Off Season

by Jean Stone

  “That’s what I thought, so I checked it out. The museum is fine.”

  “Well,” Charlie said distantly, “good. I was afraid—”

  “Yeah, well, no need. Everything’s fine, I guess.”

  Another pause, and another breath drifted uncomfortably across the twelve hundred or so miles from his front door to hers.

  “How the heck did Hugh find you way down there?” she asked.

  “We serve together on a couple of island commissions. I left my number in a few places.”

  Leave it to good old, reliable Charlie not to skip town.

  “What about Sea Grove?” he asked. “When do the next permits come up?”

  Rita gave him the information she knew he already had: that eight construction permits were doled out on the first Tuesday of each month. They had missed November and December, but Ben had sworn he’d be in line next month.

  “Well, we could start without the last ones,” Charlie was saying. It was a boring topic, and Rita really didn’t care.

  “Sure,” she said. “Whatever.”

  “Okay then,” Charlie said. “How’s Hazel?”

  Rita told him Hazel was fine, but did not mention booties. “And how’s—what’s her name?”

  “Marge,” Charlie said. “Marge is fine, too.”

  “Good,” Rita said. “Well, thanks for the call. If I see Ben, I’ll tell him you were checking up on him.” She hung up before she could become more comfortable. Or more uncomfortable. On a whim she dialed Jill’s number, hoping there would be an answer, hoping to talk to her wandering friend.

  But the telephone on North Water Street rang four times, then voice mail kicked in. Rita did not leave a message.

  Mindy hated it that her mother had made her move back into the house with her. It was not the same without Grandpa. The smell of fish had been replaced by a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, and the soft static of Grandpa’s favorite two-way radio was now noisy bells and buzzers and people laughing and applauding on the television, on game shows mostly, people who wanted to be millionaires, though most never would.

  But she didn’t want to tell Dr. Reynolds, because her mother said she had a plan, and if Mindy rocked the boat, the state would put her in a foster home like the kids in school who no one liked. Not that anyone liked Mindy, but at least she wasn’t an orphan.

  Well, she still wasn’t sure her mother wanted her, not as a kid to raise. But her mother did say it was most important for their future—for her plan—if Mindy kept seeing Dr. Reynolds, if nothing happened that would piss off the people at the court.

  Mindy didn’t really understand, but she decided it was best not to mention it to the doctor, who sat in Mindy’s room now and smiled as if the fact that Mindy was “home” would make everything all better.

  “How do you feel about having your mother home?” Dr. Reynolds asked.

  “It’s okay,” Mindy replied. “She shops a lot.” The money for all the clothes she bought was coming from the cash that Grandpa had always kept inside the kindling box for an emergency. Mindy did not think a “fashion crisis,” as her mother called it, was an emergency, but Grandpa was gone and he would never know.

  Besides, her mother said there would soon be a lot of money coming. As long as Mindy kept cooperating. As long as she didn’t rock “the goddamn boat.”

  “You’ve had a lot of changes in your short life,” the doctor went on. “Losing first your father and now your grandfather. And this awful incident with Mr. Niles.”

  She wished the woman wouldn’t call him “Mr. Niles,” as if Ben didn’t have a first name. But instead of rocking the goddamn boat, Mindy said, “Yes.”

  The doctor gestured outside. “Have you seen him at all? Mr. Niles?”

  Mindy shook her head. With all the people around her lately, she’d almost forgotten about him. “He wasn’t at the funeral,” she blurted out.

  “Did you expect he’d be there?”

  She shrugged. “No. I guess they never liked each other.”

  “Are you disappointed that he wasn’t there?”

  Mindy shrugged again. She did a lot of that with Dr. Reynolds because it was easier than answering her stupid questions.

  Dr. Reynolds leaned back in her chair. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem that you’re very angry at Mr. Niles,” she said. “Are you?”

  This time Mindy stopped herself from shrugging. She thought about it a minute, wondering how she was supposed to answer. It was the perfect time to tell Dr. Laura that Ben hadn’t done anything, that Grandpa had made her say it way back in the beginning, that it was all a big, stupid mistake. It was a perfect time because, like the money in the kindling box, Grandpa would never know.

  If she told Dr. Reynolds the truth, this would all be over. Ben could reopen Menemsha House, and everything would be like before.

  Except that Grandpa was dead.

  And her mother was here.

  And she didn’t have a clue what the hell would happen to her, because the boat would be rocked and she’d wind up an orphan. So she closed her eyes and bit her lip and said, “I hate Ben Niles now.”

  It was going to be a wonderful Christmas if it killed her, if she could pretend, like Ben, that all things were resolved, if she could spend time with Rita and act as if it didn’t matter that Charlie did not know the baby was another Rollins; if she could act as if it were okay that Jeff was thousands of miles away, and Amy might as well be.

  It was going to be wonderful, if she did not allow herself to think about Christopher.

  Jill juggled her suitcases into the kitchen and dumped a pile of red velvet bows onto the counter at North Water Street. After she’d scanned the messages at the studio and rifled through the mail, Ben had brought her home, then gone to check on Sea Grove. As they drove from Oak Bluffs to Edgartown, he reassured her that life would be much better now, if she could just relax. If she could just believe.

  What he didn’t seem to understand was that believing was the easy part; relaxing was what was tough. It didn’t help that two dozen phone messages awaited her at home.

  Three were for Amy—friends who had not yet learned that she’d “left home.”

  Three more were from subcontractors of Ben’s; two were from Carol Ann.

  One was from Christopher, announcing that fan mail was pouring in by the Santa sackful, now that the word was out.

  Four calls were from Rita, whose last message said, “I can’t seem to find you, so I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I want you and Ben to come to my Christmas party on the twenty-third. And I want you to bring those chicken things your mother used to make. Can you?”

  Jill forced a tight smile at the red flashing light. Yes, this was going to be a wonderful Christmas. And no, it would not kill her.

  Of the eleven messages that remained, two were not important, and nine were hang-ups. She feared that the hang-ups were harassment, from a person—or people—who knew about the accusation. Were nine hang-ups realistic to receive in one week? She’d never kept track before. She’d never needed to.

  As she puzzled over the machine and its dark possibilities, the doorbell rang.

  It was Hugh Talbot, the sheriff from Aquinnah. She recognized him from the tavern, when Ashenbach had punched Ben.

  “I’m trying to find your husband,” the sheriff said. “Is he at home?”

  She shook her head. “We’ve been out of town. He’s gone to the development he’s working on. Sea Grove. Out on Katama Road.”

  Hugh Talbot nodded. “I know where it is. Thank you, ma’am.”

  She closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and tried to decide whether she should unpack her things, adorn the house in red bows, or sit down on the floor and break down and cry.

  Chapter 20

  The land had cost a bloody fortune, but they would have been fools to pass it up. Twenty acres of small cedars and scrub oaks, a grassy meadow, a pine grove, even a babbling brook for Chrisake—a picture-perfect chunk of V
ineyard land that stretched down to the sea.

  They would have been fools, but Charlie, Rita, and Ben were not fools, at least, not about this. Nor did they intend to be greedy. Unlike the competition’s bids, they were not planning to build four dozen tiny cottages with a quarter-million price tag each by virtue of the Edgartown mailing address. Sea Grove would hold only eight houses: eight beautifully constructed, discreetly distanced, elegant homes for folks who would appreciate the land and their good fortune to have such an exclusive place on such a special island.

  He stood and surveyed the property that even in December was enticing. Its small wooden stakes and pink ribbon flags marked off the six two-acre building lots, leaving four acres for common area and two more lots for which they had not yet secured the permits.

  Ben hadn’t planned to become a real estate developer — hell, neither had Charlie, neither had Rita—but when they heard what the competition had in mind, they could not allow it to happen. Now he needed to rediscover his enthusiasm for the project.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, tasting the cool salt air and quietly reassuring himself that, yes, his nightmare was finally over. Just then, however, he heard his name called out. He opened his eyes and saw Sheriff Hugh Talbot moving toward him.

  Ben quickly told himself that the sheriff must be there to inform him that all was well. He calmly thought about the irony that Hugh had come to this site to say that Ben’s life could, at last, move forward, that he had a future after all.

  “Sheriff Talbot,” Ben said, his hand extended. “Can I interest you in a Sea Grove property?”

  Talbot shook Ben’s hand but did not look as if he were there to buy real estate. “I expect by now you’ve heard that Dave Ashenbach’s dead,” he said directly, without frills or hesitation.

  Ben nodded, trying not to act as if the news had pleased him. If he did, he thought, he might be taken in for questioning for murder. A charge no more absurd than the one against him now.

  “I’ve been trying to find you,” Hugh continued. “No one knew where you went. No one at the tavern. Not your daughter.”

  He flinched. Hugh had gone to Carol Ann? Suddenly he felt a bit unsteady on his feet. He wished they were standing near a tree so he could brace himself. “I went to New York,” he said. “To be with my wife.”

  The sheriff didn’t nod or say “That’s swell.”

  “He had a heart attack,” he said.

  Ben blinked.

  “Ashenbach,” the sheriff said. “He died of a heart attack. He’d had one last year, you know.”

  Yes, Ben remembered hearing that. He hoisted the waist of his jeans, which had grown too big in recent weeks. “How’s Mindy?” Again he wondered if she’d be alone with nowhere to go and no one to care.

  “She’s the reason I’m here, Ben.”

  Ben waited another one of those long, slow-motion waits.

  “If I were in your shoes, I’d figure now that Dave is dead, my troubles were over.” The sheriff took off his hat and rubbed his finger along the brim. Ben’s gaze followed the sheriff’s hand. “Of course, that’s not the case.”

  Ben blinked and looked up at Hugh. “What?” he asked, though he’d heard his words as clear as the cry of the gulls down on Sea Grove beach.

  “The trial will go on as planned, April ninth,” he said. “The Commonwealth versus Benjamin Niles.”

  For a minute, neither Ben nor Hugh said anything else. Then Hugh remarked, “I need to ask you not to leave the Vineyard until then,” as casually as if he’d said have a nice day or could he have a light for his cigar.

  A breeze came up off the water and iced its way through Ben’s wool jacket. It felt like a blast of Canadian air had swooped inside his shirt.

  Hugh put on his hat, tipped it to Ben, then turned and walked away.

  Somewhere along the line, Ben had lost control of his life. Once again his every thought and action seemed to be determined by a ten-year-old, as if his past had no value and his future had no hope. The only thing that could change that was for the ten-year-old to say differently, to come forward and say he’d never touched her, never done a damn thing to her besides try to help.

  All that had to happen was, Mindy had to tell the truth. The odds of which, he figured, were zip, nada, not a rat’s-ass chance in hell.

  On the way back to the house, he went from stunned to scared to just plain pissed. By the time he marched into the kitchen, he knew there was only one thing left to do.

  He found Jill’s handbag in the kitchen. He rummaged through the rubble, then dumped out the contents. Soon he found what he needed.

  “It’s Ben Niles,” Jill overheard her husband say into the telephone. “Jill McPhearson’s husband. I need to speak with Attorney Bartlett as soon as possible.”

  She was in the living room hanging a wreath above the fireplace. She got down from the stepladder and moved to the doorway to listen.

  “Yes, well, thanks,” Ben said, but did not hang up.

  Jill stood there, pruning shears in hand, wondering if she should make herself known. Apparently Hugh Talbot had not brought Ben good news; apparently the case would not be dropped, despite Dave Ashenbach’s death. She tried to temper her disappointment with the fact that Ben was going on the offensive and calling Herb Bartlett, the man who could save him now.

  “Bartlett?” Ben said. “Thanks for taking my call. There’s been a change in the situation that my wife and I told you about. First of all, you were right. They’re not going to drop this thing just because the old man’s dead.”

  He paused.

  Jill held her breath.

  “And,” he said, “there never was a boy. The molestation charge is against me. By a ten-year-old girl. My wife lied to you to protect me. I’m sure you understand.”

  She let out her breath and closed her eyes.

  Ben spoke with the lawyer a few more minutes. When he hung up, he said, “I guess you heard.”

  “I heard,” she confirmed.

  “So,” Ben said unperturbedly, as if he were about to relate tomorrow’s weather prediction or the latest island gossip from Linda Jean’s coffee shop in Oak Bluffs. “He said he’d take the case. He also said he’ll come up after the holidays to meet with us.” He took off his cap and looked down at the floor. “I can’t go to Atlanta, of course, because I’ve been asked not to leave the island.”

  She leaned against the doorway, five or six feet from her husband, and knew she should go to him, put her arms around him, comfort him. But all she could do was lean against the doorway and wonder Dear God, what next?

  “What if I told you I killed Grandpa?” Mindy asked Dr. Reynolds. They were sitting on the beach because it was an unusually warm day for mid-December, and because Mindy felt as if her mother were lurking around every corner in the house, trying to hear what Mindy was saying, doing, or even thinking. As if something that she said or did or thought would “rock the boat” and they’d be “out on the streets,” as Fern put it.

  “I’ve told you before,” Dr. Laura said. “I’m not here to judge you, accuse you, or confront you. I am your doctor. Because of that, we have a kind of contract. Which means you can tell me anything, and I can’t tell a soul. I can’t tell your mother or the district attorney or even the judge. You’re my patient; that’s the law.”

  Mindy pulled off her sneakers, the ones with the flashing lights on the back. They were cool when Grandpa had bought them for her almost two years ago. They were old now and too tight, but he’d said they weren’t worn out, so she’d had to keep them. Maybe her mother would buy her a new pair with Grandpa’s emergency money.

  “What makes you think you killed your grandfather?”

  She took off her socks and wriggled her toes in the sand. It wasn’t warm like in July or August.

  “I figure he’s dead on account of me. On account of all this stuff about the trial.” She picked up a broken shell that the seagulls had picked clean, then threw it toward the surf that w
as small today and gentle in the receding tide. She did not say that maybe she should be the one who was dead, not Grandpa. She did not say maybe someone should kill her and get it over with.

  Sometimes, though, she felt like that. She felt like Ben should kill her, that he should come and get her in the middle of the night, that he should sneak into her bedroom and cut her throat from ear to ear like she’d heard about on Court TV.

  Or maybe he should grab her pillow and put it over her face with all his strength, until he’d smothered the life out of her. She tried that one night, putting her pillow over her face, so she could feel how it might feel. But it got hot under there and she started feeling funny in the head, so she’d ripped it off and decided to forget it.

  “Well,” the doctor said, “your grandfather was sick, Mindy. He had a heart attack.”

  Picking up a scallop shell, Mindy wondered if the scallop had died of heart disease or if it had been killed, then eaten by some rich tourist in a fancy restaurant. She wanted to ask the doctor what the hell did she know about heart disease anyway.

  Dr. Reynolds reached over and traced a finger around the ruffled edges of the shell. “Do you understand that, Mindy? Do you understand it’s not your fault he’s gone?”

  Mindy threw the shell out into the sea. She stood up, brushed off her feet, and picked up her shoes and socks. “How much longer do I have to talk to you?”

  “Do you mean today or forever?”

  “Forever. This is stupid. We just keep talking about the same things.” Well, Mindy knew that wasn’t quite true, but she was tired of talking about Ben Niles and Grandpa and sex things and death. She’d rather talk about how Jennifer Tilley got her tongue pierced and she was only one grade ahead of Mindy in the sixth, or how the class had just found out that their teacher, Mrs. Galloway, was related to Lisa Andrews, the star of Devonshire Place, and was going to Los Angeles to see her over Christmas. Mindy would much rather talk about that stuff than all this other boring junk.

  “The court wants me to keep seeing you at least until the trial.”