by Jean Stone
Standing at the soon-to-be-replaced back screen door, Jill noticed Christopher in the backyard, sitting on an Adirondack chair, a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other. Her father had often sat there, watching the sailboats, watching the gulls, smoking his pipe in quiet repose.
She took a small breath and went out the door.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said, without looking up. “I was a despicable rogue.”
“Yes,” she answered, sitting on the grass next to him. “You were.”
He was quiet a moment. “I thought it would be fun to make love in the morning. I thought it might take your mind off this house.”
“I was asleep. You startled me.” She doubted his intention had anything to do with making her feel more at ease. Still, she decided to let it go. An apology, after all, was an apology.
“Addie called,” he said.
Her mood shifted. She pulled at a blade of grass. “Does she miss me already?”
Christopher set down the paper. “She’s waiting for an answer on the Lifestyles spread.”
She stared out to the harbor. The Chappaquiddick ferry made its slow trek across the tiny strip of blue. “She said I had until Monday. I haven’t had time to think about it.”
“Jill, if we plan to build our career, this won’t be the last time the subject of the kids will come up.”
She didn’t answer.
“She thinks the island is perfect for the photo shoot.”
The energy seemed to drain from her body. “Here? But you won’t be here. You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“It’s only a half-hour flight from Boston.”
She didn’t know what to say.
“Addie thinks it would be better to position you—us—away from the city. The Vineyard has a broader image. It would take us out of the local-yokel mode.”
“What’s wrong with Boston? God, Christopher, that’s where we live. Our show is titled Good Night, Boston, if you remember.”
He held up his hand. “Hey, I’m just the messenger.”
Jill sighed, wishing she could believe him. “Tell her I’ll decide before you leave tomorrow.”
He nodded and set down the paper. “Let’s take the kids out for dinner tonight.”
“Afraid you’ll get pizza two nights in a row?”
“No.”
She chewed the bitter tip of the blade of grass: it was not sweet, not root-beer-flavorful like the sassafras root out at Gay Head. She let it fall from her hand. “Well, I won’t turn down a dinner invitation. But I doubt that Amy will join us.”
“I’ll talk to her,” he said. “Dinner at the tavern might help break the ice between you two.”
“Where?”
“The tavern. The one your father owned.”
She lowered her head and stared at the ground.
“I saw it when I went into town to get the paper. Didn’t you say it was the 1802 Tavern?”
Her stomach churned. “Yes.”
“They have a menu posted out front. It sounds good.”
“I don’t know …”
“Maybe it would give you a chance to see how the kids react to the Lifestyles piece.”
She snapped her head up. “That’s my decision, Christopher. Not theirs.”
He sighed and picked up the paper again. “Well, at least let’s have a decent dinner together.”
“At the 1802?”
“You’re going to have to face it sometime, Jill.”
“Face it? There’s nothing to face. It was my father’s business, that’s all.”
“Then stop acting as though this house, his tavern … as though this whole damn island had some kind of sick claim on your brain.”
The hot morning sun burned into her cheeks. “That’s not fair. It’s not true, and it’s not fair.”
“Prove it. Let’s go to the tavern tonight.”
Right now, Jill wondered if it were possible that she hated Christopher. He had no right to make her feel this … unsettled. Just because he’d been raised in a family that had doted on him, not by a mother who barely acknowledged his existence … just because his first marriage had quietly ended when his wife agreeably exited, not when she ran off with someone half her age as Richard had done …
God, she thought, she was so tired of always fighting for her place in the world. Since leaving the island, she had never stopped struggling to be the best. Struggling to prove she was the best—to prove to her mother, to prove to herself. And whether or not her mother had ever known, Jill was the best. She had been the best reporter, the best news anchor. She’d grabbed the brass ring with Good Night, Boston, and again when she’d won Christopher. She wasn’t about to let him take it away from her now.
“All right,” she said. “If you can get Amy to agree, we’ll go to the tavern. I’m not afraid of it, Christopher. It’s only a restaurant.”
“Great,” he answered as he jumped from the chair. “Because Addie thinks it would be a perfect place for one of the Lifestyles shots.”
“Give it up, Dad,” Carol Ann said as she stood in the doorway of Ben’s workshop—his blueprint-strewn haven, wedged in the alley behind his gingerbread cottage in Oak Bluffs.
He hunched over the plans for Menemsha House again—as if he didn’t know them by heart, didn’t know how every wide floorboard would be nailed, how every bit of woodworking would be carved. “I can’t give it up,” he replied.
“These people are your neighbors. Why are you fighting them?”
“Because they’re wrong.” He opened a wide, shallow drawer beside his workbench and slid out the duplicate set of plans. Ben had not fallen into the CAD-CAM trap of creating his visions on unfeeling computer screens: he craved the purist’s touch of a pencil in his hand, the artist’s brush, in number two lead. At his age, he was entitled to do it his way, even though it meant making two sets of plans for every project—two sets, just in case.
“You’ve always said you feel the islanders don’t accept you. This is only going to alienate them further.”
“Anyone not born here is an alien.”
“Come on, Dad. They see the work you do for the celebrities, the tourists. It threatens them. They don’t want Menemsha to become Oak Bluffs.”
“My work is my livelihood, Carol Ann. And besides, Menemsha House isn’t about show business. Or hawking T-shirts and pizza-by-the-slice. It’s about preserving culture.”
“There are plenty of museums on the island.”
God, Ben thought, how could he expect the zoning board to understand when his own daughter didn’t? He rubbed his thinning hair. “It’s not a museum. It’s an educational facility.” And it would be educational—where tourists and islanders alike could learn the things he’d learned: the fine crafts of Early American building, using the authentic techniques from milling the bark off oak trees, to groove-and-tongue construction, and using the same tools from smooth wood chisels to hand-wrought nails. It was his dream. And it would be done.
“You’re impossible.”
“I know.” He glanced at his daughter: her eyes as gray as his own were narrow with concern, the same deep dimple was tightly set in her same tanned, freckled cheek. Carol Ann might be the image of her father, copper-colored hair included. But it was her voice that always surprised Ben, for it was not his voice but Louise’s, the soft, gentle voice of his now-deceased wife. Carol Ann had his features and his sturdy, not-so-tall frame, but she was Louise in both voice and spirit: quiet, cautious, and unliking conflict. She had married John Larson, a good man, but equally conventional, and their two preschool children would probably turn out the same.
He sighed. “The people of Menemsha think they still live in a fishing village. They’re afraid of disrupting their sainted lobster pots. Apparently nobody told them the waters were fished out years ago.”
Carol Ann frowned and glanced around the mess of tools and wood shavings in the workshop. “I wish you’d get a cleaning lady.”
“A cleaning lady woul
d screw up my system. Besides, I don’t intend to act like a tourist, just because your mother’s gone.” He tried to swallow that little lump that popped from out of nowhere into his throat each time he admitted that Louise was dead.
“I didn’t think you’d act like a damn fool, either, Dad. Mother would be so embarrassed.”
“Your mother thought Menemsha House was magnificent.”
“She didn’t know it abuts Dave Ashenbach’s property.”
He shot a look at Carol Ann. He had not told her about the note. He hadn’t wanted to cause her alarm. Or give her more ammunition to talk him out of it. “Look, honey,” he said softly, “I bought that decaying old house for the way it sits atop the hill overlooking the bay, for the view of the sunset and the peace of the harbor. Now I want to turn it into something valuable, something worthwhile. If Ashenbach has a problem with that, it’s not my fault. I’m not going to damage his precious land.”
Carol Ann slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I only know that Mother wouldn’t have wanted you to cause such a fuss.”
Ben chuckled. “A fuss? God, Carol Ann, you sound like an old woman. You’re spending far too much time at the Town Hall.” The fact that Carol Ann—his daughter—worked in the clerk’s office—worked for the bureaucracy—secretly amused him.
“Dad, don’t change the subject. I think you should give this up now. John agrees with me.”
“I’m sure he does. Well, the zoning board meeting is Monday night. It would be nice if my family at least pretended to support me.” He snapped off the light. “Come on up to the house. I’ll fix us some tea.”
“I can’t. John’s waiting for me. We’re taking the kids for ice cream tonight.”
He nodded, but did not remark that it would be nice if his daughter had invited him to go along. Maybe his grandchildren and a double-decker fudge swirl would take his mind off the turmoil that no doubt lay ahead.
Jill scanned the tables that were jammed together, the whaling memorabilia that lined the stone walls, and the dark, low beams that stretched across the stucco ceiling.
“Quaint little place,” Christopher said. “Has it changed?”
They were sitting by the fireplace. Although she had agreed to come, Amy was across the table from her mother—as far away as possible. Somehow, Christopher had coaxed her to join them.
“It’s hard to say,” Jill said. “I was only here a few times.” It wasn’t a complete lie, but she wasn’t in the mood to reflect. It was all she could do to sit here, try to act natural, try not to feel like a young girl again, a quiet, young girl who hadn’t been allowed to work here in summers, who hadn’t been allowed to mingle with the tourists. Even her glazed linen skirt and matching silk shell—uptown, sophisticated attire that usually helped reassure her of her success—did not fortify her courage. Instead of feeling wealthy, successful, like someone, she felt overdressed and out of place.
“I thought your father owned it,” Jeff said as he grabbed a menu and began scanning it.
“He did. But kids didn’t go to taverns when I was a girl.”
“God, Mom,” Jeff said. “It’s just a restaurant.”
“I know. But my mother thought differently.”
Amy, too, buried her face in a menu.
“I remember that there’s a secret room, though.”
“A secret room?” Jeff asked.
“It’s where they used to stash bootleg liquor.”
“Amy,” Jeff said, “you’d better listen up.” He looked at Jill, a smirk on his face. “Dad let Amy drink wine in London.”
“Shut up,” Amy said.
Jill clenched her jaw and continued. “My father had a hidden door installed in the kitchen. The original entry is through the bookcase beside the fireplace.”
“Cool,” Jeff said.
Amy rolled her eyes.
Jill glared at her daughter, wanting to tell her she had no right to be such a little bitch. Didn’t she have any sensitivity at all? Didn’t Amy know how difficult it must be for Jill to walk in here—to walk in and sit down and not feel a longing for the father she’d loved … for the father she’d abandoned?
A waitress appeared beside them. “Cocktails?”
Christopher ordered a bottle of Montrachet before Jill had a chance to say if she wanted wine. The kids ordered Cokes. Jill picked up the menu and glanced through the offerings: hamburgers, turkey clubs, grilled veggie sandwiches on focaccia bread. And, of course, the catch of the day, which a small blackboard said was halibut. She suddenly remembered how her father had loved halibut.
They waited in silence for their drinks. Jill stared into the small tin candleholder on the table and knew there was no way she could turn back the clock. But there was a way she could restore harmony in her own little family. When the wine came and her glass was poured, Jill looked at Christopher, then to the children.
“We have a family decision to make,” she said, taking a slow sip from her glass, hoping she’d made the right choice.
Amy, Jill noticed, didn’t bother to emit her usual groan.
Jeff perked up. “If it’s about where we’re going to live after you’re married, I’d want a separate room for my computer station.”
Jill set down her glass. “No. It’s not about that.” She looked at Christopher again. He let her continue. “With the coming wedding there’s bound to be a lot of publicity. I was wondering how you felt about it.”
Jeff shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Mom. We’re used to it by now.”
She toyed with the stem of her glass. “What if it needed to be more? What if the publicity needed to include you kids?”
“Us?” Amy asked. “We get to have our pictures taken?”
Amazing. She had acknowledged that her mother was speaking. “Well, it’s nothing definite yet,” Jill said. “Maybe.” She thought she noticed a slight smile creep across Amy’s face.
“Do we have to?” Jeff asked.
“Grow up, Jeff,” Amy piped up. “We’re talking about Lifestyles magazine.”
Jill blanched. She looked at Amy. “How did you know.…”
Amy looked at Christopher and bit her lip.
Christopher gave Jill a “sorry about that” grin.
Jill took a drink. “Well, apparently this doesn’t come as a surprise to everyone.” She glanced to the small bar, to the rich mahogany wood with its gleaming brass rail, and wished with everything she had that her father were behind it, smiling and happy, drying the tall glasses with a white linen cloth.
“Mom,” Amy said, “don’t blame Christopher. He tried to get me to come tonight by telling me you had some great news for us. But I made him tell me what it was.”
Jill wondered if the stem of her glass might break under the pressure of her fingers.
Amy leaned across the table. “Mom, please. Lifestyles magazine! Can we be on the cover?”
Jill closed her eyes. She was probably being foolish. She was probably being too sensitive. The way Florence had always told her she was. She cleared her throat and opened her eyes. “No. Probably not on the cover.”
“When can we do it? Oh, Mom. Please. Please, Mom. This would be the absolute greatest …”
Jill held up her hand. “I haven’t made the decision yet. I wanted to talk to you both first.”
“Count me out,” Jeff said. “It’s not my idea of excitement.”
“You’re such a geek,” Amy shot at her brother. “You wouldn’t know anything exciting if it bit you in the ass.”
“Amy,” Jill said sternly.
“Sorry, Mom. Oh, God. Lifestyles magazine. What will I wear?”
As Jill took another sip of wine, a sense of defeat flowed into her.
Rita watched them through the bookcase of the secret room. So Jill had really come back. Well, there was no way she was going to wait on her. Wait on her, like a slave to her majesty. Ha. She’d told Charlie she had a headache, that she needed to rest a few minutes. So she’d slipped through the back
way into the secret room, where she could see for herself just how well Jill Randall McPhearson had done for herself, and figure out how the Christ Rita Blair was going to be able to avoid her for the next month.
Chapter 5
Ben steered the old Buick onto Lighthouse Road toward Gay Head. The sky was beginning to turn pink; the gulls were soaring with their early morning cries. It was his favorite time on the Vineyard: before the tourists awoke, before reality ruined another day. He checked his watch and hoped he hadn’t missed Frank Lyfred—“Noepe” as he was called by his tribal family, after the original island name. Ben had learned that Noepe meant “amid the waters”: an appropriate name, he felt, for a medicine man who healed the spirit by meditating with the tides.
Each dawn—as dependable as the frothy surf and the gulls overhead—Noepe practiced the ancient meditation ritual. It did not matter to Ben that when the medicine man was finished, he put on a Lands’ End buttoned-down, collared shirt, turned on his computer, and went to work as the town accountant. Ben knew that deep in Noepe’s soul lay the spirit of his people—and beyond. And, hell, somebody had to keep fiscal tabs on Gay Head.
Sipping coffee from his Dippin’ Donuts paper cup, Ben wished he’d bought a muffin. Not one of those low-fat kind that Carol Ann was after him to try; no, Ben wanted the real thing, no substitutions. It was, he felt, one of the biggest problems with the world today: too much imitation, as though people had forgotten what anything real was about.
It was the same with Jill McPhearson. The woman was obviously more interested in her high-flying career than she was in what mattered. She owned an incredible house—a vintage, pure island house—and what was she going to do? Dump it. It apparently no longer suited her lifestyle. It apparently wasn’t perfect enough.
“It’s only a house,” she’d remarked.
Only a house. The fact that it had been in her family for seven generations seemed to make no difference. Ben shook his head. That’s the trouble with the damn world, all right. Nobody gives a shit anymore.
He pulled off the side of the road by the lighthouse and thought about Menemsha House—his house—a house he gave a shit about, no matter if the town fathers or his daughter agreed. He hoped Noepe would be able to give him some encouragement this morning—some words of support to reassure Ben that he hadn’t totally lost his mind.