Places by the Sea

by Jean Stone

  Ben set the banana, uneaten, on the woven placemat. “Menemsha House is gone. Completely gutted. Burned practically to the ground.”

  She turned from the sink and sat beside him, then covered his hand with hers. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”

  He nodded and examined her long fingers, her short, clean nails. “It looks like it was Kyle. It’s so hard to believe. I thought he was such a good kid …” Ben ran his finger around her plain wedding band, her small solitary diamond. “I guess it was him all along. Kyle who assaulted me, who sent the threats, who set the fire. He did it all.”

  Carol Ann shook her head. “No, Dad. That’s not entirely true.”

  Ben pulled back his hand. “What do you mean?”

  “Terry told us that when Carrie learned that Kyle had been caught in the fire, she became hysterical. She fled to the police station. She told them the truth.”

  He felt the muscles wrench in his gut. “Carrie? Sam’s daughter?” The same Carrie who had stood on his back steps only nights ago, who had tried her damnedest to come on to him?

  “Yes. Apparently there’s a Saudi Arabian man named Ishmale or Isham or something like that who’s been staying at the Wilkins place this summer. From what Terry said, the man was going to put up the money for Sam’s comeback. I guess no one else would, on account of the questions about his wife’s death.”

  Ben nodded, not really caring if Sam Wilkins had killed his wife or not, only caring that Kyle—the boy he had trusted—now lay close to death.

  “According to Carrie,” Carol Ann continued, “this Isham person wanted the land where Menemsha House was. He made a deal with Sam: you get me the land, I’ll finance your world tour.”

  He picked up the banana peel, then split it in half. “How did Kyle fit in?”

  “Carrie’s father was going to pay him to get rid of you and the house. I guess Kyle—or Kyle’s mother—needed money.”

  He rose from the chair, poured himself a cup of coffee, and stared out the kitchen window at the scrub pines that dotted the backyard. A fat gray squirrel scooted across the bed of needles, in search of an acorn, in search of survival. Ben knew the feeling. He had searched this island for twenty years to survive; he had been convinced it was a futile battle. The one islander he could depend on—the only one—had been Kyle Blair. “So it was Kyle.”

  “Apparently he never meant to hurt you. The night he attacked you he thought you’d already be at the zoning board meeting. He went to your house to steal your duplicate plans so Sam could see them.”

  “Kyle knows I always make two sets of plans.”

  She nodded and continued. “You surprised him by being there. After … after it happened, he backed out of the deal.”

  Ben nodded. Of course Kyle hadn’t wanted to hurt him. He had come to the house unarmed. I’m sorry, Kyle had said last night. Ben swallowed back tears. “Go on,” he said to Carol Ann now.

  “Illumination Night, he told Carrie to tell her father to forget it. They had a fight about it.”

  Illumination Night, Ben thought, taking a slow sip of his coffee. The night Kyle was with Amy. Drunk, confused, and probably scared. “Men do the damnedest things when they’re scared,” he muttered.

  “Carrie went to Kyle’s house to try and get him to reconsider. When she told him about her father’s picnic, I guess Kyle put two and two together and decided it might be the night Sam would make his move.”

  “Who set the fire?”

  “Carrie. Afterward, when she was sneaking back to the party, she saw Kyle’s truck go up the driveway. He must have seen the fire. He went inside and started trying to put it out. But Carrie had double-backed. She found him in the house: they fought. Then she whacked him over the head with a paint can and ran.”

  He took another drink, letting the rich blend soothe his insides. “Why do you suppose Carrie spilled the beans?”

  “She said something about not being able to stand any more lies.”

  Ben watched another squirrel fighting for his life. “I knew Kyle wouldn’t do it alone. All night I’ve been wondering if he was paid off by Ashenbach or some other yahoo on the zoning board. I thought none of them wanted me to succeed. I decided it had more to do with me than with Menemsha House.”

  “That’s not true, Dad. The town fathers want you to rebuild.”

  Ben turned from the window and looked at his daughter. “What?”

  “I said they want you to rebuild. Terry Clarkson said it has nothing to do with bad publicity, whatever that means. Anyway, a lot of the men are willing to pitch in and help.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  Carol Ann shrugged. “I guess they decided you belong here after all.”

  Jill sat at the rolltop desk in her parents’ living room; Christopher sat in the wing chair, her father’s wing chair, worn now on the armrests, worn by a man who had been a good man, who had been a loving husband, despite his wife’s shortcomings, despite her pain. George Randall had done the best he’d known how, to sustain his family, to give them his home, to share his roots.

  She ran her finger across the top rung of the ladder-back of the cherry chair—the antique cherry chair, which would soon belong to Mrs. Sherman, who would know what to do with it, who would appreciate its worth.

  “You had quite a night,” Christopher said.

  “I’m sorry that all this had to happen with Maurice here. That it all had to happen on the night we should have been celebrating.”

  “Life happens, Jill. When we least expect it, we get clobbered. The important thing is to keep our focus.”

  Slowly, she nodded. “Is Maurice still sleeping?”

  Christopher laughed. “He’s gone clamming with Jeff.”

  Jill smiled. “That boy surely has taken to the island.”

  “Well, he only has until tomorrow. As sad as he’ll be to leave, Amy will be glad.”

  “I wonder how she’ll feel when she learns about Kyle.”

  Christopher shook his head. “It’s over and done with, honey. She’s young. Believe me, she’ll soon forget that Kyle Blair or Martha’s Vineyard ever existed.”

  “She’ll be excited about L.A.”

  “She already is. I told her last night.”

  Jill raised her eyes to meet his. “You told her?”

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his pressed khaki pants. “I thought it was best. Maurice and I stayed up late talking about the new show. I was afraid the kids would overhear.”

  Jill nodded. She wanted to tell him he shouldn’t have done that, that it should have come from her, that she was their mother, that he was not their father. Then she remembered that soon he would be their father—stepfather—and that she was probably overreacting again. Overreacting, this time, because she’d had no sleep. No sleep, and a damned stressful night. “Is she excited?”

  “An understatement.”

  Jill stood up. “I guess that’s good.”

  “Honey, I know you two have had your problems these past few weeks, but things will change once we get away from here. Once you’re able to put all this nonsense behind you.”

  Nonsense? Jill wondered. Is that what he thought about the fire last night, about the fact that Kyle lay close to death, that Rita—her friend—was now alone, sitting by his bedside, praying for a miracle that probably would not happen? Is that what he would have thought if she’d told him about her mother’s diary?

  “I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Then I might try and get a nap. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to the hospital later on.”

  “Is that necessary? I thought you’d want to start packing for our trip home tomorrow. And Maurice wants to take us to Falmouth tonight to the Regatta for dinner. Amy and Jeff included.”

  The Regatta was an exclusive French restaurant that hugged Vineyard Sound, and was well known for its celebrity patrons and pricey cuisine. “He wants to go to Falmouth?” she asked, annoyed at the thought of making the trip.

  “We ca
n get a cab out of Woods Hole, then come back on the ten forty-five ferry. Maurice checked it out last night.”

  Jill tried to straighten the wrinkles of her sundress.

  “There’s more,” Christopher continued with a smile, “Addie’s driving down from Boston to join us.”

  What little energy she had remaining now drained from her body. It apparently didn’t matter about Kyle. It apparently didn’t matter about Rita, or that a good man had just seen his dreams go up in smoke. Then Jill reminded herself that Rita, Kyle, and Ben were part of Jill’s life, not Christopher’s. Not Maurice Fischer’s. And not Addie’s. She cleared her throat. “Well, it sounds as though you two have worked everything out.” She didn’t care now whether or not her annoyance showed.

  Christopher stepped close to her. “Honey, when we leave tomorrow, Maurice goes back to Atlanta to draw up the contracts.”

  “So I need to be nice until then, right?”

  He winked his wink. “That’s my girl.”

  She wanted to tell him she was not his girl, that she was a grown woman who didn’t like being talked down to, who liked being her own person and making her own decisions. She would need to work on this once they were married. But right now, she needed to take a shower. And get some sleep. “I’ll run over to the hospital before we leave. I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

  Christopher kissed her cheek. “Wear that little black dress with the sequins tonight, okay?”

  Jill nodded, thinking that it would be different to be dressed up again, to have something on her feet other than sandals, and to wear her hair in a way that she wouldn’t need to worry about getting windblown. It would be different, and, she supposed, it would be nice.

  She blinked and headed for the stairs, wondering how long it would take her to readjust to reality, once they were home in Boston again.

  Chapter 26

  The door to Kyle’s hospital room opened. Rita looked up, expecting to see a doctor or a nurse or, worse, the police. But instead Charlie Rollins stood there, his eyes swollen and red, almost as if he’d been crying. Rita quickly turned her head back to Kyle.

  “Charlie,” she said, “what brings you to these parts? I hope you’re not sick.”

  His footsteps moved toward her. Rita closed her eyes, knowing she should put up her armor, pull all her defenses closely around her, the way that had become her habit around Charlie—a habit for so many years. But now, she didn’t have the strength.

  “I came to see you,” Charlie said. “And Kyle.”

  Rita studied her son’s face, trying to remember what it looked like beneath the layers of bandages. “He looks like a mummy,” she said.

  Charlie walked to the chair where Rita sat close to the bed. He knelt down and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Rita. I’m so sorry this happened.”

  She sucked the inside of her cheeks and nodded. “Did Jill call you?”

  “No. She came to the tavern. But I’d already heard. The Vineyard grapevine, remember?” he added, as though trying to lighten the mood.

  Nodding again, she wondered how much Jill had told him.

  “Rita?” he asked then, in a tone that told her what was coming next. Her thoughts flashed like lightning as she struggled to put the pieces of her story into place, the pieces of the lie she’d told so many times, so long ago. But she couldn’t remember … she couldn’t remember …

  “Rita,” Charlie said again, “he’s mine, isn’t he?”

  She flicked her eyes to the respirator, to the heart monitor, back to Kyle’s face. What used to be Kyle’s face. She wanted to flee, to run from the room, to race home and drain a bottle of scotch. She wanted to flee, but she couldn’t. Charlie was between her and the door. And Kyle, she thought. Kyle needed her here.

  A tidal wave of tears drenched her cheeks. She quickly put her hands to her face; she would not have believed there were any tears left inside her.

  Charlie put his arm around her shoulder. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve watched Kyle grow up. All these years, part of me wanted to think he was my son. Our son. Yours and mine. I’d watch him fly past the tavern on his bike, or see him come in after school to wait for you, and I just always wished, I just always hoped …” His voice faltered. “Why didn’t you tell me, Rita? Am I that … repulsive to you?”

  She lay her hands on the edge of the bed. “No, Charlie. Maybe that was the problem.”

  “Sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You are Charlie Rollins. The hardworking son of a well-respected family. The guy who went on to do something with his life. The guy with the one thing that Rita Blair was deprived of at birth. Respectability.”

  The respirator squished. The heart monitor beeped.

  “Jesus, Rita. I don’t believe this. I love you. I have loved you since we were kids. I always thought I was the one who wasn’t good enough for you.”

  She turned to him. Charlie’s red, swollen eyes were level with hers. “Thanks, but I’m too old for bullshit, Charlie. Especially now.”

  He wove his fingers through her curls. “It’s not bullshit, Rita. I love you.”

  Rita turned back and looked at her son, thinking of her years of struggles, her years of trying to protect Kyle from the wrongs she had done. Maybe, she thought now, that had been her greatest wrong of all.

  “Tell me, Rita. Just tell me. Please. Is Kyle my son?”

  She lightly touched the gauze wrapped around Kyle’s arm. She remembered his arm, so strong, so nice when he wrapped it around her and said things like “Everything will be okay, Mom,” or “I love you, Mom.” She wondered if that arm would ever hug her again. She thought about the other arm around her now. Charlie’s arm. Charlie Rollins, the man she had fought all this time to forget. The man who loved her still.

  “Yes, Charlie,” Rita said finally. “Kyle is your son.”

  Charlie leaned close to her and enveloped her in his arms. Together they cried and cried, the pulse of the heart monitor and the soft squish of the respirator weeping with them in their grief.

  Late in the afternoon, Jill stood in the doorway of Kyle’s room. She did not want to interrupt Rita and Charlie: they seemed so peaceful, sitting side by side, watching the motionless figure that lay shrouded in white. She put her hand to the large diamond necklace at her throat and smiled with the knowledge that it had been the right thing to tell Charlie to come.

  “Why is it you always look as though you just stepped out of a magazine?” a voice behind her asked.

  Jill turned and faced Ben, who was now scrubbed clean and wearing shoes, though it didn’t look as though he’d had a chance to sleep either. His baseball cap was back in place, and he wore a new sling—a makeshift-looking brace stitched from denim. Jill wondered if his daughter had made it for him, or the “friend” he had mentioned. She glanced down at herself and suddenly felt foolish for standing in the hospital corridor in her skimpy black dress with the short sequined jacket, an outfit for Hollywood, not the Vineyard. “We’re going over to Falmouth for dinner,” she explained. “I wanted to stop in and see Rita before we left.”

  Ben looked past her, into the room. “Any word?”

  “I just arrived. I didn’t want to interrupt them.” She followed his gaze. They stood quietly a moment, watching, waiting.

  “I wonder if Kyle knows they’re here,” Ben said.

  “I did a story once on people who had emerged from a coma. Some said they were aware of voices, of loved ones being there. I confirmed it by checking with the families. They said after coming out of the coma, the patients related conversations they would have had no way of knowing otherwise.”

  Ben smiled. “Ever the reporter.”

  Jill felt embarrassed. “I guess,” she said softly.

  “I’d like to go in now,” he added, taking off his Red Sox cap. “Do you think it’s all right?”

  “I don’t know why not.”

  She rapped on the door frame. Rita looked up.

  “Hey,” she said
as she stood, “you guys came back.”

  “Of course we did,” Jill said, walking toward her and kissing her cheek. “Is there any change?”

  Rita glanced back to the bed. “No. None.”

  “Hello, Charlie,” Ben said.

  Charlie nodded and stood.

  “Rita?” Ben asked. “Could I say a few words to Kyle?”

  Rita scowled. “Sure. If you want.”

  “You may want to listen,” he said as he moved close to the bed and pulled the chair closer.

  Jill held on to Rita. Charlie moved to her other side and held her other hand.

  “Kyle,” Ben whispered, “it’s me, Ben. How’re you doing, buddy?” His voice cracked a little; Jill’s throat started to close. “Kyle, I know what happened.” He held his cap in his hands and studied it now, tracing and retracing his finger along the brim. “Thanks for trying to save the house. That means a lot to me. And forget about everything else. You had your reasons. The only thing that matters is that you did the right thing in the end.”

  Jill looked at Rita who shook her head. “I have no idea …” Rita whispered.

  “We’re going to rebuild, Kyle. We got the approval. And you know,” Ben continued with a short laugh, “you’re not going to believe this, but they’re all going to help. Clarkson included. So you’d better hurry and get out of this bed, because you’ve got work to do. Can you hear me, kid?”

  From under the gauze, there was no response.

  Ben stood up and wiped his eyes. He walked back toward them. “He’s a good kid, Rita. No matter what, always remember he’s a good kid. And he did the right thing.” He stepped forward and hugged Rita. Jill fought back her tears.

  Suddenly the room grew curiously silent. The respirator beat out its thump-squish. But there was no other sound. Nothing. Then, an alarm rang. Rita pulled quickly from Ben.

  “Kyle!” she screamed and raced to her son. “Oh, my God, his heart stopped beating!”

  Jill froze. Ben flew out the door. Charlie ran to Rita’s side.

  “Kyle!” she cried. “Kyle! It’s Mom. I’m here. Please. Oh, God, no.”