“Be back in two or less,” Todd assures me before he drives off.
Once he’s off, I realize that I still haven’t paid him. I’m sure my bill is close to a hundred bucks, if not more.
Circuit Avenue is an average, quaint little tourist trap. I don’t find tourists traps at all repulsive. Au contraire! They have been built for our amusement, and isn’t that what vacationing is all about? I click pictures of T-shirt shops, the candy store and the ice cream parlor. I take the stairs into the one and only coffee shop on the street since it’s about time I got my latte fix.
I enter and before I take the first step toward the counter, to my surprise, I see Charlie in a booth with a girl who looks to be a teenager! She could not be his hot, heavy phone call from earlier. I think my shock shows because he hops up out of the booth and comes over to me.
“What are you doing here?” he whispers near my ear.
“Getting coffee. What are you doing here?” I glance at the girl. Goodness, she’s young.
“I’m with a friend.”
“How old is she?” I whisper, hoping she couldn’t hear me over the crazy rock instrumental from the seventies playing.
“I don’t know–legal,” he replies.
I snicker at how stupid that answer is. “Charlie, she’s really young. How old are you?”
“The same age as you.”
“I’m thirty-five.”
“Get the hell out of here!” he nearly shouts.
“Yes. Are you thirty-five?”
“I’m twenty-seven. I thought you were younger.”
“What?” I grin cynically. “You thought I was jailbait like her.”
“She’s not jailbait, Daisy.”
“She’s not twenty-one, and if she told you she was older than that, then she’s lying.” I don’t know why I’m going at him so hard. I mean, why do I even care? If her parents don’t burn him at the stake, then why should I? “Never mind.” I wave a hand passively. “Have fun.”
“Wait.” He takes my arm before I can take one step. “I’d still rather, you know, be with you.”
“Not an option,” I quickly say.
“I know. I’m merely stating a fact.”
“You better hope that girl is at least eighteen,” I say after taking another look at her. She’s scowling at us. Then I realize Charlie has a hand on my waist. “Later, Charlie.” I kiss him on the cheek and go order my vanilla, non-fat latte.
Charlie returns to the booth, says something to the girl, and they get up together and walk out the door.
That was weird.
I take my latte across the street to Linda Jeans for lunch. I sit in a booth across from the bar and order a tuna sandwich and garden salad. I take out my pad and jot down some notes as I go through my shots, recording the sights, smells, touches, and tastes of my walk.
I get distracted when I hear a man at the bar say, “Jack.” I wonder if he’s referring to “my” Jack. I should probably call Belmont to tell him I’m very close to forgetting last night’s ordeal. My major organs miss him–my heart and brain. My skin craves his touch.
“He’s got a full crew in Gay Head,” one of the men says.
They’re both wearing dusty denim pants and work boots.
“He’ll put you on. Don’t worry about it,” the other one replies.
“What’s going up in Gay Head?”
“Some hippy commune.”
The other guy laughs. “How long?”
“I don’t know. They keep changing the plans. They’re all involved—the reservation, conservationists, and city hall. Troy’s pulling his hair out.”
The guy who’s looking to get put on a crew snorts.
One of them, the one with the shaggy haircut but clean-shaven face, looks at me. He grins. Jeez, I’ve been staring without even realizing it. He lifts a hand, and I’m forced to exchange the gesture. I put my eyes back on my work. As soon as I do, the waitress sets my order in front of me.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“You’re welcome,” she replies.
I keep my eyes down to eat, however I continue listening to the men talk about Jack and his job sites. Apparently some men on the crew just returned from Haiti. They were working for him there, too.
“He’s got work almost everywhere,” the one guy says.
Their conversation turns to how the Patriots are faring, and that’s when I stop listening. I’m up to ten pages of notes when Todd sits down across from me and drops a thick packet next to my plate.
“Here you go, Daisy!”
“Thanks!” I beam as I open the large orange envelope and slide out a small stack of papers listing the details of the weddings occurring on the island.
“She said that list goes out until the 15th of December.”
“Nice…” I study the data. “How much do I owe you for all of this? I mean, put it all on the bill. The ride to Menemsha, the ride here, the wait—”
“It’s nothing. Just doing a favor for a new friend.”
I squint suspiciously. If he lets me off the hook without paying a dollar, then that will certainly be a first. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s free. You don’t like free?” He smiles. “This is the Vineyard. We’re giving here.”
I open my wallet even though I smell Belmont’s interference. “Well, if there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.” I give him my card.
That reminds me of when Belmont gave me his gray business card. I still don’t understand what’s stopping me from making that first move. Maybe it’s the list. I’m too excited about my story and wedding crashing with my camera to be distracted. If I call him now, then he’ll want to bed me, and I’ll want him to bed me.
“You got it,” Todd says. “You still need a ride, don’t you?”
“Oh!” I say and lift a hand to claim the waitress’s attention.
We head back to Jack’s house after I pay the bill.
Chapter 10
It Ends With A Kiss
There’s a sticky note on the door that has, “We’ll talk when you’re home,” written in Maya’s handwriting. Wow, is she overconfident. I snatch it off the wood, crumple it up, and throw it in the kitchen trash can.
It’ll actually be good to get out tonight to see if they’re any hotspots to write about, but I’m still obsessing over the bathtub upstairs. Every girl has her vice, and mine is a scrumptious bath. Before I program myself another hot bubble bath, I email Dusty Burrows and pitch my new idea to him while telling him why Martha’s Vineyard isn’t suited for the taxicab series. I have a message from my mom, but I’ll open it later. She’s probably just checking in; she does that once in a blue moon.
I notice some changes as I stand between the bedroom and bathroom. The bed has been made, the sink and tub have been scrubbed, and a lemony-fresh scent lingers. Belmont’s housekeepers must’ve come while I was out.
I hurry over to the vanity and pick up my cell phone to ask him to join me, but then I reconsider. I still don’t have the extra time to be sidetracked by Belmont Lord. I’ll wait until tomorrow to apologize for my overreaction and tell him that, beyond reason and without a doubt, I love him. Tomorrow has to be dedicated to crashing weddings and taking enough photos and gathering enough details to send something a little more solid to Dusty. If Dusty refuses to accept my new angle, then I’ll pitch it elsewhere. Decision made, I strip out of my jeans, T-shirt, and underwear and ease into the tub.
I could choose to read The New York Times or listen to Billie Holiday, but instead I close my eyes and think about how naked I am. I still don’t understand why Belmont is so turned on by me. I’ve never gotten the general fascination men have with a woman’s anatomy. They’re just breasts and butts and arms and legs and whatever else they find so tantalizing. Men have the same body parts, for goodness sakes! I can’t deny how he makes me feel–desired, needed, and more beautiful than I thought I could ever be. Finally, I feel like a woman.
&nbs
p; Memories transport me back to yesterday. The ocean water was cold, but our mouths were delicious and warm as we kissed against the jagged rock. As I relive that moment and simper, the doorbell chimes.
My eyes pop open and my heart pounds. Who in the world could that be? It can’t be Belmont or Charlie because neither of them is big on ringing or knocking. According to Maya’s Post-it, she and Adrian have shipped out. Although she could be staging a fake-out, but I think she’s gone.
Maybe it is Belmont. Instead of coming right in, he’s allowing me to make first contact by unlocking the door and inviting him in. Am I ready to sacrifice my plans for tomorrow to make love to him tonight?
Absolutely!
I stand so fast my head turns dizzy. The doorbell chimes again.
“Coming!” I shout even though there’s no way he can hear me from up here. My skin is still wet when I wrap my red kimono robe around me. It clings uncomfortably to my wet skin. It won’t be on long anyway. I hear the pitter, patter of my damp feet as I run down the hallway. Since my feet are wet, I carefully descend the stairs.
Once I make it to the door, just to make sure it’s him, I look through the peephole.
I gasp and step back.
Maybe this isn’t happening.
Maybe I’m still upstairs in the bathtub and I’ve fallen asleep. I pinch my arm.
“Mom, is that you?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes, it’s me.”
I anxiously turn the two bolt-locks and swing open the door. “Mom?” I’m still stunned. “What are you doing here?”
“One of your friends told me you were here.”
“Maya?” I ask, thinking maybe she was telling the truth after all when she said she spoke to my mom.
“No. Belmont Lord. He flew me in.”
I’m speechless. I still can’t believe I’m looking at Heloise Krantz in the flesh. I haven’t seen her since Easter. She has the same long, bone-straight salt-and-pepper hair and the flawless skin of a teenager. My mom is fifty-five, but she’s always taken for a woman who’s in her early thirties. She’s a mixture of French, Spanish, and English, while my dad is Senegalese and Creole. They’re probably the reason why I’ve been infected by the traveling bug. I’m a product of the world.
“Daisy?” she gently asks. “Are you going to let me in?”
“Oh yes,” I reply spastically and step back. “Why would Belmont call you?” I close the door behind her.
“He said you weren’t in a good place. He filled me in.”
“On everything?” I ask.
“Everything,” she confirms. “Daisy, why didn’t you call me yourself?”
I roll my eyes as if the answer is obvious. “Mom?”
“Why do you say, Mom?” she replies snippily in her barely there French accent.
We’re getting off on the same foot as usual. “Just… Nothing.” I shake my head, mindful that I’m behaving like a moody teenager.
For the first time ever, I take a moment to look into my mom’s light green eyes. She’s not at ease because I’ve put her on guard. Is that the effect I have on her?
“I apologize,” I say. “That was rude of me. Truly, Mom”—my voice cracks—“I’m really happy to see you.”
She opens her arms. I accept the gesture and go in for the hug. My mom always smells like gardenias. She’s two inches taller than me, and I always liked that. Her height made her extra powerful in my eyes. I used to warn the kids in grade school that my mom could beat up their mom. She is an Amazon-gladiator–feminine, yet strong.
“I can make us coffee,” I say, still in her embrace.
“I will make it,” she replies and kisses me on both cheeks. “You are still ma fleur, Daisy.”
I smile, realizing that I haven’t heard her say that to me in years. I run her bag up to the room I slept in last night. I wouldn’t dare usher my mother into a smaller bedroom than mine. When I enter the kitchen, she’s already found a coffeemaker, coffee, and filters and is measuring out the grains.
“Go sit,” she instructs as she moves around the kitchen, opening and taking things out of the cabinets and refrigerator.
I follow her command and sit at the end of a long table set in front of a big dark window. As soon as the coffee’s done she serves me a hot cup of it. I sip the brew and watch as she whips up salmon and egg scrambles and a kale salad with pomegranate seeds, sliced apples, pears, and oranges.
“I see you cook now,” I remark.
She sets the chef-styled plate in front of me and then sits down beside me with her own plate. “I had to learn someday.”
I take a bite of eggs. “Um, this is good, Mom!” I’m pleasantly surprised.
“The truth is I take a cooking class on Sunday mornings to help with the stress.”
“I thought you mastered the art of living happily with stress.”
“Me too, until I fainted in a meeting.”
I freeze with a forkful of salad near my lips. “You fainted? Did you go to the doctor?”
“Yes, I did, and she told me I was stressed. I told her, that’s nothing new. She told me, neither is death.”
I try to picture what my life would be like without my mom in the world. Suddenly I feel the loss in my heart. I clear my throat. “Are the classes working?”
She smiles a little, sensing that I’m choked up. “They are, ma fleur,” she assures me. “So… let’s talk about the man with the private airplane?” She’s purposefully changing the subject.
“Belmont.” I simper and look bashfully into my coffee cup.
When I lift my eyes, my mother is regarding me shrewdly. “You like him?” she asks.
I nod. “I kind of do.”
“He is rich,” she concludes with lifted eyebrows. “But is he on the up and up?”
“He is,” I assure her, although I wonder what made her ask that question.
“And you know this?”
“I think I do,” I mutter indecisively. After I think about it, I amend my statement. “No, I know he’s good.”
She calmly takes another sip of coffee. I sort of feel like she’s the Don and I’m asking her permission to be in love with someone.
“Hollywood is small, Daisy.” She lifts her eyebrows as if she’s hinting at something.
“Is it?” I’m confused.
“It is. And I once met a man named Jack,” she hints.
I expel a long sigh of dread. “You know, don’t you?”
“And he knows that I know,” she replies.
“And?” I wait on pins and needles.
She shrugs in dramatic fashion, slowly and elegantly raising one shoulder with a slight twist. “Who cares, Daisy? I didn’t think you would.”
“I don’t. Not anymore.”
“Then that is good,” she sings optimistically. “Jack Lord was a beautiful boy with a fool’s dream. He was smart enough to get the hell out of the shark’s tank so that he could make something out of himself.”
“But did you and him…” I’ve stopped breathing, waiting to hear the verdict.
“Absolutely not,” she replies. “Now”—she shimmies her back against the suede high-back chair—“tell me everything.”
And that’s exactly what I do. I start with my dinner with Adrian three months ago and work my way up to this moment. Before I know it, three hours have passed. We’ve cleaned our plates and switched from coffee to burgundy that’s so fine even my mom approves.
“Why haven’t we ever done this before?” I ask after my second glass of the red.
“Because you chose to stay away.”
“But you never want me around.” I sigh, feeling sorry for myself.
“You are so wrong, ma fleur,” my mother says as she squeezes my hand. Her fingers are nimble and soft. She withdraws her hand and downs half a glass of wine. “I don’t get an award for Mother of the Year. Not from you, Elita, or Iva”—she sighs and pauses as a veil of sadness covers her eyes—“or Daniel.”
I flinch, surprised to
hear her say that. I feel so bad about her self-criticism that I say, “You were fine, Mom.”
She snickers first and then studies me for a short while. “It is easier, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“To speak the lie. You tell me what you think I want to hear, and then you’re miserable and I’m happy. You get that from your father, Jacques. Daisy, ma fleur, I did not want to be a mother. Ever. I love all of you because you are mine, but I liked you more when you could wipe your own ass and come and go as you please. Only, by then, I’d screwed it all up. You’re not much different from your sisters. If anything, you can help them. You survived me. They’re not doing so well.”
Dear God, my mother is tipsy. She slouches in the chair and closes her eyes. “Fuck them. That pansy you called a boyfriend and that cock-sucking whore you called a friend.” She opens one eye to study me. “Did you know she offered to blow my Joseph?”
“What? No!” I’m more shocked to hear that than I am to hear Heloise speak to me as if she’s one of my fouler-mouthed girlfriends. Joseph is my stepfather, an executive producer and creator of three hit network dramas.
“You brought that filthy tramp to my anniversary party, and she cornered him and offered him a blowjob in exchange for an audition.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mom,” I say sincerely.
She snorts. “Oh, don’t be.” She pats my shoulder. “Joseph informed her that I have an exclusive contract with him in all matters of fucking and blowing.”
I let out a loud, unrestrained laugh. That was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Strangely, I can picture my mom doing it. She’s that attractive. I once asked her why she doesn’t color her hair. I’m thirty-five and inherited the gray gene. I color my hair twice a month every month. She said she would color her hair when she gets enough wrinkles. She’d paid her dues and taken her lashes, and the gray is a reminder of that. Each strand says, “Don’t fuck with me because I’ve been around a long time.”
Heloise Blanchard—Heloise Krantz after divorcing my father and marrying Joseph Krantz—worked her way up from a gofer to President of Pygmy Park Studios. She resigned to head a smaller operation where she produces my stepfather’s hit shows. Needless to say, they do pretty well for themselves.
Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA) Page 12