“That’s part of its charm, Monty.  Relax,” the fourth Mrs. Tremont Bancroft said between strokes of her high intensity red lipstick.  She smacked her lips against a paper napkin left over from their hasty luncheon at Captain Something or Other’s in Thingamajig Village, or was it Whachamacallit Harbor?  She couldn’t remember.

         “Easy for you to say!”  He smashed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.  “I’ve got five million riding on this deal and it could go up in smoke because some old geezer gets his rocks off on the mating rituals of …,” he glanced at Phoebe.  “What was that bird?”

         “Piping plumber?”  Phoebe couldn’t remember exactly.  “Something like that.”

         “Piping plover!  That’s it.”  He swerved, barely missing a bicyclist hugging the sandy shoulder.  “F-ing kids.  Act like they own the road.”

         Phoebe glanced in the mirror mounted on her door.  The young woman wobbled violently, then regained her balance and pushed hard against the pedals. She’d never catch them. Phoebe wondered if she’d gotten the plate number.

         “Don’t worry, I didn’t hit her.  Probably should have.  One less native cluttering up the landscape.” Monty laughed and grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the dash.  He tossed them at Phoebe.  “Light me another.  That’s a good girl.”

         Phoebe did as she was told.  She handed the cigarette to Monty and waited for him to complained about the greasy red stain she’d left on his pristine white paper.  For once, he didn’t seem to notice.

         “As soon as we get there,” he directed the sedan onto a rutted dirt cartway, “you turn on the charm.”  He squeezed her left knee.  “Got it?”

         She nodded. 

         Branches and briars scraped against the sides of the silver Lexus as the cartway narrowed on its way deeper into a scraggly woods of scrub pine, locust and oak.  Phoebe dreaded the scene at the airport rental return if the scratches on the car’s finish were as deep as they sounded.  If this deal doesn’t go through, she thought, that’ll be one more excuse for Monty’s bad moods. Phoebe could already feel the fifth Mrs. Bancroft breathing down her neck.

         “Remember,” Monty gave her the rictus he passed off as a smile, “I’m counting on your charm.”

         He eased the Lexus so close to a vintage Dodge pickup that Phoebe, as skinny as she was, barely wiggled out her door and had to hurry to catch up.  Monty stood on the porch of a rambling farmhouse perched atop a ridge overlooking woods and marsh and the nearby waters of Cape Cod Bay. 

         “Nice view,” Monty said to the septuagenarian who opened the door.

         “We like it.”  She stood aside to let them enter.  “Mr. Havemeyer’s been waitin’ for you.”

         Nicholas Havemeyer was everything Phoebe had expected — all gaunt arms and legs hunched in a well-worn easy chair beside a massive stone fireplace in a room that smelled of old leather bindings, pine smoke and Ben-Gay.

         “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.” Havemeyer waved them to the threadbare couch on the other side of the hearth. “Bring us some tea, won’t you please, Mrs. Tully.”

         By the time the old housekeeper returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, Monty had promised Havemeyer everything but the moon, and a little of that, too.  Phoebe just smiled and nodded in the right places.

         “So you see,” Monty said through a mouthful of cookie, “we’ll do everything to protect the wildlife.”

         “Yes, yes.”  Havemeyer leaned back in his chair and sipped the last of his tea.

         Monty gave Phoebe a wink and pulled a sheaf of papers out of his titanium briefcase.  “If I could just get your signature.” He pulled a MontBlanc fountain pen out of his Armani jacket and unscrewed the top.  “I can have your check ready in the morning.” Monty turned the gold nib toward himself and offered the pen to the old man like a ceremonial dagger.

         The frown on Mrs. Tully’s horsy face deepened to a scowl as her employer leaned forward, but he didn’t take the pen; instead, Havemeyer held his cup in the air. “A touch more, please.”

         Mrs. Tully raised the teapot lid and peered inside, then disappeared toward the kitchen.  Moments later, she returned with a familiar young woman by her side.  The young woman nodded. 

         “Are you sure?” 

         The girl nodded again.

         Monty raised his gaze from his pen and papers. His eyes grew wide.

         “Mr. Havemeyer.” Mrs. Tully sounded fit to be tied.  “My Susie says these folks nearly run her off the road.”

         Havemeyer’s bushy eyebrows arched. “Really?”  He stared at Monty.

         Monty laughed and passed off his rictus. “Don’t know what the girl is talking about.”

         “You do, too!”  Susie stalked toward Monty. 

         Monty, all bluster and bluff, turned to Havemeyer.  “Is this how you let your servants address a guest?”

         The old man’s face froze in a mask. His hands gripped the arms of his chair.  Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded until he stood tall and straight.  With a sweep of his blue veined hand, he ordered Monty out.

         Monty stuffed the deal back into his briefcase and stormed toward the door.

         “You’ll be sorry,” he shouted at Havemeyer, but Phoebe knew who’d be sorriest of all.

         “Are you coming?” Monty roared from the Lexus.

         Phoebe stood on the porch and stared out to sea, away from her future ex. 

         “You don’t havta stay with a rat like that,” Susie said behind her.

         “Where would I go?”

         “Stay here.” Mr. Havemeyer placed a warm, friendly hand on her shoulder.  “We’ve always got room for endangered species.”

         Phoebe heard the distant Lexus bottom out on the bump in the middle of the road as she watched the piping plovers prance through the oncoming tide.