Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA)

by Z. L. Arkadie

  I chuckle. The last question I can answer easily. “That’s because men do not marry for looks. Women believe that, but it’s not true.”

  “You better believe Emil married me for my looks!” she exclaims jollily. We both laugh. “So tell me, Daisy the travel writer,” she says on a more serious note, “why don’t you want to get hitched?”

  “You just assume that I don’t?”

  “I know that you don’t because if you did, you would’ve said it already.”

  “Okay, then why did you get married?” I ask, forgetting the dynamics of the interviewer and interviewee.

  “Because…” She sighs dreamily while gazing off. “Okay…” She drops her elbows on the table to get cozier. “You know how when you’re having sex with someone you truly love and you can’t get close enough to them? You want to merge into their soul, but it’s physically impossible.” She pauses to wait for any sort of response from me.

  “Yes, I know that feeling.” My reply is clinical, but my heart is pounding. From that first kiss in the car outside of the florist’s house, I felt that with Belmont, and it’s so awful because whatever emotion or power that was refuses to leave me.

  “When I stood before the minister and made a vow to Emil, that’s what it felt like.”

  I can’t speak because I’m choked up. I swallow the lump in my throat. “That makes sense.” I clear my throat and drive onward. “So… When you think back to yesterday twenty years from now, what will you remember most?”

  Sidney’s eyes dance as she recalls the big day. She nods continuously. “The boat ride… It was an enthralling disaster!” She goes on to explain how they got splattered with water and that she almost fell into the ocean twice. She turned back to get a look at her bridesmaids, and they were miserable. “But I would definitely do it all over again even if the idea was better than the actual experience!”

  All in all, it’s a good interview. After an hour, we exchange phone numbers in the contemporary way. I give her my number, she plugs it into her phone and then calls me right there on the spot and now I have hers. All that’s left for me to do is save it to my contacts, which we both do at the same time.

  Once she’s gone, I order an egg white country-styled omelet, put on my headphones, and start transcribing the interview. Jeez, no wonder Sidney was so concerned at the onset of our interview. I sounded miserable; I probably looked it, too. Regardless, I trek through. Some parts make me smile and some make me laugh.

  All in all, I’m very happy about what I have so far. I need more experiences and more interviews. I’m glad the list Todd gave me includes email addresses. Later today, I’ll send an email to the brides to request an over-the-telephone or in-person interview.

  Once I’m done eating, I take care of the bill and drive to the first wedding on my schedule. Keeping busy is the only way I’ll be able to get through this day without breaking down and crying my eyes out.

  The first wedding is in Vineyard Haven, and the couple is from Los Angeles. To my surprise, I know a number of the attendees and am able to acquire tons of information about the bride and groom. I receive a tip that I could undoubtedly land an interview with Jeritha Hope, the bride, by mentioning my mother, Heloise Krantz.

  The next wedding is in Edgartown, and the final one is near the Campground in Oak Bluffs. It’s difficult being here without Belmont. As I stand on the church lawn, waiting for the bride and groom to saunter out into the daylight, I gaze at the mint-colored gingerbread house that Belmont brought me to. It still looks unoccupied. I use my camera’s high-powered lens to see inside of the upstairs glass doors. The checkerboard is still set. I catch a breath just as the crowd erupts in cheers. I don’t have time to sulk and tear up. I turn my camera to the doorway of the church and capture the happy moment.

  By two p.m., I’m done crashing weddings and fitting in by commenting on how beautiful “she” looks and how much “she” deserves this. My cheeks hurt from fake smiling and portraying bliss even though I feel like crap.

  The beautiful morning has given way to a breezy, cool afternoon. I head back to North Tisbury. Thelma is outside planting flower boxes in front of the main house when I roll up. She waves at me, and I wave back as I drive past her.

  Thelma really is a nice lady. I assume she lives here alone. She appears to be in her mid-to-late sixties. She reminds me of Katharine Hepburn in On Golden Pond with the same messy chignon at the back of her head and button-down shirt over a turtleneck.

  I stop in front of the garage attached to the modest guesthouse, get out to lift the door, drive inside, and close it. There’s something refreshing about doing it the old-fashioned way. Walking up the sidewalk and watching the ocean roll onto the shore in the distance is nice. Once inside, I get right to work.

  Dusty has replied to my email. He wants to see any preliminary information I may have before making a decision. I send him fifty of the best photos, displaying the diversity of each ceremony. I need more photos of the receptions, but I make do with the five I have from Sidney’s, which includes that kiss between Belmont and the brunette.

  I also write up a teaser, and a little inspiration allows me to write the first half of the article. It’s more about travel than weddings. It’s about the walk through the forests before arriving at the farmhouse or cliff. It’s about getting married in a neighborhood of gingerbread houses or in an open meadow with the ducks playing in the pond in the background. It’s about capturing smiles and little girls twirling in pretty dresses because they’re bored out of their minds and would rather be swinging from a jungle gym.

  The doorbell buzzes as soon as I hit send. I check the time on my computer; it’s four p.m. I get up to answer the door.

  “Hi, Thelma,” I say with a smile. I would call her Ms. Clary, but last night she insisted that I call her Thelma.

  “I have sandwiches and tea on the terrace if you’re hungry.”

  Actually, I’m starving. The egg white omelet has run its course. “Sure! Let me just finish up here and I’ll be right over,” I say, thumbing over my shoulder.

  “All right then.” She seems both surprised and pleased by my response. Maybe she took me for some sort of recluse, which I am not. The truth is, I love meeting new people. I can’t wait to hear all about Thelma, and I have a feeling she won’t mind telling me.

  By the time I reach my computer, Dusty Burrows has already responded.

  Daisy,

  I want this story. 2k words + 100 photos. $6,000 + travel expenses ($2,000 cap).

  DB

  I write back.

  DB,

  $7,000 + travel expenses ($3,500 cap) + 100 photos, then deal.

  Thanks.

  Daisy

  I stand back and wait. Not even a minute goes by.

  Deal.

  DB

  I do a happy dance. That’s a pretty good payment for a story that’s not part of the taxicab series, which commands payments between $13,000 and $18,000 per article + 50% of travel expenses. Thanks to Belmont, my expenses will be far less than $3,500, but I asked for the extra cushion just in case.

  Before I head out to the patio, I take off my dress and put on a pair of boyfriend jeans, a fitted, royal blue sweater, and flip-flops. The rest of the day will be leisurely because I’m high off of the sweet vibes of sealing the deal and knowing exactly what direction to take the article. I darn near float to the terrace.

  “You certainly look pretty,” Thelma says as I sit at the cast-iron dining table with a live fire-pit brewing in the middle. She’s already seated, sipping on tea and reading the Vineyard Gazette.

  “Thanks.”

  “Help yourself,” she says.

  My mouth waters as soon as I open the picnic basket. The fresh croissant sandwiches look delectable.

  “Are you going to tell me your name yet, or what?” she asks with a coquettish grin.

  I smile. “I’m Daisy Blanchard.”

  “And who are you hiding from, Daisy Blanchard?” she asks.
It’s funny because she hasn’t taken her eyes off the newspaper. “Are you an actress or a singer?”

  I chuckle a little. “Far from it.” I bite into the sandwich. “Umm…”I close my eyes to chew. “This bread is so soft and sweet. I haven’t eaten a croissant since Paris six months ago.”

  “I’m happy you like it.”

  “No, I love it.”

  “You sure you’re not an actress? You’re skinny and deprived of good food.”

  I laugh. “I’m deprived of food most of the time because I stay too busy.”

  “Then you’re a workaholic?”

  I lift my hand. “Hi, I’m Daisy Blanchard, and I’m a workaholic.” I grin.

  Sitting here with Thelma, eating a turkey and cheese sandwich and watching the ocean, keeps angst from rearing its ugly head inside of me. It wants me to moan Belmont’s name and cry over the kiss that I can’t get out of my head.

  She studies me with a smile. I think she’s already guessed that I’m evading the initial question. “Whatever or whomever you’re hiding from, sweetheart, I hope you find some peace while you’re here.”

  “It’s not like that,” I confess, muttering.

  “Then what is it like?”

  Once again, I find myself starting from the beginning. The story of how I got here never makes sense if I don’t disclose what Adrian and Maya did to me. “Then I met this man. He was perfect–at least that’s what I thought.” Only now does sadness color my tone.

  “He’s an islander?” she asks curiously.

  I nod. “Kind of.” That’s all I’m willing to disclose about Belmont for now.

  “Humph,” she grunts thoughtfully. I can see her mind turning.

  I’m hoping to death that she doesn’t throw names at me. I will break down and cry if she asks, “Is it Jack Lord you’re hiding from?”

  “If you’re not an actress and you’re not in the witness protection program, then what do you do?”

  “I’m a travel writer,” I’m happy to confess.

  “Have I ever read anything you wrote?”

  “I don’t know; have you?” I ask with a smile. “I usually publish nationally. I’m meeting with a publisher next month to discuss turning a popular series that I write into a book.”

  “If you’re in the national publications, then I’m sure I have. What’s your series about?”

  “It’s about how to use the distinct knowledge cabbies have to discover the hidden jewels you would’ve never thought to look for.”

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asks, narrowing one eye curiously.

  “I’ll probably finish up some writing. It looks like it won’t take as long as I thought it would, so I’ll probably fly out on Friday.”

  “Well good, you’ll be here. Every third Thursday evening, I have a big table dinner. Seven o’clock. Can you make it?”

  “That sounds interesting. Sure.”

  “William Struggs will be there. He’s the head of acquisitions at a major publishing house in New York. I think he would love to meet you.”

  “How are you, Aunt Thelma?” a man says as he walks onto the patio. He plants a quick kiss on her forehead and then his eyes gleam at me as he extends a hand in my direction. “Hi, I’m Pete.”

  I rise out of my seat to shake his hand. “Hi, Pete, I’m Daisy.”

  Pete is only a few inches taller than I am. He has dark brunette hair and thick eyebrows. He’s not bad looking. As a matter of fact, he’s quite appealing. If he had taken a seat across from me in an airport, I would have definitely done a double take. He looks like a manly man and is probably in his mid-to-late thirties. By habit, my eyes observe both of his hands. No wedding band. Either he’s married and doesn’t wear it or he’s single. Not that I’m remotely interested, but finger checking is the automatic response when noticing an attractive man.

  “Did I hear you mention the big table?” he asks Thelma while gazing at me.

  “Yes, I did,” she answers.

  “And you’re coming?” he asks me.

  “Yes, I am,” I say in the same casual tone Thelma used. I look at her, and she winks at me.

  “Then I’ll see you there.” He finally lets go of my hand.

  “Where are you off to?” Thelma asks him.

  “I have a job further up the island,” he replies.

  Thelma explains, “Pete’s an architect. He lives in Boston. He’s here for work until Monday.”

  “Oh, nice,” I say, attempting to sound as though I care.

  Pete fishes a sandwich out of the basket. “See you tonight, Thelma. Hope to see you around, Daisy.”

  Once he’s gone, I’m finally able to get the skinny on Thelma. She was married for forty-three years, but her husband died seven years ago. She used to be a painter but hasn’t painted a thing since he passed away. She’s originally from Charleston, South Carolina—which explains her slight southern accent—but she lived in Manhattan for thirty years before migrating to the island. After one visit to this piece of paradise, she and her husband decided to plant roots.

  When I ask how she gets through a normal day—because I would be bored out of my mind if I lived here full time—she says she spends most of her time organizing fundraisers and setting up big table dinners. Apparently, the spots at her table are coveted by many. Suddenly I’m eager to see what it’s all about.

  “Do you like crab?” she asks out of the blue. “I think I’ll make soft-shell crab for dinner tonight.”

  “I certainly do,” I reply enthusiastically.

  “Good, then that’s what we’ll have.”

  I grin. Sitting here shooting the breeze with Thelma is lovely. Suddenly, I don’t want to push my flight up to Friday. “You know what? I think I’ll stay until Saturday.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” she says.

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime,” she says before heading to the kitchen to get dinner started.

  I’m content, at least for the moment.

  Chapter 13

  Get A Clue

  ***

  Belmont Lord

  The muffled sound of a cell phone ringing woke Belmont out of a deep sleep. He sat straight up and his eyes darted around the room. He searched for a way to turn off the chime. “What the hell?” Then he squinted down at his pants. The phone was in his pocket. He reached in and dug it out.

  “Hello,” he said, sounding jittery.

  “Where the hell are you, Jack?” Troy, his manager at the Aquinnah work site, barked in his ear. “Andrea and I have been calling you all morning. The architect is waiting for you.”

  “Ah, shit,” Belmont cursed and hopped out of bed. “What time is it?”

  “Four-thirty. What the hell? Did you overdo it last night?”

  “No,” he sighed. “I’ve been having problems sleeping.” He massaged his forehead. “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  He hung up and remembered why he was in such a state in the first place. “Daisy,” he muttered.

  He would have to continue his search for her after meeting with the architect. He was still in last night’s party attire, but he had no time to change. He partnered with a non-profit to erect a private retreat. The goal was to build a structure that would coalesce with nature, which was why he’d asked Pete to design rooms that flowed into an atrium. It was an arduous undertaking, one Belmont almost passed on. The entire project felt too pretentious for his taste but he could use the tax break.

  Belmont hopped into the pickup truck he used for work and zoomed up South Road. He used speed dial to call Adam. He had one question, and as soon as his friend answered, he asked it. “Did she leave yet?” Desperation flooded him.

  “Nah, not yet, Jack. We’ll call you when she returns the car,” Adam reassured him.

  Belmont felt more at ease as the truck rolled along the dirt road at the edge of the duck pond and onto the construction site. He planned to have Andrea, his assista
nt, get Leslie Birch, Daisy’s travel agent, on the phone for him as soon as he was done consulting with Pete, the architect.

  Most of the crew had left for the day, and the rest were just about ready to call it quits. As soon as Belmont exited the truck, he caught sight of Troy and Pete and took long strides in their direction. Although he’d been asleep for twelve hours or so, Belmont felt like crap.

  “Jack, you made it,” Pete said. “Rough night?”

  “Sorry about that,” Belmont replied. “Yeah, it was a long, rough night.”

  “You going to be okay, Jack?” Troy asked, definitely concerned about the state Belmont was in. He clearly didn’t expect his boss to show up in last night’s suit and looking like shit.

  Belmont glanced at Troy, who was still watching him with ruffled eyebrows. “I’ll be fine,” he muttered. “So what do you think, Pete?”

  “Troy was just telling me that they want to connect four open fields in the woods without harming any of the surrounding trees.”

  “That’s right. It was a last-minute decision. All I need to know is whether or not it can be done.”

  “Let’s see!” Pete sang enthusiastically.

  Belmont lifted an eyebrow. He knew he had to be careful, ask the right questions, and rely heavily on his own experience when deciding whether or not the project could take such a dramatic turn. An architect was an artist, and Pete would take to the project like a hungry bear to a stack of honeycombs. So Belmont started the tour, guiding the two men down the natural trails the foundation wanted built into glass-walled hallways that would run between the structures.

  An hour later, as expected, Pete was committed. He’d drafted some ideas as they went. The drawings had it all–tennis courts, gym, accommodations, dining facility, atrium, and a conservation park.

  “We have to get the geologist out here first,” Belmont said after studying the draft.