The Body in the Basement Read Free

her life, but she didn’t like to see them at dinner. Pix donned a white wraparound skirt and, with a nod to Faith, paired it with a bold black-and-white-striped Liz Claiborne shirt. She slipped on some red espadrilles, washed her face and hands, combed her hair, and was ready. When Samantha came home, she eyed her mother approvingly. “You look nice, except you forgot your lipstick.”
    â€œNo I didn’t,” Pix replied. “I’m on vacation.”
    â€œOh, Mother.” Samantha went off to get ready, a process that took considerably longer than her mother’s titivations.
    She emerged in what Pix knew was the latest fashion, but it still looked like something she’d give to the thrift shop: a long flowered-print housedress with a crocheted vest on top. To complete the ensemble, Samantha was wearing a pair of heavy-soled black boots that managed to suggest the military and orthopedics at the same time. Sam’s hair was at that in-between stage where everyone either comments, “Are you growing your hair?” or says, “You need a haircut.” Pix chose the latter.
    â€œYour hair is so cute when it’s short, and think how easy it is for the summer.” They’d had this conversation before.
    Samantha explained patiently, “I want it to look good when I go back to school. Up here, it doesn’t matter what I look like and please, Mom, for the last time, I don’t want to look cute. That’s not the idea.”
    â€œWell, attractive, then.” Pix knew she should shut up, but old habits die hard.
    Her daughter nobly chose to ignore the remark. “Why don’t we go to Granny’s? You know how much she hates it if we’re late.”
    â€œWe’re never late!” Pix protested.
    â€œThere’s always a first time.” Samantha smiled sweetly. “Why don’t I drive?”

    Pix sat in the passenger’s side, wondering when the reins had slipped from her grip.
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    Ursula Rowe greeted her daughter and granddaughter. “Don’t you both look lovely.”
    â€œYou’re looking pretty spiffy yourself, Granny,” Samantha said as she gave her a kiss.
    Gathered in the hallway, the three generations bore a general resemblance to one another, most blurred oddly enough in Pix, not Samantha. They were all tall and had good posture. Ursula, in her ninth decade, carried herself as proudly as she had at Miss Porter’s in her second. Ursula’s high cheekbones were softened in her daughter’s face, only to emerge sharply again in Samantha’s. All three had the same thick hair. Pix and Samantha’s was the dark chestnut color that Ursula’s had been before it turned snowy white. Pix’s was cropped close to her head. Her mother’s was almost as short but curled slightly, whether by nature or art, she did not reveal. Samantha’s eyes were a deeper brown than her mother’s and grandmother’s. Her father’s genes had turned almond into chocolate.
    â€œShall we go in?” Ursula linked one arm through Samantha’s, the other through Pix’s. Pix felt a sudden rush of well-being. It was going to be a good summer. She’d tend her garden, put up a lot of preserves, spend time with her mother and her daughter, and maybe clean out the attic at The Pines, a herculean task that had been put off for twenty years of summers. And she’d make Arnie take her over to Vinalhaven.
    Over the creamed haddock Gert had left, they talked about the summer. Ursula had been on the island since Memorial Day. Unencumbered by school-age children, she spent May to October on Sanpere. Pix was dying to ask her the latest gossip, but their custom of not discussing such things in front of the children, even when said children weren’t children anymore, was too strong, so they stuck to safe topics.

    â€œWhen do you start working, Samantha? Have some more beans, Pix dear. They’re the