Last Summer at Mars Hill Read Online Free

in the kitchen of his San Francisco townhouse. It was two days after John’s funeral, and she was on her way to the airport. She knew then about the breast cancer but she hadn’t told Martin yet; didn’t want to dim any of the dark luster of his grief.
    Now it was her grief, but in a strange way she knew it was his, too. There was this awful thing that they held in common, a great unbroken chain of grief that wound from one coast to the other. She hadn’t wanted to share it with Moony, hadn’t wanted her to feel its weight and breadth. But it was too late, now. Moony knew and besides, what did it matter? She was dying, Martin was dying and there wasn’t a fucking thing anyone could do about it.
    “Hey,” he said at last. His hand stroked her mass of dark hair, got itself tangled near her shoulder, snagging one of the long silver-and-quartz-crystal earrings she had put on that morning, for luck. “Ouch.”
    Ariel snorted again, laughing in spite of, or maybe because of, it all. Martin extricated his hand, held up two fingers with a long curling strand of hair caught between them: a question mark, a wise serpent waiting to strike. She had seen him after the cremation take the lock of John’s hair that he had saved and hold it so, until suddenly it burst into flames, and then watched as the fizz of ash flared out in a dark penumbra around Martin’s fingers. No such thing happened now, no Faery Pagan pyrotechnics. She wasn’t dead yet, there was no sharp cold wind of grief to fan Martin’s peculiar gift. He let the twirl of hair fall away and looked at her and said, “You know, I talked to Adele.”
    Adele was Mrs. Grose, she of the pug dog and suspiciously advanced years. Ariel retrieved her cup and her equanimity, sipping at the nettle tea as Martin went on, “She said she thought we had a good chance. You especially. She said for you it might happen. They might come.” He finished and leaned back in his chair, spearing the last forkful of sprouts.
    Ariel said, “Oh, yes?” Hardly daring to think of it; no don’t think of it at all.
    Martin shrugged, twisted to look over his shoulder at the endless sweep of Penobscot Bay. His eyes were bright, so bright she wondered if he were fighting tears or perhaps something else, something only Martin would allow himself to feel here and now. Joy, perhaps. Hope.
    “Maybe,” he said. At his words her heart beat a little faster in her breast, buried beneath the mass that was doing its best to crowd it-out. “That’s all. Maybe. It might. Happen.”
    And his hand snaked across the table to hers and held it, clutched it like it was a link in that chain that ran between them, until her fingers went cold and numb.
    On Wednesday evenings the people at Mars Hill gave readings for the public. Tarot, palms, auras, dreams—five dollars a pop, nothing guaranteed. The chapel was cleaned, the altar swept of offerings and covered with a frayed red and-white checked table cloth from Diana’s kitchen and a few candles in empty Chianti bottles.
    “It’s not very atmospheric,” Gary Bonetti said, as someone always did. Mrs. Grose nodded from her bench and fiddled with her rosary beads.
    “Au contraire,” protested Martin. “It’s very atmospheric, if you’re in the mood for spaghetti carbonara at Luigi’s.”
    “May I recommend the primavera?” said Jason. In honor of the occasion he had put on white duck pants and white shirt and red bow tie. He waved at Moony, who stood at the door taking five dollar bills from nervous, giggly tourists and the more solemn-faced locals, who made this pilgrimage every summer. Some regulars came week after week, year after year. Sad Brenda, hoping for the Tarot card that would bring news from her drowned child. Mr. Spruce, a ruddy-faced lobsterman who always tipped Mrs. Grose ten dollars. The Hamptonites Jason had dubbed Mr. and Mrs. Pissant, who were anxious about their auras. Tonight the lobsterman was there, with an ancient woman who