by Jean Stone
Amy rolled her eyes. “It’s queer, Mom. I wouldn’t be caught dead in it.” She turned on one heel and disappeared behind the curtain again.
Jill returned to the rack, realizing that Amy had now passed the age when her mother’s opinion mattered, when Jill could run to Filene’s or Jordan Marsh on her lunch hour, pick out a few outfits for her daughter, and know they’d be fine.
Shopping with Amy was something else. It was one more thing Jill didn’t know “how” to do, one more of life’s seemingly natural experiences that Jill had never had with her own mother.
Then she remembered the diary, remembered her mother’s entry about putting together a trousseau. She wondered if Florence and her mother—Jill’s grandmother—had shopped for it together.
She clenched her jaw and continued her prowl through the dresses.
A clerk appeared beside her. “May I help?”
Jill half smiled. “Only if you can tell me how to bridge the generation gap.”
The woman’s island-weathered skin crinkled into deep folds from the corners of her mouth to her gray-haired hairline. “I’m not sure that’s possible. Is she looking for something special?”
“I’m looking for something decent,” Amy said from behind them. She now wore a denim jumper and a navy-and-white-striped top—another of Jill’s selections.
“I look like a geek. I can’t possibly be in Lifestyles dressed like this.”
The clerk turned back to Jill, seemingly undaunted by Amy’s last remark. “Perhaps a skort? It looks like a miniskirt, but really is shorts.”
Jill looked at Amy and realized that her daughter, indeed, looked like a geek. Not unlike the way Jill had looked when she’d lived on the island—bell-bottom-less in a bell-bottom world.
“Let’s see what you have,” Jill said, and followed the woman to another rack, with Amy in close pursuit.
As they skimmed through the section of Junior size threes, the woman kept her eyes on the rack. “Aren’t you Jill Randall?” she asked.
Jill swallowed. She’d hoped Oak Bluffs was safe, that no one would have known her here. She wondered if she could say no. Then she remembered that if Amy decided on anything, Jill would use a credit card. The card might say “McPhearson” not “Randall,” but her first name would give her away. She pulled out a seafoam-colored skort and held it up. “Actually it’s McPhearson now. Jill McPhearson.”
The woman nodded and picked out a white tank to go with the skort.
“I’m not sure about a tank,” Jill said, “they’re so form-fitting. Amy’s a little young …”
Silently, the woman held up a matching long vest.
“Well …” Jill said.
“That’s cool, Mom. Let me try it. Please?”
Jill nodded. Amy grabbed the clothes and returned to the dressing room.
The woman toyed with her glasses that dangled from a long cord draped around her neck. “I knew your mother,” she said. “Florence.”
Jill tried not to show any reaction.
“We went to the same church.”
“In Edgartown?” she asked, knowing perfectly well that’s where Florence had gone to church.
“I live in Edgartown. I’m Hattie Phillips.”
Quickly Jill searched through her memory. The name Hattie Phillips was vaguely familiar. “Yes,” she said, “how are you, Mrs. Phillips?”
“That’s Miss Phillips. Never did marry.”
“Oh,” Jill answered, not sure whether or not she should say she was sorry.
“Too bad about your mother. I helped with the memorial service.”
The air-conditioning in the shop seemed to have been turned up. Or down. Whichever direction it took to turn the place into an igloo. Jill rubbed the coolness on her arms. “Yes. Well, I was in Russia. Thank you.…”
Hattie Phillips waved a hand. “No thanks necessary. Florence was one of a kind. A real special lady. We miss her.”
Jill didn’t know how to respond. One of a kind? A real special lady? She pictured her mother in her neatly pressed apron, standing at the stove, her jaw rigidly squared as she focused her need for perfection on a pot of simmering beef stew. Braced, Jill realized, always braced for something to go wrong. Then she thought about the woman who had written in the diary—a joyous young woman with hopes and dreams and expectations. She wondered which Florence Randall was the woman Hattie Phillips had known.
Thankfully, Amy came out of the dressing room. “It’s cool, Mom. I want it.”
Jill eyed her daughter. The tank was, indeed, form-fitting, hugging Amy’s svelte frame, showing off curves that Jill thought she was much too young to have—let alone show off. The skort was short—but it was split. The vest, however, was the saving grace, smoothing the edges of Amy’s womanhood enough to safeguard her youth. Besides, Jill thought, right about now she’d do anything to get out of here.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll take it.”
Amy squealed and returned to the dressing room, while Jill dug in her purse.
“We’ve all been wondering about the house,” Hattie said as she processed the credit card. “Are you going to keep it?”
Jill had a sudden image of the old church ladies, sitting around their circle, contemplating the fate of that one-of-a-kind Florence Randall’s hearth and home. “Well,” she answered in a stumble of words, “I’m not around here very much. I thought it would be best to sell.…”
Hattie rang up the outfit without saying that was too bad, or we’ll be sorry to see you leave, or even “How long did your family own the house?” Instead of these things, Hattie said nothing, which, in Jill’s mind, was even worse, making her feel like the ungrateful daughter that surely she had always been, and that surely all the island ladies had always known.
Amy didn’t want to stop for lunch. “I’ll get fat, Mom,” she replied. “I’ll have some melon when we get back.”
When we get back, Jill noted, not when we get home. The house on Water Street was, after all, no more of a home to Amy than it was to Jill. It was a house, that was all. A house to sell. A house to get rid of. Once the infernal sawing and banging and hammering ceased. If that ever happened.
As she started to pull into the narrow driveway, Jill jammed on the brakes. A red Porsche convertible was parked in her way.
“Cool car,” Amy said.
Jill sat back and eased the tension of her seat belt. “Maybe. But it almost killed us.” Backing up the Range Rover and angling it onto the street, she wondered who belonged to the car and why it was in her driveway.
She squeezed the vehicle behind Ben’s Buick, wishing he weren’t still there, that he had gone for the day, that he was done. No such luck, she whispered to herself as they got out of the car and walked to the back of the house.
The yard was a litter of wood and tools, with a small cement mixer and wheelbarrow poised by the bulkhead—a mess that would have driven Florence Randall into her kitchen for weeks. But what was more surprising was the presence of a bleached blond young girl who leaned against one of the sawhorses, a picnic basket at her feet, a red-lipped grin on her wide mouth. She wore short jeans and an open white shirt that did little to cover the full breasts protruding from her too small bikini top. Neither Ben nor his helper was there.
“Hi,” the blonde said, with unflinching certainty that it was perfectly acceptable to make herself at home in someone else’s backyard. “You must be Jill. I’m Carrie.”
There had been few times in her life when Jill had taken an instant dislike to someone. This was one of them. “Is that your car in my driveway?”
“Oh, yeah.” The girl tipped her chin. “My birthday present. From Daddy.”
“Cool car,” Amy said again.
Jill shot her a look, then turned back to Carrie. “Perhaps Daddy never explained the difficulty of parking on the Vineyard.”
“Oh,” Carrie answered with a slight pout that looked as practiced as the one Amy frequently wore. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone wo
uld be using the driveway.”
Jill sighed. “Well, never mind. I found a space.” She started toward the back door, then turned around. “Is there something I can help you with, Carrie?”
The girl shook her head and kicked her toe at the picnic basket. “No. I’m waiting for Kyle. I brought him lunch.”
“How nice,” Jill replied. She looked at Amy. “Come on, honey, let’s get your clothes on hangers.”
“You’ve been shopping?” Carrie asked as she moved from her post at the sawhorse and sashayed toward Amy. “Can I see what you bought?”
Amy looked at Jill, then Carrie. “Sure.” She opened her bag and began taking out her new outfit. “My picture’s going to be in Lifestyles,” she beamed as she held up the pieces for Carrie to examine.
Jill shook her head and went in the back door, wondering what her mother’s island-church lady friends would think once word got around that a photo crew from Lifestyles was going to be at the Randall house, and what a shame it was that the old place was going to be sold.
A few moments later Addie called.
“The photo shoot will be next Wednesday,” she told Jill.
A thrill rushed through her. Work! she thought. Thank God for work.
“We’ll arrive Tuesday afternoon,” Addie continued. “The crew will be in later that night. I’ve booked them at The Daggett House.”
Only Addie could manage to get rooms at The Daggett House in August on short notice. “Good. It’s only a few doors down.”
“I assume you have a guest room for me?”
Jill thought about the small sewing room across from the kitchen. It was one room she’d yet to investigate; she had no idea how much work it would entail. There used to be a twin bed in there, usually hidden by bolts of fabric. And, of course, the hi-fi.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course you’ll stay here.” Then she remembered Ben, and the mess and the noise. She stretched the cord as she walked to the hall window and looked into the backyard. Amy was still standing with Carrie. Amy was laughing. Jill frowned and said into the phone, “You know, Addie, I’m not sure how this is going to work. The house is a mess with the workers.…”
“Get rid of them.”
Jill looked at the lawn, at the ruts she knew the sawhorses were making. Well, she thought, that’s Addie’s problem. It was all her idea—Ben Niles, the photo shoot on the Vineyard—let her figure out how to make it work. “Is there anything special you want me to do?”
“Yes. Look your best. Wear one of those hideous cotton dresses—you know the type—with the high waist and little flowers and a hemline that brushes your ankles.”
Jill knew the dresses. She owned none. “I really don’t think …”
“It will make you look motherly. Homey.”
Homely, was more like it, she thought. “I thought I was supposed to look like a celebrity.”
“Don’t worry. You will. Get a floppy straw hat, too. And canvas sandals that lace up the calf. I’ll make sure there are plenty of fresh flowers around. And berries. Are there any berries in season? We want everything to look country, cozy, au naturale.”
Jill thought of the beach plums. She resisted suggesting that she stand at the stove making jelly.
“As for the kids—make sure they look like real kids.”
Jill winced. “They are real kids, Addie. I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”
Addie laughed. “Just have them in real clothes. Not too much makeup on Amy. We don’t want her looking older than her mother.”
Jill glanced out the window again. She wondered how long she was going to be able to keep Amy from growing up too quickly, from looking older than her mother—or worse—as old as Carrie whoever-she-was.
The annoying beep of Addie’s call waiting cut through the line. “I’ll see you next week. Gotta run.” She quickly hung up.
Returning to the hall table, Jill replaced the receiver as Ben came up the basement stairs.
“Is it okay if I wash up for lunch?” he asked.
“Sure,” she responded. “Oh, and, Ben? Next Tuesday and Wednesday, you can’t be here working.”
He hesitated in the doorway, then nodded and moved into the kitchen.
She went back to the window and looked out at her daughter, who seemed to be mesmerized by the way Ben’s helper, Kyle, was joking with Carrie, and by the way the young couple picked up the picnic basket, waved good-bye, and headed off toward the Chappy ferry, his hand firmly planted on her ass.
It was then that Jill realized Addie had never even thanked her for agreeing to the Lifestyles spread, and for subjecting her kids to the media world against her better judgment.
Kyle would have shit if he’d seen the lunch tab. Rita filled in twenty dollars in the tip area of the American Express receipt and said a quick prayer that it had been worth it: blowing more money on vodka gimlets and cracked crab salads for the Martins than she made in a week at the tavern would pay off if she could get them to make an offer on Joe Geissel’s house. For, no matter what Joe claimed, Rita knew money talked. And nothing talked louder than a firm offer.
“Are we going to see the house now?” the missus asked as she waddled back from the Captain Webber’s white and gold ladies room.
Rita smiled at the melon-flowered, caftan-draped woman, who apparently thought Captain Webber’s was deserving of her finest Vineyard attire. “Why don’t we go in one car?” she suggested, certain that her Toyota would be uncomfortable for the two oversized Martins. Not to mention the fact that the last thing she wanted was for her car to be spotted anywhere near Joe’s. Even though it was Tuesday—the day of his weekly golf game—one could never be sure who was watching the estate.
“I’ll drive,” the mister said quickly.
Rita smiled and stood up. “Then let’s go.”
“It’s incredible,” Mrs. Martin said in an almost-whisper as they stood in the backyard, overlooking the sound.
“Yes,” Rita agreed. “Of course, it needs some updating …” No sense in making them think she was too eager.
“How much updating?” Mr. Martin asked, shielding his gimlet-clouded eyes from the bright sun.
Rita walked toward the patio. “Not a lot. What it really needs is a decorator’s touch. Someone with taste such as yours, Mrs. Martin.” She didn’t need to turn around: she knew they would have followed her to the round wall of windows that encased the breakfast nook. The breakfast nook, and the glass-topped dining table where Joe had told her he wasn’t going to leave the island and give her up.
She walked right up to the windows and beckoned the Martins closer.
They looked at each other, hesitating.
“No one’s home,” Rita said. “They were called out of town unexpectedly. Otherwise, I’d have the key.”
They inched their way forward. When they finally pressed their faces against the glass, Rita knew that what they were seeing was just what they wanted.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Martin exclaimed. “It’s such a large house.”
“With plenty of space for those grandchildren,” Rita commented.
“Plenty of space for them not to get in the way,” Mr. Martin added.
She quickly moved them around to the side, to the carriage house that had a converted apartment on the second floor. “There’s a great apartment up there,” she said. “Perfect for guests.”
Mr. Martin nodded. Mrs. Martin positively glowed.
“Is there a gardener?” she asked. “The grounds are so lovely.”
Rita stepped to a yellow rosebush that regally clung to a freshly painted trellis up the side of the carriage house. “Do you enjoy flowers, Mrs. Martin?”
“Oh, my, yes.”
Personally, the thought of gardening made Rita gag. Slathering oneself in bug repellent, then wrecking a perfectly good manicure was not her idea of a good time. “Roses love the sea air here,” she commented, having no idea if what she was saying was a lie or not. “They bloom without any trouble at all … ver
y naturally.” She reached up and plucked two healthy blossoms from the bush, handed one to the missus, kept one for herself.
“Well,” Mr. Martin harrumphed as he looked back to the house, “this certainly is quite a place.”
“As I mentioned,” Rita said, gently sniffing the rose fragrance and hoping she wouldn’t sneeze, “it’s not officially on the market yet. The owners are hoping to make a deal before they have to go through all that—you know, all that nonsense and bother of a multiple listing.”
The missus nodded as though she knew what Rita meant.
“So if you’re interested, you should consider making an offer. I think they’d be inclined to sell quickly, and you could get yourself quite a deal.”
The mister nodded.
“Oh, there’s one other thing,” Rita added as she purposely strolled back toward the view, “I’m not the only agent who knows the owners are considering selling. You, of course, are the only people I’ve brought out here. But I can’t speak for anyone else. I have to be honest with you. For all I know, a deal has already been made.” Good, she thought. The bait is out.
“Well,” Mr. Martin said, puffing out his chest, “of course, we’d want to actually get inside. See the rest.”
Rita raised an eyebrow. “You could make a tentative offer,” she suggested. “With a contingency on approval of the interior.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. She couldn’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to think this kind of tactic was anything more than bullshit. Then again, this was Martha’s Vineyard, where premium properties often enticed eccentric buyers.
Mrs. Martin rocked on her sensible, seashell-colored pumps. Mr. Martin rubbed his hundred-dollar cracked-crab-salad-full stomach.
“I’ll tell you what, Miss Blair,” he said. “I’ll give you a call tonight. Can I reach you at home?”
“If I’m not there, just leave a message on my machine,” Rita said coolly as she led the way back to the front of the house, to the circular driveway, trying not to rip off her SurfSide Realty blazer and shout “Holy Shit” to the world.
Later that night, as Rita sat by the phone, the call came.