Tides of the Heart

by Jean Stone

  “Does anyone you know have ties to the island?”

  “I only know that Miss Taylor lived on Cape Cod. I can’t imagine that’s any more than a coincidence.” Jess suddenly felt exhausted. It felt as if she’d told her life story to a boy too young to hear it.

  “Tell me, Jess,” Phillip asked slowly. “What will you do if I can’t help?”

  “Drop it. Leave well enough alone.”

  “Well, I can’t let you do that, now can I?”

  She held her breath. “But, Phillip …”

  “I owe you, Jess. I had some wonderful months with P.J., but I never even would have known her if it hadn’t been for you.”

  A layer of tears rose in Jess’s eyes.

  “No guarantees,” P.J.’s son continued. “But I’ll at least try and find out if your baby was Amy Hawthorne or not. Beyond that,” he added with a quirky half grin, “well, like I said, I have a business to run and a brother who might kill me if I don’t hold up my end.”

  “If you can find out if my baby was Amy,” Jess said, smiling and wiping her tears, “I won’t bother you with anything else. That’s a promise.”

  Later that evening, Jess stared into her huge walk-in closet, trying to decide between pressing the navy faille suit or the cocoa silk dress—or slugging half a bottle of antacid instead.

  She had butterflies in her stomach. As a little girl Jess had once pictured yellow and orange and blue and green wings fluttering against her pink insides, delicately tickling the walls of her tummy. What she hadn’t understood was if it was tickling, why didn’t it make her laugh? Why did it make her feel upset instead? And why did it always happen before she had to do something really important, like reciting a poem in front of the class at Miss Winslow’s, or later, trying to impress the unimpressionable housemother at Larchwood Hall?

  By the time she’d reached Larchwood, of course, Jess had known there were no pretty butterflies dancing within. She knew it was merely a symptom of nerves: rock-hard, unquietable, someone’s-out-to-get-me nerves.

  The someones out to get her now, she knew, were the ladies of the country club, the Celia Boyntons and Dorothy Sanderses and Louise Kimballs of the world, women who had once been friends. Now Jess lived on the other side of the social tracks—divorced, out of touch, a working woman, for God’s sake, who no longer did lunch between tennis and golf, who no longer shopped for the sheer need to kill time.

  Instead she made drapes for other people’s grand homes and the places they partied, and wasted emotional energy looking for a long-lost baby who was a grown-up adult. Who was maybe a grown-up adult.

  She stood in the middle of the densely packed closet of her working-woman condominium and wondered why she cared what she would wear tomorrow—why she cared what she looked like for her return to the country club of Greenwich—where she once had been a member and had since been voluntarily downgraded to subcontracted employee.

  Not that there was any need to care: Celia Boynton, Dorothy Sanders, Louise Kimball, and the rest of them would not be there for another month or six weeks, until the greens became green again and the clubhouse wine cellar had been properly restocked for another season, another year.

  She yanked the navy faille off the hanger and decided it was good enough. It didn’t matter anyway who would be there, who would be witness to her measuring and note-taking and the awkward juggling of her sample books on her too-petite frame. It didn’t matter, anyway, because they were not—had never really been—her friends. They were country club friends, not the real thing. Not the stick-by-her-through-thick-and-thin friends like P.J. and Ginny and once perhaps even Susan.

  She moved back into her bedroom and spotted the telephone, reminding herself that she still had at least one real friend in the world, one true, stick-by-her friend. She tossed the suit on the bed, pulled the address book from her nightstand, then picked up the receiver and dialed L.A. She had been far too neglectful of her one, true friend—far too self-centered when her friend was now suffering real pain, real, life-altering pain.

  “This is Ginny,” the voice on the other end said. “Leave a message, and don’t forget your number. I hate looking them up, and I can’t remember anything these days.”

  Beep.

  Jess felt a sad smile cross her face. “Ginny,” she said into the phone, “this is Jess. I wanted to see how you’re doing … and I wanted to tell you that Phillip has agreed to take my case. Call me when you can.”

  Then she went to press her dress, amazed at how just the sound of Ginny’s voice had made her feel better, made her feel not so alone.

  Ginny clicked the remote from Wheel of Fortune to Inside Edition to CNN Headline News then back again.

  “I’m doing just fine, Miss Jessica,” she mumbled to the television screen. “Thanks for asking.”

  As good as could be expected, was what she’d overheard Consuelo tell one of the lechers who was hot to buy Jake’s business when he stopped by inquiring about Ginny’s mental and physical health.

  She ran her hand through her stringy hair and rubbed her palms across the thighs of her old gray flannel sweats, wondering what, exactly, was expected after one’s husband had dropped dead.

  Then she reached for the nachos, crunched a few in her mouth, and flicked the remote to the Discovery Channel, where there was a fascinating look at the mating habits of the weasels of North America.

  If she could get her work done and slip out the door before the lunch crowd arrived, Jess would be able to avoid seeing anyone she knew. Anyone, of course, except Wendell, the dining and banquet room manager, the person responsible for giving her the job, the middle-aged gay man who had always liked Jess, who had probably thought Charles—like most of the men of the club—was an overinflated, self-centered ass.

  Wendell would certainly have been right about that.

  Hunter green with touches of butter yellow, Jess decided, scanning the empty banquet room, where she had spent so many dull evenings sitting on the dais next to her overinflated, self-centered ass of a husband. She had smiled stiffly and acted as if she were having a good time. Until, of course, that last night, when Maura had pretended to try to kill herself, when Jess and Charles had raced from the golf banquet to the hospital, when Maura had lost the baby, when the walls of Jess’s marriage had come tumbling down, which hadn’t been difficult because they were cracked anyway. Cracked, flawed, as they always had been. The difference was that after that night Jess no longer bothered patching and repatching, trying to hold the facade together.

  “What’s it going to be?” Wendell asked her now.

  Jess blinked back the past and showed him the sample of fabric she’d selected. “Hunter green to please the masculinity of the men, butter yellow to appeal to the ladies’ soft touch.”

  “Ha!” Wendell laughed. “ ‘The ladies’ soft touch’? I thought you knew them better than that.”

  She bit back a small smile. “I’m thinking about the green with the yellow hydrangea blossoms for the draperies and border; the coordinating stripe for the wainscoting and seat covers.”

  Wendell chuckled and nodded. “I have faith in you, my dear. Just let me know what color to order the napkins and tablecloths and send samples to the florist. We can’t have our centerpieces clashing, now, can we?”

  No, Jess thought. We definitely cannot have that at Fox Hills of Greenwich.

  “The same for the dining room?” Wendell asked.

  Voices outside the banquet hall distracted her. She glanced at her watch: 10:20. Surely it couldn’t be one of the ladies.

  “Jess?” Wendell asked.

  “Right,” she answered. “I mean no. Not the same for the dining room. I think butter yellow as the main color—accented by navy and powder blue.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The voices ceased, the sound of footsteps seemed to diminish. Probably suppliers, Jess told herself. Suppliers, like me.

  “Well,” she continued, trying to ignore those damn metamorphosing,
unquietable butterflies. “Blue is a cool color, so it’s not something I’d ordinarily choose for a dining room. But there are so many lovely shades today …”

  “I’m sure it will be superb,” Wendell said. “Now, I really must go, my dear. Do you need help with the measuring?”

  “No, thanks, Wendell. I have Grace’s preliminary figures. I only want to double-check before I order the fabrics.”

  He nodded again, waved, and swept from the room. Jess was grateful he did not say, “It was so wonderful to see you again,” or “You look fabulous, darling,” or any of those false phrases that seemed to come with club membership.

  She checked her watch again, hoping to be out by eleven, long before she could possibly run into anyone else. Taking her measuring tape and small notebook, she scratched down “B. Room, Main wall,” and moved toward the window to measure.

  The tape had barely stretched from her hand when she heard the footsteps of someone entering the room.

  “Jessica?” It was a female voice.

  Jess turned around. The butterflies resumed their flight.

  “You look fabulous, darling,” said Dorothy Sanders. “What ever are you doing here?”

  She considered pretending she was not who she was, that Dorothy Sanders, so sorry, had confused her with someone else. She considered telling the woman the truth: that she was trying to give her children a sense of the work ethic they never would get from their father; that she was being a productive member of society because she had wasted too many years as a woman like Dorothy. And she considered saying she was there killing time until she learned if the baby she gave up for adoption was dead or alive, or if her other daughter would ever speak to her again if she found out.

  But Jess did not do these things. Instead, she called up that old plastic smile reserved for such occasions. “Dorothy,” she said quietly. “How nice to see you.” She gripped the tape measure in her hand, the steel threatening to slice into her palm.

  Dorothy’s amazon body glided across the parquet floor on square, sensible shoes. When she reached Jess, she leaned forward and gave the inevitable kiss-kiss on Jess’s cheeks. She smelled like Elizabeth Taylor must, if Miss Taylor actually wore the perfume she promoted.

  “Celia’s drapes are divine,” Dorothy said in her tight-lipped way that made Jess feel like a small child who had just won a spelling bee. The woman fingered the triple strand of pearls around her neck as her gaze fell to the swatch book at Jess’s feet. “And you’re re-doing the club? Well, that’s wonderful. The mauve has become so tiring.”

  Tiring. Yes, Jess thought, now that’s an appropriate word.

  “I’m only measuring today,” she said in a quiet voice. There was no way she wanted to involve Dorothy Sanders or anyone else in her decision of color, of fabric, of look. It was her job. Not Dorothy’s.

  Quickly, Jess scooped up the book.

  “Well,” Dorothy said with a sigh that raised the pearls on her plastic-surgeried, tight throat. “It’s nice that you have your work to keep you busy.”

  Which was her way, Jess knew, of patronizing her about the divorce. About the fact it had been final for four years and, unlike Charles, Jess had not remarried.

  “My work, my children, my life,” Jess said with a smile. “You’re right, Dorothy. It all keeps me quite busy. And I love every minute of it.”

  “Oh, Jess,” she cooed, “we do miss you here, darling. You were always such a help with the charity events … you know, that witch of a woman Charles is married to now can’t give us the time of day.”

  The butterflies flapped their wings.

  “Last month I phoned to ask if she could make half a dozen calls for me. Half a dozen! But no, she was too busy. They were off to the Caribbean to buy a boat for their cruise. They’re actually going to live on a catamaran. Can you stand it?”

  No, Jess could not stand it. “Well,” she said quickly, snapping the tape measure closed, “we all have our priorities. Which reminds me, I have another appointment across town, and I’m running late.”

  She slipped from the banquet room without acknowledging Dorothy’s cheerio or ta-ta or whatever trendy form of good-bye the woman was using these days. Out in the parking lot, she dumped the fabric books in the back of her car, knowing she’d have to go with Grace’s preliminary measurements. The only way she’d return to the club was if she was guarded by assistants, armed with distractions.

  And she would only come back after hours.

  On the way back to her shop, Jess made a detour, deciding to go home and change from her country club suit, to slide into pants and a sweater more conducive to work. She also admitted she did not want to face her employees right now—it always took time to stop the sting that formed in her eyes each time she was forced to think about Charles, each time she was faced with the reality that his life, indeed, had moved on, was now spent with a woman who loved being what he so wanted—the eager-to-please young beauty, the long-legged lovely with the wide smile and blond mane, the perfect woman, the trophy wife.

  Sometimes it was difficult to remember that it was a life she would have detested; it was especially difficult when she realized her life had become just what she said: her work, her children. Nothing more. There was no love of her life, no special man. At forty-five, Jess wondered if love would always elude her, and then she wondered why it mattered anyway. One Charles in her life had been quite enough.

  She parked the car in the garage and made her way into the kitchen, grateful for the neatness and the order that surrounded her, glad she did not have to share her space with any self-centered man.

  Jess walked to the counter where she set down her purse and slid out of her coat. The red flashing light on the answering machine caught her eye. She was tempted to ignore it. What if it was another of those calls? But then she remembered it might be Phillip.

  She pushed the button.

  “Mom?”

  Oh, she thought. Maura.

  “I wanted you to know everything’s fine about spring break. Eddie’s going to spend it with me.”

  Maura’s giggle did little to ease the trepidation that formed in Jess’s heart.

  “Before you go getting all nervous and everything, I wanted to tell you we’re spending it with Dad. Cruising on a catamaran in the Caribbean! Eddie is so excited. Catch you later, Mom. Bye!”

  Jess stood there staring at the answering machine, feeling as if her life were draining from every vein in her body and was being sucked out the bottoms of her feet.

  Chapter 8

  Phillip slid his foot out of his loafer and rubbed his aching toes. It was two-fifteen, and the waiting room at the Long Island Geriatric Home presented the first opportunity he’d had to sit down today. With luck, he’d get this over with in time to meet Joseph back in the city, in time to look at the office space Joseph wanted to lease on Park Avenue and Seventy-third.

  He glanced around the ivory-painted walls, the seascape prints of the Atlantic, the blue plastic chairs that lined the perimeter of the small room. He wondered if the man inside would have the answers that Jess needed.

  At last, he’d been lucky. A phone call to the Westwood town offices on Friday had established that the old sheriff-postmaster, Bud Wilson, was as dead as Miss Taylor. Phillip had crossed one name off the list of those who had known of Jess’s secret.

  But then, at the library on Sunday—when he should have been doing dinner at Mom’s—Phillip had hit pay dirt: William Larribee, the long-ago retired doctor, had kept his membership current with the AMA. On Monday—yesterday—Phillip had proved to himself that even this lowly corporate attorney was capable of finding an AMA doctor’s last known address, which, in this case, turned out to be the Long Island Geriatric Home with the blue plastic waiting room chairs—one of which he sat on now.

  Still, finding Dr. Larribee was one thing; obtaining any helpful information from him might be quite another. But Phillip would do his best for Jess. And he would do it before Joseph found out w
hat his little brother was up to when he should have been tending to business.

  But, God, it was already Tuesday. He hoped Jess was as patient as she was nice.

  According to the round, white-faced clock on the wall, it was already two-twenty. He’d have to leave by three to make the meeting with the real estate agent who was going to make it official that they at last could move uptown.

  Phillip aimlessly flipped through a People magazine. What would his father have thought of the move? Donald Archambault had not been one for pretenses. He’d been a dedicated worker whose specialty was probate, where Joseph said there was no big money now—in fact, there never had been.

  But Phillip had liked, respected, and, yes, loved their father. In his quiet, steady way, the elder Archambault had guided his two young sons toward manhood. On weekends he’d taught the boys to fish in the stream behind their house; several times he’d taken them to the great museums in Manhattan and Washington, D.C., because, he said, “You can never learn enough”; and he was always there in his recliner after dinner, cigarette in hand, ready to explain the evening news or offer homework help.

  Phillip had never expected that one day his father would not be in that recliner. When Donald Archambault died suddenly and Phillip went home from college for the funeral, he walked to his father’s chair and looked at it for a long time, too afraid to sit in it himself. To this day, he never had. But dealing with his father’s death had in some ways prepared him to deal with P.J.’s later on; he’d learned how difficult death was on the people left behind. And that it could be a blissful release for those, like P.J., who had been in so much pain.

  He returned the magazine to the table for the next visitor. He thought about how to introduce himself to Dr. Larribee. Maybe he should say: “My name is Phillip Archambault. I’m one of the babies you delivered in 1968.”