Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  They went inside and Bing, true to his word, brewed both of them tea. He helped himself to what was left of Mrs. Adamont's cake. "I ran into Lucy and Hank McKenzie in town," he said, obviously trying to distract Jane. "They're the ones who used to own my place." He added, "Don't expect to see them around here, though."

  Jane remembered the name. "Mac mentioned an Aunt Lucille. He told me she saw a witch under every toadstool," she said, wrapping the string around her tea bag, squeezing out the last of the liquid. "He didn't sound like he liked her very much."

  "No; why should he? A few years ago Hank McKenzie got into a blood feud with his brother — Mac's father — and after Mac's father died, he continued to take it out on Mac. It's a pretty vindictive thing to sell your house to a perfect stranger — me — and leave your own nephew landlocked. As far as I can tell, Mac was an innocent caught in the crossfire."

  "I still don't understand how he can be landlocked if the family's been driving back and forth over your property forever. Isn't there some law — adverse possession, something like that — that gives him an automatic right by now to come and go?"

  "Not if the owners of my property gave the owners of his property permission in writing over the years, which they did. Historically, Nantucket land deals have a reputation for legal correctness."

  "What was the feud about?"

  Bing shrugged. "Who knows? A lamp, a snow shovel, someone's recipe for shepherd's pie. By the time the dust settles, most people don't even remember."

  "How did the house fall into your hands? You'd think Mac would have moved heaven and earth to buy your place. He could've made a blind offer or something; his uncle didn't have to know he was the buyer."

  "He didn't have the money, for one thing. He'd just bought out his brother's and sister's shares of the tree farm — the mortgage for it has got to be crippling. I'm also willing to bet that that's what precipitated Mac's divorce.

  "As for how I ended up with the place — that was pure serendipity. I was driving around one weekend, totally infatuated with the island and looking for a place to rent year-round. Hank McKenzie was out in front fixing his mailbox. I stopped, we chatted, and the next thing I knew I was in his kitchen, making an offer.

  "I wasn't really planning to buy," Bing explained, "and he wasn't really planning to sell. I don't know who was the most surprised: Hank, me, Mac — or Phillip Harrow," he added. "Phillip told me later that he'd always had an eye on the place. He also told me I paid half again what it was worth. Which is why Phillip's in real estate and I'm not," Bing said with a rueful laugh.

  "I get the impression Phillip would rather not be in real estate anymore," Jane said thoughtfully. "He sounded pretty disillusioned the last time I spoke with him."

  "Maybe you're right," Bing admitted. "In any case, I'm not backing off the serendipity part, especially considering who it is who's inherited the cottage next door." His voice dropped into the seductively charming tone she was learning to know so well. "Today, I figure my house would be cheap at twice the price."

  They were sitting on either side of the corner of her little oak table, close enough to one another that she could see the light reflecting off his blond eyelashes. His eyes were so incredibly blue, his voice so incredibly soothing and kind and reassuring. She had wanted to tell him about the laundry episode, but this was not the time.

  When he leaned over to kiss her, gently, tentatively, she did not resist. Sometime, after he left, she would try to sort out the flattery, if that's all it was, from the sincerity. But not yet. Not now.

  The kiss was interrupted by the sharp rap of the front door knocker. Only one person on Nantucket knocked that way — as though he'd already been kept waiting too long. She jumped, remembering poor Jerry — and feeling a rush of guilt that she'd been able to forget — and said, "That's Mac, with my car keys."

  "So what? He's delivering your car keys, not a subpoena," Bing said with a chuckle, pulling her close to him for one more kiss.

  Jane broke away with a dizzy smile and went to answer the door. It was Mac, all right. The color had returned to his face and his eyes, under the shaggy brown hair, still burned bright with emotion. He handed over the keys.

  "Thanks for the car. I'm afraid we got a little blood on the front upholstery. I got it out, but your seat will smell like ammonia for the next few hours."

  "Don't worry about that," Jane said. "How's Jerry?"

  "Not too bad. They think he may have a mild concussion. He's supposed to stay quiet for a while. Look, you won't mind if —"

  Jane smiled reassuringly. "The holly's been there all your life, as I recall," she said, anticipating him. "It can stay there awhile longer. And the tractor too."

  Bing ambled out behind Jane and leaned his forearm against the doorway. "Hey, Mac," he said in a friendly way. "How is he?"

  Mac, who'd stiffened when Bing appeared, answered tersely, even for him. "Mild concussion, four stitches."

  "Four! How'd he do?"

  "About like you'd expect."

  "Yeah."

  Jane listened to their exchange feeling completely left out. They were talking man to man about a boy; no girls allowed. But there seemed to be more going on than that. Bing was especially relaxed, and Mac, more ill at ease than ever. She had the sense that one man was asserting power while the other was questioning it — some strangely male dynamic that she didn't understand at all.

  "That's a nice car you have," McKenzie said to Jane, suddenly inclined to chat. "What kind of mileage does a Volvo get, anyway?"

  Since Nantucket didn't have any highways, Jane couldn't imagine why he cared; but she answered his question anyway.

  Mac nodded thoughtfully. Somehow that put the ball back in Jane's court. She felt obliged to return it. "I've decided to sell the car," she surprised herself by saying. "So if you know anyone, please keep it in mind." Up until that moment, she hadn't yet made that decision. But she was running out of money fast, and something had to go.

  "Is that so?" Mac answered genially. His hands were in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on the soles of his feet. He looked exactly like a car dealer. "I'll mention it around. What're you going to get instead?"

  "I was thinking a pickup is a handy thing," she admitted, although her mother might not agree. "I could use it to haul stuff back and forth."

  "Is that so?" Mac said again. He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully as he stared at his shoes, considering. When he looked up again, the look in his hazel eyes was offhand, shrewd, and pure Yankee. "I know of a pickup that might suit you. It belongs to my uncle. He's getting on, and his driving years are probably behind him. The truck's old but sturdy enough. It might suit."

  "I'd like to see it," Jane said with far more enthusiasm than she could afford, since she hadn't exactly sold the Volvo yet.

  "All right. This week sometime. Count on it," he said, and then he turned to Bing. "I expect you're off for New York, then?" he asked blandly.

  Bing, who'd been set carefully to one side during their conversation, glanced at his watch. "Hell. I guess I am."

  Mac smiled lazily. "Have a good trip."

  Chapter 11

  Without Bing to distract her, Jane fell to brooding about her part in Jerry's accident. If I hadn't got him thinking about a Snickers bar ... if I hadn't waited for him to get the money ... if I hadn't stood where I did .

  Jane was taking far too much credit for determining Jerry's fate; she knew that. But she wanted to make amends anyway, so she whipped up a batch of her famous Cheater's Spaghetti Sauce and poured it into a Tupperware vat, then put the vat into a shopping bag with a box of spaghetti and half a loaf of Italian bread. It would be more than enough for their dinner.

  She changed turtlenecks, tied her hair into a ponytail, and headed for Mac's house. It was six o'clock and still light out when she knocked on the door to his kitchen. No one answered at first and Jane considered leaving her care package on the doorstep; but eventually the door opened. It was Jerry, dre
ssed in Nike sweats and with a dramatic bandage covering his left cheek. He didn't seem to know whether to blush or swagger.

  "Hi, Jer," Jane said, holding up her Ann Taylor bag by its string handles. "I don't know if your dad's had time to make dinner yet, but here's some spaghetti fixings just in case."

  "Dad's gone off to get me my Snickers bar," Jerry said with his father's ironic smile. "He says stitches are like having my tonsils out, so I get to have a treat .... Did you want to come in?" he suddenly offered, his voice reverting to a little boy's.

  Jane thought he might be bothered by being alone, so she smiled and said, "Just for a minute."

  She hung her jacket on a peg and they went into the keeping room adjoining the kitchen. It was a captivating room, with heavy-beamed ceilings and a massive hearth, and nice old furnishings which, though not valuable antiques, were in keeping with the spirit of the place. Mac had set the boy up on the sofa with two pillows, a down comforter, and a pine worktable that held prescription bottles, a half-empty glass of milk, a few comics, a book or two, and the remote control to the television.

  Jerry settled under the comforter and politely zapped the television into silence. Jane took a seat in a slip-covered wing chair and, after a few discreet questions about Jerry's hospital adventure, wondered where to move the talk next.

  He's more civil than his father, she thought, but he doesn't trust me either. I suppose it's because I'm stupid enough not to know or care what my hollies are worth. The funny thing was — just as with his father — she really did want the boy to approve of her. She looked around the keeping room, as beautifully restored as the kitchen, and said, "That's a wonderful fireplace. Do — did — you have fires in it very often?"

  "Not very much," Jerry said, pulling his knees up to his chin and gathering the comforter around them. "It was the last thing to be fixed up. We moved right after. But our townhouse in Boston has three fireplaces and we use them a lot," he volunteered, trying to be helpful.

  Jane wondered what paid for all of it — the Boston townhouse, the pre-prep boarding school, the planes back and forth to the island. Some trust fund? Celéste's job? Or was the money coming from the guy who couldn't afford to buy a permanent right of way across any of his neighbors' properties?

  Jerry was watching her with a certain calm and appraising glance that seemed to run in the family. When he finishes growing up, this kid's gonna be one heck of a poker player, Jane decided. Pity the poor girl who sets her sights on him and has to figure him out. She smiled and asked Jerry how he liked school, and what he was planning to be when he got older. She thought he'd say, "Oh, most likely an astronaut," but his answer showed surprising depth.

  He said, "I want to have my own business, I'm sure of that, but I don't want to be a lawyer. And I don't want to be a doctor, even though they get to have their own office. Something like a doctor, maybe, because they do good things for the world. But I don't like hospitals, I really don't," he said, shuddering. "I'd rather be outside where the air smells better."

  "Maybe a tree surgeon," Jane suggested, amused by his earnestness. He seemed both older and younger than ten.

  Jerry stared at her in amazement. "Are you kidding? Mom would never let me do that," he said.

  They heard a truck door slam, which saved Jane the awkwardness of a response. And then they heard another door slam. And voices — loud, angry. First Mac's, abrupt; then a woman's.

  "Twenty-four hours! I can't believe it! You have my son for twenty-four hours and he lands in a hospital! I told you to watch him. I warned you he was at that awkward age —"

  "That's my mom," Jerry whispered, his face paling under the bandage. "She's not supposed to be here ..."

  "Will you lower your voice, Celeste?" It was Mac, obviously trying his best to lower his own.

  "Who's going to hear me, the cab driver? For God's sake, Mac," his wife said contemptuously.

  Jane sat wide-eyed and frozen in her chair. Should she flee, signaling that she'd heard them, or should she stay and pretend she hadn't? When the kitchen door slammed, she bolted up from her chair. Flee, something said. But she didn't — couldn't — move.

  "If you think Jeremy's ever coming back to this island, think again! Last summer it was a broken toe, the summer before that, a sprained ankle! He'd be safer in — in Central Park at midnight than he is with you! Damn you, Mac!"

  "Jesus, will you calm down? He's in the other room —"

  "Jeremy!" Jane heard his mother cry.

  She watched unobserved as the short-haired, chic brunette rushed into the room and threw her arms around her son. "Darling ... oh ... you poor sweetheart ... oh, dear God ... what have they done to your face ...."

  She swept his hair away from his cheek with manicured fingers, then cradled his chin in both her hands while she moved his face up and down, back and forth, staring at the bandage as if she had X-ray vision. Jerry submitted to her twists and tweaks with a woeful expression on his face. He didn't have a clue what to do about Jane, that was obvious.

  Who do I introduce first? seemed to be the question. The ranting mother or the lurking stranger?

  He said nothing but continued to stare over his mother's shoulder at Jane, who stared back. Suddenly Celeste McKenzie turned sharply and saw Jane behind the wing chair at about the same time that Mac himself realized she was standing there.

  Poor Jerry found his voice at last. "Mom, this is Jane."

  "Jane." It was the first time Mac had ever used her name — that, she remembered afterward. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "S-spaghetti," she stammered. "I brought some."

  Celeste gave Jane a look of pure, cold contempt and flipped the comforter off her son. "Let's go, Jeremy. The cab is waiting."

  "Celeste! Are you crazy? He's supposed to take it easy."

  "Fine. He can do it at home. Get your things, Jeremy."

  "Mom," the boy said in an agony of feeling. "Do I have to?"

  "At least stay the night, Celeste. You can fly out tomorrow. I'll make up a room —"

  "Never!" Celeste said, turning on him with irrational rage. "I will never, ever spend a night on Nantucket again!" Her face, so beautifully made up, was hard with fury.

  As for Jane, she was edging toward the door when Mac caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. "What the hell are you doing? Stay right there, goddammit!"

  Like a deer panicked by the headlights of a car, Jane became deathly still. Mac spun around to his ex-wife, all patience gone, his anger erupting with snow-white heat.

  "Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here and snatching our son! He's our son — yours and mine! If he got hurt on your watch, do you think I'd rip into you that way? Do you think I'd do anything except grieve for his pain — and yours? What's the matter with you, Celeste? You're getting worse, more possessive — more paranoid — about every one of his visits!"

  "That's right, that's exactly what I'm getting," Celeste said, throwing her ex-husband's fury back in his face. "Every time he comes back, I have to work to undo all the damage this place does. Obviously I blame you — you and your attitude! He won't study, he wants to run wild all day — after last summer he demanded his own horse, for God's sake. He mopes in class for weeks and his grades suffer. And each time it gets worse."

  She whirled around to her son, who was standing in front of the sofa, clutching the comforter against himself like a bulletproof vest. "Jeremy! Did you tell your father your grades in math and language after your Christmas vacation here?" She swung back around on Mac with a look almost of triumph. "C's! He got C's in both! How will he ever amount to anything if he won't apply himself? How will he ever —"

  She stopped herself mid-tirade. "Oh, God," she said wearily. "We've been all through this. Come on, Jeremy." Her voice became as gentle as a ripple on a beach. "It really is time to go home. I'll wait in the cab."

  She walked past Mac without looking at him. Then, at the door, she turned and gave her ex-husband a look so sorrow
ful, so poignant, that Jane caught her breath: When she was not raging, Celeste McKenzie was an extremely beautiful woman.

  Mac turned away with a kind of smothered groan and said, "I'll help you pack, Jer."

  Celeste walked out. Jane murmured, "I have to go now." But Mac wouldn't let her. He put his hand on her forearm, encircling it. "No. Not yet."

  Now that he mentioned it, Jane had no great desire to walk past Celeste as she sat brooding in the cab. So she nodded silently and went back to her seat in the wing chair while Mac collected Jerry's medicine and followed him up the stairs to retrieve his things.

  Jane sat in a state bordering on shock, staring at the restored brick fireplace. Her own parents had pretty much agreed on how to raise their two daughters; if they'd ever argued over Lisa and her, they must have done it in the privacy of their bedroom. Jane couldn't remember anything between her parents resembling the hostility she'd just witnessed. And they'd never battled like that in front of strangers, of that she was certain.

  Still, it wasn't the first time that a mother and father had fought over a child — certainly not in this house. Two hundred years' worth of parents had come and gone through it, had courted and wed and given birth to children they later agonized over in one way or another. Jane stared at the cold and unused hearth, with its crumbling, powdery bricks and centuries of soot stains. If only it could talk; surely it would have an answer to the McKenzies' impasse.

  Jane heard a heavy tread and a light one on the creaking wood steps but did not turn to watch Mac and Jerry pass through. It was only after she heard a faint and demoralized, "Bye, Jane," that she peeked out from behind one of the wings of the chair and said, "Bye, Jerry."

  But by then the boy was out of sight.

  Jane stayed where she was and prayed that Mac wouldn't get into another shouting match; she'd done enough eavesdropping and overhearing for a lifetime. But she heard nothing, only a low exchange of voices, then the slam of car doors. The cab drove off, and she got up to leave. She met Mac just inside his kitchen door.