by Jean Stone
“This time,” she whispered into the wind, “you’re wrong.”
Without turning around, she sensed the crowd behind her swell. The level of laughter and talking rose; the sounds of feet shuffling and cameras clicking were all around her. She gripped the rail and waited for the engines to roll over, hoping, beyond hope, that she would not puke. For someone brought up by the sea, it always amazed her that seasickness seemed welded into her genes. She reassured herself that as long as she stayed topside, she’d be fine.
The engines, at last, rumbled. A veil of smoke spewed from below. Rita closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying to remember to look off to the horizon, to not look down, to not panic. She took a deep breath, just as she felt the floor beneath her move. She gripped the rail harder.
“Rita?” came a voice from behind her.
She quickly opened her eyes and turned around. The air around her swirled. Facing her were the Martins.
“We tried to call you,” the missus said. “You weren’t home.”
Rita touched her churning stomach, then forced a smile and tried not to think about the dizzying air. “No,” she said, “I’m not home. I have to make an emergency trip to Falmouth.” She looked over their shoulders, scanning the other passengers. Joe’s wife was not among them.
“When we didn’t hear from you we assumed …”
“I can’t tell you more, other than that my trip has to do with locking up your deal.” She looked off to the right. Still, no one who resembled Joe’s wife.
“Oh, how wonderful! We were afraid …”
Rita held her hand to her lips. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just taking a little longer than I hoped. Can you come back next weekend?”
“We hadn’t planned …” Mr. Martin said.
“I’ll pick up your tab,” Rita said quickly. “A room at the Charter House, complete with ferry tickets.” If she’d been a Catholic she’d have said a quick “Hail, Mary,” with the hopes that the owners of the Charter House remembered how many times when real estate was flourishing, Rita had thrown business their way.
“Well, if it would mean we could see the house.…”
“I’ll call you,” Rita said. “I promise. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go below and tend to business. I’ll be in touch in a day or two, okay?”
“Well …”
“I promise,” she repeated as she slipped away and headed for the stairs. Puking or not, she’d have to look for Joe’s wife on the lower deck.
Grabbing hold of the railing Rita gingerly made her way down the stairs. When she opened the door to the enclosed lounge, she knew her search was over: Joe’s wife sat on a bench, her aristocratic snot nose buried in a book.
Rita took another deep breath and looked out the window toward the horizon. If only she could see land, it might make it easier. But the fog was building; no land could be seen, no reassurance that solid ground would soon be beneath her feet.
Then she reminded herself that if she didn’t close this deal, she’d see more than land. She’d see a courtroom and cell bars and an IRS agent impounding her house. She moved to the bench. A college-age boy sat beside Joe’s wife, headphones glued to his ears, his ratty-looking sneakers marking the beat.
Rita tapped him on the shoulder. “Would you mind if I sat here?” She kept her gaze averted from Joe’s wife. “I’m not feeling well and I need to sit down.”
The boy looked perplexed.
Rita plucked an earphone from his ear. “Get up,” she commanded. “Or I’m going to throw up.”
The boy quickly rose and disappeared in the crowd.
Rita sat next to Joe’s wife and stared straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman set down her book.
“That was quite a tactic,” Joe’s wife said. “What other lengths do you go to to sell a house?”
Rita swallowed, surprised that the woman remembered her. But then, her damn hair was always a dead giveaway. There was simply no hiding for Rita Blair.
“What makes you think that’s why I’m here?” she answered. Hell, if this broad could be bold, so could she.
Joe’s wife laughed. “I own a marketing firm, Miss Blair. I deal with salespeople every day.”
Rita refused to act surprised that Joe’s wife had remembered her name.
“You’re not his first wife, are you?” Rita asked.
“What?”
“I said, you’re not Joe’s first wife. What are you? Number three? Four?”
The woman was silent.
“Why would you turn down a cool two million when it will only make it easier to split when it comes time for the divorce? The fact that you only come to the Vineyard on weekends tells me you really aren’t in love with the place. Or, perhaps, with your husband, either.”
Joe’s wife stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, and tried to squeeze past Rita.
Rita reached out and touched the wife’s arm. “You do know that while you’re in the city each week, your husband is very busy conducting his own business on the island, don’t you? His own, very personal business?”
The woman stiffened. “Look, you,” she said, pointing a sharp fingernail at Rita. “My husband, and my life, are none of your business. And if, for one minute, you think I’d do business with you, you’re wrong.”
Rita sighed. “Two million dollars. Cash. My bet is you could get it all if you played your cards right. Even though adultery is no longer grounds for divorce in the state of Massachusetts, I do believe Joe is from the old school. I’d take the cash if I were you, lady. And I’d take it fast.”
The woman wrenched her arm from Rita’s claws. Rita quickly stuffed a card in the pages of her book. “Think about it,” she said. “The market is bad. This is no time to walk away from a hot offer.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Call me by Tuesday, or the buyers are gone.”
As Joe’s wife stormed down the aisle, Rita stifled a swell of nausea and prayed that she’d gotten her point across, and that this damn boat would quickly find land.
Suddenly the bitch stopped and turned back. When she reached Rita, she leaned down and breathed into her face. “For what it’s worth,” she seethed, “I don’t know where you get your information, but I am my husband’s first and only wife. We have been married thirty-four years.” With a puff of her cheeks, she marched away, leaving Rita to feel like the stupid ass that she was for believing that bastard’s lies.
Chapter 14
Monday morning Jill dug through the mess in her mother’s sewing room, changed the bed, polished, and cleaned. She almost looked forward to Addie’s arrival tomorrow. It was time this house had some life, some people in it, other than tentative families and noisy workmen.
“You’d hate every minute of this, Mother,” she said as she took the bed pillows outside to air in the sun. But curiously, Jill no longer cared what her mother would think. Finally, she was beginning to see herself as her own person, undefined by Florence Randall, unrestricted by her mother’s expectations. It was while she was picking hydrangea blossoms to brighten Addie’s room that Jill realized the cloud of her mother had lifted, as though being with Rita had confirmed Jill’s sense of inner worth. With Rita’s no-nonsense attitude and free-spirited soul, her friend had the gift to make others feel special, to make them less troubled about themselves, about life. Whether Florence Randall had liked it or not, Rita was a good person. And so, for that matter, was Jill.
She went back into the house and found a vase for the flowers, feeling sad that she’d had a brother she would never know, feeling sad, somehow, for Florence, the woman who clearly blamed herself for his death. But was the death of one child any reason not to want another? And, once the second child had come, was that any reason to … to what? What had her mother thought of Jill? Had she never been able to love her, the way she’d loved Robbie?
She put the flowers in the guest room and decided she needed to know. Maybe now—when Jill was feeling good about herself—maybe now she h
ad the strength to learn more.
She took a deep breath and went up the stairs, back to the widow’s walk, back to the past.
Sept. 14, 1953
My stomach is so huge I can hardly stand it. I don’t remember being this uncomfortable with Robbie. It’s so hot here on the island, so hot in our room upstairs. I can’t sleep at night. Sometimes I come outside and sit here on the lawn, and pray for this to be over soon, pray that I will have this baby and get it over with.
I’d prayed for a miscarriage, too. But that didn’t work either.
Jill bit her lip and wondered how Rita would react if she were sitting beside her now.
“Holy shit,” Rita would probably say. Imagining those words gave Jill the courage to read on.
Nov. 4, 1953
Well, I did it. I had a daughter last night. George is elated. He sat by my hospital bed and held my hand the whole time, though I’ve no idea why.
His parents are thrilled, too. As for me, I just want them all to leave me alone. I just want to sleep. I just want to sleep.
Feb. 17, 1954
Mother Randall is a much better mother than me. She knows how to hold the baby so she won’t cry; she knows how to sing to her, how to rock her. I don’t know why I can’t do these things. I think I did them with Robbie. It’s so hard to remember now. It was all so long ago. He would have been eight years old this summer. I wonder what he would look like. I wonder what he would think of his baby sister.
We call her Jill. She is rather pretty, and I guess she’s a good baby. But every time I look at her I can only see Robbie. I am glad Mother Randall doesn’t feel the same way. She tells me I’ll feel better in the spring, when I can get out of the house and walk Jill in the carriage. But I don’t want to walk her in the carriage. I don’t want to ever leave the house with her, the two of us alone. I can’t be trusted to do that. Maybe Mother Randall will walk her, if I ask her nicely.
July 12, 1954
Today is Robbie’s birthday. No one seems to remember but me. Mother Randall took Jill to the church fair today, I’m glad she loves my baby so much.
George’s father died in April, and taking care of Jill gives Mother Randall something to do. It is best, for both of them, if I don’t interfere.
I think I will make chicken soup today. I wish the beach plums would hurry and ripen so I can get started on the jelly Mother Randall showed me how to make.
Jill shut the book and closed her eyes. Slowly, she rose and went to the windows overlooking the town. She tried to remember her grandmother. She did not. Looking off toward the white-steepled church, Jill only remembered being very young, standing in a church pew, with Mother on one side, Daddy on the other. She remembered holding Daddy’s hand. She remembered organ music and the strong scent of flowers and the dim lights and the sounds of crying. Somehow, Jill knew it was her grandmother’s funeral. But she had no recollection of the woman who had loved her so much, had cared for her when her own mother was unable.
She folded her arms and stared out over the town. Tears ran down her cheeks. Unable, she thought. Florence Randall had not loved her daughter because she had been unable.
But a woman had loved Jill. A woman had taken care of her; nurtured her, loved her. The grandmother who had gone too soon to have been more than a memory of death.
Jill sucked in her breath and wondered why no one had helped her mother, why no one had known she needed help. Why hadn’t her grandmother done something? Why hadn’t her father?
It was the 1950s, Rita would rationalize in her pragmatic way. It was the 1950s and no one knew about stuff like that.
Sadly, Jill knew that Rita would be right.
She brushed away her tears, knowing she had read all she could read for one day, feeling her strength diminished, her good mood deflated. Setting the diary back in the trunk, she stared at it a moment, then rose and crossed to the stairs, leaving the widow’s walk behind.
At the foot of the steps, voices came from Amy’s room.
“Trust me, Amy,” Jill heard Carrie say. “The photo shoot will be great. I’ve done a million of them.”
Jill paused, hung her head, and resolved to be a better mother to Amy, to let her daughter know that she was truly loved. She never wanted her daughter to wonder why she had been born, or who she could turn to in a moment of need.
Rounding the corner, she walked down the stairs. All she wanted now was some fresh air and some peace. She’d give anything to get back to work.
It had been awkward as hell working with Kyle today and not telling him about Carrie’s visit last night and that maybe Kyle should consider dating a girl a little less … friendly. Rather than have to keep facing the kid, Ben had sent Kyle over to Menemsha House to pick up a couple gallons of the wood sealant he was storing there.
Standing in the backyard at Jill’s house now, eyeing samples of windowsills, he wondered why the hell he felt guilty. He hadn’t, after all, succumbed to Carrie. Exciting as it might have been, he would have had to face himself in the mirror in the morning when he shaved.
He picked up a sill with a deeper ledge and decided it would be best for Jill’s house. The authentic ones were nothing more than a casing, and people today liked to have a place to put white candles in their windows at Christmas. He could save the real thing for Menemsha House, if it ever happened. And when Kyle returned, he could send him off again—this time to buy the rest of the sills.
He chuckled to himself as he set down the casing, took out his notebook, and calculated the number that needed replacing, wondering how many errands it would take before he could look at Kyle eye-to-eye again. Hopefully, after the zoning board meeting tonight, Ben’s thoughts would be pleasantly diverted, despite Carrie’s come-on, despite Carrie’s warning.
The sound of the screen door closing made him turn his head. Jill stood on the back step, looking past him, looking deep in thought. She was dressed like an islander today—denim shorts that made her long, lean legs glow in the sunlight, a pale yellow T-shirt that showed the outline of a lacy bra underneath. Ben felt a slow heat rise in his loins. He quickly turned his gaze back to his notebook.
“No sawing today?” Jill’s voice called out.
“Trying to find a stopping place so we’ll leave you alone for a couple of days.” God, he thought, he must be losing his mind. It wasn’t hard to remember that was what happened when your dick started ruling your brain.
She moved off the steps and walked toward him. “I’m really sorry for the inconvenience.”
He tried to smile. “You’re the boss.”
She peeked down at his notebook. “How did you get into this? Restoring old houses?”
His eyes caught the look of those soft, smooth hands. He gripped his pen. “Twenty questions again?” His nostrils filled with a light, refreshing scent, as though she’d bathed in something called “Spring Mist” or “Morning Dew.”
“Sorry. It is curious, though. There are so many home remodelers and contractors, but I get the feeling that what you do is different.”
“I restore. Authentically. For the most part.”
“For the most part?”
Ben stood. “Take these windowsills of yours.” He breathed deeply to clear his head, then quickly explained why he’d chosen the more up-to-date version.
“I suppose it makes sense. So what I’m getting is a Ben Niles watered-down version.”
Staring at the sills, Ben wondered why he’d forgotten that women could be so … infuriating. “What you’re getting is Ben Niles for the nineties,” he answered sharply, not bothering to add that the work would still have the Ben Niles imprint; that it would still mean something, totally authentic or not. He shoved his notebook into his pocket. “As soon as we’re done here, there’s a place on Nantucket we’ll be doing—everything authentic, from the nails we’ll be hammering to the tools we’ll be using. Hand-wrought adzes. Wood chisels. That sort of thing.”
“No power saws?”
“Nope. Not
a one.”
She brushed back her hair. A thin line of perspiration lined her brow. “It’s too bad I can’t do a story on you,” she said.
Ben laughed. “I get enough publicity, thanks.”
“I could have before, but I guess we’re changing our format a little.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. Nor did he care. He only wished she would leave.
“Of course,” she added with a grin, “if you were to shoot someone, our producers might reconsider.”
He laughed again. “I think I’ll pass.”
“If you change your mind, let me know. But right now, I guess I’d better let you get back to work. I’ll see you Thursday, right?”
“Thursday,” he confirmed. “Have a good photo shoot.”
She turned and headed for the water. As Ben watched her leave, watched the easy gait of her steps, the slight sway of her back, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what he would have done if instead of Carrie at his door last night, it had been Jill.
He bundled up the plans along with his proposal for the school buses and checked the clock over the refrigerator. Eight-fifteen. Forty-five minutes to kill until the zoning board would begin hearing proposals.
Ben let out a sigh and decided to go out to the workshop and putter around until it was time to leave. He’d never been one for sitting still, especially when there was something to be nervous about. As he went out the back door into the dusk, he wondered if Carol Ann would show up at the meeting. He hadn’t told her he was going back: no doubt, however, she’d seen his name on the agenda. If they’d bothered to add it to the list.
In the dimness of the workshop, Ben picked up the antique wood chisel, feeling the coolness against his palm, the smooth curve of the wood handle, the familiarity of the tool that had most likely spent more time in his hand than in its original nineteenth-century owner’s. Running his finger along the tip, he felt its dullness, then walked to the sharpening table.