily in another corner of the dining room. Their son Harry was regaling them with a story about a turtle he had found by under a log.

“He was this big, mom!” eight-year old Harry exclaimed gesturing with his arms. “He opened his mouth and hissed at me. The inside of his mouth was all pink, it was way cool!”

Ed looked up from his book and smiled at the boy. The child caught his eye for a moment. Harry brought his hands closer together. “Well, actually, he was about this big, but he really hissed!” Ed winked at the boy and the child ducked his head with a grin.

Don and Carol Hastings strolled in, their faces glowing after a day kayaking on the lake and sat at the table for two not far from Ed, by the windows overlooking the waters of Pejebscot. He glanced up as the sun tucked behind a small cloud, sending rays dappling along the mountains to the west. Like a Winslow Homer painting, he thought.

“What a great day,” Carol beamed at her husband. “I couldn’t believe seeing that moose and calf when we went down Pejebscot Stream.”

“I think we were as surprised as they were!” chuckled Don. “And I’ve got the photo to prove it.” He patted the small camera encased in nylon attached to his belt. He turned as Maggie came through the door.

“Welcome everyone,” she smiled, handing out menus. She had created them on heavy illustration paper and threaded narrow grosgrain ribbon through the top. The effect was simple yet tasteful. “Tonight we’re featuring two entrees – Grilled Wild salmon with Dill and Chicken Marsala.” Harry wrinkled his nose but Maggie grinned at him reassuringly. “I made some special chicken fingers for you,” she said. Harry rewarded her with a broad smile. “I think that would be awesome,” he replied.

The serving of the meal went seamlessly. Maggie had the ever-efficient Tina Cartwright helping. Tina began working for Maggie last summer and in no time made became absolutely irreplaceable; the two women had their kitchen routines down, working in concert without effort. Tina glided into the dining room with drinks - wine for the Hastings and the Wainwrights, root beer for Harry and a frosty mug of Long Trail for Ed. Then she brought them small plates with a fresh scallop, artfully decorated by a sprig of rosemary from the garden and lightly seared in a zesty ginger sauce. Harry was presented with a piece of foolscap and a box of crayons. “Why don’t you draw me a picture of that turtle while you wait for your chicken fingers?” Tina asked. Harry was delighted.

Amy Wainwright smiled gratefully at Tina. “Now, how did you know he likes to draw?” she asked.

“I can just tell,” Tina nudged Harry playfully. “Am I right?”

“Yup,” he said and bent his head over the paper, a brown crayon clutched purposefully in his hand.

By the time the chicken fingers arrived, he had drawn a pretty good turtle, maw wide and clawed feet brandished. He handed it to Maggie with a flourish before she set his plate before him. “Wow! That’s one scary turtle!” Maggie exclaimed appreciatively. 

“Thanks, Miss Maggie,” Harry grinned. “I drew it for you. You can keep it if you like.”

Ed watched Maggie take the picture into the hall and pin in onto the bulletin board. He noted that Harry watched her as he chomped his chicken fingers. Harry’s parents on the other hand, were oblivious, talking quietly to each other. George Wainwright’s brow was furrowed with concern, Ed thought, and Amy fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. She caught Ed looking in their direction and straightened suddenly.  George cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. “Great job with that turtle Harry,” he said, patting his son’s shoulder.

The rest of the dinner passed congenially, Maggie’s culinary skills praised, and after a dessert of fresh raspberry pie, Ed wandered out to the verandah to watch the sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. The Wainwrights and the Hastings joined him. Maggie brought out a packet of sparklers for Harry who ran around on the grass like a small comet, a trail of sparkles dancing behind him.

“Thanks so much,” Carol said to Maggie. “That was a perfect dinner. And this sunset is breathtaking, to say the least. I declare this is my favorite place in the world to be in the summer.”

“I have to agree with my wife,” Don grinned. “But aren’t the winters a little tough to take? Do you shut down or just weather it out?”

“I do shut off part of the upstairs,” Maggie said. “But we have a lots of folks who come to snowmobile or ski cross country – the trails here are some of the best in the east - so I always have a couple of rooms available. It’s just a matter of scaling back a bit – and having wood stoves helps with the cost of heating. Plus, the downtime gives me a chance to catch up on inside projects – there’s always something that needs fixing in an old place like this.” She felt Ed’s gaze; it was a little unsettling, and she wasn’t sure that the frisson she felt was excitement or trepidation.  Is he actually considering staying here this winter?

Maggie looked out at the darkening water. The sun had slipped behind the mountain and Harry’s sparklers were being answered by fireflies winking in and out like magic fairy lanterns.  Don and Carol turned to go back in. “You’ll have to excuse us,” Carol explained. “We’re pooped from all that paddling. See you in the morning,” she called over her shoulder as her husband shepherded her through the door.

“I think it’s time we turned in too,” said Amy. “Come on Harry, time for bed.” Harry’s last sparkler was just fizzling out as he ran up to the steps, his face still flushed with excitement.

“This was the best time ever!” he exclaimed to Maggie. “Thanks!” He gave her a clumsy hug and sprinted in the door and up the stairs to his room. Amy and George followed. Amy touched Maggie’s arm appreciatively. “We’re so glad to be back,” she smiled.

Maggie headed inside and helped Tina finish with the cleanup. “Nice to see the Wainwrights again and the Hastings seem to be falling in love with the area – bet they’ll be coming back next year,” Tina said. “What do you think of the new guy?”

“He seems nice enough,” Maggie offered. “I notice he’s reading one of my favorite books, but he hasn’t had much to say.”

“Strong silent type, eh?” Tina joked. “Just what you need Maggie!”

“Yeah, right,” Maggie retorted. “Just what I DON’T need! The last thing I want is a man in my life.”

“Uh huh,” Tina teased. “We’ll see…. I’ll check with you about this again in a few months.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Maggie said tartly. Then she laughed. “You know I haven’t got any time for that kind of thing.”

Tina grabbed her car keys and moved towards the back door. “Well, I’m going home, but I still think Mr. Mystery is kinda cute. He might be just what you need to shake things up a little, Maggie Stanton!”

Maggie rolled her eyes as she folded napkins for the morning. She got the coffee pot set up as well and swept through the dining room for a last minute check. She could see Ed still on the verandah staring thoughtfully out at the mountains, his frame a dark silhouette sitting on the rail.

Don’t hold your breath Tina, she repeated to herself. Aloud she said, “Goodnight, Ed. Hope you sleep well.” She turned and headed off to her quarters before he had a chance to reply.

After a long shower, Maggie crawled between crisp sheets that smelled of the fresh summer breeze that had dried them. She was looking forward to reading the latest novel by a Maine author – regional literature was one of her penchants. This was one of her favorite times of the day. The old house made comfortable creaking sounds as the wind blew gently through her softly curtained windows. She sighed contentedly as she turned a page.

Suddenly a loud thump followed by a terrifying scream sent her rocketing out of bed and into the hall. The sounds had come from the Danforth suite. She heard more yelling from within and without even thinking to knock, burst into the room. She recoiled in horror as she saw Harry, wrapped in his bed sheet, which was covered in blood. His mother, her face ghostly pale, was holding a towel to his head and gesturing frantically to her husband as he dialed the local hospital.

“Oh my God!” Maggie exclaimed. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” Amy quavered. “I think he fell and hit his head. He’s going to need stitches, I’m afraid.” Harry slumped in his mother’s arms as she held the towel to his forehead.

Ed appeared at the door. “My truck’s all ready to go,” he offered. “It’s running as we speak.”

George glanced at him gratefully as he spoke into the phone. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll be right there. No, we don’t need an ambulance.” He picked up his son and carried him carefully down the stairs, Ed leading the way. Don and Carol had been awakened by the commotion and hovered anxiously nearby. “Is there anything we can do?” Carol asked.

“No, Thank you anyway,” said Amy as she hurried after her husband and son. “This isn’t the first time Harry has fallen. He has a problem with sleepwalking. But he’s never hurt himself before.”

Maggie followed them. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do,” she said solicitously as she helped George buckled Harry into the front seat before scrambling into the back of Ed’s four-door truck cab with his wife.

“Sorry about the sheets,” Amy said despairingly. “I’m afraid we ruined them.”

“Don’t give it a thought,” Maggie replied. “Just get Harry safely to the hospital.”

Harry looked up at her from his bloody swaddling. ‘” Uh… Miss Maggie, she was trying to tell me something,” he said whispered hoarsely.

“Who was that?” Maggie asked gently.

“Some old lady, she said her name was uh, Grandmother something or other,” Harry continued in his whisper. “She was trying to warn me I think. I don’t know…” he trailed off and slumped back against the seat.

Maggie stood dumbfounded as Ed pulled away. She said a silent prayer that Harry would be just fine. She knew facial cuts could bleed a lot. But Grandmother Danforth… that elderly lady had been a problem before.