Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "That wasn't pretty," he said bluntly. "I'm sorry you were here to see it."

  If he was in pain, he was doing a good job of masking it. Or maybe he was just emotionally exhausted; Jane was. She smiled wanly and said, "Pretend I didn't see it."

  "How the hell can I do that? Celeste and I were going at it like a couple of stevedores, and I'm supposed to pretend you didn't see it?"

  "Okay! Pretend I did see it, and don't do it again," Jane said, more sharply than she meant to. "Anyway, it's Jerry you should be worried about, not me." She turned to go.

  "I know, I know. Do you think I don't know that? Sit down! You're always so jumpy. You drive me crazy with that nervous energy of yours. I'm making us coffee," he said in exasperation.

  She turned and snapped, "Perfect. I'm jumpy and you're irritable. Who the hell needs coffee?"

  Mac was standing at the stove indecisively, one hand still on the coffeepot, when he noticed Jane's shopping bag on the butcher block table next to it. "What's this? Oh, right: food. Fine. You can have some with me. Is it hot?"

  "I didn't make that for me," she said quickly. "I made that for you and your son."

  He took it the way he would a blow to the stomach. She watched his expression contract with pain, then heard the pain trickle out on a sigh: "Oh, Christ ... Jerry."

  "But actually, I am kind of hungry," she volunteered hastily. She could see that he was reliving the scene in his mind, that he'd be doing it again and again. "Do you want me to start water boiling for the pasta?"

  "Pasta?" he said vaguely. "Oh. The noodles. Yeah, use the pot on that shelf. Wait, you can't reach it," he said as Jane tried to snatch it by a handle. He came up behind her and reached up for it, his arm stretched alongside hers, his body looming behind hers.

  It was as if she'd backed into a furnace. Immediately she felt the heat, felt encompassed by him, by his size. She stiffened and Mac moved deliberately away before he slapped the pot on the counter for her. She didn't dare look at him, didn't dare acknowledge the mocking look in his eyes. He knew that she felt threatened by him. Knew it, and despised her for it.

  The question was, why did she always feel so threatened? She never reacted to Bing that way, and Bing was a lot more free and easy about touching — accidental or otherwise. So whose fault was it, Mac's or hers? She took the pot over to the sink to fill it, feeling as self-conscious about using his kitchen as she would about using another man's shower.

  Mac was dumping the sauce into a pan for reheating. "Celeste is doing a great job with Jerry and his education," he said without looking at her. "Just a great job — he's in a day school," Mac added, his voice low with a kind of rueful pride. "After that it'll be prep school — Exeter, or Andover."

  "Oh yes; your boy is very bright," Jane said with feeling, grateful that Mac was calming down.

  He stopped to give her an ironic look. "Naturally you would recognize academic potential." He was silent for a moment, then tried again. "Despite what Celeste says, I'm not trying to sabotage Jerry's education —"

  "Of course not, I realize that."

  "If I might just finish," he said stiffly. "I try to encourage my son, try to set myself as an example of the way not to go," he said, flushing.

  He seemed determined to make a full confession. "No one wants Jerry to get a college degree more than I do," he said. "No one knows more than I do what it means not to have one nowadays."

  "No, that's not true," she said, interrupting him. "You can do great things without one and you can be useless with one —"

  "Will you let me finish?" He gripped a slat of the ladderback chair and stared at the little cracked sugarbowl on the table, choosing his next words. "For all the value I place on a good education — and that's a great, great deal — I still think there's more to life than a hotshot job and a big salary; more to life than a mad scramble for power and control.

  "Let me put it another way," he said, struggling to make himself clear. "There's a T-shirt they sell in town — for all I know, it's sold everywhere. It says, HE WHO DIES WITH THE MOST TOYS WINS."

  He lifted his head. His hazel eyes were shining with emotion. "I don't want my son wearing that shirt or winning that contest."

  "N-no, I can see that," she said quite honestly. "But just because he graduates from college doesn't mean he'll turn into Donald Trump."

  Mac made an impatient gesture with his hand, sweeping away her objection. "It's not just the schooling, it's everything. I think Celeste just ... controls him too much. She wants to protect him from any influence that could possibly be harmful. Any influence — physical, psychological, you name it."

  Now that he had begun to confide in her, it poured out in a torrent. "I gave Jerry a small Swiss Army knife for his birthday; Celeste threw it in the trash can," he said. "Another time, some bully in school kept cornering him, so I bought him a pair of gloves and taught him how to defend himself. She made noises about child abuse. And why do you think I tried to stop you when you went on and on about the Legend of the Cursed Rose? Because if it got back to her that I was filling his head up with stories like that ...."

  He grimaced and shook his head. It was over, as quickly as it had begun. He was done spilling out his frustrations. He took out two plates and some flatware and began setting the table.

  "I'm sorry I put you on the spot like that about the rose, I really am," Jane murmured. "If it's any consolation, my parents yanked me off Nantucket permanently once they found out Aunt Sylvia had been telling me ghost stories, and I'm still feeling deprived about it. Everybody needs a supply of ghost stories."

  He gave her a look that was quick, wry, and sympathetic. And then he smiled. It was the first time he'd ever come close to sharing an emotion with her, and it threw her for a loop. How could he be so appealing? How could he be so warm? The surprise must have shown in her face, because he turned off the smile almost as soon as he had turned it on.

  He pulled a wooden spoon out of a crock and plunged it into the pot of boiling water, swirling the spaghetti with a vengeance. "What'll you have to drink?" he said gruffly.

  "Sparkling water will be fine, any kind," she said. She didn't dare ask for Perrier; probably he bought A&P's house brand.

  Mac took down a glass, went over to the sink, and turned on the tap. He filled the glass and set it down next to one of the plates. "Water it is," he said with a derisive look.

  Here we go again, she thought, biting her lip. No matter how hard she tried to keep the peace, he managed to turn her good intentions into yet another skirmish in their class war. She could see it in his eyes: Snob. Snob. Snob. Okay, fine.

  "On second thought, gimme a beer," she said in a belly-up-to-the-bar tone.

  He rubbed his chin, hard-pressed not to smile. "Perhaps you'd prefer wine," he said in a smooth turnabout. "I have a very nice Beaujolais — robust, rich, and well balanced."

  She looked startled, then burst into laughter. "Just give me the goddamned beer, McKenzie, and let's stop playing games. Yes, I've had all the — quote — advantages. And no, I'm not sorry about it. That's no reason to shoot me.

  "And if you care to know what I thought about that little scene I witnessed between you and your ex-wife," she added recklessly, "I think you were both grandstanding for Jerry's benefit. It was a lousy thing to do, but I probably would have done the same damn thing. All's fair in love and war."

  She flipped her ponytail back in a small defiant gesture, then held her breath while her little speech sank in. Mac was standing with a potholder in each hand, getting ready to lift the pot of boiling water from the stove. She thought he looked endearingly quaint: powerfully built, in straight-legged jeans and a blue flannel shirt, his hair curling wildly over his forehead, clutching two little country-theme potholders, one with ducks, the other with bunnies, in his massive hands.

  He stared at her with an impenetrable look. Then he said, "I like that in you. You're very fair." And he lifted the pot of spaghetti and dumped it into a colander in the sink
.

  The last time Jane felt that good about getting someone's approval was when she was sixteen and the Motor Vehicles Bureau granted her a driver's license. She stared at Mac's broad back as he shook the colander free of water and thought, Why do I feel this need for his approval? Was it because if he accepted her, it would prove she wasn't a snob?

  Mac turned and said casually, "Help yourself." No appetizer, no salad, definitely no candles. She brought her plate to the sink and speared a little spaghetti, then went over to the stove for the meat sauce. Mac popped open two beers and joined her at the table. "Cheers," he said, tapping her can with his.

  Two days, two men, two meals. They couldn't be more different. She'd adored her time with Bing; it was filled with charm and romance and free-flowing confidences. But tonight? Up, down, and everywhere between. Even now she hadn't a clue what Mac McKenzie was thinking. It occurred to her that with a man like him, you never would have a clue.

  "A penny for your thoughts," she ventured, partly to provoke him.

  He took a slug of beer and surprised her by saying, "I was thinking I didn't handle my divorce very well. You're right; it really was a war. The thing is, I'm the only one in my family who's had to go through one. In our family," he added grimly, "we tend to stick it out." He heaved his fork into the spaghetti like a pitchfork into a haystack. End of discussion.

  They began eating in silence. Jane found herself sneaking glances at his face. After a lifetime of exposure to the sun, it was etched and lined, well beyond his years. He had none of Bing's prime-of-life glow or Phillip Harrow's smooth indoor looks. He was like most of the homes on Nantucket, she decided: weathered and a little beat up, but full of character and strength.

  "What's wrong? Sauce on my chin?" He picked up a paper napkin and dabbed elaborately at the lower half of his face.

  Jane blushed, ignoring the sarcasm. "Do you have much family still living on Nantucket?"

  He shrugged. "Not many; they can't afford it. Scattered cousins, a couple of aunts, and the uncle I told you about, the one too old to drive anymore. My brother and my sister both bailed out of the farm after my father died; they've gone to live on the mainland. In case you're wondering: I'll be paying them off until I die."

  "I wasn't wondering at all," she said, but of course she was. She added, "It must be hard, trying to squeeze a profit from a nursery when you have a big mortgage hanging over your head."

  "Hard, I can handle," he said grimly, twirling spaghetti around his fork. "It's the impossible that scares me."

  "I know what you mean. Sometimes my plan to start my own agency terrifies me, too."

  He looked up, surprised. "I didn't know you planned to go solo. Well ... good luck." After a pause he added casually, "Any nibbles on Lilac Cottage?"

  "No, but Phillip Harrow dropped by recently and he thinks he may have someone in the offing. He told me not to sign on with a realtor quite yet; he may be able to save me the commission," she said, feeling vaguely indiscreet.

  She saw Mac stop his fork mid-twirl, then resume. "Phillip Harrow is a licensed broker," he said coldly. "It's a violation of their code of ethics for him to try to skirt around a formal contract."

  "Oh ... I didn't know that. Please don't say anything around town," she said, distressed. "He was trying to do me a favor; I wouldn't want him to get in any trouble."

  Mac snorted. "Phillip Harrow is very good at not getting into trouble," he said cryptically. "I wouldn't worry about him."

  Jane felt uncomfortable with the way the talk was going, so she said nothing.

  They ate in silence until Mac put down his fork. His repast, at least, was over.

  As for Jane, she'd hardly eaten a thing and wasn't hungry. When she was around the man, her stomach invariably rearranged itself into a tight little knot. Suddenly she wanted to go home and maybe have an Alka-Seltzer.

  "Well, I think it's time for me to head on home," she said, almost timidly. "It's been a heckuva long day."

  He looked startled, but stood up and said politely, "Can I give you a lift?"

  She declined with a smile, and he saw her to the kitchen door. Obviously a farm family's habit was never to use the front door; she wondered how that sat with Celeste when she'd been living in the house. They stepped outside together and stood in the dull halo of the porch light. The night was very fine.

  "I can't get over how many stars there are out here," she said wonderingly. "Even the moon can't dim them. It's like being on a ship at sea, away from the highways ... the sirens ... all the din and clatter. What a wonderful little speck of the universe this island is."

  "Have you ever been to sea?" he asked her. He was standing beside her, scanning the skies, his hands in his pockets, oblivious to the chill night air.

  "Well, yes, once," she answered vaguely. With her parents, on the QE II, in the South Pacific. Probably it wouldn't be smart to go into detail. "What about you?"

  "I did a hitch in the Navy. But I'm not all that keen on the sea, despite being born on an island. A lot of my friends are fishermen; I guess they're more masochistic than I am." He looked around at his land, so cruelly cut off from the road, and laughed under his breath. "But not much more." He turned back to her. "Well ..."

  It was her cue. She stuck out her hand. "Today was a bumpy day; tomorrow will be better."

  Again she felt the surprisingly rough texture of his callused palm around hers. "First thing, I'll take out the holly."

  Jane pulled out her mittens from her pocket, dropping one. She went down, and he went down, to retrieve it. Her cheek brushed close to his, so close that she could smell a faint, faint whiff of his aftershave. A wave of poignant nostalgia washed over her, mixed with an almost shaking awareness of his nearness. The combination left her lightheaded and off balance as she rose to her feet. He handed her the mitten. She thanked him and wished him good night again and turned away, striking out down the dark and potholed lane that led past the row of tall, brooding arborvitae and on to her house.

  Old Spice. That's what Mac was wearing. When Jane was a little girl she'd bought it for her father, Christmas after Christmas. She was a teenager before she learned the awful truth: her father never wore aftershave. Even now, she occasionally wondered what he did with all those bottles. Old Spice. How touching that Mac wore every little girl's affordable idea of a Christmas present. She smiled to herself. Too bad he'd never had a daughter.

  Jane was halfway between Mac's house and hers now, abreast of the burying ground. It seemed much darker in this part of the lane. She began slowing her pace, not only to feel her way around the potholes, but to keep all her senses alert. It was comforting to know that the Cursed Rose was in the Quaker Burial Ground and not in this one — but not very. Jane cursed her fearfulness under her breath, knowing that once she gave in to a sense of dread, it would be impossible to drive it away.

  Maybe I should try whistling past the graveyard.

  She pursed her ups in an arbitrary collection of notes; for the life of her, she could not think of a tune. The quavering sounds seemed to do nothing more than call attention to her presence. She dropped the idea; it seemed pretty dumb. Eventually she got past the trees and into a clearing. With the help of the moon, she was able to make her way with greater ease — until a cloud came slouching along, plunging her back into an eerie, creepy darkness.

  Bing would've insisted on driving me home, she told herself petulantly.

  Without thinking about it, she'd slipped her mittens off and balled her right hand around her keys in the classic urbanite's grip, with one key protruding between the third and fourth fingers.

  My God. I'm preparing for a possible attack. It was an appalling realization: She was slipping back into the hypervigilant state of a city dweller. This is Nantucket, she insisted to herself. Anyway, what good are keys against a ghost?

  She thought she heard a rustle behind her. She stopped and swung sharply around; but there was nothing. She thought she saw something in her peripheral vision, b
ut there, too, she came up empty. She quickened her pace, forcing herself not to break into a panicky run, and that's when she heard the sound, even over the pattern of her own labored breath: a kind of ghastly, sickening snuffle.

  Terrified, Jane gave in to the panic and ran, driven utterly by fear. Her heart seemed to constrict; her breath felt sucked from her chest. She was running blindly, in danger with every step of tripping into a muddy pothole. She hadn't got very far down the rutted lane when she felt a heavy sideways force on her thigh; it threw her off balance, forcing her to stumble to a stop.

  It turned out to be — who else? — Buster, curious to know whether she was after racoon or other, bigger game. He looked up at her with that semi-intelligent face of his. Where we goin'? Where we goin'?

  "Oh, God, Buster, you scared the living ..." Jane bent down and gave him some rubs behind his ears, less angry than relieved; right now, he was looking like pretty decent company.

  She kept him close by her for the rest of the way, calling his name softly and petting him indulgently whenever he trotted back to her side. So shaken was she by her night walk that she brought the dog into the house with her again. Earlier she'd picked up some Alpo at the A&P, because that's the brand she remembered Lorne Greene had told her to buy, and now she put out a bowl of it. Buster slurped down the food while Jane cleaned up the dishes from earlier in the day.

  She decided she wanted a bath, so she went into the bathroom and began running bath water. Buster followed her in and helped himself to a long drink from the toilet bowl. Jane headed for the bedroom to get her pajamas and robe, with Buster tagging loyally behind her.

  Until she actually went into the bedroom.

  Buster refused to go in after her. His steps became tentative, then stopped altogether at the doorway. His ears flattened on his lowered head and a low, ominous sound came from somewhere deep in his throat. Jane had never heard the sound before from him; it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. His whole body seemed to skulk and cower, as if he wanted to run but didn't dare turn his back on what he saw.