by Jane Green
And then, when her past threatened to catch up with her—it started with an associate of Richard’s, a regular presence at his parties, turning up at her house and requesting, no, in a menacing way demanding her continued participation, and this was followed by her phone ringing in the dead of night and no one being on the line—she decided to move.
She had had enough of California by that time, enough of Los Angeles, of the movie scene, and she went to New York for a couple of weeks, and found herself, one weekend, accepting an invitation to a beach house in Highfield, Connecticut.
She parked in the car park by the marina, walked down some of the cobbled streets in the old part of town, right by the beach, and stepped onto Main Street, where she saw the pelargoniums in full bloom, tumbling from the window boxes outside the high-end stores that lined the street; there were laughing teenagers strolling past with ice creams in their hands, sand on their ankles and flip-flops on their feet.
She had forgotten quite how much she had missed the East Coast. Not that she would ever go back to Long Island—God knows she had worked hard to lose that particular accent. But Highfield felt . . . right. It felt like home. She stood in the middle of Main Street with a broad smile on her face, and when she reached her friend’s beach house with a view of the water, she knew her days in California were over.
Tracy bought an old 1950s ranch out at Sasquatchan Cove and, thanks to her divorce settlement, promptly knocked it down and rebuilt a classic shingle beach house, with large picture windows that looked out over the water, and a huge open-plan kitchen/living room, with big squashy sofas for people to sink into with a glass of wine.
Some time after she moved to Highfield, she took over the lease at Navajo Hall. A former movie theater, it had been a pizza parlor, a video arcade, and in its last incarnation a hangout for teens, complete with pool tables and no-alcohol bar, but the wealthy teens in Highfield were far too busy taking drugs and throwing excessive parties at their parents’ huge houses while said parents were in Nantucket or Block Island for the weekend to bother with the shabby and somewhat decrepit Navajo Hall, and when Tracy made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse, he didn’t refuse.
She had a vision for Namaste. A yoga center that would be more than a yoga center. A yoga center that would bring people together, become a center for the community. A place where people could hang out, have lunch, connect. A place that would attract all the best people in Highfield, Connecticut, and if any of them happened to be wealthy single men, well, what was wrong with that?
If only it hadn’t been for Facebook. If only it hadn’t been for one of those nights when she couldn’t sleep, when she decided, just for fun, to look up some ex-boyfriends. Her life was going so smoothly until then.
In the small bookstore that is hosting Robert McClore for the evening, there is a palpable frisson that traverses the room as the author appears, walking slowly toward the podium. He thanks the special-events organizer at the bookstore for introducing him, clears his throat, and starts to read.
Kit, seated between Edie and Charlie, smiles. God, he’s good, she thinks to herself. His voice is low and mellifluous, as he reads slowly, bringing the characters to life, pausing from time to time and looking up from the pages to catch the eye of someone in the audience, a couple of times Kit’s, and she is surprised that her heart leaps a little.
But he is an attractive man, she thinks. He is so much older than her and yet he is someone she would have noticed on the street, even if she had not known who he was. She sneaks a glance to the side, and sees Tracy, rapt, and the other women in the audience, strangers to her, watching him with half-smiles on their faces.
They all want to know him, she thinks. And I do! With that, she closes her eyes, the better to lose herself in his soft, seductive voice.
“I know that you’re a big Democratic Party supporter”—Tracy sits forward earnestly in her chair—“and in fact you were one of the main reasons Bob Riverside is now in office, so I was surprised when you made Troy Jenkins, the Democratic congress-man in A Life Not Taken, the villain. Particularly when the book you wrote immediately prior to that, Safe House, demonized the Democratic mayor. Can you tell us a bit about your choice of politics for your characters, and how that may conflict with your own personal beliefs?”
Robert smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Good question, and although I tend to avoid talking politics at my book readings—I apologize in advance to any Republicans sitting in the audience—it raises an interesting point about how much of yourself and your own beliefs you should put into your writing.”
As he talks, Kit looks at Tracy in surprise. Kit hasn’t read A Life Not Taken, hadn’t read any of Robert McClore’s books before working for him, and still has not managed his entire collection. She had no idea Tracy knew his books so well, but look at her! Listen to her! She’s not just listening to Robert McClore, she’s having a discussion with him, asking him more questions and he is clearly appreciative.
Kit turns to see Charlie looking at her with a grin and a raised eyebrow. “Who knew?” she appears to be saying, and Kit shrugs. How odd, she thinks, that Tracy never said anything before.
The line of people waiting for their books to be signed snakes back through the bookstore. In a small town such as Highfield, with an event as exciting as a Robert McClore reading, many people have turned out, some who have not seen one another for years, and there is a buzz of excited chatter as people run into old neighbors, old friends, people they haven’t realized they missed until they see them tonight.
And many who have known Robert. Not friends, but people who have been on the periphery of his life, people who have turned up to reestablish a connection with him, all of whom want to talk to him, to explain how they know him, or knew him, how their grandson once mowed his lawn, or they met him thirty years ago at a party.
Robert is gracious with everyone. He greets each of them warmly and effusively, as if they are guests in his home, and Kit, standing on the sidelines with Tracy, Charlie and Edie, is impressed.
“Why doesn’t he do this more often?” Charlie asks. “I’d always heard he was a recluse, but look at him! He’s chatting to everyone! He’s not the slightest bit how I’d expected.”
“But I told you he was charming,” Kit says. “Although you’re right. I’d also thought he was overwhelmed by large crowds. What do you think, Edie? You’re the one who knows him best.”
“You do?” Tracy looks at her keenly. “How?”
“I used to be his chef,” Edie says. “And house manager. I was sort of his Girl Friday for years. He loved my macaroni and cheese, used to say it was even better than his mother’s.” She smiles at the memory.
“When was the last time you cooked for him?” Kit says.
“Years ago.” Edie struggles to remember.
“You should have brought him some macaroni and cheese tonight,” Kit says with a laugh.
“You’re right.” Edie’s face falls. “I wish I had.”
“Oh Edie,” Kit puts a gentle hand on her arm, “I was kidding. You have enough to do.”
“But you are right,” she says, worried now. “I wish I’d thought of it.”
“You can always make some this week,” Kit says, “and I’ll bring it with me as a surprise. He’d love it.” And with that they step forward to join the back of the line, inching closer and closer to Robert McClore’s table.
Robert McClore had forgotten how much he loves doing these events. He had forgotten how much he enjoys talking to intelligent people, people who read his books, about their thoughts, their feelings. He had forgotten how much he enjoys discovering how his books have touched people, made them think about things differently, sent them off, on occasion, on journeys they would otherwise not have gone on.
He is not, naturally, nearly as much of an isolationist as his reputation would lead you to think. In fact, back in the day, he was as gregarious as they come. He loves people, what kind of a writer would he be, in fac
t, if he did not love people, was not interested in everyone, fascinated by how people think, the motivations that lead them to do the things they do?
But the press attention was so overwhelming after Penelope died. Even though it went away, eventually, recently it started again: a few years ago he was snapped coming out of hospital, just a colonoscopy, entirely routine, and the next thing he knew the National Inquirer had printed this terrible picture of him, looking thin, gaunt and old, and stated that he had colon cancer and weeks to live.
He didn’t have colon cancer. He had two precancerous polyps, but they had been removed, and as far as he, his gastroenterologist and his internist were concerned, he had never been better.
For a while the photographers seemed to be everywhere, their long lenses poking over the high walls of Hillpoint, and some even rented boats and tried to take pictures from the Sound but the rocks prevented them from coming too close, seeing too much.
Robert stopped going outside to garden, kept the blinds of the house down, and then, on the advice of his publisher, went on Larry King Live to correct the story that he was near death, brought his gastroenterologist with him, and used the opportunity to state the importance of regular and early colonoscopies.
The researchers, those eager, earnest young kids who telephoned him beforehand, brought him into the green room when he arrived, told him there was nothing to worry about, didn’t tell him Larry King would bring up Penelope.
And not just Penelope, and the mystery and rumors surrounding her death, but they peppered it with photos of her, photos of her he hadn’t seen for years, looking so beautiful it quite literally took his breath away, and he didn’t know quite what to say.
Larry King had been gentle, had seen the discomfort in Robert’s face, the grief that flashed in his eyes, and he didn’t push as much as he might have done, but this, Robert realized, is the reason he avoids the press. Even now, all these years later, they still want to know whether there was more to the story, still want to hear if he’s in touch with Plum Apostoles, still ask whether either of them had, indeed, been having an affair with the other’s spouse.
It didn’t seem to matter how many times he said no. They still refused to believe him, or perhaps they thought that truth was always stranger than fiction, and that a simple death was far too prosaic for a writer of the stature of Robert McClore.
The photographers went away after the Larry King appearance, but the intrusion worried him, and he told his publishers he wasn’t going to do any publicity for the next few books. Not that he had to. His name, the covers that screamed his name in giant shiny orange letters, were publicity enough.
But these local events are different. He has lived in Highfield a long time, feels connected to the community, knows it is important to give something back. He has known other celebrities in neighboring towns, actors who helped rebuild theaters, musicians who sponsored music festivals, who are loved and appreciated by the towns in which they live.
He has known others, actors or actresses who live in the towns but don’t get involved, see themselves as separate from the rest. Better? Perhaps, he doesn’t know, but they don’t last as long, are written about disparagingly in the local papers, are not approached for fund-raising opportunities.
Robert has always tried to give back. He is a patron of the library, and regularly donates items to local charities—walk-on parts in the movies, dinner with Robert McClore, a complete signed set of first editions.
The owner of this bookstore is someone he has known for years, and Robert is aware that every independent bookstore owner is struggling these days. He is happy to help.
There is nothing flirtatious about Tracy’s behavior, yet it is absolutely clear that she is flirting with Robert McClore. Not by giggling, or flicking her hair, or making—heaven forbid—suggestive comments that would leave no one in any doubt, but by focusing intently on every word, by listening to what he is saying, and by asking intelligent questions, questions that clearly delight him.
“. . . you ought to come,” Kit overhears, as she heads back to interrupt the conversation, and she sees Tracy hand a business card—on recycled paper, of course—to a surprised Robert.
“I don’t think yoga’s quite my thing,” he laughs, embarrassed.
“You might be surprised,” Tracy says. “My most committed clients are always the most skeptical.”
“But not old men, I would think.”
“You’re not old,” Tracy says, without a hint of a smile. “But thinking that you are is certainly one way to hasten the aging process,” and she raises an eyebrow.
“Touché.” He smiles, tucking the card inside his book. “Perhaps I will see you again.”
Chapter Five
“What?”Tracy giggles as the four of them cross the car park to the car. “What? ”
“You know what! ” Charlie nudges her. “You little flirt.”
“I was not!” she says indignantly as Kit shakes her head. “I was just being friendly.”
“Right,” drawls Edie, “that’s why you offered him—what was it I heard? A free yoga course? ”
“Actually, that was my business head talking. It’s always good for a business like this to have a celebrity clientele, and seeing that he’s the biggest celebrity in town, I thought it would be no bad thing.”
“Oh great. So now you’re using my boss. Thanks.”
“I’m not. Honestly. Okay, okay. You got me. I do think he’s attractive. Far more attractive in the flesh, actually. And that voice! Kit! It was heavenly! How can you stand to work for him without melting every time he speaks? ”
“How about, because he’s the same age as my father? Which isn’t just weird, it’s pretty disgusting.”
“Excuse me, ladies”—Edie clears her throat—“I’m eighty-three, and I can tell you Robert McClore isn’t old, he’s in the prime of his life.”
“Exactly. He’s not old, just older than us. Anyway, I love older men. He’s nowhere near as old as my father, and even if he were, you’d never draw a similarity. I’m starving. Where shall we go to eat? ”
Hacienda is more than just a Mexican restaurant: it’s a thriving bar with live music every weekend on the upper deck.
It’s an institution in Highfield, with people coming from miles around to hear the bands; and more recently it has become even more popular because of its reputation as a singles’ meeting place.
Not every night, but on Thursdays and Sundays the place is packed with singles ranging in age from twenty-something to fifty-something, all squeezed together, looking over one another’s shoulder to see if anyone more interesting has just stepped into the room.
“This is horrendous,” Kit shouts above the music as Tracy muscles her way back from the bar with margaritas in hand. “It’s so damned noisy. How long did they say it would be for a table? ”
“Forty minutes,” Tracy says with a grin. “More time for us to have fun.”
Kit casts a glance over at Edie, who is clearly hating this.
“I’m sorry, ladies,” she says, “but I can’t hear anything.”
“Me neither,” Charlie shouts. “I hate to be a killjoy, but this really isn’t my scene. I had no idea this place got so busy on a Thursday. I think I’m going to head home.”
“Don’t leave me here!” Kit says in horror. “I may be single but I’m not desperate.”
“Okay, okay.” Tracy nods her head. “It is a bit loud. You want to go somewhere else? ”
“This is more like it.” They settle at a quiet table in the corner of the Greenhouse, a brasserie next to a popular garden center on the outskirts of town that opened last year, and has quickly become one of the most popular restaurants in town.
The English owners, Alice and Harry, have lived in Highfield for six years and, once the twins were in preschool, Alice started to think about going back to work.
She had been a caterer, back in London, a few lifetimes ago, and every time she and Harry went out to eat, the
y found the food mediocre and the prices astronomical.
“I don’t think I’m being ridiculous,” Harry would say, “resenting going out for a neighborhood hamburger which costs twenty-six dollars. Twenty-six dollars! Even if it’s organic Kobe beef with gold-leafed tomatoes, how can they possibly charge that much? ”
“It’s not the food,” Alice kept explaining, “it’s the lease. The landlords are charging so much the restaurants have to keep the prices high or they’d all go out of business.”
“What this town needs is a decent brasserie,” Harry kept muttering. “Somewhere that serves fresh pastries for breakfast, great salads and sandwiches for lunch, and casual suppers.”
“They don’t have that in suburban Connecticut,” Alice would say.
“That’s the point. They ought to.”
“Well, why don’t we start one? ”
“We? Because I’m running the garden center. I couldn’t possibly find time to start a restaurant.”
“So,” Alice said, with a familiar twinkle in her eye. “How about opening something at the garden center? We could convert one of those big old greenhouses in the lower field.”
“What? So everyone could wilt in the heat? Do you have any idea how hot those things are? ” Harry laughed.
“Hello? Air conditioning? And you can treat the glass now too. Plus, blinds. You could have lovely natural rush blinds.”
“And how do we afford air conditioning, a professional kitchen, lovely natural rush blinds? ”
“Investors, my darling. Plus the money we have from the divorce.”
Alice came to America a long time ago, when she was married to Joe Chambers. So odd to think she’d had another life before this one, a life as the wife of a successful investment banker, who transferred to New York only for Alice to discover that their marriage wasn’t as rock solid, or her husband as faithful, as she had once thought.