Places by the Sea

by Jean Stone

  She stared at the paper in front of her, trying to concentrate. It had been easier to come up with ideas when she’d been a street reporter. News would happen—a murder, a fire, a gang-related drug war. It had been easy to create spin-off stories when the initial seed had been planted: talk to the victim’s coworkers, share the plight of three families left homeless, interview the mother of the gang leader. The main story led to others. It was simple.

  Developing her own fresh ideas was something else, something she’d shined at with Good Night, Boston. But knowing how to take that to a national level somehow seemed elusive.

  She looked over her notes. An update with an O.J. juror two years later? An in-depth look into the life of a Las Vegas blackjack dealer? A where-are-they-now series on high school graduates voted the most likely to succeed?

  Jill squeezed her eyes tightly, dropped the pen, and rubbed the back of her neck. Everything, it seemed, had been done. Done, overdone. And most of it hadn’t turned out to be “good news”—the types of stories that made Good Night, Boston unique.

  The sound of a car door slamming jolted her. She opened her eyes and saw Ben Niles emerge from the old, shiny car. Leaning her back against the rungs of the Windsor chair, Jill watched the man’s slow, deliberate movements as he opened the trunk, hoisted out a toolbox, set it down, and massaged his shoulder. She smiled, glad she wasn’t the only one to have aches in her over-forty muscles.

  Ben adjusted the Red Sox cap on his head, then, with those disturbingly strong-looking arms, he picked up the box and made his way toward the backyard. As he passed the living-room window he paused and gave a small wave to Jill. It startled her. She hadn’t realized he’d seen her. Quickly she blinked, ran a hand through her uncombed hair, and returned the wave. Annoying as he was, she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to pretend to be friendly.

  As she picked up her pen again, Jill tried to refocus on her work. But she sat, distracted, unable to continue. Who is Ben Niles? she wondered. Who is this man with this solid, sought-after reputation? A man who certainly can afford more than an ancient car and a beat-up baseball cap?

  Her thoughts began to gel. Beneath his blue-collar exterior, there must be a story there, she reasoned, a story that would intrigue TV viewers. Surely a man held in such regard for the work he performed—the art, as Addie called it—must have some explanation for sequestering himself on this godforsaken island when he could probably command a huge business of international renown. A story on Ben Niles might be just what she needed. Ben Niles, house renovator to the stars.

  While swirling doodles in the margin of her page, Jill thought about Ben. How had he learned his craft? What made him different? Why was he in such demand by people willing to pay outrageous fees?

  And what about Ben, the man? Did he have children? Was he married? How old was he?

  Suddenly her pen stopped. How old was he? He looked to be older than Jill by several years. Could Robbie be the same age as Ben … if Robbie were still alive?

  She gripped her pen, trying to stop her thoughts. Then, the need for sleep crawled through her body, just as, from the backyard, the power saw roared to life.

  The morning heated quickly, and by eleven-thirty Ben was ready to break for lunch. Maybe busting his ass was the best way to take his mind off his problems, but it wouldn’t do much good if he dropped dead from sweating in the blistering sun. Besides, he suspected that Jill McPhearson wouldn’t even appreciate it.

  “Lunch plans today?” Ben called over to Kyle, who stood by the cement mixer, helping Dan Ellis—the island’s best mason—mix another batch.

  “Yeah,” Kyle responded with a grin. “Sorry.”

  Ben shook his head. “No problem.” He pulled off his cap and T-shirt and mopped the dampness from his chest. Looking down at the mass of curly gray hairs that carpeted his softened flesh, Ben thought about the kind of sex Kyle must be having with Carrie—young, uninhibited sex that probably generated more heat that any steamy August morning. He wondered if he would ever make love with a woman again; he wondered if he would ever want to. In the two years since Louise had died, he’d hardly thought about it, as though grief had shut down his manhood, stripped him of his libido.

  Not that he hadn’t had opportunity. There were at least a dozen casserole-toting, over-forty women who had appeared at his door more than once since Louise died. Women like Rachel Bowen, the never-married neighbor with island-scrubbed skin, long, gathered skirts, and a soft smile that tried to hint she would make a fine wife. But even her best macaroni and cheese could not create a stir below his belt.

  Still … he thought, tugging the damp shirt over his head once again … the idea of a body as firm and lust-filled as Carrie’s …

  “Shit,” he said aloud and shook his head quickly. The heat must really be getting to him. The only thing this body was good for now was staying alive, keeping his shit together, and trying to make at least one dream come true. As long as Kyle was busy for lunch, he might as well drive cross-island to Barbara Jean’s coffee shop for a tuna sandwich, and see if Dave Ashenbach was around. It was time Ben Niles confronted his enemy one-on-one. What the hell, things couldn’t get any hotter than they already were.

  Barbara Jean’s was another hole-in-the-wall diner the tourists avoided, which was fine with Barbara Jean and with the couple of dozen locals who depended on its five A.M. opening for their breakfast, and on being able to grab a sandwich from eleven to two.

  Inside the linoleum-floored, Formica-shiny restaurant, only two of the eight chrome-and-vinyl stools were vacant. As Ben made himself comfortable on one, he noticed that Dave Ashenbach—that beer-bellied son of a town father—was holding court at the corner table, where he’d probably been since 1953.

  “Afternoon, Ben,” Barbara Jean said, her white apron stained from the grill, her pencil poised over a small pad. “What’ll it be?”

  Barbara Jean Rogers had been one of the few “available” ladies who had not pursued Ben after Louise’s death. But then, she probably had her fill of island men day in and day out.

  “Tuna on white toast,” Ben said. “And coffee.”

  “Soup?”

  Boisterous laughter came from Ashenbach’s table. Ben wondered if the man was talking about him. His stomach tightened. “No,” he answered. “The sandwich is fine.”

  Barbara Jean ripped off the page and clipped it on the circular metal stand that stood at a window that opened into the kitchen. Ben took off his cap and set it on the counter. Then he swiveled on the stool, stood up, and walked to where Ashenbach sat.

  If the man saw him coming, he didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Dave,” Ben said as he reached the table for four.

  The man took a bite of a thick burger. Its juice ran down his fingers to his wrist. “Yeah?” he asked between chews.

  Ben stiffened at the knees. “I’d like to talk to you about Menemsha House.”

  Ashenbach laughed. A piece of burger shot from his mouth onto his ragged beard. He didn’t bother to brush it away. “You talked to the zoning board,” he said, his eyes fixed on the man who sat across from him. “You heard what they said.”

  “I heard the runaround. I’ve come up with some options, but there’s no point in going forward with them if you’re going to fight me.”

  The beer-belly grinned. “What makes you think I’m going to fight you?”

  “Because someone wants to stop me. I assumed it was you.”

  Ashenbach pushed back his chair and looked at Ben. “Look, Niles, I don’t really give a shit what you do with that house. As long as you stay the hell off my land.” He turned around and sunk his teeth into his burger again.

  “Sandwich is up,” Barbara Jean called to Ben.

  Ben turned to her. “Wrap it, please. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  She had on the sexiest thing she owned: a fitted white tank dress with a neckline down to there and hemline up to here. Rita apprised herself in the full-length mirror behind her bathroom doo
r and smiled. She knew she didn’t look forty-three. Hell, in this outfit, she barely looked thirty. Still, it was a good thing Kyle was at work: she’d rather not have him see how decidedly trampy she looked. There were some things a mother just shouldn’t reveal.

  Clipping on two-inch gold earrings, she fluffed her red curls and touched up her eyeliner. Joe Geissel would squirm. The only thing she hadn’t decided was if she’d let him screw her before or after she told him about the Martins’ offer. The two-million-dollar offer that was going to change her life.

  But she had to move fast. The Martins were returning to Brookline on Sunday. It was already Wednesday, and Rita had to finalize things before then. She didn’t want them going home, thinking it over, changing their minds.

  She grabbed her purse from the vanity and went down the slanted stairs of the old saltbox. As she opened the front door, the phone rang. She sighed a moment, wondering if she should answer it. It could be the Martins. It could be the IRS. More than likely, it was some pushy telemarketer calling to say she’d won some stupid prize.

  She shrugged and went out the door, letting her answering machine deal with whoever the hell it was.

  The best part about Wednesdays was that Joe was rested from his golf game on Tuesday, unpressured with “family” obligations until Friday, and horny as hell. Hump Day, was what they’d called Wednesday when Rita was a school kid. She laughed as she maneuvered the car onto the road toward West Chop. Little had Rita and Jill known then that Rita would have taken that meaning literally.

  A slow ache crawled through her belly as she thought of Jill again. Thankfully, the distraction of fighting for her life had left little time for Rita to think about her long-lost friend. And Kyle had been seeing so much of his girlfriend that Rita had been spared listening to an elaborate narration of how wonderful Jill McPhearson was, what a gorgeous house she had, and what an exciting life she led. Kyle, the common laborer, had hopefully not attracted Jill’s attention. And hopefully, Jill had not learned that Rita was his mother.

  As she wove her way through the snaillike traffic, Rita wondered when she and Jill had each changed so much, why the friendship that Rita had cherished since kindergarten had grown uncomfortable, then distant, then disintegrated altogether.

  She thought about the sixth-grade talent show that Jill had talked her into doing. Rita’s mother had made them costumes—black tights and jackets covered with sequins and glitter. They had wobbled on stage together—Jill loving the attention, Rita trying to camouflage her inner terror.

  Me and My Shadow. Together they had crackled out the song, in tune with their clumsy dance steps, waving their canes and tipping the top hats that Rita’s mother had made from plastic milk jugs covered with black felt. They’d worn red lipstick and rouge, and looked quite terrific. But when Rita, the “shadow,” got too close to Jill’s cane, she tripped and fell to her knees. The music abruptly stopped; silence hung in the small auditorium. Pain shot through Rita’s legs. She glanced up at Jill. Her best friend looked panic-stricken. Slowly, Rita pulled herself up, pasted a smile on her face, and bowed. Their teacher, Miss Topor, proudly stood and led the applause in the small auditorium.

  Me and My Shadow.

  She should have known then that Jill was destined for greatness, that Rita would forever be in the background, trying to pull herself up. But had that meant they could not be friends? What had really happened? Rita wondered as she turned down the road toward Joe’s estate. Why did best friends lose what they had?

  Since Jill, Rita had never let herself become close to another female, not, in fact, close to anyone. She supposed that Jill had made another best friend, someone with smarts more like her own, someone who wasn’t satisfied with life as it was, making penuche for shut-ins and scraping by to make a buck. A woman someone very much unlike Rita, who needed to do whatever it took to protect her secret, to protect her son, and had been dumb enough to get into trouble with the IRS.

  She parked the Toyota and sat for a moment, trying to refocus on why she was here. Joe. The money. The Martins’ offer. The chance to quit that god-awful job at the tavern and keep Jill Randall McPhearson where she belonged—in the back of her mind, along with the rest of her past.

  She took a deep breath and summoned every cell of courage that swam within her island blood. Then Rita got out of the car and walked toward the back of the house. As her high heels crunched on the gravel driveway, she prayed that Joe would agree to the offer, and that she hadn’t worn the world’s sexiest dress for nothing.

  Reaching the back door, she smiled. Joe tried so hard to be macho, the way he always waited for her to ring the bell, for him to politely answer the door, as though he hadn’t been expecting her, as though he hadn’t been waiting, drooling, watching out an upstairs window for her arrival.

  From behind the door, Rita heard footsteps. She straightened her dress, smoothed it across her breasts. She shook back her red curls and readied her eager smile.

  The door opened. Rita smiled. Then her face froze. Joe was not standing in the doorway, an erection under his robe, a leer in his eyes. The person in front of her was not Joe at all. It was a woman. A goddamn woman dressed in beige linen shorts and a sleeveless silk shirt. A woman with perfect revitalizing makeup right out of the ads in Vanity Fair; a woman with soft-colored hair and what Rita would bet were real diamonds on her ears.

  The woman must be Madam.

  “Yes?” the woman asked. “May I help you?” Even the tone of her voice was subdued, confident, moneyed. Like someone who didn’t have to work for a living or be bothered to talk to anyone who did.

  Rita forced her face to move. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not sure.” Which, of course, was not a lie, for Rita had no idea what to do next.

  The woman folded her hands across her narrow waist. Rita was suddenly conscious of her hookerlike dress. She moved her large canvas bag in front of her, trying to hide everything that the dress clearly didn’t, trying to not feel inferior to this woman whose class so resembled what she had seen in Jill the other night. Jill McPhearson. The best friend who became too good for lowly Rita Blair.

  Anger heated her skin. Rita tossed back her curls again. She removed her bag from in front of herself. Bitch, she thought. No one is better than Rita, she said to herself. No one. Especially the wife of the man she was screwing.

  “My name is Rita Blair,” she said boldly. “I’m the owner of SurfSide Realty.” She wished she looked more professional; she wished she’d worn her damn blazer.

  The woman squinted in the sunlight. Rita had hoped there would be more crow’s-feet around her eyes. She cleared her throat.

  “I’ll come right to the point, Mrs.… is it Mrs. Geissel?”

  Madam nodded.

  “I have a party who is extremely interested in buying this property,” Rita said, wondering where the hell Joe was and why he was hiding when he probably knew damn well she was standing here with egg on her face and her spike heel in her mouth, “They’ve made a very substantial offer, and I wondered if you and your husband might be willing to speak with me a few minutes.”

  Madam smiled. “Someone wants to buy this house?” she said with a hint of condescension.

  “It’s a lovely property,” Rita squeaked. “But given the weak market today, I’m sure you’ll agree that my clients have made an astounding offer.”

  Madam smiled again. “Well, Ms. Blair, our house is not for sale.”

  Rita smiled back. “Oh, surely, Mrs. Geissel, everything is for sale when one hears what someone else has to offer. Perhaps if you talked it over with your husband …”

  “Sorry,” Madam said as she began to close the door. “As I said, our house is not for sale.”

  She closed the door. Rita stood mute, the sixth-grader embarrassed by what she had done, the scene she had caused, the obviously second-class person that she was.

  Jeff had called to say he’d made friends with a couple of boys who played volleyball on the beach: a summer k
id and a townie, who were going to teach him to windsail—something certainly healthier for him than staying tied to his computer. As she dug window cleaner and furniture polish from the utility closet, Jill realized he hadn’t even asked what time the phone man was coming to hook up the additional line.

  Amy rounded the corner with a towel in one hand and a pout on her face. “What are you doing?” she asked Jill.

  “I’ve got to clean the spare bedroom for Addie next week.”

  “Can’t you pay someone to do that?”

  Jill laughed and shook her head. Her kids definitely weren’t island kids. Her kids definitely weren’t Florence Randall’s. An unexpected knot formed in Jill’s stomach.

  “I’m going out back to get some sun,” Amy said. “If that’s all right with you.”

  The sarcasm was evident, but Jill would not acknowledge it. She rubbed her stomach and tried to smile. “Of course it is, honey. Just stay out of the way of the workmen.”

  Amy strutted out the back door.

  Jill gathered the cleaning tools and headed for the room at the back of the house. As she opened the door, a thick haze of dust enveloped her. She coughed and rubbed her eyes. In the darkness, she saw only shadows. Crossing toward the windows, she pulled up the shades. Sunlight strained to permeate the film of age covering the glass, casting an eerie sepia tone over stacks of old magazines on the small twin bed, atop a cherry bureau, and across the hi-fi. But as Jill looked around, her eyes rested on the black Singer sewing machine that stood in the corner and was coated with a thick white layer of unuse. This was where Florence had sewn so many of Jill’s clothes: shapeless plaid jumpers for the first day of school, straight wool skirts and blouses with bows. Clothes that never quite looked like the ones in the shops on Circuit Avenue.

  She wondered if Florence had ever made clothes for Robbie.

  Quickly turning back to the window, she sprayed a heavy mist of cleaner, ripped off several paper towels, and began to scrub, thinking of how much she’d hated those clothes, how ordinary they had made her feel, and how sick she had become each time she was upstairs in her room and could hear the quiet hum of the Singer below. It always meant she’d have to thank her mother for making her a new outfit, to pretend as though it were something special. She never dared to tell her mother how she’d really felt: it wouldn’t have been right.