by Jean Stone
Right? she thought now. What was right? Was it right that Jill had a brother and no one had told her? Was it right that she had no idea who he was, where he was, if he was?
Stop it, she commanded herself. Stop thinking about them. Stop thinking about him.
The telephone rang. Jill dropped the paper towels and whisked from the room, grateful for the well-timed distraction.
It was Christopher.
“Hi. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.”
“How nice. Are you having a busy day?” She slid onto the cane-seated chair by the phone stand and curled her hair around her finger. She wanted to tell him about the diary, and about Robbie. But the words stuck in her throat, unable to rise to the surface, as though speaking them would make it … real.
It was easier to talk about work. “I came up with an idea for a story. One that Fischer should like.” Quickly she told him her concept about Ben. “Imagine,” she ended, “the home renovator to the stars, sequestered away on Martha’s Vineyard.” She waited for him to respond.
“Well, it might work,” he said finally.
Might?
“Do you know anything more about him?”
Her hopes that he would lighten her mood began to slide. “Not yet. I wanted to run it by you first.” That, of course, wasn’t true. Jill had rarely found the need to review her ideas with Christopher. After all, she was the reporter, not him. He was the baseball player who happened to have the Q-rating.
“Let me talk to Addie about it,” he said.
She shifted on the cane seat and stared at the old black phone.
“What are the kids up to today?” he asked, changing the subject in a flash.
She pulled her eyes away and hesitated, then decided it was pointless to argue over the phone. “Jeff is learning to windsail,” she said flatly. She looked out the window toward Amy who was stretched on a towel at the far end of the yard, her Walkman stuck to her ears. “Amy is annoyed at me again.”
“What now?”
“She met a girl I don’t want her to hang out with.” She turned from the window. “The girl is eighteen. She’s also Sam Wilkins’s daughter.”
“Sam Wilkins? As in Grammy-winning Sam Wilkins?”
“The one and only.”
“Jesus. I didn’t know he had a place on the Vineyard.”
“He probably came here to escape the scandal.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Well, word has it from his daughter that he’s planning a comeback.” She wondered why they were talking about Sam Wilkins when she’d rather be telling him about the way her head ached, the way her heart ached. She’d thought that doing a story on Ben Niles would help take up her time, take up her mind, take her thoughts off that damn diary and her mysterious brother. Maybe she should just tell Christopher and get it over with.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he said.
Jill winced at the abruptness of his voice.
“Maybe you could do a story on Sam.”
“He doesn’t give interviews, Christopher.” Anyone—everyone—in the business knew that. She stifled her annoyance at his ignorance—him, the one with the Q-rating.
“He will if he’s planning a comeback. It has national appeal, Jill. It would make Fischer a lot happier than a story about some builder.”
A story about some builder? Jill grasped the receiver more tightly.
“You’ve got to think big, Jill. You’ve got to take risks. That’s what RueCom expects.”
Her irritation grew. “What are you suggesting? That I walk up to his house, knock on his door, and say ‘Hi. You don’t know me, but if you give me an interview, it surely would make Maurice Fischer happy’?”
“Honey …”
“We do stories about real people, Christopher. Sam Wilkins is fluff entertainment. We don’t do fluff.”
“The way he destroyed his career was hardly entertaining.”
“Sensational crap, Christopher. Another thing that Good Night, Boston isn’t,” Jill bristled. “What’s wrong with my idea on Ben? I’m sure I could turn it into something of ‘national’ interest. Good news, remember?”
“Fischer wouldn’t see it that way. Besides, you couldn’t have a better connection to get to Sam Wilkins if you paid for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Amy. If you let her hang out with Sam’s daughter, it would be a perfect cover.”
Jill turned back to the window and gazed out at her daughter. She knew that Amy was miserable. She knew that Amy hated her again. She also knew that Amy was only fourteen. “Absolutely not,” Jill answered, then said she really had to get back to work and that maybe she’d call him later.
“I won’t be home until late,” he said, with only the slightest hesitation. “Lizette is having a few friends to her hotel suite for dinner.”
Chapter 11
She wasn’t going to think about it. She wasn’t going to think about the fact that she was stuck here on this island while her fiancé was cocktailing it up with the blond bimbo of the year. The blond bimbo who happened to work for Maurice Fischer and who no doubt knew her national stuff.
After hanging up the phone, Jill went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of iced tea, and wondered what she should do.
You’ve got to think big, Christopher had said. But was she capable of it? She had thought “big” in the past—first, when she knew there was a bigger life for her off the Vineyard, then when she went after a bigger job, moving from reporter to anchor. And Good Night, Boston had been a risk: the show could have failed; Jill could have been unemployed.
She took a big gulp of tea and realized she resented Christopher for telling her she had to take risks. Since leaving the island, every day of her life had been a risk.
Then again, Christopher had no way of knowing. She hadn’t really told him. Had she?
Setting the glass on the counter, Jill knew she hadn’t shared her pain for many reasons: most importantly, because she was intimidated by his past—one of four boisterous kids, raised by loving parents in a huge, always-active home, destined for stardom from his high school baseball days through to his television career. She hadn’t told Christopher about the pain of her struggle, because she’d been embarrassed by it. Embarrassed that she’d had to work so hard to be happy and successful, when it all came so naturally to him.
But now, she needed to measure up to his standards. She needed to prove that she could.
She looked out the window toward Amy again. Would there be any harm in letting her visit Carrie Wilkins? They’d only be here a few more weeks. Carrie was too old for her, true, but maybe a visit or two might be what Amy needed to perk her up, and make her not hate her mother quite as much.
Maybe Jill would get the story on Sam Wilkins.
Maybe Maurice Fischer would be pleased.
And maybe—just maybe—Christopher would be so impressed that he’d realize he loved her enough to keep his hands off Lizette French.
But was it worth sacrificing her daughter?
You never let me breathe, Mom. Amy’s words echoed in her thoughts.
Perhaps it was time to let go: let go of her old ways of writing her stories, her old ways of trying to be a good mother. As long as she was here to let go of the past, she might as well keep going. She might as well try to establish a better relationship with her daughter than she’d had with Florence; she might as well stop thinking of her mother.
And Robbie, she thought. Whoever he was.
The future, after all, was what mattered now.
Before she knew it, Jill walked out the back door, past the mess of sawhorses and lumber, past the thick clumps of hydrangea, past the past.
“Amy?” she asked as she approached her daughter. “I need your help.”
As old New England as the Randall home was, Sam Wilkins’s house was California moved east. It hadn’t been difficult to find: Carrie had told Amy they lived off Lighthouse Road, a
nd the sleek silver mailbox on the edge of the street had boldly read “Wilkins” as though it belonged to no one important, as though it marked the estate of someone named “Johnson” or “Brown” or “Adams,” not the Sam Wilkins of international—and infamous—fame.
Jill aimed the Range Rover toward the sprawling, glass, hilltop mansion fully aware that she was about to break the Vineyard’s unwritten code as a place where you could display your name without worrying about encroachers or nosy neighbors or media people intent on invading your privacy for the sake of a story. For the sake of their career.
The small seed of guilt that grew within her Jill quickly dispersed. Carrie, after all, had invited Amy. It wasn’t Jill’s fault that Amy’s mother just happened to work for the media. Besides, Sam Wilkins might not even be home.
She parked the vehicle and they got out.
“Why don’t you see if Carrie’s around? I’ll wait here.”
Amy skipped up the flagstone walk toward the huge double doors. Jill leaned against the Range Rover and took in the view of the ocean, so much more grand here than at the small harbor in Edgartown, so much more turquoise, so much more peaceful.
“Hi,” Jill heard Amy say. “I’m Amy McPhearson, Carrie’s friend. She told me to come over. Is she here?”
Jill turned and looked toward the door. Standing inside, looking at Amy, was Sam Wilkins himself—older than she remembered seeing him, silver-haired now, but still Sam Wilkins. Lanky, charismatic Sam Wilkins, with the sultry looks that carved his fame; the larger-than-life publicity icon; the difference between local and national interest.
She wondered if she should walk over and introduce herself.
“She’s down on the beach,” she heard Sam say. He stepped out the door. “I’ll show you how to get there.”
Jill stood up straight, wishing she’d taken the time to change her clothes and that she had pulled her hair from this juvenile ponytail. Addie would be appalled.
Sam guided Amy toward the side of the house, in Jill’s direction.
“Amy?” Jill called.
“Oh,” Amy said. “That’s my mom.” She smiled at Jill with a budding PR smile that hinted she was capable of following in her mother’s career footsteps. “Mom, is it okay if I go down to the beach?”
Jill braced a hand against the side mirror. “I’ll wait here to make sure you find Carrie.”
“Down those stairs,” Sam said, pointing to a wooden-railed stairway tucked in the dunes. “Just listen for loud music.”
Jill stepped forward. “If you want to stay awhile, that’s all right. I’ll pick up your brother, then come back and get you. Just let me know.”
Amy waved and trotted down the stairs, out of sight.
Sam walked over to Jill. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “Sam Wilkins.”
“Jill McPhearson,” she answered, shaking his hand, making a mental note of its large size, its softened skin.
A broad smile spread across his face. “Christopher Edwards,” he said.
“What?”
“Christopher Edwards. That’s where I’ve seen your face. In pictures with him.”
She laughed. “We’re getting married.”
He released his grasp. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She flicked her gaze across the expanse of land. “This is quite a place you’ve got here.”
“Care for the fifty-cent tour?”
“Sure.”
They walked to the edge of the dunes. Beneath them, the sea kissed a long strip of white sand. Off to the left, Jill could see the cliffs of Gay Head; to the right was another hill, marked by another enormous house, though this one appeared to be an old, Vineyard-style home. “You have an incredible view,” she said.
“It’s even better inside,” Sam said. “Follow me.”
She fell in behind him. They circled back to the front and went through the huge double doors of the house. Straight ahead, one massive, wide-sweeping room had a windowed, two-story wall.
“I love the sea,” Sam said. “Pacific. Atlantic. Makes no difference.”
“Do you sail?” Jill asked.
He shook his head. “I love looking at it. Not being on it. The sea’s like a woman. Fickle.”
Jill looked at him.
He laughed. “Sorry. No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Jill answered, and wondered why his words had come so quickly, and what the real story was that lay behind them—the real story, not the one beleaguered by the tabloids. “My daughter tells me you’re thinking of making a comeback.”
He looked out the windows. “Thinking, yes. Doing is another story. I’m working on it.”
“I’d better warn you,” Jill said, having learned long ago that directness was one thing a man appreciated, and that, coming from a woman, it usually took them off guard. “I’m in television. Entertainment type of news. Good news.”
He kept his gaze fixed on the sea. “I know that.”
Embarrassed, Jill didn’t know what to say.
“Would you like to see the rest of the house?”
She nodded. “Very much.”
The kitchen was a huge V-shape, at the center of which was a low table, in which was carved a barbecue pit. Jill wondered if this was an L.A. trend, if Lizette French had one, and if she and Christopher would if they had to move there, if RueCom offered them a deal, if Maurice Fischer thought Jill was good enough.
They moved through the house, room upon room, all airy and light, all decorated in southwestern-style pastels and clay pots, except for the enormous music studio, the walls and the ceiling of which were covered in black foam, the floor with thick charcoal carpeting. Upstairs, the master bedroom suite was incredible, with a fireplace that overlooked the sea. The second floor was molded against the slope of the dunes, with a walk-out deck that held an enormous hot tub.
“I’d show you the other bedrooms, but I’m sure Carrie’s is a mess. And I have guests in the others.”
“Well,” Jill said, “I wouldn’t want to disturb anyone.”
Sam nodded and led the way back to the first floor. As they entered the kitchen, a small man in a white robe and headpiece swept past them carrying a glass of orange juice. Jill sensed Sam stiffen. “Can I get you anything, Isham?” he asked the man.
The man grinned. “I am fine,” he said with a thick Arabic accent uncommon to the Vineyard. His eyes fixed on Jill.
“This is Jill McPhearson,” Sam said. “Her daughter is a friend of Carrie’s.”
The man nodded and left the room. Jill thought that for a house guest, Isham, whoever he was, certainly didn’t seem to be a close friend of Sam’s.
Just then the front door opened. “Mom?” Amy’s voice called into the hallway.
Jill walked toward the door.
“I found Carrie. Is it okay if I stay?”
“For a little while,” Jill answered. “I’ll be back to get you.” Amy raced out of view, and Jill turned to Sam. “I hope it’s no trouble having Amy here.”
Sam shrugged. “I’m only sorry you have to leave.”
Jill smiled, amazed at the possibility that the plan was going to work. She had made a good impression on the unreachable Sam Wilkins, and she just might get the story that Christopher wanted. But first, she would give Sam a little time to get to trust her. Then, the story would be hers. And Maurice Fischer would be thrilled.
After Jill picked up Jeff, she returned to Edgartown. She reasoned that she would never be able to think “big enough” if she didn’t overcome her fears: letting Amy spend a little more time with Carrie seemed like a good place to begin. Besides, she thought as they pulled into the driveway, it might help Sam get used to having a McPhearson around.
She only hoped she’d get as enthused about his story as she did with the ones that were her own ideas. She only wished she could have been doing this some place other than here. It was difficult being Jill McPhearson, the television star, while surrounded by the memories of Jill Ran
dall, the dejected child.
As they stepped from the Range Rover, a telephone company van pulled up in front of the house.
“Cool!” Jeff, sun-pinked and happy, called, racing to the man and letting him in the front door.
Jill decided to walk around the back of the house, to go to the harbor and watch the boats. It might help her formulate an angle for the Sam Wilkins story; it might help spark her creativity, stimulate her interest.
As she went through the backyard, Ben Niles was sitting on the sawhorse, a glass of water pressed against his brow.
“Hot day,” Jill said.
“August,” Ben answered. “Either this one’s the hottest in years, or it was easier to take when I was a kid.”
Jill smiled and kept walking. Then she stopped and looked down at her feet. When I was a kid. When had Ben been a kid? A chill cut through the heat and went to her heart. Whose kid was he? Jill stopped walking. She knew it was impossible. She knew it was crazy. Maybe the heat had fried her brain.
A shiver shook through her. She turned back to Ben. “I remember plenty of hot summers,” she said with what she hoped was a lighthearted laugh. “But then, I was born in 1953.”
“Well, I’ve got seven years on you.”
Seven years. She quickly subtracted, then caught her breath.
1946. The same year Robbie was born. She squeezed her eyes against the white-hot sun, then forced her people-pleasing smile. “Were you born on the Vineyard?”
“Nope,” he answered brusquely, as he rose and set down his glass. “I was a city boy.”
City boy? New York City? Her heart began to thump as she tried to remember if she knew what year her parents had come here. She could not. “New York?” she asked, her voice coming out in a rushed, quiet breath.