by Jean Stone
The late-summer sun cast a comfortable dimness across the small room. Slowly, Ben drew the tip along the bench stone, the way it had once been done, the way he still did it. Early tools, early methods. It was what he loved most, what made him an artisan instead of a builder. He half wished Jill McPhearson wasn’t leaving the island: he might have been able to convince her to do a story after all—not on Ben Niles, but on Menemsha House.
Apparently, though, in order to get that he’d have to shoot someone. Dave Ashenbach.
“No problem,” he said with a grin, and realized how pathetic the media had become.
Menemsha House would be genuinely newsworthy: young people studying the craft of their ancestors, learning that the best of everything did not necessarily come from an electrical outlet and was accomplished in record time. It was something Kyle was only now beginning to realize: Ben could see it in the boy’s sensitivity and in his dependable performance.
He turned the tip of the chisel over, drew it several times against the stone, and wished, once again, that Kyle had been his son, that he and Louise had had more children. In Baltimore, there hadn’t been time. With his long hours of training, Louise’s teaching schedule, and Carol Ann to take care of, the weeks, months, and years had too quickly slipped by.
When they settled on the Vineyard, Carol Ann was already six, nearly seven. By the time Ben’s business was under way, Carol Ann was almost ten, an age, they’d decided, that was too late to bring another child into the family. Louise, Ben suspected, had regretted it, too. But at the time she was trying to please him, and in truth, at the time, it was his work that pleased him most. His freedom to do what was so right for him, his opportunity to fine-tune his talents.
So there had been no other children besides Carol Ann. And she was a good daughter, despite the fact they didn’t always agree.
Ben smiled as he gently touched the tip of the now razor-sharp chisel and realized that sometimes he just liked to get Carol Ann going, liked to watch her cheeks turn pink, her muscles tense. It was the one time he could see himself in her, the one time that besides her looks, he was assured she was his child, too, not just Louise’s.
Just as Ben moved to replace the chisel in his wooden tool box, the door to the workshop creaked opened. He turned quickly, half expecting to see Carol Ann. Instead, a dark figure loomed in the shadow of dusk. A dark figure, wearing a ski mask.
“What the hell …” Ben muttered.
The figure thrust its arm toward Ben and locked around his throat. Ben jerked; the wood chisel slipped from his hand. He jabbed his elbow into the figure’s stomach. The figure groaned, spun Ben around, and shoved him against the workbench. Ben snapped up his knee and nailed him in the groin. They fell to the floor, pulling the Menemsha House plans down with them. Ben landed on his arm. Pain shot through him. Wood shavings stung into his eyes.
Know your enemies, came Noepe’s words. Ben struggled to raise his hand, fought to pull at the ski mask. Just then he saw the figure grab for the chisel. Ben rolled onto his side as another pain shot through him, this time through his shoulder. He reached up and felt the warm, sticky blood. His blood. Next to the blood was the chisel, sticking straight up from his flesh. He tried to rip it out; the figure quickly rose and ran from the workshop, the door slapped shut.
Ben lay on the floor, unable to move. The pain crept through his neck, up to his head, down his arm.
“Jesus Christ,” he said quietly, as finally the chisel let go and clattered to the floor. Another pain shot through Ben’s arm. He closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. Wood shavings touched his tongue. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered again.
The last thing he saw before everything went dark were the plans for Menemsha House, coated with his blood.
Chapter 15
Tuesday morning, Joe Geissel banged on Rita’s front door. She peered at him from the upstairs window, wondering if she should go downstairs.
“Mom?” Kyle called from the bedroom next door. “Someone’s at the door.”
Shit, Rita thought as the banging persisted. If she didn’t go downstairs, Kyle would. And there was no need for him to know about Joe—no reason to know how desperate his mother had become in order to protect their lives. It was just her dumb luck again that Kyle was home this morning, that he had the next two days off work at Jill’s. She pulled on her thin cotton robe, ran her hands through her curls, and went downstairs to face the wrath of the man who only last week had told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he screamed as she opened the door.
Rita stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “My son is inside,” she said. “Please keep it down.”
“I don’t care if the pope is inside. I want to know what the fuck you’re doing, and I want to know now.” His cheeks were puffed and red with rage, his eyes like little slits in the sunlight. As he shouted, his jowls flopped up and down against the collar of his plaid, short-sleeved shirt.
Rita folded her arms and leaned against the door. She hadn’t realized how old Joe was, how ugly. “I’m not going to speak to you until you calm down,” she said quietly.
He puffed his cheeks again, then dug his hands into the pockets of his chinos. Rita wondered how long it had been since she’d seen him in clothes, then was embarrassed for herself, that her life had been reduced to this.
“What are you doing, babe?” he asked. “Why’d you do this to me?” The redness began to fade from his cheeks.
“I’m just a working girl trying to make a living,” she said. “I thought you wanted to sell your house.”
“I hadn’t planned on getting a divorce in the process.”
Rita hid her inward smile. Sparks must have been flying over the line between Boston and West Chop yesterday. For that, it had been worth her little trip. For that, it had been worth staying up half of Sunday night puking. She looked out to the street, at Joe’s big Mercedes parked crooked on the dirt shoulder, and wondered if the neighbors wondered what a Mercedes was doing in their neighborhood, and if Rita had finally hit it big. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you slept with me,” she replied.
He steadied his slit eyes on her again. “I guess I should be more careful in my choice of partners. I thought I could trust you.”
She sneered. “You never planned to leave her, did you? Well, I’ve got news for you. I never thought you would. In fact, if you had, I wouldn’t have taken you. You’re just a used-up piece of shit scumbag, Joe. If you think for one minute I fell for your bullshit, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.” She wished her insides would stop squeezing together; she wished her head felt as confident as her words sounded.
“I told you I needed more time.”
“You told me a lot of things. Like this was the fourth Mrs. Joe Geissel. And that I was only welcome in your home from Monday through Friday. Do you think I’m stupid, Joe? Is that it?”
“Why did you go to her?”
“Maybe I wanted to see what she has that makes her better than me. Well, you know what? She has shit, Joe. She’s got a face like a truck and if her nose were any higher in the air, she’d take flight.”
He stared at her, his slit eyes opened wide now. The redness had come back to his cheeks.
Rita took a short breath and continued, before she lost her nerve. “I had a buyer for your house, you asshole. A two-million-dollar deal. But you know what? I wouldn’t sell it now if it were the last house on the Vineyard. I wouldn’t sell it if I was down to digging quahogs for dinner again. I don’t need your fucking money, and I surely don’t need you. Rita Blair will make it just fine without you.” She put her hands on her hips and turned to the door. “Now get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
With that, she went inside, slammed the door behind her, stood in the middle of the fraying, braided rug, and started to shake all over.
“Mom?”
Rita clutched the tie of her ro
be. “It’s okay, honey,” she called up the stairs. “It was just business.” She quickly tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but Kyle’s footsteps down the stairs beat her to it.
“Jesus,” he said as he looked at his mother, then darted to the front door. He ripped it open just as Rita heard the gravel spit from beneath the tires of Joe’s Mercedes. “What’s going on?” Kyle asked.
She kept her back to him and went into the kitchen. She stood at the sink a moment, then reached for the coffee maker. “I told you, Kyle. It was just business.” Her words sounded strong, her words sounded confident. She only wished her hands would stop shaking. Taking the coffee can from the refrigerator, she tried to scoop out the grounds. Half the tablespoon spilled out; brown granules skittered across the counter, then pinged onto the tired linoleum. “Shit,” she said as she dropped the measuring spoon into the sink and started to sob.
Kyle’s arm was suddenly around her. “Mom. God, are you okay? Who was that creep?”
“Just a sale gone bad. It’s not the first time.”
“It’s the first time you’ve reacted like this.”
An image of the IRS office came into her mind, followed by the scent of stale jailhouse air, the sound of a cell door slamming. “Oh, Kyle,” she cried, “I do believe your sainted mother has screwed up.”
He guided her to the table. “Sit down,” he ordered. “And tell me everything that happened.”
She sat. “Make some coffee,” she said. “Please.”
“Only if you promise to tell me the truth.”
Rita nodded and tried to collect her thoughts. She listened as Kyle poured water in the coffee maker, dug fresh grounds from the can. He deserved more than this for a mother, she thought for the thousandth time. He deserved a mother he could depend on, no matter how old he got, no matter what. In her selfish need to keep him from worrying the way she had always done with Hazel, Rita had gotten in over her head, bitten off more than she could chew, counted her chickens before they hatched. There was a reason, she realized now, that those old sayings were ever written in the first place.
But what had she done that was so wrong? She had only wanted to own her own business. When Franklin had gotten sick her opportunity was there—Rita Blair’s one chance to be somebody. Sure, she could have gone to work for one of the agencies on the island—it would have been easier. But this was her big break, her very own Good Night, Boston. SurfSide Realty was supposed to turn her life around.
Then the real money problems began.
She tapped her fingernail on the edge of the table and was amazed that she’d been too stupid to know that the one Peter you didn’t borrow from to pay Paul was the IRS.
Kyle set a steamy mug in front of her. Rita ran her thumb over the handle, looked into the dark liquid, and wondered how coffee would taste out of a tin cup.
Her son sat down and looked at her. “Well?”
She picked up the mug, took a short sip. “Well,” she said slowly, “I think I’m going to go to jail.” She set down the mug and kept her eyes fixed on it. She could not look at Kyle, she could not look at the son she’d tried so hard to protect.
“Mom, get real. You said you’d tell me the truth.”
“It is the truth.”
Kyle didn’t move. “Does this have anything to do with the IRS?”
She jerked up her head. “What do you know about the IRS?”
“When I came home the other day, I saw you cram something in your briefcase. You were upset. When you went upstairs to change for the tavern, I looked inside. I read the letter.”
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She opened her mouth and looked away. “Well, then, Mr. Smart-Ass, I don’t have to tell you what’s wrong.”
“You owe them over twenty grand.”
She held her coffee mug steady with both hands. “Remind me to kill the teacher who taught you to read.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kyle muttered. “What happened?”
Taking another long gulp, Rita realized the time had come to level with Kyle. Though she’d wanted to protect him from this—from everything—facts were facts. She might as well prepare him now for the inevitable. She set down the mug and told him the story. She told him how each week she’d barely been able to write out the net paychecks for her two secretaries, let alone think about the money she was “holding back” for payroll taxes. The truth was, there had been no more money in the checking account to “hold back.” “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said at the end.
He leaned back in his chair. “So you owe the IRS twenty grand. I can get the money.”
“How? I already mortgaged the house to buy the business. I’m broke, Kyle. I’ve been buying groceries and paying the utilities out of the money I make at the tavern.”
“I said, I can get it.”
“You’re not selling your truck. You worked too hard to get it. And you’re not going to borrow it from anyone.”
“My boss is rich.”
“No. I hardly know him. I got myself into this. I’ll figure a way out.”
“No offense, Mom, but you don’t seem to be doing that too well.”
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She took another sip of coffee.
“Can you call Grandma Blair?”
Rita shook her head. “I’m too old to go running to Mommy, Kyle. Besides, I’m not going to screw up your grandmother’s life.”
“What about Charlie Rollins?”
“No.”
“Well, what then? You can’t go to jail, Mom. That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe I’ll sell a house.”
“How many have you sold this summer?”
“None. But it’s still only August.” Rita knew, though, that it was probably pointless. She’d run the scenario over and over in her mind too many times. Joe Geissel had been her one hope.
Kyle grabbed his keys from the counter.
“Where are you going?” Rita asked.
“If you insist on doing this yourself, you need all the energy you can get,” he said. “I’m going out to get us some breakfast. I figure four big, fat eclairs ought to do it.”
He went out the door. Rita wondered how she had, at least, been blessed with having such an incredible kid. An incredible kid, that’s what Jill had called him. Jill. Rita’s mind kicked back into gear. Jill was the one person who might be willing to help. If only Rita could find the nerve to ask.
“I don’t suppose this old house is air conditioned,” Addie bristled, moving to the windows in the sewing room, then snapping the shades from Florence’s half-way-up-and-no-higher position all the way to the top. She pulled off her large-brimmed hat and fanned her round cheeks. She’d been bitching about the heat since she’d waddled off the plane.
“No.” Jill leaned against the Singer and wondered why she always felt small in Addie’s presence. She suspected it wasn’t the difference in their girth. “I can get you a fan.…”
“Better make it two. I need to have my wits about me for tomorrow.” She plopped on the bed, her camellia-flowered, apricot tent dress billowing over the midlife bulges it was supposed to conceal, then settling on the yellowed George Washington bedspread. She began extracting bottles and jars from her Louis Vuitton bag. “I checked with the weather station. Tomorrow will be sunny. We’ll do most of the shooting outside. As planned.”
Apparently, even God wouldn’t have dared to thwart Addie’s agenda.
“Christopher mentioned he’s having dinner with Maurice Fischer again,” Jill said.
Addie pulled out a small mirror and a tube of bright pink lipstick. She pursed her thin lips at the glass and slowly outlined them. “Everything will be fine, as long as Christopher follows my instructions.”
Shifting on one foot, Jill wished Christopher had told her more, wished she didn’t feel as though she didn’t count, as though this deal wouldn’t affect her life, and her c
areer, as well as his. Sometimes, Addie seemed to forget that, too. “What instructions?”
Addie flicked her a glance. “At this stage?” She turned back to the mirror and blotted her lips with a tissue. “He only needs to act as though he’ll do anything Maurice wants.”
Jill wished Addie had said he should act as though they would do anything Maurice Fischer wanted. “Did he tell you about the Sam Wilkins story?”
“Of course. It’s brilliant. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do my best. But even if Sam agrees, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to shape it into our ‘good news’ format.”
“Anything with Saín Wilkins will be good news to Fischer. Right now, he’s more important than your audience.”
Jill didn’t mask her surprise. “But isn’t our format what makes Good Night, Boston so successful? Isn’t it why Fischer was interested in the first place?”
Addie tossed her lipstick and makeup back into her bag. “Don’t be naive, Jill. If this show goes national, there will be more than one change.”
“What other changes?”
“There’s no need to bother about that until the time comes.” Addie stood up. “Did you get a dress for the shoot?”
Jill knew when a subject had been dismissed. She drew in a deep breath and decided she’d let Christopher deal with Addie tomorrow. “I went into town this morning and picked up a couple of earth-mother things. You can choose the one you like best.”
Addie nodded. “Good. But right now, I’m starving. Where does a person get a decent meal on this hotter-than-hell island?”
“There’s a nice place for fresh fish in Oak Bluffs,” she said. “I thought we could take the kids.”
“I hate fish,” Addie said with a snort. “And I’m really too tired to deal with children tonight. Besides, we need to talk about tomorrow. I’m sure the children would be bored.”
Jill forced a smile. “You’re probably right.” She moved toward the doorway. “We can run down to the tavern. I’ll call Charlie and have him reserve us a quiet table.” Then she went into the hall, slouched against the wall, and wondered if, wherever they moved, Addie would be moving there, too.