by Jean Stone
She unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open.
“Morning,” Ben said, his smile broad, his eyes alert, as if mocking her for laziness, mocking her, period.
“Morning,” she answered. “I overslept.”
Ben turned to a young man behind him. “City folks,” he said with a grin, folding his arms in a way that made his thick, muscle-toned carpenter’s arms strain against the sleeves of his T-shirt.
Jill leaned against the door.
“This is Kyle,” Ben said, then looked back at Jill. “My number one helper.”
She wondered if Kyle would be as irritating as his boss. “Nice to meet you, Kyle.”
The young man nodded.
Ben tipped the brim of his baseball cap. “Do you think we could come in?”
“Oh,” she said, stepping away from the door. “I guess I’m not awake.”
“No problem,” Ben replied as he bent down and hoisted a wooden box of tools. “We’re going to be in the basement, so we’ll be out of your way. I’d say you could go back to sleep, but I’m afraid we’ll make too much racket.”
“Whatever,” she said. She didn’t care about the details of his work: she only wanted it over, finished, so she could get back to her life, if she still had one, if Christopher hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth, or if she didn’t kill him first. She only knew that right now she needed a shower, and that she was damned if she was going to call him again and endure the humiliation of his voice-mail message. “I’ll be upstairs,” she said, then left the men—and their muscles—to their tasks, whatever they might entail.
After her shower, Jill sat at the kitchen table amid the cartons and trash bags of last night’s work. She stared into a mug of black coffee, trying not to think about the hammering going on in the basement or the silence of the phone in the hall. Maybe Christopher had never made it to Boston: maybe the small plane had crashed into the sound. Or maybe there had been an accident in the city: a taxicab sprint across town to the Copley colliding with a transit bus. Would anyone know how to reach her? Addie had probably called him yesterday on his cell phone. Had Jill remembered to give Addie the number here?
“Mom?” Jeff called from the hall.
She sat up and took a swallow of coffee as her son rounded the doorway into the kitchen.
“Did you call the phone company yet? I’ve got to get on-line.”
She stood, carried her mug to the counter, and splashed the dark liquid into the yellowed enamel sink. “I’ll try them now. There are leftover muffins for breakfast.”
Sidestepping boxes, Jeff moved to the counter and opened the bag of muffins. “Hey, where’s that jelly you had out yesterday?”
Going to the phone, Jill shook her head. Her mother’s beach plum jelly had been a hit with her son. She wondered if Florence Randall would have shown any enthusiasm. “In the refrigerator,” she called back, then pulled the directory from the small drawer of the phone stand and proceeded to attempt to get Jeff connected with the rest of the world.
The operator left her on hold for what seemed like an hour.
“Is there a jack?” the woman asked when she finally returned.
“There’s an extension in the upstairs hall,” Jill answered, then remembered that Florence had balked at that: she’d felt that one phone per house was quite enough. “I doubt if there’s one in the room.”
“In that case, we’ll have to send an installer. You’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Fine,” Jill said. “Just tell me when.”
“We have an opening on the twenty-third.”
“The twenty-third? Of August?”
“That’s right.”
“Mom,” Jeff’s voice whined from the kitchen, “I can’t wait until then.”
He appeared beside her, pain in his eyes and a trace of beach plum jelly at the corner of his mouth.
“Look,” Jill said into the mouthpiece, “we can’t wait that long. This phone line is for Jill McPhearson. I’m vacationing on the Vineyard, and I need the line for business.”
There was a pause at the other end. “Well,” the operator said, “perhaps we could squeeze you in …”
“I don’t care how much it costs,” Jill said, winking at Jeff.
“How about Wednesday. Six P.M.?”
“This Wednesday?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine.” She quickly hung up and high-fived Jeff. “Consider yourself on-line,” she said, pleased at the power of her very own name, the name Jill McPhearson, not Randall.
His smile widened. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the greatest.”
Suddenly the phone rang. She jumped. It had been a long time since she’d heard the sound of an old-fashioned bell; a long time since electronic tones had eliminated rings.
“Oh, no,” Jeff groaned. “They changed their minds.”
She picked up the receiver.
“Jill?” It was Christopher’s voice. “I’ve been trying to reach you. The line’s been busy.”
She waved Jeff away, then laced her fingers through the coils of the long black cord. “I thought you were dead,” she said.
“Dead? Why?”
“You said you’d call last night. After your meeting with Fischer.”
“I did? Oh. Sorry. The meeting ran late. Then Addie and I spent a few hours hashing out the options.”
The curling of her muscles around her stomach could have been jealousy. But, she reminded herself, he’d been with Addie, not Lizette French.
“What options?” she asked, trying to sound calm, collected, unhurt.
“Well, it’s not definite, but he mentioned that a show like ours has potential for national syndication.”
She sat up straight. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Christopher. Was he serious?”
“It’s still early, honey. I expect he’s just testing the waters as they say in mediaville.”
A national show. Syndication. Her eyes darted around the faded flowers on the walls of the house of her past.
“We’d probably have to leave Boston, though. RueCom is based in Atlanta, so maybe there. Maybe New York. Or,” he added, “L.A.”
“L.A.?” she asked, suddenly unsure if the land of celluloid and trials-of-the-century was her idea of home. “When will we know?”
Christopher paused. “I’m not sure. He did make one comment that bothers me. He’s concerned about the scope of our stories.” He hesitated again. “But I told him it’s nothing to worry about. That you can handle it.”
Her neck tightened. “Handle what, Christopher?”
He sighed.
She gripped the receiver.
“Fischer thinks your stories are too local-sounding. He’s afraid you don’t have the experience to deliver national stuff.”
Her face began to burn. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“My God, Christopher. I’ve been in television nearly twenty years.”
“In Boston. Not nationally.”
“Big deal! I know what I’m doing.”
“I know that, honey.”
Her words came out in short, little breaths. “What about you? This is your first real show.”
“I guess he thinks my baseball commentary counts for something. Between that and pitching, my Q-ratings are strong.”
Q-ratings, Jill thought. Those infernal numbers that declared the popularity of a personality. “And I have no national Q-rating.”
“Right.”
She crossed her legs and shook her foot. “Then I guess I’ll just have to prove it to the old bastard.”
Christopher laughed. “That’s my girl. But don’t worry. He wants to wait for the next Nielsens. To be sure we’re not a novelty.”
“November,” Jill said.
“Maybe what he really wants is to wait until after the wedding, to be certain you and I are a sure thing.”
She tried to smile. “Is that a joke?”
“I never joke about a lifetime commitment.�
��
“Mr. Edwards,” she spoke softly, twirling the cord again, “are you only marrying me for my ratings?”
“Ask me that again the next time I wake up with you on top of me naked.”
A tingle surged through her. “I think I’d better hang up now,” she said. “Or this call will be billed as a 900 number.”
Christopher laughed. “Yeah, well, one of us has to get to work if we’re going to be famous. I’ll call you tonight and let you know if Good Night, Boston survived without you.”
“You do that.” She laughed. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said.
She hung up the phone, pulled back her hair, and felt her smile tighten. Lizette French, no doubt, already had a strong Q, with national exposure solidly under the belt of her spandex bodysuit. Jill pressed her fingers against her temples and wondered what she would need to do to prove to Maurice Fischer that she, too, was Q-rating material.
By noon, Ben had worked up the kind of sweat that he loved—soaking through his T-shirt, running down his brow—the feel-good kind of sweat that told him he’d worked hard, he’d done good. He’d never been sure which he enjoyed more: designing and thinking through the perfect renovation, or actually getting his hands dirty, making it become reality. Whatever it was, it sure beat what he had to do tonight: face the zoning board and try to get them to approve the plans for Menemsha House. But he was ready.
He set down his tools on the basement floor, picked up his towel, and wiped his face. “Come on, Kyle, let’s get out of this hellhole and grab some lunch.” As they passed through the backyard, Ben noticed a small figure stretched across a beach towel on the back lawn. Dark hair cascaded around headphones. “That must be Jill’s daughter.”
Kyle moved beside him and followed his eyes. “Not bad.”
Ben shot him a glance. “Don’t get any ideas. She’s too young, and she’s not your kind.”
Kyle smiled.
They walked to Main Street, then around the back of a bookstore to Suzie’s Luncheonette, where tourists rarely went because of its size—small—and its smell—grease. Ben clutched his stomach and blessed the fact that Carol Ann was nowhere around.
They ordered quickly—two burgers and fries for Kyle, a chicken salad sandwich and cup of minestrone for Ben—then grabbed two Cokes from the self-serve cooler and sat on wobbly chairs at a just-cleaned table. Ben picked up a napkin and dried the surface.
“So tonight’s the big night,” Kyle said, popping the top of his Coke.
“Yeah,” Ben answered. “It ought to be interesting.” Getting the variance would enable him to run a “commercial” venture on the property, though, for the life of him, Ben didn’t understand why Menemsha House needed to be called “commercial.” He’d already decided that after maintenance, taxes, and utilities, the balance of admission fees would be given back to the town. He’d thought it would stave off any opposition. But since the threat from Ashenbach—or whoever the hell sent it—Ben realized he couldn’t be sure of anything. “Are you coming to the meeting?”
“For a little while. I’ve got a date though, so I hope they don’t drag it on too long.”
Ben nodded. He’d become accustomed to Kyle’s dates, Kyle’s girls. “I’d appreciate it if you could be there. It might help to have an islander on my side.”
Kyle laughed. “You’re forgetting I was born in Worcester.”
“Born there, maybe. But your roots are here. Your name is here.”
The waitress delivered their sandwiches. Ben plucked another napkin from the black metal container and set it in his lap.
“You’ve lived here almost as long as I have,” Kyle said.
“Don’t tell that to the town fathers. They still think I’m a tourist who forgot to go home.” He picked up his spoon and tasted the soup. No matter how warm the day, Ben loved soup. He savored the flavors now, thinking how much he missed Louise’s home cooking, Louise’s home cleaning, Louise. It was true—they had first come to the island as tourists, vacationers, trying to escape their increasingly hectic life in Baltimore. Ben’s high-pressure job as a junior architect with one of the city’s most prestigious firms; Louise’s equally chaotic schedule of teaching and caring for six-year-old Carol Ann. He had just completed the plans for some restorations at historic Williamsburg, and his boss had allowed him a much-needed week off. At first, Ben had hesitated. His drawings were completed, they had all been approved. Technically, his work was done, but for some reason, Ben felt that it wasn’t.
Louise packed their things and they headed for Martha’s Vineyard, for their first real vacation in the seven years they’d been married.
Once on the island, surrounded by history, enraptured by the unspoiled beauty of the Vineyard homes, Ben realized why he’d felt incomplete in Baltimore: he realized he not only wanted to draw the plans, he wanted to execute them, too. He wanted to be the one to shore up the old beams, to restore the hand-carved woodworking. He wanted to be the one to carefully replace the bubble-glass windowpanes, to carefully fix the wide floorboards, to recapture the pride of the original craftsmen. He wanted to recreate their art.
Thankfully, Louise understood. She left Ben on the island to scout for a home and returned to Baltimore where she called the movers. Neither of them had ever regretted it.
“Any more notes?” Kyle asked quietly, interrupting Ben from peaceful memory.
Ben shook his head, wishing Kyle hadn’t been there when he’d opened his mail. There was no sense in both of them looking over their shoulders. He pushed aside the cup, examined the sandwich, and took a bite—homemade chicken salad, without the little bit of pickle that Louise had always added. He chewed slowly, then swallowed past that damn little lump. “The plans and the duplicates are done. The hands-on workshop looks great.”
“What about liability?”
Ben groaned. “I’ll make it safe. Honest.”
Kyle laughed. “Don’t yell at me. I’m only trying to second-guess what the board will say.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll get plenty of insurance. There are other hands-on programs—there’s one at Woods Hole. A few dull adzes can’t be any more dangerous than kids sticking their hands into live fish tanks with crabs and God knows what else.”
“Well, I’m on your side, you know that.”
“Thanks, Kyle. Menemsha House is a dream. But,” he added with greater detachment than he felt, “if it’s not meant to happen, then so be it. I can sell the property. Pretend it never happened.”
“Hey,” Kyle added as he bit into his second burger, “my mother could always list it. God knows she could use the money.”
There was only one way she could come up with twenty grand. Fast. And Rita knew she’d have to move quickly.
She sat in her rattling Toyota on Main Street in Vineyard Haven, waiting for some white-haired old lady who could barely see over the steering wheel to squeeze her Town Car into a slot in front of the string of shops. Rita drummed her red polished fingernails with the well-bitten cuticles on the dusty dashboard.
“Move your buns, lady,” she seethed. “Get your fat ass off the street.”
Finally, the white-hair made it. Rita sped past and flipped her off. At least the old lady had held up the line long enough so there was clear sailing to West Chop. She fumbled in her purse for her spray cologne, aimed it at her neck, and stepped on the accelerator.
“Like it or not, Joe Geissel, you’re going to sell your house.”
He’d told her to come by at two o’clock. At ten minutes ’til, Rita pulled off the road, passed the fortress rows of tall, thick hedges, and drove up the long, circular drive. Madam’s Mercedes was nowhere to be seen—she’d obviously left on the six-fifteen last night. Right on schedule.
Parking in front of the house, Rita killed the engine and took a quick, last check in the rearview mirror. The crimson lipstick, she knew, was a little bright with her red hair. As she got out of the car, she also realized that, chances
were, Joe’s wife never owned a white knit top quite as tight as hers or a red denim miniskirt that looked even shorter when she stood on the gravel driveway in her canvas platform shoes. She probably did, however, own more gold than the trio of chains draped around Rita’s neck. But what the hell, Joe hadn’t given Rita the perks of being a wife. Now, it was time he paid up. Her way.
Standing in front of the grand house, Rita scoped the view: two massive floors—nearly ten thousand square feet, she’d bet—complete with picture windows front and back, enabling her to see straight through the house to the expanse of salt water beyond.
“Two million six,” she whispered with a smile. “He’ll settle for two. Even.” She nodded in confirmation, then crossed the lawn and, as instructed, went around to the back door. The servants entrance.
He opened the door with a smile on his face, a white terry robe tied across his wide middle and, Rita figured, nothing but a hard-on underneath.
“You’re early,” Joe said.
She slouched on one hip, letting the hem of her skirt rise even higher, then arched her back, thrusting her small, but damn perky titties toward his eager leer. “I was hot,” she said.
Joe laughed and stepped from the doorway. “I have just the thing to cool you down.”
She paraded past him into the house. On the way, she grabbed his groin. She was right. He was hard. She quickly remembered what her mother used to say: Men only want one thing, Rita. Everything else they do is foreplay. Well, Rita Blair could play with the best.
“Can I have a lemonade?” she asked.
“Vodka?”
“No. Straight. I’m a working girl.” And Joe had no idea just how much work she intended to accomplish this afternoon.
While he fussed with the glasses she cruised the kitchen. It was a little out-of-date, with sixties kind of knotty pine cabinets and shiny Formica counters. The appliances, however, looked in decent shape, though they were that god-awful copper-colored shit that invaded the island when the parents of the baby boomers had dug up enough money for a second home. She wondered if she could convince the Martins that knotty pine and brown appliances were back in style.