Hello, It's Me

by Wendy Markham

Suddenly, Annie misses her husband so profoundly that it’s all she can do to keep her legs from buckling beneath her.

  She forces them to carry her to the kitchen, where, shivering in the sudden iciness that seems to fill the air, she shakily refills her coffee cup, stirs in milk and too much sugar with a wobbly hand.

  Then, as though it were her intention all along, rather than sudden inspiration, she reaches for the telephone and begins dialing.

  “Thom? Are you even listening?”

  “Hmm?” He looks up from his black coffee to see his mother scowling at him across an arrangement of elegant white roses and greens.

  No, he wasn’t listening.

  No, he doesn’t care about Bitsy Worth’s new Irish wolfhound whose pedigree is as sterling as Bitsy’s.

  Mustering appropriate contrition, he says, “I’m sorry, Mother,” and spoons a bit of hollandaise sauce onto the last of his English muffin.

  Lillian Merriweather Brannock arches pencil-enhanced eyebrow at her son, but says nothing.

  “I’m just beat this morning. I’ve been working too hard this week,” he offers as an excuse.

  With a trace of the Boston-bred accent that transforms her “ar”s into “ah”s, she informs him, “Hard work is good for you.”

  What fun. Thom nods. “I know, and I’m not complaining. Just explaining.”

  That line never worked on Thomas Brannock III, but Mother’s gaze softens a bit as she passes the basket of toasted English muffins to her only son, urging him to take another.

  The elegant brick terrace adjacent to Lillian’s formal dining room is bathed in sunlight this morning, the sea an inviting aqua backdrop in the distance.

  “I’m so glad you convinced me that our brunch should be al fresco this morning. ‘What is so rare as a day in June’?” Mother quotes aloud, and Thom can’t help smiling.

  “Oh, I can think of a few things.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  As he savors another mouthful of Eggs Benedict, Thom wonders if Annie and the children would enjoy sailing later this afternoon. It’s been too long since he was out on the ocean. He has some business dealings to address back at home after brunch, but he promised Annie he’d call her as soon as he’s available.

  She smiled and kissed him again, and mentioned that she’d be home all day.

  Leaving her last night—or rather, in the wee hours this morning—went against every instinct Thom possessed. If he’d had his way, the two of them would have fallen asleep in each other’s arms beneath the blooming honeysuckle, then awakened to make love again as the sun streaked the horizon pink and orange.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Startled, he glances up to see his mother watching him shrewdly over the rim of her china teacup.

  “I met someone,” he hears himself say . . . then braces for the inevitable barrage of questions.

  He doesn’t have to wait long.

  “Who is she?”

  Knowing his mother isn’t merely asking for a name, but a pedigree to rival those of Bitsy Worth and her new show hound, he says briefly, “You don’t know her.”

  “What about Joyce?”

  “That’s over.”

  To his surprise, his mother nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I can’t say it wasn’t obvious last Saturday night at the party that neither of you had any intention of taking it any further.”

  Again, Thom is taken aback that Joyce was apparently not as interested in him as he assumed. Is he that clueless when it comes to women?

  “I only hope neither of you has any regrets in the future,” his mother goes on. “Women like Joyce are few and far between, Thom.”

  No. Women like Annie are few and far between. His world is crawling with women like Joyce.

  “But . . .” Lillian offers a what-are-you-going-to-do maternal sigh and busies herself brushing stray crumbs of toasted muffin from her linen place mat. “What’s done is done. Tell me about this person you met.”

  “Her name is Anne . . . ie.” Might as well put it right out there from the start. “Annie Harlowe.”

  “Is she an actress?”

  “An actress?”

  “There was an actress by the name of Harlow in those old black-and-white films your father liked to watch. I just wondered . . .”

  Thom grins. “I doubt that it’s her, Mother. She doesn’t look a day over thirty.”

  Lillian has the grace to crack an almost-smile. “I didn’t think that it was her, silly. I only thought there might be a connection.”

  Or that I might have followed in my big sister’s footsteps and fallen in love with one of those pesky theater people?

  Aloud, Thom merely says, “No, Mother. She isn’t an actress. She’s . . .”

  An artist?

  A waitress?

  What more is there to say?

  Certainly nothing that will convince his mother that she’s the woman of his dreams.

  He settles on, “She has a place in Montauk.”

  “Montauk?” Lillian considers this, then nods her semiapproval.

  Apparently, as the boundaries of socially acceptable Long Island real estate expand eastward of Southampton, Montauk is moving up in the world.

  Next question: “Where does she live in the city?”

  Ah-ha. Here we go.

  A brazen seagull swoops low over the terrace to steal a discarded crumb of muffin from the brick at Mother’s feet. Watching the bird swoop off into the bright blue sky with his prize, Thom suddenly relishes the thought of telling Lillian Merriweather Brannock exactly who Annie is . . . and isn’t.

  “She doesn’t live in the city at all,” he informs Lillian almost jubilantly. “She’s in Montauk year-round.”

  He waits for Lillian to react as though he’s just informed her that Annie is a high-priced call girl.

  Though her eyebrows attempt to edge another fraction of an inch closer to her preternaturally unwrinkled forehead, Mother says merely, “I see.”

  “She has two children,” Thom can’t resist saying, certain that to Mother, it’s the equivalent of amending high-priced call girl to common street hooker.

  “She’s divorced?”

  “Widowed.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Mmm.”

  What is going on, here? Is it possible that he merely imagined years of matriarchal interference in his love life? Or is Mother playing some outlandish little game?

  That, Thom tells himself, would be utterly out of character. Mother doesn’t play games.

  No, that was Father’s department.

  And perhaps, his own.

  What are you doing? Thom asks himself uncomfortably. Why do you crave Mother’s disapproval?

  It isn’t that he craves it so much as that he anticipates it, he tells himself.

  Yet an unsettling air of doubt settles over him. Doubt about the true motivation for his all-consuming attraction to Annie.

  In the broad light of day on Mother’s terrace, it’s almost possible to wonder whether he really is falling in love, or if he’s merely infatuated with a woman of whom his mother would never approve.

  “How, exactly, did you meet a widowed mother of two in Montauk?” Lillian wants to know.

  Here goes. Time to pull out the big guns and watch her fire back. If she doesn’t . . . well, Thom wouldn’t be surprised if the blue sky abruptly gave way to storm clouds.

  In other words, Mother’s reaction to this bombshell is as predictable as the next five minutes’ weather.

  “Annie was a waitress at the party last Saturday night, Mother.”

  Lillian Merriweather Brannock—of the Back Bay Merriweathers and the Park Avenue Brannocks—slowly shakes her salon-coiffed head.

  Shakes her head!

  The response is so unexpectedly—and perhaps yes, disappointingly—prosaic that Thom can’t help darting a glance at the sky for thunderbolts as he asks, “You’re not upset?�
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  “That you’re dating a waitress? Of course I’m upset.”

  “Then why aren’t you berating me? Or at least trying to throw some eligible Vanderbilt heiress my way?”

  “Because that has never worked in the past,” Mother informs him. “And because, as your sister pointed out to me just the other day, the worst thing I can do at this point is try to steer you in the right direction. I’ll only succeed in driving you away.”

  “Susan said that?” he asks, thinking back to last week’s conversation about sushi and swimming with sharks.

  Mother nods. “She thinks you’re feeling restless. She mentioned that you might need to sow your wild oats before you’re ready to settle down.”

  “Sow my wild oats?” Thom makes a face.

  Is that what he was doing last night with Annie?

  “It seems most men have a need for it. If not before marriage, then afterward,” Mother adds, somewhat remorsefully.

  So.

  She’s worried that he’ll end up like Thomas III, with a proper wife and a bevy of mistresses.

  What is there to say to that?

  “Don’t worry about me, Mother.” He stands and plants a kiss on her surgically plumped cheek. “I’m not even thinking about marriage at this point.”

  “I hope not, if your . . . Annie . . . has two children to raise and put through college.”

  The implication is clear enough to send a cascade of ire through Thom.

  “Annie isn’t looking for a benefactor, Mother.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  Clearly, she doesn’t believe it.

  And now, thanks to her, neither does he. Not entirely.

  Is it remotely possible that Annie is using him?

  Perhaps even more discomfiting: Is he using her?

  It’s him.

  Again.

  Andre.

  “Annie . . .”

  The voice that calls her name is as static-ridden as before, but this time, Annie doesn’t waste a moment questioning the presence. She knows her husband is there, somewhere; perhaps she can’t hear him clearly, but she can feel him.

  “Andre, I’m here.” Her voice wavers; she takes a deep breath to steady herself, determined not to let the looming current of hysteria sweep her away. “Andre, please help me. I need you.”

  Again, a blast of sound; incomprehensible words rushing past her like a Long Island Railroad express bypassing her stop.

  “Please, Andre . . . I can’t hear you.”

  Nearly sobbing in frustration, Annie paces the drafty kitchen, barely aware of the chill or the ache of goose bumps rising on her bare arms.

  “Tell me how to do this alone, Andre,” she pleads, somehow mustering the presence of mind to keep her voice low. If the children wake up, it will be over. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she knows.

  “. . . Annie . . .”

  Her name is bookended between two unintelligible phrases, filling her with plaintive desperation.

  She gazes helplessly out the rain-spattered window. A bolt of lightning reaches down from the overcast sky.

  “I can’t hear what you’re saying, Andre.”

  More static. Nothing but static.

  What is he trying to tell her?

  Is it something about . . . Thom?

  Annie closes her eyes, tipping her forehead against the glass in defeated desperation. “I’m sorry, Andre. If that’s what you . . . I’m sorry.”

  Does she even mean it? she wonders, vaguely aware of footsteps overhead.

  Is she truly sorry for what happened with Thom? If she were given the opportunity to do it all over again, would she really turn her back on him?

  Torn between her loyalty to her late husband and the promise of a new love, Annie is filled with anguish. God help her, she can no longer cope with the turmoil her life has become.

  “I’m going under,” she whispers into thin air, talking more to herself than anyone else. “I just can’t do this alone anymore.”

  Static.

  And then . . .

  “. . . copper . . .”

  “Copper?” Annie pounces on the interference-riddled word like a drowning sailor seizing a lifeline. “What about copper, Andre? Copper Beach?”

  Garbled noise.

  “You want me to look for the treasure on Copper Beach? Andre—”

  “Mommy?” Floorboards are creaking overhead, their daughter’s distant voice calling for her.

  “Andre, don’t go,” she begs, hearing Trixie’s bare feet beginning to descend the stairs.

  The phone beeps twice.

  “Andre?”

  Nothing.

  “Andre!”

  Nothing.

  Annie looks down at the digital display on the receiver.

  CALL LOST.

  Chapter 11

  Dropping the shovel and metal detector, Annie runs her fingertips over the heart-encased initials carved into the thick trunk of the old copper beech tree.

  A. H. + A. H.

  She smiles faintly, clearly remembering the day Andre carved the letters there, along with the word “Forever,” added below as an afterthought.

  “Who’s A.H.?” she asked with a frown.

  “Andre Harlowe.”

  “No, I mean the other A.H.?”

  “That’s you.”

  “My initials are A.G.,” she pointed out.

  “They are? Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?” He was already sinking onto one knee in the grass, reaching into his pocket for the diamond engagement ring . . .

  “Bet you can’t catch me!” Milo shouts, racing off down the beach with Trixie at his heels, his ever-present cape flapping behind him. Both children swing plastic buckets in their small hands, ready to collect whatever treasures the sand and water yield today.

  Tears sting Annie’s eyes as she watches them, wishing their daddy could see them now.

  Maybe he can.

  “Andre?” Casting a dubious glance at the heavens, Annie whispers, “Are you there?”

  Her words are lost in the rushing surf and the screeching of a carefree seagull that swoops low overhead. The bird skids to a landing on a rock outcropping at the water’s edge. It hops a little closer, almost seeming to eye her reprovingly.

  Of course Andre isn’t there, Annie silently tells herself—all right, and the bird—feeling more ridiculous, and more desolate, with every passing moment.

  Andre is dead.

  How many times does she have to hear those words, even just in her own head, to believe them?

  Andre is dead, and you’re all alone.

  All alone on Copper Beach, aside from the mangy gull and the children in the distance.

  All alone in the world, save for a few precious moments last night in another man’s arms.

  Another man.

  Annie shakes her head, Erika’s voice echoing within.

  You aren’t married, Annie. You don’t have to feel guilty. It isn’t as though you’re cheating on your husband.

  Blindly watching as the feathered interloper scavenges for food in the rock’s crevices, Annie wonders where Thom is right now.

  Why didn’t he call her? He promised he would.

  Why, long after the morning thunderstorms had once again given way to sunshine, did she feel compelled to linger in the house? She stayed inside until this late in the afternoon, working on her shell sculptures, alternately praying the phone would ring and hoping that it wouldn’t?

  He promised.

  Well, maybe something came up.

  Or maybe he’s trying to reach her at home right this very moment, wondering why she isn’t answering.

  Maybe he’s worried about her. She did say she’d be home all day.

  Well, too bad. You changed your mind and went out. And you don’t owe Thom Brannock anything.

  Especially today.

  Today, of all days, should be only about Andre.

  Her thoughts drift back to the i
mpossible conversation she had this morning with her dead husband. It seemed so real . . .

  It was real, Annie tells herself. That’s why you’re out here right now, planning to comb the beach for the lost gold until you find it. Admit it.

  Oh, God. Is she truly losing her mind?

  The call seemed so real . . .

  But then, so did the rush of emotion she felt for Thom last night.

  That, Annie tells herself firmly, was as much a figment of her imagination as today’s phone call to Andre.

  Wasn’t it?

  With a sigh, she turns back to the grove of trees at the edge of the beach, the site of her engagement a lifetime ago . . . and her late husband’s fruitless search for buried treasure.

  Does she dare to believe that a chest filled with gold doubloons lies somewhere in the rocky, sandy soil, there for the taking?

  Annie reaches for the discarded shovel and metal detector, wondering what she’s supposed to do next.

  The least Andre could do was mark the spot with a bold, heaven-sent “x”, she thinks wryly.

  Should she dig in the sand, or under the trees? Why didn’t she pay more attention all those years that she came out here with Andre?

  She glances up at the sound of a gleeful shout to see Trixie turning an imperfect cartwheel, her long ponytail trailing in the sand. Milo’s sandals have gone missing and he’s splashing along, barefoot, at the water’s edge.

  With a wistful smile, Annie allows herself to dream about what a windfall of pirate gold would do for them. New shoes. Ice cream. College.

  Is that so much to ask? Any of it?

  An irritatingly reasonable voice butts in.

  You don’t need a treasure chest in order to provide those things, Annie. You can work harder, or get a real job, or sell the house . . .

  No. She can’t sell the house—she won’t. And she can’t get a real job: nine-to-five in some office, away from her children.

  Other people do it.

  Why are you so determined to be different?

  Because I lost my husband, dammit.

  Other people lose their husbands. They carry on.

  I’m carrying on, too, Annie tells herself stubbornly, willing pessimism to take flight with the seagull that in an abrupt fluttering of feathers has taken to the sky once again.

  Andre wouldn’t want her to sell the house, or get a real job. Andre would want her to cling to her dreams, to their dreams. He would want her to live life on her own terms, just the way they planned. He would want her to look for that treasure, just like he said.