by Jean Stone
“That is utter bullshit, Rita,” Jill’s daughter replied. “You didn’t even know my mother when we were born.”
Rita scowled. “I knew her. I just wasn’t around her.”
“Well anyway,” Amy said, “there is something that I want. But it’s not video production and it’s not a husband and kids. At least not yet.”
“So what is it? And why the big secret?”
Throwing her napkin on the table, Amy sat back and laughed. “I want to run the tavern. I want my mother to buy it back from Charlie so we can have it in the family where it belongs. Then I want to run it the way my grandfather and his father did.” Her eyebrows raised as if she’d surprised herself at what she’d just revealed.
“Well,” Rita said, “what about Charlie?”
“Maybe he’ll move to Florida permanently.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Rita. All I know is that right now I don’t want a man.”
“Yeah, well, I once said I’d never have another, and look where it got me.” She patted her belly that grumbled a little, as if displeased with the lo mein.
Amy stood up and walked to Rita’s kitchen window. “It’s hard to find a man to trust, isn’t it, Rita?”
Rita sensed she was talking about Kyle. And Charlie. And every other man she’d known or heard of who had caused a woman heartache. Amy didn’t have to say it, but somehow she’d deduced that Rita’s baby was indeed Charlie’s, and that the womanizing scoundrel had run off with someone else: Marge Bainey, liquor distributor un-extraordinaire.
“You’ll find your man someday,” Rita said, “or not. In the meantime, my mother has always said we make our own misery. Which is probably the best way to think, because that way we can never feel like a victim. We can only blame ourselves.”
“I don’t feel like a victim,” Amy replied.
“Me either. Actually what I feel like is crap. I don’t think this baby is going to like Chinese food.”
When Rita awoke at two-thirty in the morning, she was certain the cramps in her stomach were nothing more than gas. Or food poisoning.
She was always dead on with her instincts, and she hated being wrong, which was why she waited until five o’clock before going to the hospital. By then getting there seemed so imperative that she had to wake up Hazel to drive her.
Why she didn’t call the ambulance was beyond her, because Hazel guiding the wheels of any vehicle more sophisticated than a shopping cart had to be more frightening than two paramedics and red lights ripping through the night sky.
Thankfully the hospital was not far from Edgartown. Unfortunately for Rita but fortunately for him, Doc Hastings could not be dragged there before dawn because he’d flown south for the winter.
“This is not food poisoning,” said the young on-call female doctor whose name escaped Rita. “You nearly miscarried.”
Miscarried. As in no longer with child. As in no second chance at motherhood. The word tasted as sour as the lo mein that had been in her stomach. But like a toothache that vanished once a dental appointment was made, Rita’s cramps had ceased once Hazel ground the Toyota to a stop in the parking lot.
She squirmed a little on the high, hard exam table. “Are you sure?” she asked, not because she doubted the doctor’s credentials, but because she’d never had a moment’s discomfort when she was pregnant with Kyle, not even one. Of course, that was over twenty-five years ago.
“Yes.” With a note to Rita’s chart and a flick of the pen, the young doctor added, “I see you’re due for your amnio and ultrasound. Have you scheduled them?”
Rita looked away. “I haven’t had time.”
“It’s not a matter of time, Ms. Blair. It’s for the good of the baby. To be sure nothing’s wrong.”
Grasping the front of her thin paper gown, Rita slid off the table. “The only thing wrong with this baby is a distaste for Chinese food.”
The doctor raised her hand. “Please, Ms. Blair. Rita. At your age there are so many complications that could occur.”
“And what would I do, doctor? Have an abortion?” She peeled off the gown and climbed into her clothes, uncaring that the doctor still stood there, clipboard in hand. “I had one other child, doctor. He’s dead. This one I’m not going to lose. No matter what.” It was then that Rita realized the strength of her conviction: this was her baby, and she would raise it and protect it and take care of it, no matter what.
“Well, I certainly can’t force you, but you must know it goes against—”
“Against protocol?” Rita asked with a smile as she buttoned her shirt.
“Well, yes. At least try to get as much rest as possible. And take your vitamins. And eat right.”
Rita laughed. “Yes. Of course.” She grabbed her purse. “It’s not those crazy days of summer. So I’ll do my best.”
The doctor’s eyes followed her out the door.
Rita returned to the waiting room, where a bleary-eyed Hazel sat. “Give me the keys, Mom,” Rita said. “I’m okay now.” No sense creating more trouble when there was enough in the world already.
Rita sat in Charlie/Amy’s apartment, waiting for the cable guy, flipping through baby magazines, and wondering what the deal was with her best friend, Jill, and why she was going to be on Good Night, USA.
Something clearly was up. Jill had not been the same since—since Rita could not remember when. Certainly not in the last few weeks.
Had she been wrong to think that Jill had it all? Maybe after Jill and Ben were married, the novelty had gone, the novelty of coming back to the Vineyard and settling down.
She sighed at this new evidence that commitment sucked. But there was nothing she could do to help her friend if she would not confide in her. Years ago that would have driven Rita crazy, but now she just accepted it. Accepted things, accepted life.
“Like you, little man,” she said, patting her rounded tummy, “or little woman.” She smiled. If she had the ultrasound, she’d know what to call the baby, this baby of hers, and hers alone. Maybe she’d do it next month or the month after, when it would be too late for anyone to tell her that her baby was not perfect and they should take it from her.
She would not let them.
Just as her thoughts were smiling over her baby, the doorbell rang. It was coming from the tavern, because the apartment had no entrance of its own. Rita sighed, pulled herself from the sofa, and made her way downstairs to let the cable guy inside.
But instead of the cable guy, it was a man in uniform—a policeman, a cop from Aquinnah, if the cruiser parked in front belonged to him.
Rita opened the door. “Tavern’s closed,” she said. “We open again in spring.” She realized she’d said “we” as if she would still be around Charlie, as if things would not have changed.
“I’m not here for lunch,” the cop said. “I’m Hugh Talbot. Sheriff of Gay Head.”
Rita knew the name. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I’m looking for Ben Niles. I’ve been by the house, but no one’s home. A neighbor said his stepdaughter lives here. I thought she might know where to find him.”
Rita figured it must have something to do with Menemsha House. God, she hoped it hadn’t burned down again. The baby inside her kicked. “Maybe I can help you,” she said. “I’m a close friend of the family.”
The sheriff removed his cap. “Do you know where he is?”
“Is there a problem at Menemsha House?”
The sheriff scowled. “I just need to talk to him a minute.”
Rita’s defenses went on alert. “About what?”
The sheriff did not give her an answer but asked, “Do you expect to see him today?”
“I don’t know. He’s off-island.”
The sheriff seemed to stiffen. “Off-island? Do you know where?”
Rita shifted her weight onto the other foot. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d better ask him when he returns. What’s this about, sheriff?”
“How long has he been gone?”
“What about his wife? Is she around?”
“Jill? Actually, she’s out of town on business. They might be together.” Rita suspected Ben had taken off for New York, because where else would he go? But she’d always believed in protecting family and friends, even when—especially when—there might be trouble.
“Do you know when either of them will be back?”
Rita frowned. “No,” she replied. “Ben didn’t say. As for Jill, I haven’t seen her since Thanksgiving.”
The sheriff adjusted his belt, the one with the holster, the one with the gun. “If you see Ben, have him give me a call.”
“Yeah,” Rita replied. “Sure.”
“And tell him it’s important.” He stuck his hat back on his head and moved with great deliberateness back to the black and white.
Rita fumbled in her sweatpants pocket and quickly found her car keys. Maybe Amy wouldn’t mind waiting another day for cable if it meant helping Ben.
• • •
Rita didn’t have a chance to tail the cruiser because Hugh Talbot was long gone by the time she made it out back and started up the old Toyota. But on a hunch, she headed toward Menemsha. God, she thought, crossing to South Water Street and heading out of town, maybe someone broke in to the museum, maybe damage was done, maybe lives were lost, as Kyle’s had been.
With one eye on the road ahead and one in the rearview mirror, Rita gunned it. “Pedal to the metal,” she said to no one, except maybe her baby, who was doing somersaults now, who seemed to always want a part of the action.
“Sorry, young female doctor,” Rita said, “but ‘rest’ is out of the question. There are too many missions in my life.”
She hunched forward on the seat and relished her adventure, so like the ones that she’d dragged Jill on when they were young.
She remembered the day they’d skipped school for the Chappaquiddick inquest. Rita had convinced Jill that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. They rode their bikes to the Dukes County Courthouse, and parked outside among the tourists and the media. There were no islanders gawking outside because islanders did not gawk, they were too reserved for that.
Rita and Jill had not gawked, but they’d peeked. And it was because of that adventure that Jill had decided to leave the island to become a big TV star. Funny thing, she had done it. And Rita had been left behind in so many, many ways.
But now they were on the same ground again, the Vineyard ground, whenever Jill happened to be in town. Her roots had firmly taken hold at last, and it was up to Rita to make sure things stayed copacetic.
At least, Rita convinced herself it was as she barreled along toward Menemsha, which seemed to take forever to reach. Finally she made it to Beetlebung Corner, where she turned right at the crossroad.
When she saw the museum up ahead, Rita realized she’d not been here since Ben had broken ground again and she’d been there for support, for friendship, and for letting him know that this was all okay with her. That it would have been okay with Kyle, too—in fact, it would have been exactly what he wanted.
Now, seeing the museum fully restored atop the hill made her feel a little weak, and her heart raced a bit too fast.
Oh, Kyle, she said silently, and the tears began again, as if no time at all had passed, as if he’d just died last night. She banged her fist against the steering wheel. “Damn you, Rita Blair,” she said, “stop it.” Slowly the tears subsided. She pulled off to the roadside and wiped her eyes. That’s when she realized that the museum had not burned down again, that it was standing there intact. And that’s when she saw Hugh Talbot’s cruiser come down the drive and head out onto the street.
Quickly, she turned her head so he would not see, hoping he would not recognize her red, red hair. Then she cursed herself for not removing the SurfSide Realty magnetic sign from the car door.
But when she looked back, Talbot was nowhere in sight.
She sat there for a moment, not knowing what to think. Perhaps her imagination had been running rampant on her again. Perhaps Hugh Talbot only wanted to ask Ben if he knew something about … nothing. Island cops, after all, often had far too much time on their un-callused hands off season.
Just as she decided to leave, a young girl came down the driveway of the house next to the museum. Rita remembered that next door lived Dave Ashenbach, the guy who had died, whose granddaughter had found him. “Must be her,” Rita said, and watched with sadness as the little girl slowly walked away from what looked like an uninviting house.
Chapter 19
They were home. Ben cranked down his window and inhaled a deep breath of Vineyard air—a little breezy, a little salty, a little damp. He smiled as the old Buick lumbered from the parking lot of the Vineyard airport, where he’d left it. This time, however, he wasn’t alone: his wonderful, beautiful wife sat beside him, and a heap of neat Christmas gifts—New York–bought Christmas gifts—were in the backseat: toys for the grandkids, pashminas for Amy and Jill, a Gucci bag for Carol Ann, and even a baby quilt for Rita’s baby, not that she’d need it with all the booties Hazel was making.
But the gifts did not matter. What mattered to Ben was the renewed spirit in his heart. With his life stretched out before him once again, he was charged with energy, as if he’d gone to bed a leper and awakened with clear skin.
First, he would reopen the museum. Now that Ashenbach was dead, Ben had no idea what would become of Mindy—poor kid—but chances were she’d be taken from the island or at least from the house next door. That sure would make things easier.
Next, he’d put in a separate shop on the grounds, where kids could learn to make lobster traps and fishing nets and other fun useful crafts. And in the spring, he’d plant a garden, where they’d grow corn and squash and pumpkins that they could harvest in the fall, as the Indians had done in John, Jr.’s school play.
The best part was, Ashenbach wouldn’t be there to thwart the expansion.
He’d throw more effort into Sea Grove, too. Now that Charlie had up and gone, it was up to Rita and Ben to nail down those last two permits and get ready to break ground by tourist season. Six months would pass mighty quickly with so much to do.
As he reached the outskirts of town, he pulled over and stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Jill asked.
He leaned across the seat and gave her one gigantic kiss. “I love you,” he said when he was finished. “In case you didn’t know.”
She laughed and tugged down the visor of his hat. “You make me crazy,” she said.
“I know. Shall we go home and make sweet love?”
“Later, okay? I want to stop by the studio first and check the mail.”
He refused to let his good mood dissipate. “As madame wishes,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “And I won’t take it personally. In fact, I shall also check on Sea Grove, my investment properties. But be prepared,” he said, “that later I will fuck madame’s brains out.”
She snatched off his cap and swatted him with it.
Rita sat across from Hazel, watching her mother knit baby booties: acrylic orange fingernails flicked in and out of soft white yarn and little plastic needles. She must have made five or six pairs already.
“You never did that for Kyle,” Rita said.
“Never had the chance.”
Oh, Rita thought, that was right. Rita had been off-island when Kyle was born, staying with Hazel’s sister up in Worcester, hiding out in her illegitimate condition. She’d returned to the Vineyard when Kyle was four, but she had said he was three. Big for his age. Advanced. With White-Out and a copier, she’d doctored up his birth certificate and told everyone the sad, sad story about Kyle’s father, a GI who’d she met in Worcester who had been killed in Vietnam.
Ah, she thought silently now as she listened to the click, click of the need
les, those were the days. When people were either too dumb to learn the truth, or too busy to care once the gossip-mongers ceased.
Now, there was no such thing as gossip—there was nothing to hide. Everything and everyone was “out there,” including single mothers and single grandmothers.
She—Rita Blair, for God’s sake—was beginning to feel all cozy and maternal and about to suggest tea when the telephone rang.
She pushed aside a pile of magazines and reached across the maple end table that had seen much better days, though Rita could not remember when. “SurfSide Realty,” she said with her most proper business voice. It was, after all, the middle of the morning and, who knew, maybe this was a client. Thankfully whoever it was could not see her in her pink chenille robe which, like the maple end table, had been purchased long ago.
She tied the long sash around her bulging middle.
“Rita?” the voice on the other end asked.
It was not a client. It was, speaking of babies, the unknowing father of her own. “Charlie,” she said. “How hot is it in Boca?”
“Hotter than Dick’s hatband,” Charlie replied, using an old saying that always drove Rita crazy because it made absolutely no sense. “I just wanted to check up on you, see how you’re doing.”
Over the braided rug and across the room, Hazel put down the half-made booties. Rita turned from her and faced the window.
“Doing just fine, thanks,” she replied, then waited for the next beat.
“Have you talked to Ben?”
“As in Niles?” she asked. “As in our partner who’s married to the woman who once was my best friend? No. As a matter of fact, you’re not the only one looking for him.”
There was a pause. “Do you know where he is?”
“I think he’s off-island. I think he’s with Jill. I think she’s in New York.”
“Good,” Charlie replied. “Because Hugh Talbot called, and I thought it was kind of strange. He didn’t say why, but he was looking for Ben.”
Rita scowled. “I saw the sheriff, too. He told me the same.”
“It must be something out at Menemsha.”