by Jean Stone
“Imagine,” he said, “you lived right here when it all happened. Did you realize it would be captured in the history books?”
“Not really,” Jill said, directing Christopher back toward the ferry. “I was just a kid. I was more fascinated by the way the world reacted. Did you know tourists actually took pieces off the bridge as souvenirs?”
Fischer shook his head again.
They returned to the ferry in silence, Jill hoping that, at last, Maurice had his fill of sightseeing, antiques, and Chappaquiddick. As they rolled onto the small, raftlike ferry and began to bump across the channel, Jill thought back to that year, to the impact it had had, not only on her life, but on all the islanders. Unlike her, once the inquest was over, the islanders shrunk into their protective skins, covering their bruises with their centuries-old pods, carrying on as though nothing had happened. It was, after all, the New Englanders’ way—shielding their privacy no matter what.
Privacy, Jill suddenly thought. It was the most important thing to islanders. She thought of Ben Niles. Privacy was the one thing he hadn’t considered in his goal to build Menemsha House.
As the little ferry chugged to the Edgartown side, Jill smiled. For she now knew how she could repay Ben for having been so kind to her.
Chapter 23
“I’m working on a story about the island,” Jill said as she stood on the front steps of Terry Clarkson’s home Saturday morning. With her research wiles and the Vineyard phone book, she’d quickly learned that Clarkson was the man to see. Telling Christopher she had something important to take care of, she’d left him alone to entertain Maurice before the picnic this afternoon. As exciting as the future was, the present seemed more important right now.
The door frame Clarkson leaned against was still damp from yesterday’s rain. He squinted in the early sun and folded his arms in disinterest. “You need to speak with the Chamber of Commerce. Not me.”
“No,” Jill said firmly. “You’re definitely the one I want. Are you familiar with the TV show Good Night, Boston?”
“Just because we live on the island doesn’t mean we’re hicks. I know who you are, Ms. McPhearson.”
“Do you know I was raised in Edgartown?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Jill took out her notebook and clicked her pen, ignoring his comment. “My story isn’t about Edgartown. It’s about how small towns stifle progress.”
Clarkson didn’t flinch.
“I’m talking about Ben Niles, Mr. Clarkson. His plans for Menemsha House. Can you tell me specifically what the problem is?”
Clarkson stared at her a moment. “There’s no problem. Mr. Niles simply hasn’t met the board’s criteria.”
“What criteria is that?” Jill asked, jotting nonsensical notes on her pad, a reporter’s trick of intimidation.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I suggest you talk with Mr. Niles. He’s the one who hasn’t complied with us. Not the other way around.” He started to close the door. Jill stuck her foot inside.
“I have spoken with Mr. Niles,” she said. “He’s made several changes. Are you aware that he plans to provide the school department with much-needed buses—at his expense?”
“No. But as I’m sure you know bribery doesn’t wash on the island. Mr. Niles is not a native. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that.”
As she’d expected, the buses wouldn’t have made a difference. “He doesn’t see it as bribery, Mr. Clarkson. He sees it as a way of helping the island kids while bettering their education. What does the zoning board have against that?”
Clarkson sneered. “Menemsha is a fishing village. Mr. Niles wants to transform it into an entertainment center. The two do not mix. Now if you’ll excuse me …”
“One more question, please,” Jill said quickly. “Is the town prepared to handle the fallout of negative publicity?”
He frowned.
“Oh, and by the way,” Jill added, “I forgot to mention that my show will be going into syndication soon. The story won’t air until then—until it can receive national attention.”
The lines of his forehead deepened.
“Menemsha House may not be important to you, Mr. Clarkson, but I’m sure people all across the country will be interested in hearing that Martha’s Vineyard dislikes providing new learning opportunities for their children and for the tourists’ children. I’m thinking of titling it ‘Martha’s Vineyard—Drowning in Backwater Thinking.’ Kind of catchy, don’t you think?”
Clarkson’s jaw went rigid. “Ms. McPhearson, what exactly are you trying to do?”
“I am merely trying to help a friend. I am fortunate enough to have the power of the media behind me. We both know that approving Menemsha House is not going to send the Vineyard into turmoil. My theory is that if Ben Niles had been born here, his proposal would have been approved without question. I think it’s time we exposed that little bit of narrow-mindedness to the world.”
She folded her notebook and returned it to her purse. “But don’t worry, Mr. Clarkson, I’m sure the island can handle it. After all, it can’t be much worse than Chappaquiddick.”
Clarkson’s face reddened.
“Of course,” Jill said with a laugh, “Chappy helped the economy, didn’t it? All it cost was having our privacy invaded.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that means the Vineyard is not adverse to progress, after all.” She turned and headed down the walk. “Well, thanks for your time. If I don’t hear from you before I leave Monday, I’ll assume the board has decided I should go ahead with my story.”
She went down the walk, climbed into the Range Rover, and turned over the ignition with a smile of satisfaction.
Carol Ann was helping Ben button his shirt when the phone rang. He’d not had any idea what to wear to Sam Wilkins’s picnic: his daughter suggested the navy short-sleeved shirt and tan, lightweight denim pants—the ones with the pleats that she’d bought him last Christmas, the ones he hadn’t removed from the drawer until now, until she’d insisted on coming to his house to be sure he was properly attired.
“People who matter will be there,” she’d said. “It could mean more work for you. Lots of work.”
Surveying himself in the mirror while Carol Ann went to answer the phone, he decided that if he owned a pair of Dock-Sides, he could easily be mistaken for a tourist.
“Dad?” Carol Ann said when she returned to the bedroom. “It’s for you.”
“Well, now,” he said with a smile, “I suppose we should have expected that, seeing as how this is where I live.”
Carol Ann’s look told him she was annoyed. Two weeks of having her father under her roof must be trying her patience. He damn well knew it was trying his.
“Ben?” a strange voice asked when he picked up the receiver in the kitchen. “This is Terry Clarkson.”
Ben frowned. “What can I do for you?”
“The board would like to speak with you about your alternative plan. It’s my understanding you are willing to buy school buses.”
Ben was stumped. How the hell did Clarkson find out? Then he remembered. He’d gone to O’Briens’ for quotes. On this island, nothing—including business deals—was sacred. “I priced out the possibility,” he replied, “then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. I figured your minds were made up, no matter what I did.”
Clarkson laughed. “Well, you figured wrong. Of course, we’ll need to meet with you to iron out the details, but if you’re serious about the buses, we’ve decided to give you the go-ahead.”
The shock Ben felt was equaled only by the bolt of excitement that charged through him. “What?”
Clarkson spoke clearly. “Menemsha House. The museum. It’s yours if you still want it.”
He scratched his head, not knowing how to respond. Half of him cautioned himself to be wary of zoning board chairpersons bearing good news. The other half chuckled to himself and said, “This is wonderful news, Clarkson. No one will be disappointed. You have my word.”
“We’d like to get together next week. At your convenience, of course.”
Ben hesitated. Telling Clarkson he would be tied up on Nantucket next week working for the internationally renowned Hubert Sherman would probably not bode well with his newfound acceptance into the Vineyard fold. Sherman, after all, had his face on Time magazine last year—another celebrity, another beach plum thorn in the zoning board’s side. On the other hand, Sherman was a class act. Ben knew he would understand if the job was delayed a few more days. “Next week is fine, Terry. How about Tuesday?”
“Seven o’clock. Bring the plans.”
“Of course,” Ben said and hung up the phone.
“Dad?” Carol Ann had moved beside him. “Was that Terry Clarkson?”
“That,” he said as he turned and kissed his daughter’s cheek, “was one call I never expected. I don’t know what happened, but something did. They’ve given me the go-ahead for Menemsha House.”
Carol Ann frowned. “Why?”
“Why? Who knows? Maybe they took a look at their books and realized I could help move them into the asset column.”
“I don’t like it, Dad.”
“Come on, honey. Don’t rain on my parade.”
She shook her well-meaning head. “I’m not trying to, Dad. It’s just that I know Terry Clarkson. I work with all those people, remember? Something’s up, and I don’t like it.”
“You still think Dave Ashenbach is out to get me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that. Whatever—or whoever—wanted to stop me has obviously been overruled. Now let me comb what’s left of my hair so I can get out of here. It’s not every day a poor islander like me gets invited to a party at Sam Wilkins’.”
But as Ben brushed past her and went into the bathroom, trepidation crept in. He decided that tomorrow morning he’d go out to the cliffs. Maybe Noepe would have some inside knowledge as to what in the hell was really going on.
A yellow-and-white-striped canopy framed with overflowing pots of white bleeding hearts was stretched above the wide lawn, bordered by dunes and overlooking the water. Beneath the canvas stood linen-covered tables accented with crystal bowls of yellow roses; in one corner a stringed quartet played a selection that Jill recognized as Vivaldi.
She stood between Christopher and Maurice Fischer in her white crepe sundress and matching calf sandals, holding the top of her white straw hat with one hand and musing that this was no ordinary Labor Day weekend picnic on the island. But then, she reminded herself, Sam Wilkins was no ordinary tourist, and it was probably part of his plan to emerge with great vigor and an attitude that breathed confidence in his impending rebirth.
From behind her sunglasses, Jill let her eyes explore the two hundred plus guests who had gathered: from the long-robed Arab house guest and his entourage to a cluster of T-shirted men holding beer cans—most of the men were occupied ogling the Penthouse-looking blondes who apparently had been imported from the West Coast, wore few clothes and tans that were much too dark. Maurice was no exception.
“This is quite a summer place,” he said, motioning toward the house with the hand that held his flute of champagne. “It’s not what I expected to see on the Vineyard.”
Jill smiled at the way his language had slipped into calling the island “the Vineyard” with the familiarity of a well-seasoned tourist. “It’s the new Vineyard,” Jill responded. “New blood.”
Fischer nodded.
“Would you like to meet our host now?” Christopher asked, then turned to Jill. “Honey? Do you think you could round up Sam?”
She glanced through the maze of people, the sun glinting off their gold and their jewels. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere. Don’t go away.” She started off through the crowd, brushing shoulders with people she didn’t know, smiling her Jill McPhearson, TV-host smile. “Have you seen Sam?” she asked one young couple who resembled Haight-Ashbury holdovers frozen by time. The long-haired, beaded man pointed down toward the beach.
“Tending the lobster bake,” he said.
She made her way to the stairs—the stairs where Amy had gone the day Jill had brought her out here, three weeks ago, a lifetime ago. Amy had not even pouted when Jill told her where they were going today; she had merely retreated to her room, the safest place she seemed to be able to find these days.
At the foot of the stairs, more people were strewn along the beach, laughing, talking, drinking. A volleyball game was in full force; a huge tarp billowed across the lobster pit—where, Jill sensed by the long-ago familiar aroma, lobsters and mussels, linguine and corn, were simmering under layers of seaweed. Long grills had been set up near the tarp—it was there that Jill spotted Sam. He was wearing a white apron and chef’s hat and holding a long fork.
As she walked toward him, an arm reached out from the crowd and stopped her.
“Jill,” said the voice she had hoped wouldn’t be here.
“Hello, Carrie,” she answered, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Jill,” Carrie repeated, “I wanted to stop over, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be welcome.”
She had hoped that Carrie hadn’t found out; she had prayed it had not become island gossip.
“Kyle told me,” Carrie continued. “He called me that night, after …”
Jill looked down at the red-painted fingernails that gripped her arm. “Please take your hand off me.”
Carrie released her grasp. “I guess I was right. About not being welcome.”
“I think it’s for the best.”
“How is she? How is Amy?”
“She’s fine, thank you. She is home packing. We’re going home Monday.”
“So are we. Would you tell her … would you tell her I said good-bye? And that I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t do anything, Carrie. It was my fault for thinking she was mature enough to have an eighteen-year-old as a friend. An eighteen-year-old with a twenty-five-year-old boyfriend. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was on my way to see your father.” She walked quickly away, aware that the sand was stinging between her toes through her sandals, and that the sun was much hotter down here on the beach.
Sam didn’t see her approach. His back was to her; he was blocking her view, but Jill could hear the man’s words.
“What can I say? I did the best I could. We did the best we could.”
“You didn’t try hard enough,” Sam said. “I had your word.”
The steaks sizzled. Jill felt as though she should leave, that she shouldn’t interrupt. But the thought of returning through the crowd and facing Carrie alone again left her standing in the sand, immobile.
Suddenly Sam turned around. “Jill! I didn’t know you’d arrived.”
Her smile quickly vanished when she realized who the man talking with Sam was: it was Terry Clarkson, head of the zoning board. “I see you’ve invited half the town,” Jill said, averting her eyes from Clarkson’s cold stare.
“Oh, sure,” Sam said with a sweep of the barbecue fork. “Everyone’s welcome at Sam Wilkins’s. Be sure to include that in your story.”
“By all means,” Jill responded. “And when you have a minute, there’s someone up by the tent who’s very eager to meet you. Maurice Fischer.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “RueCom?”
Jill nodded.
He handed the fork to Clarkson, plucked off the chef’s hat, and pulled the apron over his head. “Come on, lady,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist, “let’s go pave the way to our futures.”
They crossed the beach and mounted the stairs. Jill kept her eyes focused on her footsteps: if Carrie would stay below on the beach, perhaps she could get through this party, perhaps she could keep her mind on the reasons she was here. At least Kyle didn’t seem to be around. Perhaps things had ended between Kyle and Carrie. She wondered if Rita would be pleased.
At the top of the stairs, Jill noticed a man in navy and tan, one arm in a sling, a familia
r smile set on his face.
She followed his gaze toward the house that stood on the next hilltop—then she realized why she had not recognized him: he must have left his Red Sox cap at home. “Ben,” she said quickly, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Ben Niles?” Sam asked as he extended his hand. “Sam Wilkins.”
Ben shook his hand, then looked at Jill. “It’s not every day the island has a bash such as this.”
“I’m glad you could make it,” Sam said. “I thought you might be too busy finalizing the plans for—what is it?—a museum?”
Ben smiled. “Menemsha House,” he said, pointing across the dunes, then looking back to Jill. “It’s going to happen,” he said. “They gave me the approval an hour ago.”
“Oh, Ben, that’s wonderful,” Jill said with what she hoped sounded like surprise. “Really,” she added, “that’s wonderful.”
Ben nodded, his dimple set with his grin. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am. I’m very happy for you.”
“Well,” Sam said as he grasped Jill’s elbow again, “it was nice to meet you, Ben. Enjoy the party.” Quickly he steered Jill toward the tent, but not before Jill had a chance to turn back and look, just in time to see Ben give her a nod.
Rita stared at the dried-up frozen dinner and wondered if she would be alone, eating these, for the rest of her life. The scents of grilled hamburgers mingled with the sounds of life that drifted through her kitchen window—Labor Day picnics, Labor Day laughter. The island always reached a higher pitch on this long-awaited weekend, the way people on airplanes begin talking more loudly just before the landing wheels lock down, as though it was safe now to be yourself, for you’d never have to see these people again.
But Rita would see these people again, just as she’d seen them for so many years. Charlie Rollins, Jesse Parker, Jesse’s mother. Island people. Her people.
She picked up her fork and moved around the brown lump that was supposed to be chicken, thinking about the biggest picnic of all—the one at Sam Wilkins’s house. She wondered if Kyle had decided to go, and if Jill and her boyfriend had been invited.