by Jane Heller
I kissed my mother goodbye, reminding her that I’d be just over the bridge if she needed me, and took off. As much as I loved her, I couldn’t wait to be on my own again.
The Pontiac and I chugged across the causeway to Hutchinson Island. It was a glorious day—bright blue sky, moderate breezes, temperature in the eighties—and as I turned right at the Indian River Plantation, the area’s only major hotel-and-golf resort, and drove down MacArthur Boulevard, toward the House of Refuge, I felt like a kid again—a college kid on spring break, heading for the beach in my broken-down jalopy, radio blaring, wind in my hair, the whole bit. All that was missing was a surfboard.
Melinda Carr was waiting for me at the gate to let me in, since it was still early and neither the House of Refuge nor the adjacent gift shop were open for business yet.
“I’m thrilled you’ve accepted the position,” she said, after inquiring how my mother was. “Absolutely exultant.”
“I’m pretty exultant myself,” I said as we trotted toward the little white cottage that was to be my new home. As we walked, I glanced out over the beach and felt a smile spread across my face. The sand was a soft, creamy beige, the natural promontory a craggy maze of cavelike rocks, the ocean a deep, almost navy blue. And then, of course, there was that fabulous smell—the briny, salty sea smell that clears the mind as well as the sinuses. I can’t believe that the Historical Society is actually paying me to wake up to this every morning, I thought, not missing New York in the slightest, suddenly.
When we got to the cottage, Melinda paused before unlocking the door.
“Now I’ve warned you, Deborah. This isn’t Mar-a-Lago,” she said, referring to Donald Trump’s enormous mansion-cum-private club in Palm Beach. “What’s more, the previous keeper didn’t take very good care of the furniture. It’s a tad shabby, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay,” I told her, feeling like a bride impatient to be carried over the threshold. “Let’s see it already.”
Melinda finally opened the door.
We entered through the cottage’s kitchen, which was about the size of my galley kitchen in New York with similarly miniature appliances, and proceeded into the living room, where there was a rather beat-up sleep-sofa, a coffee table made out of driftwood, and a couple of futons—all resting on badly stained wall-to-wall carpeting that was a shade I’ll call Gulden’s mustard. Above the sofa were three large windows overlooking the ocean, the room’s main attraction. The bedroom was small but faced west, in the direction of the Intracoastal Waterway, and I anticipated that the sunsets on that side of the cottage would be as spectacular as the living room’s sunrises. In addition to a bathroom and an office/storage area, there was a porch that spanned the front and back of the cottage and provided a truly spectacular view of the sea, the beach, and the Intracoastal; I knew instantly that I would spend much of my time there, reading, contemplating my future, fantasizing about my mother’s cardiologist.
“As we’ve discussed,” said Melinda after the tour, “you’ll be our caretaker here, our castellan, so to speak. If there are problems with any of the buildings on the property, you’re to call Ray Scalley, the supervisor at the Martin County Building Maintenance Department, and have him send me the invoices for whatever work is done.” She handed me his business card. “If there are problems with intruders, you’ll call nine-one-one, of course.”
“Intruders?”
“Yes. Malfeasants.”
“I knew what the word meant, Melinda. I was just surprised that anybody would break into this place. As you pointed out, it’s not exactly Mar-a-Lago.” I looked down at the stained carpet.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about your little cottage. I was referring to the other buildings. Many people have keys to the gate—the maintenance staff, the volunteers, et cetera—and every once in awhile, they decide to use them in the middle of the night, for goodness sake. For a lark, I suppose. And then you’ll get the occasional drunk who decides to climb over the gate and peek inside the buildings. Or the hormonal teenagers who are bound and determined to have sexual intercourse up in the observation tower. It’s nothing to be frightened about, believe me.”
I believed Melinda, but I had just fled New York after my apartment had been broken into and trashed. I thought I had traded murder and mayhem for peace and quiet.
“Now, unless you have any questions, I’ll leave and let you get settled,” said Melinda, handing me the keys to the gate and the buildings and then moving toward the door of the cottage. “The volunteer staff will be arriving shortly. I’m sure you’ll find them very helpful, very pleasant.”
We shook hands. “I’m lucky that this job came along,” I told her. “The timing was perfect.”
“For me too,” she said. “As I indicated at our initial meeting, the Historical Society was searching for someone like you, someone who knows how to conduct herself in a mature, responsible way.”
“I’ll do my best to live up to the organization’s high standards,” I said, feeling as if I’d just enlisted in the marines.
After I unpacked my things, I inspected the cottage more closely. It needed a thorough cleaning and some paint touchups, but my mother had loaded me up with paper towels, Fantastik, and other essentials, and I was prepared to do battle. The important thing was, I loved my little place by the sea, felt at home the minute I walked in the door.
Now, I thought, if I can just get the gas stove to light, the toilet to flush properly, and the window in the bedroom to open, I’ll be a happy gal.
I picked up the business card Melinda had given me and dialed the number of Ray Scalley, the county building and maintenance supervisor who was supposed to fix things. I hoped he’d be less surly than my super in New York.
I got a recorded message.
“Hello,” I said. “My name is Deborah Peltz and I’m the new keeper at the House of Refuge, having recently moved to Stuart from Manhattan. Melinda Carr from the Historical Society suggested that I call Mr. Scalley if there are problems with any of the buildings here. Please call me back.” I left my number. I repeated it twice, in fact.
While I waited for the call-back, I scrubbed the kitchen, dusted the furniture, vacuumed the carpet, made the bed, ate the lunch my mother had packed for me, and sat on the porch gazing at the ocean. In other words, Ray Scalley did not return my call with great urgency. Actually, he did not return the call at all; he showed up.
“Ray Scalley. Howareya,” he said, stepping past me, into the cottage. “I was down the street at the Elliott Museum when I checked in at the office for messages. They gave me yours. What’s the trouble?”
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I said dryly. Well, he wasn’t quite as surly as my old super, but he wasn’t Mr. Charm either. “I’m Deborah Peltz.”
“Right. From New York. That’s what you said in your message.”
His accent was southern as opposed to the super’s, which was Serbian. Also, he was younger than “Ivan the Terrible,” as I used to refer to the super, in his late thirties or early forties, I guessed. He had reddish-brown hair, about the same color as my mine, and it hung straight, down around the collar of his light blue button-down shirt, which was tucked inside a pair of well-worn blue jeans. He was of medium height and medium build and was great-looking, if your idea of great-looking is the Marlboro Man. No, he wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat, but he had the swagger of a cowboy, of a loner, a rugged outdoorsy type, complete with a scar on his chin an inch or two below his lower lip.
“I’d offer you something cold to drink, but I only moved in a few hours ago and I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet.”
“Tap water’s fine,” he said. “We’re not afraid to drink ours here.”
Oh, I get it, I thought. He hates New Yorkers. He’s probably a hick who’s never been out of Martin County.
I got him a glass of water. He thanked me.
“Now, maybe you’ll tell me what needs fixing,” he said. “Diane.”
“Deborah,” I c
orrected him. “The problems are here in the cottage. First, there’s the stove. When you turn on the gas, nothing happens. Also, the toilet only stops flushing if you jiggle the handle. And then there’s the window in the bedroom that won’t open. It’s stuck or something.”
Ray Scalley stared at me as if I had two heads. “You called me over here for this, Diane?”
“It’s Deborah,” I said, becoming annoyed. “You must be bad with names.”
“No. I’m pretty good with names,” he said. “I’m just bad with yours.”
“I’m flattered. About the toilet—”
“Get a plumber.”
“And the stove?”
“Call the gas company.”
“What about the window? Or shouldn’t I ask?” This guy was making my old super seem positively charismatic.
“Look, Deborah—”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
He actually managed a smile. I wanted to break open a bottle of champagne. Over his head.
“Deborah,” he repeated. “It’s your first day on the job, so you don’t have the lay of the land, as they say. I supervise all the county-owned buildings, including the House of Refuge, which is over a century old and needs major renovations from time to time. When Melinda Carr gave you my number, she didn’t mean for you to call me about the toilet in your cottage. She meant for you to call me if there’s a leak in the roof of the museum or rotting in one of the columns or damage to the siding following a storm. I’m not some redneck handyman who chews tobacco and high-cracks his customers. I not only eat with a knife and fork, I take a shower every now and then. What’s more, I have a degree in building construction from the University of Florida with specialties in historic preservation, quantity surveying, site development, and business law. In other words, I’d be privileged to take a look at your stove, your toilet, and your window while I’m here, but next time, reach out and touch somebody from the Yellow Pages, huh?”
Sheesh! Was this person full of himself or what? Touchy, too.
I replayed his rant, to try to figure out what I had done to set him off, and then I started to laugh. When he asked me what was so funny, I said, “I used to write for a TV soap opera. That little lecture you just gave me reminded me of a scene I wrote a couple of years ago where the female character asks the male character if he’d mind changing her flat tire. He responds by telling her to change the damn tire herself. He says, ‘What do I look like? A car mechanic?’ You see any similarity here?”
“Vaguely. What happened in your next scene? Did the guy change the lady’s tire and end up in bed with her? That’s how it usually works on those shows, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, but not this time. The guy changed her tire and then he shot and killed her.”
“Why on earth did he do that?”
“The actress’s contract wasn’t being renewed. We had to write her out of the show.”
He laughed. “Sounds like some job you had up there in New York. What made you chuck it all to be a caretaker in little ol’ Stuart?”
“My mother lives here,” I said. “She had a heart attack and is recuperating. I wanted to be close-by.” I didn’t mention that another reason I had abandoned my life in New York was my raging midlife crisis.
“Sorry about your mother. Sorry about the lecture, too. I had no right to hammer away at you. How were you supposed to know who does what around here?”
“Or who has a chip on his shoulder?”
He laughed again. “You’re a pretty straight shooter, aren’t you?”
“I try to be.”
“I admire that.” He shook my hand. “Ray Scalley. Nice to meet you, Deborah. We might as well start over, right?”
“Right.” Maybe he doesn’t have an attitude, I thought. Maybe he’s just shy.
“You say your mother’s doing better?” he asked.
“Much better, thanks.”
“Who’s her doctor over at Martin Memorial?”
“Jeffrey Hirshon.” I tried not to blush.
“I was afraid of that. But then Hirshon does a booming business in town.”
“Do you know Jeffrey?” I asked tentatively, thinking it unlikely that the two men traveled in the same circles.
“Oh, I know him,” Ray replied. “Too well.” He looked distressed suddenly, as if the mere mention of Jeffrey’s name had touched a nerve. “I realize I could be sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong, but my advice to you is to keep your mother away from the bastard.”
“Bastard?” I said, stunned by his reaction. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it? I have no idea why you feel the way you do, but Dr. Hirshon saved my mother’s life. He’s a good doctor. A good friend, too.”
Ray nodded. “Forget I said anything.” He set the glass of water I’d given him down on the kitchen counter. “Now, how about showing me the things that need fixing?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Ray. I’ll call the appropriate people.”
“I’m happy to help,” he said. “And then I’ll be on my way.”
I showed him the things that needed fixing and he fixed them. And then he was on his way.
Chapter Nine
Later that afternoon, I drove to Stuart Fine Foods and bought groceries. I loaded them into the trunk of the Pontiac, got into the car, and put the key in the ignition. Unfortunately, the engine refused to turn over, even after several attempts. I realized that the battery must be dead. Swell. I sat there like a doofus, trying to decide what to do, until I caught Jeffrey Hirshon’s Porsche zipping into the lot. My heart thumped in my chest as I hopped out of the car and waved him down.
“Deborah. Is something wrong?” he asked, leaning out of the Porsche. He was still wearing his lab coat. Perhaps he was taking a break between patients.
“Nothing serious,” I said. “Just car trouble. Do you think you could give me a jump start?”
“My pleasure,” he replied with his nice-guy smile.
“Thanks. You’re becoming a regular knight in shining armor. First, you rescue my mother. Now, you rescue my car, although I’m not sure the car is worth rescuing. I’ve only had it a week and it’s been in the shop three times.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lemon.”
“Or else I’ve got a new strain of that psychological disorder.”
“Which disorder is that?”
“The one where a woman makes her child sick on purpose so she has to keep taking it to the hospital.”
“You mean, Munchausen by Proxy.”
“Right. I think I’ve got Munchausen by Pontiac.”
He laughed. “Let’s get this Pontiac humming.”
While we waited for my battery to charge, Jeffrey asked me how Mom was doing, how I liked my new digs on Hutchinson Island, and whether I was free for dinner that night.
“I’ll be seeing patients at the hospital until about eight-thirty,” he said, “but after that I’m all yours.”
All mine, I thought greedily—and then I remembered the Promise.
“I can’t go out,” I said reluctantly. “It’s my first day on the job. I should probably hang around the cottage.”
He shook his head. “I’m not reading you, Deborah. I get the distinct impression that you like me, and yet every time I ask you out you turn me down.”
“I do like you, Jeffrey. Very much. It’s just that—” I stopped. How could I explain about my pact with Sharon, about our fragile truce after years of intense sibling rivalry, about how antsy she was to snag another husband? How could I make him understand that going out with him even once could set off another estrangement from her and upset my mother terribly? How could I tell him that I was weak and vulnerable and lonely and was exercising every ounce of restraint I had by saying no to him? How?
“Ah, the picture’s coming in clearer now,” he said, studying me. “This has to do with your sister, doesn’t it? You’re leery about going out with me because I’ve shown an interest in her, too. You’re afraid I’
m playing games with the two of you.”
“As a matter of fact, you did say you had crushes on both of us, and you did ask Sharon to the opera before you asked me, so I—”
“Let me stop you,” he said, placing his forefinger across my lips. “I want to state, right here right now, that I like Sharon very much but she isn’t you, Deborah. You’re the one I want to spend time with. You’re the one I want to get to know better. I made that flip remark about the crushes because I thought you both needed cheering up, given the situation with your mother. As for the opera, I invited Sharon first because she seemed more—” He paused, as if searching for the precise word.
“More what?”
“Eager. Or should I say: willing.” He winked. “You, on the other hand, have been sending me mixed signals.”
So he likes me better than Sharon, I mused. A Pyrrhic victory.
“I’m not trying to confuse you, Jeffrey. But, for reasons I can’t go in to, I have to pass on the dinner date tonight,” I said evasively.
“Then how about tomorrow night? The weather’s supposed to be a carbon copy of today, and I’ll be home earlier, around seven. We could take the boat out, go for a moonlight cruise. What do you say?”
God, this was hard. “I’m sorry,” I answered. “I can’t tomorrow night either.”
He shrugged. “I don’t get it, but if you change your mind, I’ll be home. Just come on over.”
I thanked him again and ducked into the Pontiac.
When I got back to the cottage, the volunteers were closing up the House of Refuge and gift shop. One of them, an elderly man named Fred Zimsky, offered to carry my groceries into the kitchen for me. At first, I resisted his help—he was stooped over and quite frail-looking and I was afraid that heavy lifting might do him in—but he was full of pep and personality and insisted that he was up to the task.