1

July 7, 1905

Dear Mama and Papa,

You will be very surprised to hear that I am in Maine! I am staying with Mrs. Cooper, who is a very respectable widow…

The problem, Frances reflected as she chewed on her pen, was to let her parents know what she had done without frightening them. She’d taken the train from Boston to Maine all by herself (a woman traveling alone!) to ask a collector (an unmarried man!) whether she could look at some of his books (in a stranger’s house!). And she had no reason to think Mr. Hathaway, the collector, would want to talk to her.

Only that morning she had been sitting with her friends, Charlie and Ian, in the Winthrop University History Department library. Charlie had been eating a paper sack of lemon drops. Charlie rustled the sack, smacked his lips, two crunches, a pause, and then another rustle. Against the library’s high glass windows, a bee had buzzed, trying to get outside.

Frances sighed and closed her book. “There’s nothing in the Library Company’s catalog, either. Tell me, why did I decide to write my dissertation on merfolk?”

Charlie froze, lemon drop poised between bag and mouth. “It’s a fine topic, Frances. Very original.” He put the candy in his mouth. Crunch, crunch. “That’s why Norbert tried to steal it.”

“But I can’t find any sources! How can I write a dissertation based on nothing?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Frances sensed that Charlie’s mind was beginning to wander. Though a kind fellow, he was incredibly absentminded. He was looking at her, but probably considering a new addition to his dissertation. It was about men who should have become president, but didn’t, and it was already fifty-three chapters long.

Ian, on the other hand, appeared to be staring at the bee, but had heard every word she said. He took a newspaper article out of a brown manila folder and put it in front of her.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Read it.”

It was headlined “COLLECTORS OF WALL STREET.” Ian had helpfully drawn a black line next to a paragraph which read:

Mr. Garrett Hathaway is well-known for his mermaid- and merman-themed book collection, which he keeps at his summer home in Ipsiquinguit, Maine. It is said to contain more than three thousand volumes.

Goodness, thought Frances.

“Ipsiquinguit?” said Charlie, from over her shoulder. “Wasn’t Norbert just there?”

“Norbert?” Frances swallowed. “He was there first?”

“There’s a train leaving for Maine in two hours,” Ian had said.

So now Frances was in Ipsiquinguit, Maine. She needed to see Mr. Hathaway’s books to finish her dissertation. Otherwise, it was back to Minnesota for her— back to help in her father’s store and wait for a nice young man to marry her. She sighed. As if that would ever happen. No, if Mr. Hathaway didn’t let her see his books, she was going to die a lonely, bitter, unfulfilled old maid.

Perhaps she’d inherited her parents’ tendency to overdramatize things.

***

It was a hot July day. Garrett Hathaway sat in a wicker chair on his porch, hoping his lemonade would cool him off. He had unbuttoned his collar, rolled up his sleeves, and removed his hat, but propriety permitted no more. Itchy rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. He was dying to strip off and dive into the ocean behind his house. He sighed. Only a few more hours until nightfall, he thought.

A dark speck grew visible in the heat haze at the end of the driveway accompanied by a repetitive metal clanking that thudded over the sounds of the waves and gulls. The speck revealed itself to be a bicycle. The rider was female—unusual, thought Garrett, thought not unheard of. She was wearing an oversized floppy straw hat, a long brown skirt, and a white shirtwaist. A basket was strapped to the back of the bicycle. The bicyclist drew up to the porch, dismounted, and set the kickstand.

The woman was stocky, and short. Though she was still young, she could not have been called pretty. Her nose was big, her eyes sat too close to it, and her eyebrows were unruly. But she was cheerful and animated, and when she smiled, her looks improved considerably. She removed her floppy straw hat, revealing a lush head of chestnut-brown hair. “Mr. Hathaway?” she asked.

“Yes, miss,” said Garrett.

He stood as the woman advanced, her right hand extended. “I’m Frances Schmidt. A doctoral student in history at Winthrop University.”

Garrett shook her hand. “That’s an unusual occupation for a woman.”

Miss Schmidt smiled. “When they admitted me, they thought I was a man who couldn’t spell his name correctly. Luckily, my advisor’s rather broad minded.”

“I assume this is about my book collection? You’re not the first person who’s asked to use it. Actually, a colleague of yours visited a few months ago.”

She crossed her arms. “It was Norbert, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t let him see it. In fact, I’ve never let anyone see it.”

“Well, Mr. Hathaway, I can offer you something Norbert couldn’t.” She raised a finger. “Wait a moment, please.” Miss Schmidt descended the steps and freed the basket from her bicycle. “Is there somewhere I can rest this?”

Garrett gestured towards the small wicker table where his lemonade rested. With an aura of pride, Miss Schmidt pulled out a plate. On it rested a stack of unassuming brown cookies. They were lumpy and misshapen, and looked a little burned.

“Try one,” said Miss Schmidt proudly, extending the plate to him.

Garrett smiled weakly, and politely bit into one. The flavor was fiery and intense. He tasted ginger, molasses, and things he could not identify. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt as though he were standing in the desert, watching a caravan go by. Heavy-laden camels streamed past his vision, bearing spice, heat, warmth, life—”Good God, these are wonderful!” he blurted.

Miss Schmidt laughed.

“Excuse my language, miss.”

“I make shortbread, too,” she said. “Sometimes I put lavender on top.”

He took the plate from her. “Why don’t you sit down, Miss Schmidt?”

She sat in the wicker chair next to his. Garrett set the plate of cookies on the wicker table, poured Frances a glass of lemonade, and took another cookie for himself. “Tell me why you need to see my collection.”

“Well, my dissertation is on the Merfolk of New England.”

“I thought you said you were a historian.” He selected another cookie. “You’re writing about a myth?”

“Don’t you think it’s interesting to learn the stories people have made up over the years to explain their world?”

“It strikes me as frivolous.”

She smiled. “John Winthrop didn’t think so. There’s a story in one of his diaries about how two friendly mermen saved a ship that was close to foundering on the rocks. It could have cost the Puritan colony most of its winter supplies. He used it as an example of how God could use the Devil’s creatures for his own purposes. Actually, there’s a rather long religious analysis, but I won’t trouble you with it.”

Garrett swallowed his cookie. “So, he thought they were demons? The mermen, I mean.”

She shrugged. “Oh, the Puritans thought just about everyone was a demon.”

Garrett relaxed and took another cookie. “Why are you studying this?”

“I suppose it comes from being a midwestern girl. The first time I saw the ocean, I thought there must be something wonderful lurking underneath. Something mysterious. And these myths show I’m not alone in thinking like that.” She looked up at him. “But what about you, Mr. Hathaway? You must not think these stories waste too much time or you wouldn’t have so many. It’s an unusual avenue for book collecting. Why mermaids?”

Garrett paused. “I suppose my answer would be much like yours.” He reached towards the plate and felt only ceramic. “Good God. I’ve eaten all your cookies. How many were there?”

“A dozen.”

Garrett shook his head. “I am a horrible glutton, Miss Schmidt. Did you manage to eat any?”

“I had plenty of the dough. Besides, they were a bribe.” She smiled eagerly.  “Did they work?”

It struck Garrett that in her own quiet way, Miss Schmidt was a very ambitious woman. Most women he met weren’t like that. It was inappropriate, they felt, to show a man what they wanted. Her directness was refreshing. Garrett stood. “Would you care to come inside, Miss Schmidt?”

***

Mr. Hathaway was nothing like Frances had expected. He was much younger, for one thing— no more than a few years older than she. “Is this your family home, Mr. Hathaway?” asked Frances.

“No.” He opened the screen door. “I bought it from the children of the builder, when they decided that their father had more money than taste. You might want to brace yourself. It’s an aesthetic shock.”

Frances followed, and gasped as she saw the entrance hall. All four walls, and the ceiling, were painted with an elaborate mural of marine life. Not the marine life of Maine; the artist had chosen a vivid Caribbean scene. Brilliant blue fish darted between the prongs of a coral reef. Dolphins sported, beaming near-human smiles. But the artist had not been satisfied with sober reality. Beautiful mermaids tossed a golden ball to each other. At the top of the stairs stood a rather large statue of Poseidon. He was younger than usually depicted, and looked powerful, manly, and vigorous from his shaggy head to the tip of his scaly tail. He held his triton as if fully prepared to use it.

“Incredible,” said Frances.

Mr. Hathaway smiled. “You really like it, don’t you? You’re not just being polite?”

“If this were my house, I would never leave this room.”

Barking from the next room heralded the arrival of a large, shaggy dog, which tore across the mosaic floor, skittering a little on the tile before heading directly for Frances. She yelped, startled.

“Stop, Bruno!” called Mr. Hathaway, and grabbed the dog by the collar. The dog stopped, mostly, but continued to sniff and lick in Frances’s direction. “He’s harmless, really. Most of the time he’s no better than a rug. He just likes visitors.”

Frances reached toward Bruno, and he slurped her hand eagerly. “Good boy,” she said, and wiped her hand on her skirt.

“Would you like a tour?”

To her surprise, Mr. Hathaway sounded more than a little pleased to have her company. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

“Oh, no. Frankly, I’m glad you’re here. Bruno’s a good dog, but he doesn’t have much to say, do you, boy?”

And here was a dilemma. Frances knew she shouldn’t stay alone in a house with a strange man. But she had developed a private theory that there were social rules and professional rules, and by professional rules, she should behave exactly as a man would in the same situation. Would Charlie or Ian have left under the same circumstances? Certainly not. Therefore, she wouldn’t either.

Besides, there was something likeable about Mr. Hathaway.

“I’d love to see your house.”

Mr. Hathaway grinned. “Oh, good. This is the dining room—” and he opened the doors to one side of the hall. Here, the mural displayed a deep, dark grotto, in which a party of mermaids and mermen were having a feast of oysters. Treasure chests nestled in the cave walls spilled gold coins and jewel-encrusted goblets. The merfolk were dressed in their best, with gold and silver armbands on the mermen, and pearls in the mermaids’ braided hair. One couple in particular caught Frances’s eye. The merman was taking an oyster from a shell, with great evident enjoyment, while a mermaid gazed at him adoringly.

The long mahogany table filling the center of the room was strewn with inlaid mother-of-pearl necklaces and shells. Mimic stalactites and stalagmites guarded the enormous fireplace. The great bronze chandeliers were mermaids bearing sea anemone lamps.

Frances felt her breathing slow under the room’s dark, soothing—what was the word? physical? no—sensual influence. To stand there was to become very aware of her own corporeal existence—the slight breeze stirring her hair, the insistent nip of her corset, the faint warmth of Mr. Hathaway’s body near hers, and unfortunately, Bruno’s powerful aroma, since he was leaning on her legs.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Frances.

“Thank you. I still can’t understand why they were so eager to sell. I suppose Maine wasn’t fashionable enough for them. There’s a beach out back.”

Following him onto the back porch, which encircled the rear of the house, she inhaled the scent of the ocean, still spicily foreign to her midwestern sensibilities. A peninsula of rock had created a small, sandy beach. Waves crashed into the jagged rocks jutting in the cove. The strong ocean breeze hissed through the pines sheltering the house.

Her shirt felt like a sail in the wind. “It’s beautiful. And so private. You must enjoy bringing guests up here.”

“Well, I haven’t invited anyone just yet. Perhaps later. I haven’t owned this house for very long.”

That was odd, thought Frances. Why would Mr. Hathaway buy a house like this and not make plans to share it? Perhaps he planned to marry?

“But you came to see the library, didn’t you?” he continued. “Let me show you.”

To Frances’s relief, the library was much brighter than the dining room. A dark-haired mermaid wearing glasses read a book over the fireplace, and a party of mermen played cards on the ceiling. The muralists’ ambitions had been restrained in this room by the oak bookshelves that lined nearly every free space. To Frances’s delight, the shelves were all filled. “Goodness,” she said.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be on the porch if you need me.”

Frances scanned the library. Mr. Hathaway apparently owned every book ever published on mermaids or mermen. There were books on the shelf that she’d never heard of, and others that she’d despaired of finding. She ran her hands over the leather bindings possessively.

Garrett Hathaway had not been what she had expected at all. He had been very friendly, not the curt, hard-driving businessman she had imagined. Perhaps he was lonely in his beautiful house. And—though it was absolutely inappropriate to think about this—he had the most perfect physique she’d ever seen. He looked like an athlete, wiry and muscular. The odd thing was that he didn’t seem to have spent much time in the sun. His dark blond hair and fair skin testified to that. His large, beaky nose—Dutch, she thought—wasn’t even freckled.

It was almost a relief, Frances thought, that she was so unattractive. Interesting men like Mr. Hathaway could be friends with women like her. Nothing could ever happen between them.

***