While they waited for the car to cool off, Suze said, “Remember that old Pontiac, it belonged to . . . what was his name, the guy with the stringy hair and big nose?”
“Johnny.”
“Yeah, Johnny. We drove it down to the marina, only we took a wrong turn and ended up in the marshes.”
Van smiled in spite of herself. “Had to get it towed out and then pay for getting it cleaned.”
“I forgot that part. But I do remember the guy who drove the tow truck.”
“As well you should, since you went out with him the next weekend.”
“Now what was his name?”
“Can’t help you there.” They got in, and Van put the car in gear and pulled into the street and a stream of cars. “Ugh, I forgot about traffic.”
“It’s the last throes of summer,” Suze said.
“It’s worse than I remember it.”
“It can’t be as bad as Manhattan.”
“I don’t drive in Manhattan.”
“Don’t you ever get to the shore? Ever? I mean maybe not here, but somewhere?”
“Jones Beach. Once a year maybe. I’ve been busy. This was going to be my first vacation since starting the business.” She sighed. “My extremely efficient staff threatened to quit if I didn’t go away. I guess I run a pretty tight ship.”
“Strangling, I bet.”
“So I’m thorough and expect the same of my employees. I pay them very well.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Do you ever get back to the beach?”
“Van. My parents live at the beach. Yeah, I get back. A lot. That’s why I’m staying at Dorie’s this time.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. If you could call it driving. More stop, start, stop, start as traffic inched toward the beaches.
When they finally got to the discount liquor store, there was not a parking space to be had. “Okay, just let me out, drive around the block, and pick me up back here. I’ll hurry.”
“Not a problem; you’ll probably be out before I get back.” Van tossed her purse over to Suze. “Take some money.”
The driver behind them honked, then sat on the horn.
“Jackass. We’ll settle up later.” Suze jumped out of the car, gave the driver an emphatic hand gesture, and went inside the store.
Van inched her way to the corner and made the turn. When she stopped in front of the store ten minutes later, Suze was standing at the curb next to a gawky stock boy and a hand cart loaded with two boxes. Suze opened the back door and he slid both onto the backseat.
Suze handed him a tip and jumped into the car. “Romeo.”
“What?”
“The tow truck driver. His name was Romeo.”
“You would remember.” She quirked her head toward the backseat. “Plan on moving in? I’m only here for a few days max.”
“And you’re probably still a stingy drinker.”
Van sighed. “Considering my family history, I try to stay on top of things.”
“On everything,” Suze mumbled.
“I heard that.”
“Of course you did or I wouldn’t have bothered saying it.”
Van laughed. She couldn’t help it. Suze was eccentric and brilliant, clumsy and absentminded, told it like she saw it, but never let you down.
“So what did you buy?”
“Three reds, two whites, a magnum of white zin for Dorie, a bottle each of gin, vodka, and rum, a couple of bottles of girly mixes in case we’re inclined to have something pink and sweet with a little umbrella in the glass. And two bottles of Moët & Chandon. It was so cheap I couldn’t resist.”
“And we would be celebrating what?”
“I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”
Chapter 3
NORMALLY AFTER TAKING OUT A GROUP FOR NIGHT FISHING, Joe would drive straight back to the marina and fall into bed. Sleep most of the day then find someplace to have dinner. But he lay in bed, sweating and frustrated, in the house that as caretaker and marine boss he got rent free. His eyes felt like they were filled with glass, and yet when he closed them, he didn’t like the pictures he saw. And he couldn’t seem to get past those pictures into a blissful unconsciousness.
The tide was in on the river, but there wasn’t enough breeze to blow the lingering stench of the mudflats away. He was tired of being in town, of eating at Mike’s three or four times a week.
He could be living with his family on the farm—what was left of the farm—wake up still to the sweet-smelling grass until rush hour when the commuters would leave their condos and drive past on their way to the office, leaving their exhaust fumes over the fields.
These days when you walked out to the front porch, you could see their windows light up as they moved from bathroom to kitchen, the rooms growing dark as they went to bed. No evidence there had ever been acres of green grass there. The ink hadn’t even dried on the bill of sale before the bulldozers arrived. At least they’d been able to keep the barn, and the building that housed milking stations for two hundred cows. They would adapt well for what he had planned.
He’d been at college when most of the land had been sold. Joe laughed bitterly and turned over, trying to find a cool place among the sheets. He’d been taking a full course load as well as working part-time to finish his farm management degree and go home to turn the dairy around.
He’d had some great ideas. But like most great ideas, they came too late.
Over a hundred years of Enthorpe blood, sweat, and, yeah, there were tears, and yeah, some of them had been his own. While he was away, the herd was auctioned off, the land parceled, and much of it sold.
They managed to keep twenty acres, but his brother Drew had gone off to the air force, and Brett opened a hardware store in the next township. His sister Maddy married and moved to Ohio of all places; Elizabeth was at college. Which left his mother, father, granddad, and two younger brothers, Matt and David, to manage.
They’d made money on the deal, but when they gave up the farm, they lost the Enthorpe spirit.
So Joe had decided to do something about that, too. It had been hard fought and barely won; his granddad resisted, his dad was cautious. It had taken Joe, Drew, and Brett to convince the older two Joes into going for it. Joe’s plan would hopefully give them something to look forward to, be easier on them physically, make them more competitive in the market, and give them a real reason to get up each morning.
They couldn’t get their land back, but maybe they could start over. The last three years had seen more blood, sweat, and tears, more than a few anxious moments. Finally, this would be the first year they would have a large enough crop to actually harvest.
They’d started over, and it looked like they might actually succeed.
His eyes closed. Start over. Maybe now that the farm was operating again, he could start over. Maybe that’s what he’d been waiting for all along.
VAN SLOWED THE car down, looking for a parking place near Dorie’s house, not that she expected to find one. In a few days there would be a mass exodus away from the beach and to the malls for school clothes and supplies. Back to work. Back to normal life. A few stragglers would hang around until they too would wander away. Then the streets would be empty and you’d have your choice of parking spaces.
But these last few days would be hell on parking, on waiters and waitresses, who would have to work overtime to fill in for the departing college and high school students who had been the bulk of the summer staff.
Van slowed as she reached Dorie and Harold’s driveway.
Suze, who practically had her nose pressed to the window, exclaimed, “Wow, they still have that old Cadillac.”
Van stopped the car. “Holy crap. Think it still runs?”
“Tires still look good from here.”
“Want to drive around the block and hope someone has decided to go home or should we—?”
“Pull onto the grass. Do you think Dorie has put in central air?
”
“What are the chances?”
“One can always hope.”
Van turned into the drive, bumped over the cracked cement, and pulled onto the grass at an angle to the Caddy.
As soon as they were stopped, Suze jumped out, grabbed her suitcase and computer case from the trunk, and lugged them to the porch of the old Victorian beach house.
Van moved more slowly, a thousand emotions and forgotten memories vying for attention.
At the first sight of the weathered old house, Van’s insides did a little leap of recognition. Now standing here looking at the porch with the old aluminum furniture, the seashell wreath on the door, familiarity warred with pleasure and a little knot of pain.
So many times she’d taken refuge here, so many times they’d talked into the wee hours. Sitting on the lemonade porch in the dark, laughing or crying and fanning themselves with pieces of cardboard while citronella candles cast their light and scent into the darkness.
Do not think of the good times. They were seductive, but they didn’t last. Only pain and hurt lasted. And she didn’t need any reminders of that.
“Van, you’re going to melt if you stand there much longer. And since all the windows are closed, I’m guessing there might actually be air-conditioning inside.”
Van slung her computer case over her shoulder and bumped her suitcase up the steps. She’d have to come back for the printer later. Even if she didn’t need it while she was here, she didn’t want to leave it in the trunk, prey to heat and passing felons.
The suitcase rattled across the old floorboards as she made her way to the front door. She reached for the doorknob, but stopped. “We didn’t think to get the key.”
“When did Dorie ever lock her door?”
“She should.” Van turned the doorknob. The door opened and they walked in. Right into—
“Harold!”
Harold Lister was in his seventies, but he hadn’t changed at all, except maybe having less hair. Medium height, scrawny with a little belly that hadn’t grown any that Van could tell, a prominent nose embellished with a mole that still held its usual place of prominence.
Harold was never handsome, not even on a spruced-up day. But for some inexplicable reason, the ladies loved him and he loved them right back. The female staff did not. Most were college students or younger and they put up with his daily pinches, pats, and occasional groping with gritted teeth and determined silence. Working at the Blue Crab was a good job, and they didn’t want to lose it.
He was wearing linen trousers and a short sleeve sports shirt and reeked of aftershave. Never a good sign with Harold.
The two large suitcases that sat by the door weren’t either.
“Van, Suzy. Aren’t you gonna say hello to old Harold?” He came forward and Van braced herself. He wasn’t much taller than she, but he managed to get her in a tight hug and patted her butt when he let go.
She gritted her teeth but let it slide. He was Harold after all, the old dog of old dogs. And Dorie’s husband.
“Harold,” Suze said as he changed course for the larger woman. “Good to see you.” She blew him a double air kiss and breezed right by him. “Going on a trip?” she asked from behind him.
Harold, turned, smiled, winked. “Thought I’d give you all a little girl time.” He made a show of looking at his watch, which Van swore was a Rolex. “Gotta run. Have a good time. Mi casa su casa.” He wiggled his fingers at them, grabbed the bags, which nearly knocked him off balance, and banged them through the open door.
Van turned to Suze. “What do you make of that?”
“Those bags were packed for serious traveling if you ask me.”
“Off on one of his escapades?” Van ventured.
“Off on the arm of some clueless arm candy.”
“Do you think Dorie knows?”
“About this time? She will soon enough.”
Van pushed the handle of her suitcase down. “Like I believe I’ve said, some things never change.”
“And some things do. There’s air-conditioning. Let’s get these things upstairs and go back for the booze.”
Van picked up her suitcase just as she heard the Caddy fire up and back out the driveway. “Good riddance,” she said. “I just don’t understand why Dorie has put up with him all these years.”
Suze turned to look down at her. “You would have dumped his ass after the first indiscretion.”
It stung, but it was true. “That’s what modern women do.” That’s what she had done.
“Uh-huh,” Suze said and preceded her up the stairs. “But what are we going to tell Dorie?”
DORIE MASSAGED HER lower back while she oversaw her busboys returning the funeral things to the Blue Crab’s kitchen. Damn, it had been a long morning and afternoon. Dramatic, too.
Well, heck. It was good to shake things up every now and then. And by the time she took Gigi back into the party room, the story of Van’s return had made the rounds and interest had waned as people crowded around the food and the open bar. Of course, Dorie heard plenty about the reaction, mainly from Kippie Fuller and Sue Ann Blaine while they helped her clean up.
It was after two when the party broke up, and most people who hadn’t gone home had moved into Mike’s regular bar. A bunch of them would be there for the rest of the day.
Now it was going on four. Downtime for the restaurant, though several tables were occupied with late lunchers or early diners. Fine by her. For the next few weeks she’d have to close except on the weekends. After that she’d close up for the winter.
Hopefully Harold would be back by then to help out. Of course he might not be. You never knew with Harold. He might not have even left yet. He hadn’t said anything. He never did, but over fifty years of marriage, she’d learned to recognize the signs.
Starting with the trips to the attic for the suitcases. The surreptitious packing and shoving them under the bed in the guest room. The haircut, the new shirts and ties.
She wondered what or who it was this time. But she really didn’t care. Maybe she’d go to Florida for a few months. Her half sister lived down there. They used to have good times together.
But why the hell go to Florida when you had the beach here right outside the door? The weather down there was boring, and she’d just done summer up here.
Dorie tossed the keys to Cubby, her assistant manager, waiter, head busboy, and occasional dishwasher when the kitchen got backed up. “Move the van to the parking lot, hon. I’ll walk home.”
“You comin’ in tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got company.” At least she’d better have company after all the trouble she’d gone to to get it.
“You mean like a date? What’ll Harold say to that?”
“Harold’s out of town,” Or should be soon. “Doesn’t mean that gives me license to cavort.”
“Huh? What’s cavort mean?”
Damn, what was wrong with the teachers these days? “It’s what lambs do in the spring.”
“Uh, right.” Cubby shook his head and climbed into the white-paneled The Blue Crab Chases the Blues Away van and drove away.
A young couple jogged past her. In this heat? It couldn’t be healthy. All the old people came early or late in the day, away from the worst of the heat, attempting to walk off bad cholesterol, high blood pressure, and old age. And they usually ended up at the Crab to undo all their good work with some artery-clogging fried seafood.
You wouldn’t find Dorie exercising in front of the whole world. Anyway, she ran around enough working at the restaurant. Forty years of it. Sore feet and cheap tippers, hurricanes and blizzards, broken air conditioners and broken furnace. Broken hearts . . .
Sometimes she wondered why she kept at it. But not often. Dorie wasn’t given to introspection all that much. She was of the school that too much thinking led to impotence. And life had proved her right.
She wasn’t what you’d call impetuous, either. Though she’d kind of jumped to a decisio
n about this funeral thing. Now she was afraid she might have a situation on her hands.
Dorie walked over to the railing, looked at the steps to the beach, just a sliver of sand between the pier and the river. It was open to the public nowadays. So much fighting and carrying-on to take that beach away from the hotel. But they did, and Whisper Beach became just some more sand in the town’s public beach. And the dumbest part was nobody even used it. It was a pretty stretch of sand, protected by dunes and a seawall holding the river out. But no matter how crowded the big beach got, it hardly ever spilled over to Whisper Beach. And that’s how the locals liked it.
It might be public, but something unspoken said, private keep out.
Now the hotel had been sold, which Dorie guessed was a good thing, since it hadn’t been rebuilt after Sandy. Which was stupid if you asked her. It was beachfront property if you didn’t count Ocean Avenue that ran between it and the boardwalk.
Maybe they’d build another more modern hotel and her business would boom again. Or they might put up fancy condos with a four-star restaurant that charged four times as much as she did and didn’t cook half as well.
Well, it was what it was, and out of her hands. She would adapt. She always did.
VAN AND SUZE sat in Dorie’s parlor, the funeral food spread out on the coffee table and a bottle of cabernet in the center. They’d changed into more comfortable clothes as soon as they’d arrived.
Suze was wearing gauze harem pants and a tank top. Her naturally blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail leaving a fringe of fuzz around her face. It made her look young and carefree, not like a professor hoping for tenure and waiting for a grant that would support her research in order to get it.
Van always kept her hair short. It was more efficient and made her look more professional. And the cut, one that cost a fortune, was precise and sleek. Like her. Though Van had to admit that as she sat on the chintz-covered couch, watching Suze slumped comfortably in the old chair and drinking wine out of a jelly jar, she felt a little overdressed in her pressed capris and silk tee.
Well, they would have looked great at the bar in the hotel. Which reminded her. She reached for her phone, keyed in the numbers to the hotel, and postponed her reservation.
Whisper Beach Page 3