by Jean Stone
She had dressed in pale peach pants today with a matching short-sleeved cotton sweater and low-heeled calfskin shoes that now felt as if they’d been weighted with sailboat anchors and concrete soles.
Jess walked slowly along the brick walkway, her thoughts as floundering as her feet.
Richard.
What would he look like?
How would he react when he saw her?
Would he remember her?
Richard. The boy who had comforted her, the boy who had promised … had promised to love her forever, to take care of them, to be a family …
And now, he was there. On the other side of the rose-covered fence. At the end of the brick walk, inside the building, never expecting, never dreaming that his refuge on this island was about to end, that he was about to be exposed for who he really was and what he had really done.
She paused at the roses and touched the budding vines, trying to find the courage to keep walking, trying to find the strength to face what she must do.
We were children, she reminded herself. We are not children anymore.
She remembered how she’d felt the day she learned that Father had paid Richard’s family off, that Richard had deserted her because his family wanted money. Now, she’d learned that even that had been deceit. They’d wanted the money, and they’d wanted her baby, too.
She closed her eyes, surprised that tears were there, that when she opened them again the sweet pink budding roses had blurred together as if they, too, had cried.
He and his lowlife family took the money and ran. Her father’s words reverberated in her mind and flowed down to her feet, and she began to move again, propelled by anger, powered by scorn, determined to make this right.
Jess marched up to the front door of the Vineyard Gazette.
She opened the door and stepped into a low-ceilinged room. An older woman who sat at a desk behind the counter looked up pleasantly and smiled.
“May I help you?”
Jess twisted the emerald and diamond ring that dug into her finger. “Yes,” she said so softly, she had to clear her throat and begin again. “Yes. I’d like to see Richard Bradley, please.”
The woman smiled again. “Richard? I’m afraid he won’t be back until next week sometime. He’s off-island.”
“Off-island?”
“He’s doing research for a story out of Boston. The environmental control legislation …”
The woman continued speaking, but Jess had turned and moved out the door again, and did not hear what else she said.
Back at Mayfield House, Jess told Ginny she needed to rest. “Find somewhere and get some lunch,” she suggested to her friend, who always seemed hungry. “I’m going to take a nap.”
Ginny left her blessedly alone in the chintz-wallpapered room number seven.
Stretching out on the bed and staring up at the canopy, Jess tried to decide what to do. She had only planned to stay a few days, not until “sometime next week” when Richard would return. She could not stay that long. She had a business to run, though Carlo could most likely handle things without her. But there were the children: Maura and Travis. Then she remembered that they were old enough not to need her anymore.
The fact was that she could stay that long if she wanted to continue, if she needed to learn any more about the truth.
Rubbing a muscle that had knotted at the base of her neck, Jess wondered if it was right to confront Mr. Bradley about his daughter Melanie, the elementary school teacher who may or may not be almost thirty, who may or may not be hers.
Or maybe she should simply leave the island and forget any of this had ever happened.
She thought of Phillip, how he had longed to meet his birth mother, how he had yearned to know the truth.
Didn’t Melanie—if Melanie were hers—deserve to know the truth?
Jess rolled onto her side, picked up the phone, and dialed Phillip’s office in Manhattan. Maybe he would help her make the decision. Maybe he would tell her what to do.
A woman whose voice she didn’t recognize put her through to him.
“Phillip,” Jess said, “how’s the new office?”
Just the sound of his warm laughter made Jess feel better already. He had, she realized, the same effect on her as Travis, as if Phillip, too, could be her son.
“We’re still unpacking,” he said. “I think the movers dropped most of my files somewhere on Fifth Avenue.”
“You’ll find them,” Jess replied with a smile. “Besides, isn’t that what your new secretary is for?”
“Between you and me, her looks far exceed her brains.”
“I’m not sure you’re supposed to admit things like that today.”
“Sad, but true,” he said. “But what about you? Are you home?”
“No. I’m on Martha’s Vineyard.”
The light, easy conversation ceased. Phillip paused. “And?”
“And, oh, Phillip.” Without planning on it, Jess began to cry. She wished she could say something, anything, so he would not suspect.
“Jess? Are you all right?”
It was too late. She could not stop her tears or this embarrassing display. “I’m sorry, Phillip. I didn’t mean …”
“Jess, what’s going on?”
She told him. She told him about Richard’s father, and the fact that Richard was off-island, and about the daughter Mr. Bradley called Melanie and that maybe she was hers. She told him she didn’t know what to do next. Then she apologized for crying.
“Don’t apologize for how you feel,” Phillip said with wisdom far beyond his years. “Is your friend with you? Ginny?”
“Yes, but she’s going through her own problems right now. I had hoped this would be a good distraction for her, but I’m afraid I’m so confused …”
“Do you think you should talk to Richard’s father?”
“Oh, Phillip, I don’t know if I have the strength. He seems like a nice man. His other daughter, Karin, is rather strange, but he seems to genuinely care about his family. Especially Melanie. I don’t know if I can upset him. I think this should be between Richard and me.”
“I’m coming over,” Phillip said.
“What?”
“I said I’m coming to the Vineyard. You’re too emotionally involved, Jess. If you want to learn the answers, you’re going to have to be direct. Or have someone who will be for you.”
“But, Phillip …”
“I’ll be there sometime this weekend. What time is the ferry?”
“I caught one out of Woods Hole at two-thirty. But I don’t know the schedule. It’s a holiday weekend … Memorial Day …”
“I’ll try to make that one tomorrow. I’ll call if anything changes.”
“Phillip … thank you.”
“No thanks required,” he responded.
Jess hung up the phone, dried her tears, and was glad that she had called.
Phillip couldn’t get out of the office fast enough. He knew Nicole would be angry: the semester had ended and she was on vacation until the summer session began next week. He had promised to take her to the Hamptons this weekend—their first official getaway without books or libraries or Phillip trotting off to meetings that Joseph had arranged.
That, of course, would be the best part—that Joseph already knew his brother and Nicole were going out of town this weekend, so Phillip wouldn’t have to explain about Jess, about the Vineyard, and about how it was really none of Joseph’s business what he chose to do off-hours.
Phillip grabbed his jacket and briefcase and left.
Surprisingly, a cab came quickly. Once inside, he gave the driver Nicole’s address, then settled back for the stop-and-go ride across town. Several blocks down Lexington, Phillip had an idea: He could take Nicole to the Vineyard instead of the Hamptons. Surely she wouldn’t mind; surely it wouldn’t matter. And maybe they could salvage a romantic weekend after all. Maybe she would even help them find Jess’s little girl.
The prospect was exc
iting—to share something more than sex and dinner and talk about exams and cases; to at last take her into his confidence and tell her about P.J. and how much she’d meant to him.
He looked out the taxi window and smiled, feeling that his life really was coming together and that perhaps Nicole would play a lasting role.
“I don’t want to go to Martha’s Vineyard,” Nicole said. “I want to go to the Hamptons. You promised.”
They were in her brick-walled loft. The worst part was, Phillip had told her. He had told her the truth about Jess; he had told her about P.J.; and he had told her how important it was to him to help his birth mother’s friend. He had confided all of this to her, and it didn’t seem to matter. She must not have understood.
“This means a lot to me, Nicole,” he said again. “I thought you’d be excited.”
“I was excited. About going to the Hamptons. Not about going off to help a woman find a long-lost baby.”
“Excuse me,” Phillip said, running his fingers through his hair. “I thought you wanted to be the big child-advocate attorney. I thought you cared about things like this.”
Nicole shrugged and turned away. She moved to the bed and sat down on the mattress. Phillip looked around the huge square room, suddenly annoyed that there were no chairs, that the only places to sit were on the bed or the textbook-covered floor.
“I’m tired,” she said, pulling off her T-shirt, revealing her small, dark-nippled breasts. Phillip turned his eyes toward the window; he did not want her lure of sex to interfere with what he had to do. “What you want sounds too much like work.”
“But …” he protested, turning back in time to see her slide out of her jeans, leaving only her thin panties that were the color of orchids today. Lovely, lavender orchids, so soft, so …
“This is what you had that fight with Joseph about, isn’t it?” She put a finger to her mouth, slowly licked it, then used it to trace a circle around her luscious, hardening nipple.
Phillip was smart enough to know when he was being manipulated. But nonetheless, his eyes were drawn to what Nicole was doing … and the stirrings had begun beneath his tightening undershorts. “Joseph and I don’t agree on everything,” he said lamely.
Her hand moved down between her legs to the silky, orchid patch. She gently moved the fabric to one side, revealing the tangled curls that glistened clean and wet and so inviting. And then she stroked herself, and Phillip started to step forward, longing to touch her for himself, to plunge his face into her sweet and ready warmth and taste her velvet on his tongue.
Suddenly, she pulled one leg upon the bed and grasped her knee with her arms. “If you don’t want to take me to the Hamptons, I’ll go with some other friends. I need a break, Phillip.”
He wiped a trickle of sweat that somehow had formed on his forehead. “The Vineyard would be a break.”
“While you’re spending time with a menopausal woman dredging up her past?”
His heat began to cool. “That’s not fair. You don’t know Jess.”
She rose from the bed and came close to him again, her scent within his space. She took his hands and slowly pressed them to her breasts. “I want to be with you, Phillip. I want you to make love to me all weekend.”
His fingers felt the hardness of the mounds beneath them. He looked into her eyes. He felt the stir begin again. Nicole had never said such words … make love to me all weekend. Until now, she had taken sex for granted, had acted as if it were a ritual that needed to be performed. Gently, his hands began to roam her breasts. She arched her back and smiled.
“Besides,” she whispered, “you don’t owe that woman anything. You said yourself she’s not a paying client.”
His hands stopped. He pulled them away and stepped back from her. “I don’t think you understand, Nicole. Jess means a lot to me. If it weren’t for her, I never would have known my birth mother.”
Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “So on a scale of one to ten, she comes out a ten, and I’m somewhere down around a five.” She turned back to the bed, grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it over her head.
“Is this what you’re all about?” Phillip asked. “Your quest for helping children only matters if the almighty dollar is involved?” His anger flared. He paced the room. “God, Nicole, I thought you were different from my brother. I thought you cared about things other than money. I guess that was my mistake.”
She laughed. He couldn’t believe she laughed.
“Why do you have to take everything so damn seriously? If one of us was wrong, I guess it must be me. I thought you wanted to spend time with me when I was available.”
“When you’re available,” Phillip said, an unfamiliar frostiness creeping into his voice. “It’s all about you, isn’t it, Nicole? You want someone who will share your bed whenever you have the time. You want a half-assed relationship that will fit into your schedule. It’s just like how you’re always late. Have you ever showed up for one date on time? What is that? Some kind of control issue?” The words rushed from his mouth. He watched her anger rise, her chin raise, her jaw set.
“I think you’d better leave,” she said.
“Fine,” he replied, grabbing his briefcase. “Have a nice weekend.”
Ginny knew there were other ways to get what one wanted without playing by the rules. After all, she’d spent a lifetime doing it until the last few years. Being nice should be reserved for the Jesses and Lisas of this screwed-up world. Or at least, for the kind of woman Jess was and Lisa had been before taking up with Brad.
She shook her head and glanced around the living room at Mayfield House. Now was not the time to be thinking of her daughter. Now was the time to think about this predicament with Jess and come up with a solution that would override the obstacles.
All around her, clocks ticked. She shifted awkwardly on the stiff sofa; she could think better if only she had a big bag of Tostitos.
In the old days, she would have used sex to approach Richard’s father, to make him feel he was the hottest male in the universe. In the old days she would have flirted and strutted and made him pant, then enticed him into telling her everything she wanted to know.
The concept was intriguing, but when Ginny looked down at the bubble of her stomach under stretchy leggings, she reminded herself it wasn’t as easy to flirt and strut when your gut was hanging out, and that the old days, like so many other things, were apparently long gone.
Still, she reasoned, Old Man Bradley was getting on, and probably hadn’t done it for many years. Besides, she thought, maybe a little action would revive her lost libido.
A slow smile crept across her face. Ginny stood up and decided to go and find Richard Bryant/Bradley, Senior, in this mausoleum of a house. Maybe the results would be as beneficial to herself as they would be to Jess.
He wasn’t in the house. He was in the backyard, sanding paint off a sailboat that was turned upside down on wooden horses.
“Nice day,” Ginny commented.
“Be nicer once we can get this baby back in the water.”
“I’m surprised you have time for sailing. This house must take a lot of work.”
“Have to make time for the finer things in life. The tourists are going to come anyway. Got to leave room for a little fun. Put that in your research paper.”
It took a brief moment for Ginny to realize what he was talking about. “My paper,” she said, “right. Well, if you don’t mind, there are a few other questions I’d like to ask.”
He sanded slowly, then scratched his chin.
She stepped closer to him, brushed her hair behind one ear, and gave her once-famous Ginny pose: one hip out, one leg propped against the other. “Please?” she asked, thinking she’d give anything not to feel quite so ridiculous.
“Well, I guess. Don’t ask me anything I don’t want to answer, though.” He eyed her empty hands. “You’re not going to take notes?”
“I have an excellent memory.”
“Okay, then. Shoot.
” He returned to sanding.
She stood up straight and congratulated herself that she still had it, even though it didn’t feel as if she did. Her thoughts turned back to Jess. “You mentioned your other daughter is a teacher,” she began boldly. “Did she leave the island to go to college?”
“Yep. Came back, though.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Because it’s home. It’s where she lives.”
“Is she your youngest?”
“Yep. She’ll be thirty this year.”
Thirty. Oh, shit, Ginny thought, it’s her. It’s really her. She stopped herself from asking if her birthday was in November. Instead, she assumed her Ginny-pose again. “Well, tell me then. What does a thirty-year-old—or anyone, for that matter—do for excitement on this island?”
Mr. Bradley laughed. “Well, Melanie loves her teaching. And she’s married, too. Got a little girl who looks just like her.”
Ginny took a step back. She hadn’t expected that: a little girl, a little girl who was Jess’s granddaughter. Ginny winced when she thought of Jess’s reaction. More crying, she supposed. More of those feelings.
“And Karin has her sea glass,” the old man continued. “I wish she had more.”
“Karin’s not married?”
“Nope.” He did not elaborate, but Ginny noticed he rubbed harder with the sandpaper.
“In L.A., teaching and collecting old glass aren’t considered terribly exciting.”
He chuckled. “Maybe that’s the problem with L.A. Folks here enjoy the simple life. Take tomorrow, for instance. Every year the folks of Tisbury get together for one big picnic. Our last hurrah before the tourists descend in masses.”
“A picnic? With all the people from the town?” A town picnic, she thought. Hold me back, Lord, I cannot take much more excitement.
He set down his sandpaper and looked at Ginny. “Over at Tashmoo Pond. It’s tradition on the island, like most everything else. Anyway, the inn is booked this weekend, but we have an inn-sitter come and take care of business. Wouldn’t miss the picnic for all the scallops in the sound.”