by Jean Stone
“I tried. They don’t want money, but I suspect you already know that about islanders. I came up with a plan to provide school buses, too. But I never got to present it. Not that it would have made a difference. They have their own agendas, and don’t care about anything else.”
“Except their privacy.” Jill laughed. “They despise having their privacy intruded upon, their dirty laundry aired.”
Ben scowled. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Generation after generation, it remains the same.” He stood up straight and looked at Jill. “But sometimes we get what we want. Take you for instance. You want to sell your house. That will happen.”
She turned to him. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? That I’m going to sell the house?”
“It’s your house. But it’s such a classic. The architecture is incredible. I just hate to see a fine old place like that one be turned over to some family who doesn’t appreciate its value, or who will turn it into one of those god-awful Bed and Breakfasts.” He shuddered.
Jill laughed. “But don’t you think that life is cyclical? That sooner or later, everything must change?”
“No. Not unless people force it. Look at the 1802 Tavern. How many years was that in your family?”
She winced. “Since it opened. Until my father died.”
“You’ve never mentioned your parents,” he said. “You left the island early, so I assumed you couldn’t wait to get away.”
“I didn’t really know my parents,” she heard herself say. And then, whether it was because of the slow, dreamlike rolling of the boat beneath her feet, the hypnotic rise and fall of the ocean, or the fact that she had held the pain of the last few weeks in too long, Jill said, “I found my mother’s diary. In the widow’s walk. I learned some things I wished I hadn’t known. I learned I had a brother. I learned my mother didn’t want me.”
With her words, the irony struck her. “It’s odd, isn’t it? That I have made a career out of delving into other people’s stories, but I never examined my own until now?”
Ben placed his hand over Jill’s. “I’m sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean to pry. Please, this is none of my business.”
At least he didn’t tell her she was overreacting. “I need it to be someone’s business,” she said quietly. “I can’t keep this inside me any longer.”
“Well,” Ben said as he looked out to sea, “I’m a good listener. For a tourist.”
She held back a moment, then spilled out each detail, bit by bit, as page after page of her mother’s diary flashed into her mind. When she neared the end, she told him about Rita. About Kyle.
“All these years, I’d felt I abandoned my father, that I let him down by leaving him alone with my mother.” She gave a short laugh. “Apparently, I needn’t have been so concerned about him.” Her words trailed off as their sound resonated the pain.
Ben did not speak: he simply slipped his arm around her—his one good arm, his strong carpenter’s arm. She dropped her head against his shoulder and wept with the soothing rain, feeling foolish that she had bared so much, and wishing there were some way she could thank him for listening.
Chapter 22
“Where the hell have you been?” Christopher greeted her at the door. “Look at you, you’re all wet. You’re a mess for chrissakes. Go upstairs and dry off before Fischer sees you looking like that.”
Jill stood in the front hall and stared at him in disbelief. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
Christopher glowered. “The weather is supposed to be bad tomorrow. I didn’t want to take a chance on not getting in. I tried to call, but it seems you were spending the day on Nantucket. With that builder.” Anger shot from his eyes.
“Christopher …”
“Just get upstairs and change, Jill. Fischer’s in the guest room getting ready for dinner. I thought we’d take him to the tavern.”
She thought of Rita and quickly said, “No. Not the tavern. Let’s go to Gay Head. To The Outermost Inn.” She’d seen it on her trips out to Sam’s; he’d told her the cuisine was spectacular.
He chewed his lower lip. “Just change. Please. And hurry. This is not making a great first impression.”
Jill went upstairs, thinking that she’d meant to have fresh hydrangea in the guest room, that she’d not even taken the time yet to lay out clean towels for Maurice Fischer, and that Christopher had quickly managed to break her finally relaxed mood.
Dinner was polite. Jill had dressed in her shimmer bouclé shell and short skirt, even though it was too formal for the island. She remained on her best behavior, the model of sophistication, of Q-rating material, as she smiled across the table at the white-haired man with the neatly trimmed mustache and California tan. She raved about the grilled yellow fin tuna, and tried not to think about the fact she’d had a better time standing in the rain with Ben. Yet Ben’s presence stayed with her, in a way that even the comfortable dining room and cozy fire had not been able to quiet.
Maurice seemed entranced by the tableside view of the dunes, the food, and the inn itself, especially the photos of Bill Clinton’s visit that adorned the downstairs. Apparently, the president’s “Q” was sufficient testimony that The Outermost Inn was superior.
Over homemade ice cream and espresso, Christopher proposed a toast.
“To Jill,” he said, his demitasse cup raised high. “Who has managed to become the only living soul to be granted an interview with the one and only Sam Wilkins.”
Fischer’s eyebrows jumped. He looked at Jill. “Is this true?”
She bypassed the ice cream and sipped her espresso. “Well, yes,” she said quietly. “He has given me an interview. I’m still working on piecing it together.”
Fischer laughed. “We have reporters to do that, Jill. This is incredible. How did you do it?”
She glanced over at Christopher, not knowing how to answer.
“She’s a lady who knows how to land the big stories, that’s all,” Christopher said with a wink.
Fischer merely nodded and took a long swig of his coffee. “Lizette tried to interview him last year,” he said. “She struck out.”
Jill wanted to smile, but didn’t dare.
“Not only that,” Christopher added, “but we have an invitation to his Labor Day weekend party. When is that, honey?”
The party seemed unimportant now. The party, the fluff, the story. She set the demitasse in the small china saucer. “Saturday,” she replied.
Fischer nodded again but did not reveal his emotions—a true politician, a pure corporate executive. However, Jill knew he must be elated: schmoozing with Sam Wilkins would not only be a coup on the West Coast, it would also look good to the RueCom board.
Later that night, when they had arrived home and settled into bed, Jill lay awake, listening to the foghorns and the clang of the buoy bells, thinking about her day with Ben and about standing in the rain on the deck of the ferry. Ben had said that sometimes we get what we want: Jill tried to decide if that was true, and if so, how long it took. Then her thoughts drifted to her mother, and she wondered if Florence ever found that kind of peace.
When she was certain Christopher was asleep, Jill quietly crept from the room and up the widow’s walk stairs.
August 30, 1970
My daughter is gone. She left the island today, just as the beach plums have begun to ripen. I fear she will never return, nor will ever know the empty hole inside of me that she left behind. When she stood on the top deck of the ferry and waved good-bye, I tried to smile and show her I was happy for her. But when we returned home I was sick to my stomach. I feel as though I have let another child down. I feel as though I have failed.
Jill thought back to the day she left for college. She remembered standing on that deck, remembered waving to her parents. She’d felt a little sad at leaving her father, but she’d felt as though her mother had been glad to see her go. She had no idea her mother had become sick over it. She had no idea her mother had ever cared that much.
May 17, 1974
Jill has graduated from college. She called today to tell us she was staying on in Boston, that she has a job at a television station there. I suppose I will never see her again. Perhaps it is best for her. I have only ever wanted what is best for her. And it is best for her to remain away. I heard that Rita Blair is home again. Home—with her small boy. She’s telling everyone she married, and that her husband died. I know differently. George knows differently. But I cannot tell him that I know. I just can’t.
The ache in Jill’s chest grew heavy. She forced herself to turn the page, forced herself to read on. Entry after entry mentioned the church fairs, making beach plum jelly, shelling quahogs. There was no further mention of Rita; no further mention of Jill, as though they had ceased existing, as though they had never been. Then came 1978.
April 12, 1978
Jill got married. She even called to say she was going to. She just did it. His name is Richard McPhearson, and I guess he has a lot of money. I don’t know why she did not invite George and me to the wedding. I wonder if my mother felt so odd, when she was not invited to ours. Perhaps God is paying me back for being a bad daughter myself.
“What are you doing up here?” Christopher’s heavy whisper jolted her from the diary.
Jill quickly closed the book and set it in the carton. “I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I came up to go through some things.”
“I saw the light under the door,” he said as he looked around. “It doesn’t look as though you’ve made much progress. Are you sure you’re ready to leave on Monday?”
Jill nodded. “I have a woman who’s going to take care of everything. That’s why I was on Nantucket today.”
He ran his hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “Oh,” he replied, “well, I really didn’t think you were off having a romantic tryst with the builder.”
Jill smiled and stood up. “He’s not a builder, Christopher. He’s an artist. And a good one. He would have made a good story.”
Christopher rolled his eyes. “Come back to bed, honey. The sooner I get you off this island, the happier we’ll both be.”
The sooner Jill left the island, the happier Rita would be. Kyle had barely come out of his room for the two weeks since they’d caught him with Amy and Ben had fired him. And Rita could not stand working at the tavern every night with one eye on her customers and one on the door. Though she doubted Jill would ever want to see the inside of the tavern again, Rita knew she’d breathe a lot easier once Labor Day had come and gone, once Jill had returned to her world and left Rita the hell alone in hers.
She tossed her SurfSide blazer on top of last night’s clothes that lay in a heap on the chair of her bedroom. Even though it had poured, it hadn’t been a bad day, Rita realized as she sifted through the clean clothes piled on the bed, in search of her waitress uniform. She’d listed two properties for the “hurry up and get rid of it before winter” tourists, and at the post office, Jesse had handed her the best news of all—the return receipt that assured Rita the IRS had their money, paid in full. As soon as she changed, she was going to tell Kyle. Maybe it would pick up his spirits, maybe it would take some pressure off him, now that he didn’t have a job.
As she pulled the uniform over her head and stood at the mirror, trying to assess if she could get away without ironing it, the rumble of a sports car rose from the street below. She crossed to the window just as Carrie Wilkins emerged from a whore’s-red Porsche.
Kyle must have heard it, too, for his footsteps zipped past the hall outside Rita’s room and clomped down the stairs. Rita held her breath and wondered if she should intervene.
Stay out of it, her better senses warned her. Kyle’s a big boy. He can take care of himself
She stood in the middle of the floor, put her hands on her hips, then walked to the door and opened it just wide enough for listening.
“You lost your job,” Carrie’s voice announced.
“Word travels fast.”
“Can I come in, Kyle? It’s raining, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed.”
Silence. Then, “I thought we had an understanding, Kyle.”
“You’re the one who walked away.”
“Only because you were being stupid.”
“I didn’t think so.”
Silence. Rita leaned closer to the hall.
Finally, Carrie spoke again. “It’s not too late for us to patch things up.”
“I’m not what you think I am.”
“A child molester?”
“You told me she was almost seventeen.”
Carrie laughed. “I lied.”
“What else have you lied about?”
“Nothing, Kyle. I guess I was testing you.”
“I guess I flunked.”
Silence again.
“Come on, Kyle. We need each other.”
He didn’t respond.
“Will you think about it?”
“I already did.”
“You had a job then. Maybe it’s time to reconsider.”
Rita heard the jingle of keys.
“My father’s having a picnic tomorrow,” Carrie went on. “He likes you, Kyle. He’d like to see you succeed.”
The front door closed. Rita quickly closed hers, then slouched against it, trying to figure out what the conversation had meant, and if her son was about to leave the island and move to L.A.
Ben had picked up his mail, driven the Nissan back to Carol Ann’s, and reminded himself to tell his daughter to get the windshield wiper fixed, once the August lines at the service stations were gone. He was grateful that there were only a few more days of summer madness left, that after Monday, the level of traffic would be bearable once more, and that next week he’d be driving his Buick again and be back home where he belonged.
He sat on the wicker glider on the small porch of his daughter’s Cape now, enjoying the sweet, fresh scent of the rain and sifting through the envelopes. Like most things, it was not easy to do with one hand.
“Grandpa, Mommy said to ask you if I can help.”
Ben looked up at John Jr.
“I’m real good at opening mail.”
“I’ll bet you are,” Ben said, and patted a space beside him on the awning-striped cushion. “Come on up here and give me a hand.”
John Jr. slid onto the chair. Ben adjusted his sling and handed him an envelope off the top. “If it’s a bill, I don’t want to know,” he said with a smile.
“Grandpa! I can’t read, yet!” the boy exclaimed.
“Do you know numbers from letters?”
The boy thought for a moment. “Yes.”
“Good. Then anything with numbers, throw on the floor.”
“Oh, Grandpa.” John Jr. giggled, then as he positioned the tip of his tongue firmly between his lips, his small, chubby hands unsealed the first envelope. He pulled out an ad. “This one has numbers,” he announced and tossed it to the floor.
Ben glanced down. “It has numbers, all right. It says I may have won ten million dollars.”
“Is that a lot of dollars?”
“Nah,” he replied, then handed him the next envelope. It was small and square and white, and had been hand-addressed. Ben assumed it was another get well card, probably from Rachel Bowen, who had already sent three.
John Jr. peeled back the flap and removed the card. Ben glanced over his grandson’s shoulder and saw the words “You’re Invited” scripted on the front.
“Open the card,” he said. John Jr. complied.
The calligraphied message was simple:
Labor Day Picnic
Sam Wilkins
Lighthouse Road—Gay Head
Saturday—Four p.m.
Ben read it again. Sam Wilkins? Why was Sam Wilkins inviting him to his Labor Day picnic? An unwelcome thought flashed through his mind. Carrie was Sam Wilkins’s daughter. Did this have something to do with Kyle? Were they going to try to convince him to hire Kyle back?
But what the hell would they care about Kyle Blair? Surely they’d be returning to the West Coast after this weekend.
“Grandpa? Should I throw this on the floor?”
Ben shook his head. “No. Put that one aside. I need to think about it.” He handed John Jr. the next envelope, then wondered if Sam Wilkins needed some work done on his house. Maybe Jill had recommended Ben … his mind stopped in mid-thought. Jill. Would she be at the picnic?
He turned his gaze back to the rain, remembering how it had looked on her face, how it clung to her lashes, how it beaded on her brow like tiny jewels that sparkled with every word she spoke.
Then he remembered the jewel on her hand, and its icy reality of the life that was hers.
Dressed in yellow slickers that Jill had found on the back of the pantry door, they had taken Maurice Fischer on a drive around the island, stopping in antique shops, sidestepping puddles, and pointing out one sight after another. Mostly he was interested in where the celebrities lived: Carly Simon, Mike Wallace, Spike Lee.
By dinnertime, Jill could no longer stand the wet rubber smell of their coats or the humidity that kept fogging the windows inside the Range Rover. But when they returned to the house, one more thing caught Fischer’s eye.
“Is that the Chappaquiddick ferry?” he asked when they pulled into the driveway.
Jill shot a look at Christopher. He grinned. “Yes,” he answered, “the one and only.”
“Well, I suppose no trip to Martha’s Vineyard would be complete without a ride on it.”
Jill felt her insides groan. “I suppose not,” she said, with diminishing cheeriness in her voice.
Christopher backed out of the driveway and maneuvered the vehicle down the road toward the ramp. Thankfully, they were third in line and wouldn’t have to wait forever to cross.
They drove out to Cemetery Road, past the Lawrence cottage where the infamous party had been held, then to the Dyke Bridge, which had long ago been replaced. Jill kept up a running commentary to Maurice, who sat with rapt attention, staring out the window, as though witnessing the Grand Canyon for the first time. Or Disney World. Once in a while, he shook his head.