They rounded the corner of a dead-end street and came to the gates of the Yacht Club. The sight of it was jarring. An unexpectedly imposing structure in such a quiet neighborhood, it clearly did not belong. A formal entrance was marked with a pair of iron gates that opened to the wide circular driveway of meticulously raked white gravel. A patch of grass in the center of the courtyard was so artificially green that it looked like carpet. And if that wasn’t enough to stake their claim, the Yacht Club’s burgee stood tall, the fabric snapping smartly in the bay breeze. It didn’t seem right that a building like this could exist in Dewberry Beach. It felt pretentious and gawdy.
The attendant at the guard station waved them through and Jill glanced at Stacy, puzzled.
“I know.” Stacy rolled her eyes. “I can’t even stand to come here anymore, it’s changed so much. When locals lost control of the board, developers took over and everything went sideways.” She pointed to a structure built on pilings that jutted out over the water. “Look at that mess over there. They built a swimming pool over the water.” She scoffed. “When I was a kid and we wanted to go swimming, we ran to the end of the dock and jumped off—right into the bay. Back then, the entire building was only meant to store lifejackets, boat line, bumpers. Boat stuff. Now look at it.” She shook her head. “They even put a ballroom on the second floor.”
“So why use it for the festival?”
“Because as much as I’ve come to loathe this place, it’s the only space in town big enough to hold the auction.” She frowned. “They charge us a fortune to rent the space for our fundraiser. A school fundraiser.” She grimaced. “This club is built on town land and they were even granted a waiver to enlarge the building after the hurricane, but the new board has a short memory and no sense of obligation. And you know what’s worse?”
“What?”
“Just last summer I was one of them. I brought the kids here. To the pool deck.” Stacy opened the oversized front door. “Thankfully, I’ve changed since then.”
Jill stepped into the foyer and hesitated, a bit unnerved by the grandeur. The reception area reminded her of a wedding she and Marc had attended a few years before. They too had had an ornate flower arrangement on a marble-topped side table, a guest book and silver pen near the entrance, and a coat-check off to the side.
Jill glanced at Stacy. The setting seemed so out of place.
“I know.” Stacy rolled her eyes again. “Horrible, isn’t it? And it gets worse. C’mere, lemme show you.” She led Jill to a series of old photographs documenting the club’s history. The first showed a group of men in overalls framing a wooden shack on the edge of the bay, a pile of cast-off cedar planks nearby. “Dockworkers built this place back in 1930-something as a place to store boat equipment. A lot of them fished on the weekends. See right there?” Stacy tapped a blurry figure smiling for the camera. “That’s my great grandfather.”
“Your family’s lived here that long?”
“They have,” Stacy replied. “My great-grandfather built the house originally and my grandfather added the deck.”
The remaining photographs revealed a gradual change to the building. It grew in size—one year adding docks; in another an outdoor deck. And scattered among the building pictures were snapshots of men dressed in overalls and absolutely beaming.
“They look pleased,” Jill remarked.
“They are—and they should be,” Stacy answered. “Most of the original building was constructed by hand, using the same crew. But it was small, so they could. Still, look at how proud they are.”
What a time that must have been. As Jill glanced at the photographs, she almost wished she was there.
“What’s this?” Jill stopped at the first color photograph in the line-up. The men were gone. The boathouse was gone. Both had been replaced by heavy machinery and blueprints. “What happened here?”
“The hurricane happened.” Stacy’s frown was deep. “C’mon, we should get going.”
They climbed the sweeping staircase to the ballroom on the second floor. On the walls overhead, a patchwork quilt of regatta flags dating back to 1931 hung from the exposed beams. Ironic that they’d kept the awards but changed the personality of the club that had earned them.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Stacy turned. “The ballroom is right through those double doors. I should go see about Billy Jacob’s table, make sure he’s got everything he needs for the signing.” She gestured to an author signing table that had been set up in a bright alcove just outside the ballroom. On the floor, peeking out from under the tablecloth was a small box. Stacy bit her lip, considering. “That doesn’t look like enough books.”
“Billy? The signing is for the Billy Jacob?” Jill asked. A Winter to Remember was one of her favorite books.
“Yes.”
“Billy Jacob lives in Dewberry Beach?”
Stacy laughed. “Not exactly. He’s an interesting character. He owns a brownstone in New York—Brooklyn I think—but he comes here to write. It’s a long story, but the gist of it is that last summer he grew very fond of our little town. He was convinced the air was ‘pulsing with creative energy’ or something just as weird. He finished his latest book here and even talked about staying. Anyway, he was here when he learned that developers were interested in land on the edge of town. But he snapped it up before they had a chance to buy it.”
“I get it.” Jill nodded, a bit disappointed. Marc had built his entire business on speculation, buying land then leveling it to make room for houses. She wanted Billy to be better than that.
Stacy hesitated. “No, I’m not sure you do. Billy bought the property, an old motel, so developers couldn’t build on it. He wanted to preserve it.” She shrugged. “He has no idea what to do with it now, of course, but he saved this town from another Monstrosity and that counts for a lot.”
Jill felt a flush on her cheeks. It seemed that everyone in town hated Marc’s house.
Twenty
The Yacht Club ballroom spanned the length of the second floor and had finishes that reminded Jill of an old-world luxury liner. The walls had been paneled in dark mahogany and lined with gold-framed portraits of past commodores, regattas, and award ceremonies. Overhead was a flutter of burgees from area sail clubs, and Jill hoped they were displayed in the spirit of camaraderie and not to embarrass an opposing team who’d lost a race. But as the whole place oozed with one-upmanship, Jill was afraid the display wasn’t kindly meant.
She shook off that feeling, focusing instead on the sweeping view of Barnegat Bay from oversized windows on the far wall. Today, the scene was especially breathtaking. The late October sky had deepened into a brilliant deep blue, and the mid-morning sun sparkled against the gentle waves in the bay. On the horizon, a flotilla of daysailers tacked into the breeze. Jill slipped her camera from the case and eagerly got to work. The ballroom was a hive of comings and goings, and Jill captured as much as she could. Ryan had asked for background shots, so she made sure to include the displays and volunteers setting up, anything he might find useful for the website.
It was around lunchtime when she finished. As she packed up, her mind turned toward food and she wondered, idly, if the Dewberry Deli was open. And if Nonna had made anything new.
Just as she clipped her camera bag shut, Brenda called her over.
“I noticed when you came in, but I didn’t want to disturb you,” she said, as she brushed a strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand. “Did you get some good pictures?”
“I think so.” Honestly, this was the best job she’d ever had. Freedom to take any picture that looked interesting was exhilarating, and she’d done some of her best work since she’d arrived. She could happily make photography her life’s work.
The items Brenda was unwrapping and setting up for display was a tea set, a hand-crafted pot, and two sturdy mugs. The craftsmanship was flawless, but it was the colors that captivated her, a gradient of blues and grays blended in the glaze that made
Jill think of the sky just before a summer thunderstorm.
She wanted to run her fingertip along the glaze, just to be a part of it. She raised her gaze to Brenda. “May I?”
Brenda’s smile widened as she nodded. “Of course. Pick it up. This set is meant to be used and I hope it will be.”
The mug was heavier than it looked, and Jill traced the glaze with her fingertip, turning it over in her hands as she marveled at the swirl of color. It was when she looked closer that she noticed the delicate gold seams that threaded the piece. The effect was stunning.
“Is it Kintsugi?” Jill had heard of the technique, fusing gold to broken shards of pottery, but she’d never seen an example up close.
“It is. Do you know it?”
“Not very well unfortunately, though I’d like to.”
“The technique comes from the Japanese idea of flaws and imperfections,” Brenda explained. “The potter creates a piece of pottery, perfect and whole, then breaks it intentionally. The shards are gathered and mended with melted gold in such a way that highlight the breaks. The idea is that a Kintsugi piece is unique and more beautiful for having once been broken. I believe it speaks to resiliency. And strength.”
“It’s exquisite,” Jill decided as she placed the cup back in the display.
“I’m so glad you like it, but that’s not why I called you over,” Brenda said. “We’ve had a last-minute cancellation in our emerging artists gallery, and I think you should take the spot. For one of your photographs. The work in that gallery won’t be included in the judging, but it’s good exposure if you’re interested.”
“Are you kidding?” Jill straightened, excitement surging through her. “I’d love to. What do you need me to do?”
“Well, for starters select the image that best represents your work. We only have room for one, so whatever you choose should be the very best you’ve got. Then you need to have it printed, framed, and delivered here by Friday morning.”
Jill could feel herself deflating. She could never manage to get all that accomplished in such a short time. Getting a photograph show-ready in two days was next to impossible. Framing alone would take almost a week.
But Brenda was unfazed. She tore a corner from a slip of paper and scribbled down a phone number. “I know it seems like a lot, but I have a guy. He does gallery work for us and I’ve already talked to him about you. He said that if you can deliver to him by tomorrow morning, he’ll mat and frame it. Bring it here first thing Friday and we’ll have a space for it.”
“Are you kidding? That’s wonderful, thank you,” Jill said, taking care not to gush.
“One more thing. The guidelines say that the piece needs to be related to Dewberry Beach in some way so choose something you’ve recently done. The final choice is yours, of course, so bring him whatever speaks to you.”
The opportunity made Jill brave and she dared ask a question that she might not have otherwise.
“Do you like my work?” she asked. “The photographs in my portfolio from yesterday at Betty’s house, did you like them?”
Brenda’s gaze lingered on Jill. “The truth?”
“Yes.”
“I think you have potential, but you need to learn to trust your instincts. I liked the photographs I saw at Betty’s house, and your recent work is even better. It looks as if you’ve found your voice and that’s always important.” Brenda pursed her lips as she thought. “You know, my favorite image is still the bridal portrait. The composition is unexpected and that’s good, but the magic, for me, is the expression on the bride’s face. She’d clearly forgotten you were there and that’s when the magic happens—when your subject stops posing. Anyway, there’s something about that photograph that has stayed with me.”
Jill blushed. Someone as accomplished as Brenda had complimented her work—work that Marc had dismissed as a hobby. Surely, she’d misheard.
“Oh, the look on your face.” Brenda laughed good-naturedly as she reached for Jill’s arm. “I felt the same way when a potter I admire told me he liked my stuff.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a clatter at the entrance to the ballroom. A pair of delivery men laden with cardboard boxes entered the room and the energy changed noticeably. Volunteers gleefully abandoned their work and went to meet them.
“Oh, good! Lunch is here.” Brenda glanced toward the commotion. “And not a moment too soon—I’m starving. Let’s go see what Danny and his brothers packed up for us.”
“Danny?”
“Danny Esposito from the Dewberry Deli. That man has a heart of gold, I tell ya. He donates lunch for all the volunteers—every volunteer at every site in town—on festival set-up day. We can afford to pay but he won’t let us, insists that we think of it as his contribution. He’s a good man.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “And you should taste his Nonna’s salads. They’re amazing.”
Lunch was served on a long table in a sunny corner of the ballroom. Someone had spread a patchwork of tablecloths across the surface, adding a splay of colorful cloth napkins and bowls of deep red apples for a homey and inviting effect. They’d arranged a bounty of food in the center—platters of fat sandwiches, serving bowls of salads, and plates of vegetables. Nearby was a coffee and dessert table groaning with pastry donated by the bakery. Volunteers filled their plates and returned to the table to catch up after the morning’s activities. Jill leaned into the hum of conversation, remembering meals around Aunt Sarah’s dinner table and the chatter of cousins.
They were interrupted by a woman, harried and red-faced, bursting into the room.
“You will never guess what just happened!” She rushed to the head of the table to make her announcement. Planting her hands on her hips, she leaned forward. “They’re selling The Monstrosity.”
Conversation halted.
Finally, someone ventured, “Nancy, are you sure? How do you know?”
“There’s a For Sale sign in front—I saw it myself—and I think they’re showing it right now. A bunch of people got out of a Mercedes. I saw them on my way over here.” She clasped her hands together in a desperate plea. “Now’s our chance. We need to do something.”
“Nancy,” one woman nearby said gently, “we all hate that house as much as you do, but what do you imagine we can achieve at this point?”
“Have you forgotten what that man did? Taking advantage of Marva. Stealing her home. Have you forgotten what that man did to Pete? Destroyed his career, that’s what he did. Don’t you remember how humiliating it was for Pete to be called in front of the town council to explain what he did—after what that devil did, more like. Pete thought he was doing Dianne a favor and look what happened to him.”
“You’re right. I’m in, whatever you want to do,” a woman further down the table spoke up. “Marva was one of my best friends. I’ll never—ever—forget the lies that man spun to get her property.”
“And let’s remember what he did to the families over in Mantoloking,” Nancy pressed as her cheeks flushed. “We can get a bit of justice for them too, while we’re at it. I still have the petitions; they’re still valid. We can show him—” She drew breath and her voice broke. “We’ll show him…”
Another woman rose from her place and went to Nancy. She circled her arm around Nancy’s shoulders and led her from the table. Though Nancy no longer held everyone’s attention, her announcement had changed the energy of the room. As Jill listened to the table’s hissed conversation, she felt their outrage grow and fill the room and decided she couldn’t stay. She pushed her chair back from the table.
“I need to get going,” she lied to Brenda, then stood. “Ryan’s waiting for the gallery pictures.” Her impulse was to run from the room, but she held back because she didn’t want to attract attention. Before this moment she hadn’t understood the depth of rage this town held for Marc and what he’d done. What did Nancy mean when she said he’d stolen the land? And had he really destroyed a man’s career?
Outside, the cr
isp air touched her skin and cooled her burning face. Jill paused at the bottom of the stairs, drawing in deep breaths to steady her pounding heart. If she were completely honest—and there seemed no better time to be—she should admit, at least to herself, that Marc’s business dealings were not always above board. One time a subcontractor had come to their house, trying to collect for a job he’d finished, payment he insisted was overdue. He’d brought receipts for materials he’d bought himself and a paper to show his work had passed inspection. He’d said money was tight and that he had a family to feed, but instead of working things out, Marc had threatened to call the police and the man had left. When she questioned Marc later, he’d insisted the man had been paid but it didn’t look that way to Jill. That man had been desperate.
If Marc had treated this town the way he’d treated that subcontractor, it would explain why they loathed him so. If there was something dishonest here, Jill couldn’t be a part of it. She needed the truth and there was one person in town who would know it. One person who understood business and the ways her husband might have twisted things to his advantage.
Jill steeled herself and headed back to the Bennett house; she was going to see Chase.
Twenty-One
Jill found her way back to the Bennett house and followed the path from the sidewalk to the front door. She lifted the brass knocker and let it go, listening to the sound reverberate in the quiet street. Jill realized she was probably the last person Chase wanted to see but she had questions that only he could answer. Nervously, she flicked a bit of sand from her jeans and waited for him to answer the door. She told herself that because she’d had no part in whatever Marc did, she wasn’t culpable now, and she almost made herself believe it.
Through a side window, Jill spied Chase moving toward her, though he didn’t see her. Her heart thumped as he twisted the knob and opened the wooden door. At first his expression was benign and vaguely welcoming, as if he’d expected a neighbor dropping by, but the moment he recognized her, his expression hardened.
The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner Page 18