Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

Shuddering, Jennie abruptly throws the covers back and swings her bare feet to the cold wooden floor. As she stands, she finds herself swaying unsteadily, almost sinking back down to the mattress.

  What’s with you? she asks herself, frowning and clinging to the headboard for support. She feels woozy and a little queasy, almost as though she’s got a hangover. But of course, that’s impossible. She only had that one glass of wine last night.

  Maybe it was the rich chocolate dessert. Jennie isn’t usually much of a sweet-eater. It’s Laura who loves stuff like that. And Keegan.

  Unbidden, an image enters her brain—Keegan sitting at the kitchen table in her apartment, eating gooey brownies she’s just taken out of the oven. She can hear his voice telling her how delicious they are, can taste the warm chocolate on his lips as he kisses her. . . .

  She cringes and shuts out the memory.

  She grabs her robe from the bedpost and wraps it around herself, then crosses on slightly wobbly legs to the window.

  Last night when she checked in, it was too dark to see the view.

  This morning, although the weather is gloomy, she can make out the sloping terrain below—the rocks and sand and long brown grass that cover the landscape, and beyond that, the sea. The water, foaming with whitecaps, is the same murky color as the sky so that there’s no distinguishing line at the horizon.

  Suddenly, Jennie longs to be down there on the narrow strip of beach, with the roar of the water and wind in her ears and cold salt air filling her lungs.

  That’s what I need. A walk by the ocean would wake me up and maybe even snap me out of this weird, paranoid mood.

  She grabs the small blue case that contains her toiletry items and walks across the room, hoping that no one is already using the shared bathroom across the hall. She flips the latch that unlocks the door, then turns the knob and pulls.

  Nothing happens.

  Overtaken by an intense, sudden stab of claustrophobia, Jennie tugs the door again. This time, it budges. Relieved she quickly steps out into the empty hallway.

  It probably just sticks in damp weather, she tells herself. That happens a lot in old houses like this.

  You really need to calm down, Jen. . . . You’re completely on edge and there’s absolutely no reason. Relax.

  A half hour later, freshly showered, her hair still damp and caught back in a black headband, Jennie is feeling much better, though not totally relaxed.

  For some reason, she can’t seem to let go of a nagging sense that something isn’t quite right.

  A walk on the beach will probably help clear her mind though.

  She pulls on her heavy down jacket as she walks down the stairs. She’s dressed for the damp, chilly New England morning: her oldest, softest, most faded jeans; rubber L.L. Bean boots; a thick navy cable knit sweater.

  “Good morning, Laura,” a voice says as she rounds the landing.

  Startled, Jennie glances down to see Jasper Hammel standing in the front hall. He’s holding a feather duster, which looks out of sync with his clothing: an expensive-looking black turtleneck and pleated dark-gray corduroy slacks.

  “Oh . . . good morning.” Jennie walks down the last few steps, fumbling with the zipper on her jacket.

  “There’s a continental breakfast set up on the sideboard in the dining room,” Jasper informs her, flicking the duster over the carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Nothing elaborate . . . just coffee and danishes. Feel free to help yourself.”

  “Um, no thank you.” Jennie hesitates. “I was just going to go for a walk on the beach.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a very nice day for that,” he says, glancing toward the window. “According to this morning’s radio forecast, there might be a storm on the way. Quite a nasty one, for that matter . . . but don’t be alarmed,” he adds quickly, catching sight of her expression. “The weather on Tide Island is always unpredictable. For all we know, the nor’easter will pass us by and blow right out to sea.”

  “I hope so,” Jennie murmurs, tugging the zipper on her jacket up to her chin.

  “Just the same, I wouldn’t advise you to wander too far, Laura. The island may seem small and easy to maneuver, but there are some remote patches, and you wouldn’t want to get lost.”

  “I won’t,” Jennie assures him, and heads for the door.

  As she steps out into the windy, rainy morning, she tries to ignore the little voice inside her head . . .

  The one that’s warning her to leave the island—before the storm rolls in and strands her here.

  Before it’s too late, the voice adds.

  And though she tries not to acknowledge it, telling herself it’s just paranoia again, Jennie can’t help wondering . . .

  Too late for what?

  “Damn, damn, damn.”

  Liza jerks the black silk stocking back down her leg and tosses it across the room, scowling.

  How can she have been careless enough to give herself a run when she only brought one pair with her?

  Just to be sure, she gets up and walks over to the bureau drawer where she put her clothes when she unpacked last night. She digs through the neatly folded stacks carelessly. Nothing but two pairs of black knee-highs and one pair of tan pantyhose.

  Now what’s she going to do?

  Feeling frazzled she stands in the middle of the room and contemplates the situation.

  It’s no wonder she ran her stocking, after the way things have been going this morning.

  She’s been feeling out of sorts ever since she forced herself to get out of bed an hour ago. Her head is pounding and she can’t seem to wake up. She got out of the shower and was drying off when she remembered that she’d forgotten to shampoo her hair, which meant she had to get back in and wait again for the ancient plumbing to groan into action. And she’d dropped her favorite compact on the floor of her room, cracking the mirror and breaking the pressed powder into crumbly chunks.

  I hope this isn’t an omen for how my meeting with D.M. Yates is going to go.

  Liza glances at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. She smooths the soft cashmere fabric of her well-cut black suit, with its three gold buttons on the jacket and the skirt that’s just long enough to be professional, but short enough to show off her long, firm legs.

  Legs that, right now, are mismatched—one clad in the un-run black stocking she’d put on first, the other bare and winter-white.

  Rolling her eyes, Liza unhooks the good stocking from the garter hooks and unrolls it, then tosses it onto the still-rumpled bed.

  She takes off her suit, careful not to muss her hair. It took her fifteen minutes longer than usual to get it into a perfect French twist at the back of her head. The first few tries, it either came out too severe or too tumble-down sexy.

  Now her hair is just right—swept back to reveal her high cheekbones and expertly made-up eyes, with a few soft tendrils escaping around her ears.

  This is the same suit and same hairstyle that she’d worn last fall when she’d met Senator Albert Norwood that first time for dinner at the Japanese restaurant in the Waldorf-Astoria. She remembers how he’d commented, over sushi, about how silky and “touchable” her hair looked and how his fat fingers had slowly climbed up her silk-covered leg beneath the table and how shocked he’d looked when he’d discovered that beneath her proper suit she was wearing a garter belt . . . and nothing else.

  She has imagined treating D.M. Yates to a similar experience, and it simply won’t work if she has to wear pantyhose.

  Sighing, Liza buttons a plain black cardigan over her champagne-colored Christian Dior lace chemise and yanks on a pair of slim-fitting black leggings. She pulls on her warmest wool socks and flat black lace-up boots that probably aren’t practical for the miserable weather outside, but who cares?

  If the fine Italian leather gets ruined, she can always have Albie buy her another pair.

  Liza grabs her down-filled Nautica ski jacket, which she hasn’t worn sin
ce her Christmas trip to Aspen, and leaves her room.

  Hopefully, D.M. Yates won’t call her until she gets back. But just in case, she’ll let that scrawny fruitcake Jasper Hammel know where she is.

  Conveniently, he’s right at the bottom of the stairs when she gets to the first floor. He looks up from watering the large parlor palm with a bright-yellow enamel watering can that looks like something out of a nursery rhyme.

  “Good morning, Liza,” he chirps.

  “Morning.” She finds herself irritated at his cheery tone and broad smile beneath that squirrely mustache of his. “If Mr. Yates calls—”

  “Mr. Yates already called you . . . bright and early.”

  She blinks. “He what?”

  “He called you, bright—”

  “Why didn’t you let me know he was on the phone?”

  “No need,” he says simply, reaching up to tip the long-necked spout into a hanging pot of ivy beside the front door.

  “What do you mean, ‘no need’?” Liza asks evenly, glaring at him.

  “He merely called to tell you that he’s been detained by unexpected business and won’t be able to meet with you until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Liza stares at Jasper Hammel in disbelief. “He’s putting me off until tomorrow . . . and you didn’t even have the decency to let me speak with the man?”

  Jasper shrugs and says, in his clipped formal manner, “I didn’t want to wake you at such an early hour after your long trip on the ferry last night. But,” he adds quickly, “apparently, I made the wrong decision. I’m sorry I didn’t alert you to the call.”

  “So am I,” Liza snaps.

  Suddenly, she longs for Manhattan, where people are sharp and mind their own business, not taking it upon themselves to make important decisions for total strangers.

  Liza strides toward the door.

  “There’s a continental breakfast set up in the dining room,” Jasper tells her, stepping out of her way and looking unruffled by the black look she sends him.

  “All I need,” she says in a clipped tone, “is directions to a store that can sell me a pair of good stockings.”

  “I’m fairly certain that Hartigan’s General Store on the boardwalk carries pantyhose.”

  “Not pantyhose. Stockings.”

  Jasper eyes her levelly. “I’m afraid you’d probably need a women’s clothing store for that. And they’re all closed offseason.”

  “It figures.”

  Liza opens the front door, steps out into the raw February morning, and lets the door bang shut behind her. Then she starts trudging down the steep driveway toward the deserted road, cursing Jasper Hammel, D.M. Yates, and this whole stupid godforsaken island.

  The first thing Sandy sees when she arrives on the first floor of the inn is Jasper Hammel. The little man is polishing a carved wooden table near the front door, a thick yellow rag in one hand and a can of Pledge in the other.

  The second thing Sandy sees is the enormous vase of red roses sitting on the front desk by the telephone she used last night.

  “Good morning, Sandy,” Jasper says with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Like a rock, actually.” She yawns. “I thought maybe the sound of the ocean would keep me awake since I’m not used to it, but I was out cold. What beautiful flowers on the desk, there.”

  “I’m glad you like them, because they’re yours.”

  Sandy gasps. “You don’t have to . . .”

  “I’m not. They were delivered here for you from the Island Breeze Florist Shop this morning.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Sandy hurries over and plucks the small rectangular card off the tall plastic fork that’s nestled among the buds. She knows, even before she opens the envelope, who sent the flowers. Sure enough . . .

  Sandra,

  I’m sorry I didn’t make it in last night. I stayed on the mainland, but will be there tonight. Dinner at eight? We’ll dine at my home. I’ll pick you up at the inn.

  Yours,

  Ethan

  She closes her eyes and leans over the vase, breathing the fresh, sweet floral scent deeply into her lungs.

  “Mmmm,” she murmurs, opening her eyes and glancing at Jasper. “I love roses.”

  “And they’re certainly appropriate—aren’t they?—for a guest at this inn . . . the Bramble Rose.”

  “You know, I hadn’t even thought of that.” Sandy does a quick count and realizes that there are two dozen buds in the vase. This must have cost Ethan Thoreau a fortune.

  But then, he’s rich. He probably sends women flowers all the time.

  Sandy has never received flowers in her life, unless you counted the corsage from her prom date, Frankie DeRusso, her senior year, and the daisies her brother Danny picked and brought her when she had her tonsils out as a kid.

  What would it be like to date—no, to marry—a man who would send roses for every occasion, and sometimes, maybe, for no occasion at all?

  Joe had never even remembered to send her a card on Valentine’s Day or her birthday, Sandy thinks wistfully. And when they got engaged, he used a ring he’d bought at a pawn shop, one that had someone else’s initials engraved in the band. “You can have that buffed off,” he’d told her.

  She’d never bothered, knowing, even as she first slipped that ring over the fourth finger of her left hand, that she wasn’t going to marry him. She’d stayed engaged to him for three months, long enough to work up her nerve to tell him that she didn’t want to get married.

  Who would have guessed that he would have reacted the way he had? Sobbing hysterically—a man, crying!—begging her not to leave him, telling her that she was the only woman he’d ever loved. He hadn’t taken no for an answer. Even now, after almost a year, he still drove by her house every now and then, and he always called Sandy when he drank, incoherently asking for another chance. . . .

  “Are you hungry?” Jasper Hammel is asking her, snapping her out of her reverie.

  “Starving . . . as usual,” she admits ruefully.

  “There’s coffee and danish in the dining room, on the sideboard. Please help yourself.”

  “Thank you.” Sandy glances toward her roses again.

  “You can leave those here until after breakfast, if you’d like,” Jasper tells her. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “Oh . . . okay. Thanks.”

  Hating to turn her back on the beautiful blooms even for a short time, Sandy heads toward the dining room.

  Then she pauses and thinks of something. “Jasper?” she asks over her shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know where Ethan Thoreau’s house is? I thought I might go for a walk, and . . . you know.” She feels her cheeks growing warm, wondering what he thinks of a woman who would pull a junior high stunt like checking out someone’s house.

  “You know, I haven’t been here on the island very long,” he tells her, not looking fazed by her question. “I don’t really know where Mr. Thoreau lives . . . somewhere on the other side of the island, I would imagine. That’s where all the wealthier people have their private homes.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Still feeling embarrassed, Sandy walks into the dining room.

  She seats herself at the long, empty table with a cup of coffee and a plate containing two cheese danishes, wondering where Laura and Liza are. Maybe one of them will want to do something this afternoon.

  On the other hand, Sandy doubts that. Liza doesn’t seem to have any intention of being friendly, which is just as well, since Sandy knows she probably has nothing in common with the woman anyway.

  And Laura, though she’s a lot nicer and warmer, seems lost in her own little world.

  Besides, neither of them is around anyway.

  It looks like Sandy’s on her own.

  As she shoves the last bite of the second danish into her mouth, she decides she might as well do some exploring since there’s really nothing else to occupy her until tonight.

  A
nd she might as well start with the other side of the island.

  Hartigan’s General Store is a two-story wooden building in the center of the boardwalk, nestled in a row of other businesses, all of them boarded up for the winter. There’s a huge orange “Open” sign hanging in the glass front door of the store.

  Jennie sees it from the beach and heads toward it, hurrying across the wet sand. Though it’s stopped raining for the moment, the icy wind is picking up again, and suddenly, she can’t stop shivering. Hopefully, the store will have hot coffee, and maybe something she can gobble down for breakfast.

  Jennie opens the door and finds herself wrestling with it as a sudden gust kicks up, struggling to keep it from blowing backward and slamming into the side of the building. Finally, she pulls it closed shutting out the roaring cold.

  “Gettin’ pretty nasty out there, isn’t it?”

  Jennie glances around and sees an elderly man standing behind a cash register to her right. He has a shock of thick white hair, a ruddy complexion, and eyes that twinkle from his handsome face.

  “It’s freezing out,” Jennie tells him, stomping her numb feet on the mat in front of the door.

  The store is surprisingly roomy, with several aisles of groceries near the back and what looks like a soda fountain and a few booths off to the side in an alcove. Jennie sees that only a handful of people are here, a few browsing for food and a few others seated in the alcove.

  “We’re in for a bad one, this time,” the man says, gesturing toward an old-fashioned radio on the shelf behind him. Jennie can faintly hear the staticky sound of big band music coming from the speaker. “Been listening all morning, and the announcer keeps saying that it’s looking like a full-blown nor’easter’s on the way. Rain, cold, high winds—supposedly worse than what hit the Cape a few years ago on Halloween. We get these storms every once in awhile,” the man tells her. “You’re not from here, are ya?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where you staying?”

  “The Bramble Rose.”

  The man nods, then asks, in a friendly but somewhat nosy way, “Where you from?”

  “I live in Boston,” Jennie says, “so I know all about nor’easters, actually.”