Off Season

by Jean Stone

  Addie apparently wasn’t interested. She dove into her meal.

  “He needs a good criminal lawyer,” Christopher said, glancing at Addie. “Don’t you agree?”

  The agent shrugged and took a huge forkful of garlic mashed potatoes. “Sounds like the kind of thing no one should get involved with.”

  “He’s a friend of Amy’s. And our whole family,” Jill said. “And he lost both his parents in a car accident not long ago. He’s got no one to go to bat for him.” The “going to bat” term had come from Christopher. Jill hoped Addie didn’t recognize the language.

  “Aren’t there any good attorneys on that island of yours?” the agent asked.

  “Not who can help. Not with something this serious.”

  Addie swigged her wine as if it were water.

  “Addie,” Christopher said, “aren’t you friends with Herb Bartlett?”

  Jill tried not to show her surprise. Christopher had not even hinted that Addie knew the famous Atlanta attorney who’d successfully defended a rock star on a murder-one charge. She wondered what other tricks her co-host had up his French-cuffed sleeves. She did not want to look at him. She was afraid he would wink again.

  “I hardly think Herb would want to defend a nobody-kid for something he probably did.”

  Silence hung over the table. Jill looked at her plate.

  “Well, I think Jill’s doing us a favor by filling in for Lizette,” her former co-anchor, lover, and fiancé said. “And I think a call to Herb Bartlett is the least we can do.”

  “Or?” Addie asked.

  “Or Good Night, USA is history, Addie. Jill will pack up her Manhattan clothes and go back to her little island, and I will not break in a new anchor. It will be Jill, or I’ll be gone.”

  Addie swigged more wine and moved her gaze from Christopher to Jill. “I hate it when I feel I’ve been had,” she said.

  “Jill is my best friend,” Rita announced, as if it were news to anyone in the room: Hazel, Ben, and Amy. They had just polished off huge helpings of Hazel’s beef stew.

  Rita stood on a chair, guiding a plumb line so that Ben could hang up the next strip of prepasted wallpaper. She’d suggested that Jill would be a better assistant for Ben, but Amy explained that her mother was gone. Again.

  So there stood Rita, lovely, pregnant Rita, substituting for her best friend, with her best friend’s daughter holding one side of the chair and the husband, the other. Hazel sat at the table carefully reading today’s newspaper in case the ink fell off before she got home.

  “Jill’s been my best friend since either one of us can remember, but for the life of me I don’t understand why she keeps taking off.”

  “It’s her job,” Ben said flatly. Rita recognized that he was an unhappy man. He had lost a lot of money in the Menemsha fire, she knew; Jill was working to support them until the museum could turn a profit—and Sea Grove began paying its dues. She also knew that Ben Niles was not the kind of guy to take his wife’s continued absences lightly. Not many on the island would.

  Which was why Rita wanted to ask why he had closed the museum for the winter, but did not feel she should. Her curiosity could wait until Jill returned, assuming her best friend had time for her.

  “When’s she coming back?”

  Neither Ben nor Amy answered.

  “Is she in Los Angeles?” Hazel asked, her head bent closely to the paper. “It says here ‘Jill McPhearson to host Good Night, USA.’ ”

  Rita stopped what she was doing and looked down at Ben, who did not speak. “You must be reading that wrong, Mother.”

  “My eyesight is perfectly good,” Hazel snipped. “ ‘Jill McPhearson to host Good Night, USA. An unidentified source recently reported that island native Jill Randall McPhearson will grace national television in February as her ex-fiancé’s co-anchor on the popular newsmagazine, Good Night, USA.’ ”

  Rita’s gaze stayed on Ben. He shrugged. “Addie Becker must have planted that story to whet the audience’s appetite. The truth is, we decided it would be a smart move for Jill’s career.”

  Although he said “we,” Rita wondered otherwise.

  “She’s in New York City right now,” Ben continued, “doing prepublicity photos.” He laughed a short, unenthusiastic laugh.

  “What else does the article say?” Rita asked.

  Hazel returned to the paper. “That’s it.”

  “I hate this,” Amy muttered. “All this publicity. It’s going to surround her again. It’s going to surround us.”

  “Well, don’t worry about the Vineyard,” Rita said. “Your mother has always been the island’s sweetheart. Long before even you were aware, her face was front page news here.”

  “Yeah, well,” Ben said, adjusting his Red Sox baseball cap, “maybe next time Addie will remember to tell them her name is Niles now.”

  “Oh, stop whining,” Hazel said, turning the newspaper page, “all of you. Jill is a very talented girl. She works hard and deserves everything she gets.”

  Rita went back to the wall.

  Amy turned to the table and measured, then cut another sheet of wallpaper. She handed it to Rita.

  Ben said nothing more, as if he, too, knew that Hazel would have the last word, because she was the oldest, because that was how it worked.

  “Besides,” Hazel-of-the-last-word added, “things could be worse, Ben. You could end up like your friend Dave Ashenbach. Doesn’t he live next door to your museum?”

  Amy had just bent to get another roll of paper when Ben let go of his side of Rita’s chair. The chair wobbled. Rita grabbed the counter, but slipped and landed on top of Amy, who cushioned her fall—luckily for Rita, painfully for Amy.

  “Yeow!” Amy cried, as Ben shot across the kitchen and snapped the newspaper from Hazel’s hands.

  “What about Ashenbach?” he asked tightly, while Rita and Amy untangled themselves from each other and stood up to catch their breath.

  “Up there,” Hazel said, pointing to the open page. “In the top corner. It says his granddaughter found him yesterday, and that the guy is dead.”

  Chapter 16

  The house smelled like fishermen because that’s what the men were: Bruce Mallotti, Verge Benson, Frankie Paul. They had been Grandpa’s friends: they’d worked with him on the boats for years, and they’d played cards with him in winter when there was nothing else to do.

  They were fishermen whose fathers and grandfathers before them had been fishermen, too, or at least that’s what Grandpa always said.

  And like fishermen, they stuck together, which was why Mindy sat now in the living room of Bruce Mallotti’s small cottage on Lobsterville Road. She wished everyone would stop talking in whispers, like she was a little girl.

  “More cocoa, sweetie?” Mrs. Mallotti asked, which was weird. Well, not the cocoa part, but the fact that she called Mindy “sweetie” when she’d only seen her once or twice. Fishermen’s families, after all, were not as close as fishermen.

  Mindy shook her head.

  Mrs. Mallotti smiled and patted Mindy’s shoulder. She moved across the room and asked if Verge Benson or Frankie Paul would like another whiskey.

  Yes, of course they would. It wasn’t every day they lost one of their own, and at only sixty-one.

  Mindy looked down into the remnants of her cocoa mug and realized she’d never known how old Grandpa was. Sixty-one seemed pretty old. But never knowing when somebody was going to die pretty much sucked.

  Like yesterday, when she left for school, she’d never figured Grandpa would be dead by dinner.

  Lifeless was a better word. She’d read that one time in a book. Yesterday when she’d come home from school, she’d seen Grandpa’s feet sticking out from beside his pickup truck in the backyard. He didn’t answer when she called to him; lately he’d seemed to be going deaf. So Mindy walked over to the truck.

  That was when she learned that lifeless—without life—meant very still and kind of gray. Lifeless meant eyelids open and eyeba
lls staring upward at the sky, looking not scared or angry but blank. Lifeless meant hands that were sort of stiff, like someone had sprayed starch and tried to iron out the creases. Lifeless meant you didn’t feel the brown oak leaves that had fallen on your jacket and pants and your face.

  Now she glanced at her watch and wondered how soon it would be before she could say she was tired and sneaked off to bed. She liked the bed she had last night. It was small and tucked under an eave upstairs. Mrs. Mallotti had given her an afghan made of colored squares—a “Granny” afghan, she’d called it—and it was cozy, which was good, because Mindy couldn’t seem to warm up and hadn’t slept most of the night.

  “The girl can stay with us until they find her,” Mallotti said to the others.

  Her, of course, was Mindy’s mother. Little did they know that Her would most likely not be interested in coming to her daughter’s rescue, any more than Her had cared a lot when Ben …

  Mindy stared into the mug and wondered if Ben Niles knew. Then she wondered what would happen now; and if this court stuff would soon be over, without anyone ever knowing that she had told the lie.

  Maybe it was over.

  Ben fled from Amy and Rita and Rita’s mother and raced back to the house. He grabbed the phone and started to dial before realizing he did not know Rick Fitzpatrick’s number. He fumbled for the phone book. He dialed again.

  “He’s in court until this afternoon,” the woman who answered said.

  “Tell him I’ll be in New York.” He slammed down the phone.

  As he grabbed the keys to the old Buick, a single fear tugged at his conscience: with Ashenbach dead, what would happen to Mindy? Would her long-lost mother return to the Vineyard to reclaim her?

  It doesn’t matter, he told himself over the lump in his stomach. It’s none of your business.

  Then he pushed himself out the door and turned his thoughts to the next flight, wondering when it would leave and how long it had been since he’d been off this damn island anyway.

  Chapter 17

  “It’s over, honey,” Ben said as he hugged his wife on the front steps of the Plaza Hotel. He’d been jumping up from the antique velvet sofa in the lobby to the brass and glass revolving doors and then sitting back down again—over and over—until finally the limo pulled up and she got out.

  After her came the face that belonged to Mr. Edwards, and a fat woman in a big dress who he knew was Addie, even though they’d never been introduced.

  He laughed, stepped away, and adjusted his cap. “Guess I should have said hello first.”

  Jill smiled. It has been so long since he’d seen her smile that he thought his heart would melt right there and pour out onto the entrance of the famous hotel which, the doorman had confided, Ivana Trump once had guarded from her perch across the street in Trump Tower and often telephoned to alert him to remove litter from the curb. It was information Ben could have lived without, but chatting with the doorman had been something to do while he’d been jumping from the sofa, waiting for this moment, waiting for that smile.

  “Really?” she whispered.

  Christopher sidestepped Jill. “This looks like a personal reunion, and I’m bushed, so I’ll say good night.”

  Jill kept her eyes fixed on Ben. “What time tomorrow, Addie?”

  “Five-forty-five,” the agent replied. “I want the sunrise over the Hudson, with the skyline—and you—in the background.”

  Ben didn’t think the sun rose on that side of the Hudson, but it didn’t matter. He squeezed Jill’s hand. “Come on, honey,” he said, “I had them deliver a bottle of their best Chardonnay to the suite, and I’ll bet it’s well chilled by now.”

  Jill was stunned. Standing in the crowded elevator, with Ben’s hand in hers, she tried to sort out what was happening.

  Ben was not a child molester. It was over. It had been confirmed.

  Of course, she’d known he was innocent all along.

  The elevator door opened, and they got out. At room 204 he took her key and unlocked the door. Then he reached down and scooped her up. She squealed.

  “Ben! What are you doing?”

  He laughed his wonderful laugh, the one that made his gray eyes shine with mischief and love. He stepped into the suite and then kicked the door closed.

  “I saw that in a movie once,” he said, with a slow, seductive smile. “John Wayne, I think.”

  He carried her to the bedroom and gently placed her on the bed, her head on the pillow. He straightened her legs and took off her shoes: first from the right foot, then from the left.

  She watched with great pleasure, her camel-hair coat still covering a chocolate wool dress.

  He began to massage her toes, his strong fingers kneading one and then the next and then her entire foot from top to bottom, side to side.

  She tingled all over. Yes, she thought, this was her Ben. Life would be right again. She slowly arched her back, wanting more, wanting it now.

  He moved his hands up to her ankles, then her calves, kneading as he went. And when he reached under her skirt and touched her thighs, Jill thought she would go mad.

  But his fingers did not rest on her. Instead, he hooked them around the waist of her pantyhose and carefully maneuvered them over her butt, down her legs, and off her feet.

  And then he began again.

  This time, however, as he massaged each toe, he bent and sucked them, too, one, then another, then another, encircling each with his warm, wet tongue.

  He slid up higher, moving to her ankle, then to her calf, then to her thigh, his tongue sliding, gliding as it went, stopping off in hidden places.

  And then he reached her in that place of mounting heat, that place grown damp and hungry. With his fingers, he moved aside her satin panties, then lowered his head, touching her with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, gently licking at her little firm spot, then sucking it between his teeth and slowly biting down.

  She moaned. She moaned again, because the air had left the room and time and pain had left her body and all sensation writhed with great pulsating fervor for his tongue that would not stop and her …

  “Oh, God,” she cried and grabbed his head, plunging his face into her heat, moving his head up and down as he nibbled and lapped and did not stop, thank God, he did not stop.

  She moaned again.

  He licked.

  Again.

  Again.

  And then her body wilted into aching, throbbing oblivion, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, God,” she cried again, this time weakened, this time spent.

  He did not leave, but rested his head against her thigh and tenderly wove his fingers through her damp hair.

  “I love you so goddamn much,” Ben whispered. “Do you know that?”

  She could not answer; she could not speak. She merely moved her hand upon his head and removed his baseball cap.

  When Jill awoke, it was dark. Ben was asleep beside her, one arm draped across her chest, his head tucked against her shoulder like a little boy in love. They were atop the blankets but covered by a satin quilt. Except for her panties and pantyhose, she was still dressed. She closed her eyes again and smiled, then moved her body closer to the man she so truly loved.

  “Welcome home,” he whispered in the dark.

  She snuggled closer. “We’re not home, darling. We’re in New York.”

  “But you’re back inside my heart again. Back home where you belong.”

  Jill smiled. She turned on her side and stroked his arm. “Tell me what happened. I want to know every detail.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Ashenbach’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “I never thought I’d see the day I wished anyone dead. But he is. Over-and-done-with dead.”

  Jill closed her eyes. “God,” she said, “how did it happen?”

  “Don’t know. I guess his heart got tired of him being such a mean son of a bitch.”

  Moving her hand up to Ben’s shoulder, Jill gently rubbed
. “And?”

  “And? And it’s over. Without him to press charges, it’s over. I’m pretty sure.”

  Her hand went still. “That’s it?” she asked. “Did Rick say this means you’re free?”

  “He was in court. I haven’t talked to him yet.”

  “So you’re not really sure …”

  He sighed. “Jesus, Jill. I thought you’d be excited.”

  She kissed his forehead. “I am, darling. I just hate to think you might be disappointed.”

  The telephone rang. Ben groaned. Jill did not move.

  It rang again.

  “Maybe it’s Rick,” he said.

  She ducked, and Ben reached across her. He lifted the receiver.

  His tightened face told her that the person on the other end was not his lawyer.

  “She’s busy right now,” he said, then paused.

  Jill frowned. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched her gray-eyed man.

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll be sure to tell her.” His words were followed by a firm placement of the receiver in its cradle.

  “That was your co-host,” Ben said, sliding off the bed. “He said you don’t have to be downstairs until nine in the morning. That you’re not doing sunrise, you’re doing F.A.O. Schwarz.” He went into the bathroom.

  Jill lay on the bed and wondered if she should tell him that Christopher knew, or if she should simply pray that if the two men were together, the subject would not come up.

  Ben stuck his head from the doorway of the bathroom. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “I promise I’m not jealous.”

  Guilt quickly washed through her, followed by another prayer that Ben would never learn that she’d come close to breaking her vows when she’d been so scared and so alone.

  She closed her eyes again, grateful for her kind and loving husband, hopeful they could now put their lives back together again.

  They could, if Ben was right and Ashenbach’s curse—along with his body—was dead and buried and would not come back to haunt them.

  During the night they made love again as if they needed to make up for these past weeks, when they’d slept apart more often than together. When the wake-up call came at seven-fifteen, Jill struggled to open her eyes, then keep them open.