Places by the Sea

by Jean Stone

  She was in the clear. At least about Kyle, Rita was in the clear.

  She stared across the water and hugged her arms around herself. Jill had never known why Rita had left the Vineyard; she’d never known that Rita had been pregnant. Her secret was safe now, safe forever.

  And Jesus, it felt good to have a friend again.

  Chapter 13

  After Jill picked her up, they swung by the tavern where Rita broke the news to Charlie. “I’m not punching in tonight. Got something important to do,” she said quickly and rejoined Jill in the monstrous white Range Rover, not caring that Charlie had a look on his face that said he could kill. Wednesday night or not, August was no time to ditch work.

  On the way out to Gay Head, Rita tapped her fingernails on the dash and hummed to the sound of the radio.

  “I think Charlie’s still a little in love with you,” Jill said.

  Rita laughed. “Charlie Rollins? God, Jill, you’re dreaming.” She turned her eyes to the side window so Jill wouldn’t see her face.

  “He was a nice guy, though. Still is.”

  “He’s an upstanding citizen is what he is. He doesn’t only own your father’s tavern, he’s a town selectman now.”

  “He told me. He also said he never married.”

  “Guess not,” Rita replied, then looked back to Jill. She hadn’t seen her in over twenty-five years, and didn’t feel like talking about Charlie Rollins. “And you’re about to do it for the second time.”

  “Do what?”

  “Get married.” The words stuck in Rita’s throat. She didn’t know why. But even from here, she could see the sun shoot shards of color off the bowling-ball diamond on Jill’s finger.

  “Yes. But this time I’m getting married for the right reasons.”

  Rita nodded but didn’t feel the need to respond. Jill, after all, had always done everything for the “right” reasons. Her right reasons, anyway.

  “You haven’t told me if you ever married, Rita.”

  There. Well, Jill had spoken the words, asked, in her own way, the question. Rita shifted on the leather seat, reached up, and curled a lock of hair. “Yeah, well, sure,” she lied, wondering if Jill would still be able to see through her lies. “It was a long time ago, though.”

  “Who was it? Anyone I know?”

  She pulled her feet onto the dash, studied the pink-tipped toenails that poked through her sandals and needed another coat of polish. “No. A guy from Worcester. He went to Vietnam and never came back.” It had been a long time since Rita had needed to tell the lie. She hoped Jill didn’t pressure her for the details.

  “Oh, God. That’s terrible.”

  “Like I said,” Rita continued, dropping her feet to the floor once again, “it was a long time ago. Another life.” She looked out the window as they wove around the curve toward Lighthouse Road. “I’ve got a kid.”

  “Rita! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Rita shrugged.

  “A girl?”

  She shook her head. “Boy.”

  “How old is he?”

  She hesitated, then blinked. “Twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five? My God, you’ve got a twenty-five-year-old son?”

  A picture of Kyle came into Rita’s mind. Strong, handsome Kyle. Her son. Her kid. “Yeah.” She turned to Jill. “Imagine that. I could be a grandmother even.”

  “A grandmother? God, Rita …”

  “Well, I’m not. At least not that I know of.”

  Jill laughed. “God, this is exciting. I can’t believe you have a son. What’s his name? What does he do?”

  “Funny you should ask. His name is Kyle, he works for a guy named Ben Niles, and right now I do believe he’s busy at Jill McPhearson’s house—getting it ready to sell so she can leave me again.”

  He wasn’t going to let Ashenbach win. Ben pushed his supper dishes aside and set the calculator on the kitchen table. On his way home he’d stopped at O’Briens’ and had them write up a quote for school buses—he could, he knew, buy them cheaper off-island.

  But Ben was determined to do everything it took to play the game. In fairness, the fact that he’d never felt like he’d been accepted on the Vineyard was probably as much his fault as theirs. He’d spent so much time and effort with summer people, had received so much publicity about his work on the lavish homes and mega-million-dollar estates on the Cape and Islands, it should be no surprise that no one thought he’d ever put down roots here.

  But he had, damnit. He’d raised a family here, buried his wife here. Christ, his grandchildren were born here. The Vineyard was his home, and he was damn well going to let everyone know it. Starting with the zoning board, and ending, if it came to that, with Dave Ashenbach’s ass plunked squarely on the next ferry out of here. Dave Ashenbach, or whoever the hell his enemy was.

  He did a rough estimate on bus insurance, maintenance, gas, and drivers’ wages. He studied the total: the annual cost would be staggering. But hell, the ridiculous fees he was paid had to mean something, something more worthwhile than another stack of savings bonds in his safe deposit box. There was plenty there already for the grandkids … now it was Ben’s turn, Ben’s time.

  The gentle sounds of Shumann’s The Merry Peasant drifted from the CD in the living room. Ben smiled, knowing he was finally merry, and that he was a far cry from a peasant. And no matter what Carol Ann thought, Louise would have been proud that he’d stuck to his guns and worked out a plan. He thought of his wife a moment, then realized that the pain inside his gut was not as bad as it had been last month, or the month before. And that little lump in his throat seemed to have eased. Perhaps the grief was lifting. Perhaps Ben Niles would survive without his wife—his love, his support, his greatest companion. Perhaps he would survive without her after all.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. Ben sighed and rubbed his hand across his hairline that was ever-so-slowly creeping toward oblivion. He glanced at the teak-carved clock over the refrigerator: eight-fifteen. Too late for Rachel Bowen and her casserole-of-the-week.

  He rose from the chair and went to the back door. Through the white café curtains he saw a figure standing in the dusk, a female, her head turned from his view. Well, he thought, he was right about one thing. It certainly wasn’t Rachel Bowen. He turned the knob and opened the door.

  “Well,” he said with all the poise that he could muster, “what brings you to Oak Bluffs, Carrie?”

  The girl snapped around and flashed a huge, full-lipped smile. “Hi, Ben. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He tried not to notice that she wore short shorts and a white T-shirt with no bra. He kept his gaze fixed on hers, but the image of her young, firm thighs did not escape his eye. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “What can I do for you?”

  She swept a lock of hair from her face. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  Did he mind if she came in? God, he moaned somewhere deep inside. “Sorry, Carrie, but the house is a mess. I’m working.” Was he really saying these words? Was Ben Niles really forgoing the chance to be alone with the one piece of female flesh who had stirred his groin for the first time in two years?

  “Please?” she asked in a whisper so low he could hardly hear it.

  Across the way, a lamp went out in Rachel Bowen’s kitchen. Ben watched a silhouette move across the Cape Cod, ball-fringed curtains: a silhouette of a woman, the best offer he’d had. Until now. He shifted on one foot. “No date with Kyle tonight?”

  Carrie pouted. “Kyle’s filling in for his mother at the tavern. She took the night off or something.”

  He nodded.

  She swept back that hair again, then looked down to her chest and brushed a nonexistent bug or a piece of lint from the dark nipple that poked against her tight T-shirt—the nipple that Kyle, most likely, knew so well.

  Ben slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Can you make this quick, Carrie? I’m working.”

  “It’s too late to be working,” she s
aid with a smile. “What you need is a break.”

  What I need is a cold shower, he thought, but answered, “No breaks tonight. I’m too far behind.”

  Carrie pouted again. “I really wanted to talk to you about Menemsha House.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What do you know about Menemsha House?”

  She grinned. “Let me in, and I’ll tell you.”

  His misguided lust gave way to anger. “Stop playing games, Carrie. What do you know?”

  The corners of her mouth tightened. “I know you need zoning board approval.”

  “So?”

  “So I came to tell you if there’s anything I can do to help … or my father …” Her grin vanished altogether. “But seeing as how you’re such an asshole, forget it.”

  Ben laughed. “Thanks anyway, but I’m all set.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Then let’s just say I have a plan they won’t be able to refuse.”

  Carrie dropped her gaze to the step on which she stood. “Be careful, Ben. I’d hate to see Kyle lose his job because his boss did something stupid.” She lifted her eyes again, then backed down the steps. Without another word, she sprinted toward the red, red Porsche, jumped inside, and gunned the engine—emitting the unmistakable, unmatchable rumble-hum-rumble that only a Porsche can have.

  Ben stayed in the doorway after she’d left, wondering why in the hell she had really come, and what in the hell she had meant.

  It was almost as though they’d never been apart. Jill and Rita went shopping together, had lunch together, romped through the dunes, barefoot together, as if they were twelve again, as if they had never not been best friends. On Sunday afternoon they went to the beach and sipped a pitcherful of daiquiris that Rita had whipped up in the blender at home. Jill coated her face with more sunscreen and turned down the volume on Rita’s portable radio.

  “You’ve done such a great job with Kyle, Rita,” she said. “You are to be congratulated.”

  Rita laughed and rolled onto her back. “I won’t be doing such a great job if I don’t get back to work soon. I should be showing houses today, not hanging out.”

  “From the sounds of your life you haven’t hung out since we were kids. Maybe it’s time.”

  “I barely had time to hang out then.”

  Jill scanned the beach. Across from them were two teenage girls, giggling. Jill wondered if they were best friends, and hoped they would never drift apart. For even though she and Rita were reunited, Jill still hadn’t mustered the strength to tell her about the diary. It was too private, too painful. So painful she was not able to tell the one person to whom she had once been able to tell everything.

  “I thought boys would be harder to bring up than girls,” Jill said, brushing sand from her leg. “But Jeff seems to be doing just fine. It’s Amy I’m having trouble with.”

  “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  Jill laughed. “Too beautiful for fourteen. That makes me nervous. I feel so … inexperienced.”

  “Hey,” Rita said as she sat up and took another sip from the thermos. “Our mothers didn’t have any experience either. And we turned out all right.”

  Scooping a fistful of sand, Jill sifted it through her fingers. It was the perfect time to tell Rita about the diary. And if she didn’t tell someone soon, Jill felt as though she might burst. She opened her mouth to speak, just as Rita laughed.

  “Then again,” Rita said, “our mothers probably never worried about how we’d turn out. Back in the dark ages when we were kids, they just kept going and expected we’d be fine. I think everyone analyzes things too much today. I think everyone should spend less time dwelling on shit and just live.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Jill answered. Maybe she was dwelling too much on the diary. Maybe she should give it up, let it go. Like everything else. There was nothing she could do to change it, or no one she could learn more from. Her mother’s sister, Myrna, may still be alive, somewhere. But Jill had never met the woman, had no idea where she lived. What’s done was, apparently, very done. The way her mother had wanted it.

  “Living is tough enough without making more out of it than we need to,” Rita continued.

  Jill looked toward the teenagers again. When she and Rita had been that age, they could never have dreamed that their lives would have turned out the way they had. She turned back to Rita. “Are you okay, Rita? I mean, are you really okay? Emotionally? Financially?”

  “Sure, kid. I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to list the house with you, you know.”

  Rita lay back down on the blanket. “Thanks,” she said. “I think it’ll be an easy sell.”

  Jill pulled her knees to her chest. “I hope so. I’m really excited about marrying Christopher. I’m excited about our new life.” It was too soon to tell her about the RueCom deal. It was too soon to tell her about L.A. She didn’t want to alienate Rita again, make her feel that Jill thought she was better than her.

  “I’ve got a couple of hot buyers on my heels right now,” Rita said.

  “For my house?”

  “No. One over in West Chop. The only trouble is, the owner doesn’t want to sell. Neither does his wife.”

  Jill laughed. “Leave it to you.”

  Rita sat up again. “Well, shit, it’s a two-million-dollar deal. They’ve made an offer without even seeing the inside. I really want to pull it off.”

  “If I know you, you’ll think of a way.”

  “I’ve been sleeping with the guy all summer. That hasn’t worked.”

  “Rita! You’ve been sleeping with someone because you want to sell his house?”

  Rita smirked and looked at Jill. “Hey, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.”

  Jill slapped the edge of Rita’s arm. “I don’t believe you!”

  “Believe it, kid. It hasn’t been all work, though. He’s a pretty good lay.”

  “God!” Jill moaned and flopped against the blanket.

  “Hey, what’s the difference? You’re sleeping with the guy who’s going to move your career forward.”

  “I’m not just sleeping with him, Rita, I’m going to marry him.”

  “And you didn’t sleep with him before he proposed?”

  Jill laughed. “Okay, okay. But he wasn’t married.”

  Rita shrugged. “Semantics,” she said.

  Jill sat up again and took another sip of her daiquiri. “There must be other two million-dollar houses you can sell.”

  “Not with hot buyers.”

  “Well, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

  “You’re the one who always had the ideas, Rita. Besides, you’ve never been one to take no for an answer.”

  “I think I could get Joe to come around. His wife’s another story.”

  “Then come up with a way to convince her.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with her, too.”

  “God, Rita, you are incorrigible. You know what you need? You need a real life.”

  “I have a real life, thank you.”

  “No. I mean you need exposure to other things in this world. Other people besides …”

  “Besides islanders? Are we back to that? Jill wanting to escape from the Vineyard? Rita staying behind?”

  Jill turned to her. “Look, I’ve got an idea. Lifestyles magazine will be here Wednesday for a photo shoot of us. Christopher will be here, too. Why don’t you come over and watch? I’m not crazy about the whole thing, and I’d feel a lot better if you were there.”

  “And maybe I could meet some people from the real world?”

  Jill smiled.

  “Tell you what, kid. I’ll put in an appearance if you come with me later that night.”

  “Come where?”

  “To Oak Bluffs. Wednesday is Illumination Night.”

  Jill groaned. She’d forgotten about the Vineyard tradition—the lighting of the Japanese lanterns in the gingerbread houses that surr
ounded the Tabernacle in the Methodist campgrounds.

  “It’ll be like the good old days,” Rita said with a wink. “We can look for boys.”

  Jill shook her head, but managed to grin, as she wondered just how much more of the good old days she could stand.

  Rita decided to fight fire with fire. Jill was right about one thing: Rita Blair never liked taking no for an answer. Joe Geissel and his country-club wife should be no exception.

  Though Jill had tried to talk her into having pizza with her and the kids, Rita said she’d blown the whole day screwing around with Jill and that some of us had to work for a living. What Jill didn’t know as Rita waved good-bye was that she had no intention of working at the tavern tonight: she had, instead, finally come up with a plan to assure her the sale of the Geissel’s house, the solvency of SurfSide Realty, and the IRS away from her door.

  After leaving Jill’s, Rita drove home and changed into jeans, sneakers, and a lightweight sweater, then grabbed one of the tickets from her investment that had paid off after all.

  Maneuvering her car toward Vineyard Haven, she wished she’d thought to bring her yellow slicker. Clouds were rolling in, and there was nothing worse than being stuck in a heavy mist on the top deck of a ferry.

  Once on the pier, Rita flashed her resident’s ID and her precious Sunday night ticket. Thankfully, they gave her no flack.

  She quickly crossed the pavement and climbed up the steep stairs of the passenger entrance, hoping beyond hope that Joe’s wife had not changed her schedule again, that she would, as usual, be booked on the six-fifteen. Rita never understood why the woman didn’t fly back and forth to Boston, but then she’d learned long ago not to question the motives of tourists.

  Moving quickly to the upper deck, she pressed her way through the people and stood by the rail. There was no need to search for Joe’s wife yet: there would be plenty of time once they were under way, and no chance of Joe spotting Rita among the crowd, in case he’d come to see his darling wife off. He would, after all, never expect to see Rita here: he would assume she was doing her islander duties of serving up hamburgers and curly fries, staying out of the way of those more fortunate.