“That’s your field, Greg. You’re the journalist. I write fiction.”
“So did Grace.”
“I’m not Grace.”
“So you’ve said,” he teased but with a gentle whiff of truth. “You’ve said it over and over again in the twelve years I’ve known you. But she is your model. You cut your teeth on her legacy.”
“My career has been totally different from hers.”
“And you’ve made it big now, which means you can write what you want and be guaranteed a large audience.”
“My audience would hate it.”
“But you’d have quite a platform.” On a genuinely curious note, he asked, “Did Grace do it on purpose—write Peyton Place with the explicit intention of upsetting the apple cart? Did she do it to create a scandal?”
“With malice aforethought?” I asked with a smile. It was a phrase Greg’s lawyer friend Neil—our friend—used all the time. “I don’t think so. She loved writing, and she knew small towns. She was simply writing about what she knew.”
“But she did have gripes.”
“Yes. She was never one to conform to the traditional expectations of women—just couldn’t be the pretty, smiling, docile wife and mother that people wanted her to be. She wore jeans and men’s shirts. She never cleaned house, except for the very corner where she kept her typewriter, which is such a telling thing,” I mused. “She disdained the fifties image—couldn’t function as the schoolteacher’s wife and do committees and chaperoning and bake sales. She was a brilliant writer who antagonized her landlord with the constant banging of her typewriter keys. Writing was what she did. She just didn’t care about the rest. So she was ostracized.”
“And she lashed back.”
“She told the truth.”
“And got revenge.”
“That’s arguable, given how fast and far she fell after the book came out.”
“But she did make a point.”
“She did,” I had to concede. “What’s yours, Greg?”
“I love you. I don’t want to see you hurt. I admire you for being there and wanting to know what’s wrong with Phoebe, and if you can show a pattern of illness that suggests large-scale mercury poisoning and that the mill is the culprit, I’ll help you write the book. I just don’t want you to suffer in the process.”
“How will I suffer? People in Middle River already hate me. What do I have to lose?”
He was a long minute in answering. Then he spoke with the kind of caring I was desperate to find. “You’ve come a long way, Annie. When I first met you, you were still working to distance yourself from Middle River, and you’ve succeeded. But you revert when you talk of the place. You’re prickly, and you’re defensive. I’m not sure that town is good for your health.”
“Neither am I,” I said with new meaning and deepened resolve. “I love you too, Greg. Travel safe.”
Chapter 6
TOM MARTIN was late leaving the clinic again. Today, he’d had to referee a clash between two radiologists fighting over assignments, but more often, his lateness was patient-related. Medical emergencies were forever cropping up at the end of the day, and Tom was a softie. He didn’t have the heart to make a patient worry through the night about what ailed him, when an extra thirty minutes of his own time would do the trick. Fortunately, the woman he employed to look after his sister understood.
That said, he hated to push his luck. Making a beeline for home, he whisked out the side door of the clinic and was striding toward the parking lot when he heard his name called. He didn’t slow, simply looked around. Eliot Rollins had left the building and was trotting toward him.
Eliot was an orthopedist, a large teddy bear type with a close-cropped beard and a wide white smile. He was a nice guy, a genial sort with more social skill than intellectual curiosity. Thanks to partying in college, much of it with Aidan Meade, he’d had to take several shots at medical school before finally getting in. He had come to Middle River straight from his residency and had been at the clinic for three years before Tom was hired.
Tom might have blamed the distance between them on that; Eliot wouldn’t have been the first to resent the new guy on top. But there was more. They had different manners, different tastes, different friends. As a matter of rule, each went his own way.
That was one of the reasons Tom was surprised to see Eliot now. Another was that Eliot was usually among the first to leave work, not the last. He had a rambling old home on the south end of town, where he kept a wife, two children, and a cooler of beer by the pool. Summers, he was usually gone from the clinic by four.
“Hold up,” Eliot said in his usual genial way. “I have a question.”
Tom slowed only marginally. “Sorry. I’m running late. Have to get home.”
Eliot drew abreast and matched his pace. “How’s Ruth?” he asked.
“She’s doing well, thank you.”
“It’s working out with Marie Jenkins, then?”
Marie was the woman who looked after Tom’s sister. She had been an ER nurse on the verge of burnout when Tom hired her, and the job suited her well. Ruth required custodial care, but there was no trauma in her day. To the contrary. Everything about Ruth was slow. She had to be helped with washing and dressing, and had to be driven to and from programs three times a week in Plymouth. She needed help with the DVD player; though, if allowed, would watch Finding Nemo, Beauty and the Beast, and The Lion King for hours on end. She loved being read to, even when she didn’t understand the content, and often fell asleep before the first chapter was done.
Marie was so grateful for the respite from the tension of the ER that she didn’t mind the tedium. During quiet times, she read or cooked. Tom had no problem with that.
“It’s working really well,” he told Eliot. Having reached his pickup, he opened the door, tossed in his briefcase, rolled down the window. “What’s up?” he asked as he climbed in.
“Julie and I are having a cookout Friday night. Want to drop by?”
Tom smiled. “Thanks, but I can’t. Marie is taking off for the weekend, and Ruth has been nervous with strangers lately, so it could be more trouble than not.” He pulled the door shut.
“Oh,” said Eliot and curved a hand over the open window. “Well, maybe another time.” He caught a quick breath. “Say, was that Alyssa Barnes’s daughter who dropped by today?”
And that, thought Tom, was the question Eliot had really wanted to ask—and with some urgency, if the price of asking it was having to invite Tom to his cookout. Amused by that, and curious enough to set aside his own rush to get home, Tom said, “It was. She wanted to thank me for taking care of her mother.”
“Well, that was nice. She didn’t catch you at the funeral?”
“Not for that.”
“Huh. So she caught you now. She’s here for a month, y’know. Did she say what she’ll be doing?”
“I don’t think she knows for sure.”
“Then she didn’t mention doing some writing?”
“Not to me,” Tom said with more innocence than was perhaps justified, but he sensed where Eliot was headed. “Are you worried she’ll write about us?”
“That depends,” Eliot mused casually. “People are saying she might. I don’t know about you, man, but I wasn’t in town ten minutes before someone was telling me about Peyton Place. I mean, Aidan used to talk about the connection, and, sure enough, there it was. It’s an obsession.”
“Peyton Place is history. That all happened nearly fifty years ago.”
“Middle River says it could happen again. They’re saying Annie Barnes could to it. I’m not sure we want her doing that.”
“Why not?” Tom goaded. “We’re good folk.”
“Sure we are, but we help each other out in ways we don’t always want strangers to know. You want her writing about Nathan Yancy?”
No. Tom didn’t. Nathan had been a staff hematologist when Tom had first arrived at the clinic. It was a full year before Tom had a cre
dentialist in place who discovered that Nathan had bogus degrees. He was quietly asked to leave, and he went without benefit of recommendation. It would be all well and good to say Tom wasn’t responsible for a doctor who had been hired on someone else’s watch. The fact remained, though, that if word got out about Nathan, confidence in the clinic would weaken and its reputation would suffer.
The same thing might happen if word got out about Eliot Rollins. Unfortunately, Eliot Rollins was in the Meade inner circle and hence felt a certain immunity. That said, Tom had no intention of taking the fall for the powers-that-be, if and when the issue erupted.
“What can I say, Eliot. I’ve warned you. If you’re overmedicating certain patients—”
“I am not overmedicating anyone,” Eliot cut in, suddenly less genial. “I’ve said it before, and I say it again. Pain management is a vital part of practicing medicine. It’s the cutting edge.”
“Sure it is, for geriatric patients. Our police chief doesn’t fall into that category.”
“You want to tell him he has to suffer?”
“He doesn’t have to suffer,” Tom argued. “He could lose forty pounds and start exercising. Add a little physical therapy, and his back would be fine.”
“You’re an expert on orthopedics now?”
“Nope. Don’t have to be. It’s common sense. You gave him a crutch, Eliot. He’s addicted now, so the problem is compounded.”
“You have no proof that he’s addicted.”
“Anyone who takes the painkillers he does with the frequency he does is addicted.”
Eliot put his hands in his pockets. He was chewing on a corner of his mouth. “Was she asking you about that?”
“Who?” Tom couldn’t resist asking.
“Annie Barnes. When she talked with you today.”
“No. She was thanking me for taking care of her mother.” He had already said that, but it bore repeating.
“That wouldn’t take more than a minute or two. You were out there longer than that.”
“Were you watching us?” Tom asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Eliot hadn’t had to watch them to know they were there. Middle River was a town filled with spies. He had known that his having coffee with Annie would make the rounds. So, casually, he said, “We were talking about Washington. We both graduated from Georgetown.”
Eliot didn’t look convinced. “All that time you were talking about Washington?”
“Most of it. We talked some about her mom. That’s foremost in Annie’s mind.” Tom fished out his key and started the engine. “Sorry, but I really do have to get home. Hey, tell you what. If I think of someone to stay with Ruth, I’ll try to drop by Friday night. Fair enough?”
Eliot didn’t answer. But then, Tom didn’t give him the chance. Backing out of the space, he turned the wheel, stepped on the gas, and, with satisfaction, left the teddy bear of an orthopedist behind. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw that Eliot had put his hands on his hips. And Tom knew two things for sure—first, that he would opt to be with his sister over Eliot any Friday evening, and second, that Eliot wasn’t done with the matter of Annie Barnes.
Chapter 7
I STARTED running when I was eighteen. Having just moved to Washington, I was erasing the past and reinventing myself—new attitude, new friends, new interests. Middle River did baseball, basketball, and football, but running? Not in our town. That alone would have been reason enough for me to take it up. There were, of course, other reasons, the prime one being Jay Riley, a junior who had helped freshmen move into my dorm and, yes, was a runner. I had a crush on him from day one.
As fate had it, my roommate, Tanya Frye, whom I adore to this day, had been running competitively since she was twelve, and though I had nowhere near the natural aptitude she did, I took to the sport with remarkable ease. Granted, she started me slowly. By the end of freshman year, though, I could do a 10K in forty-six minutes—which, FYI, is nothing to sneeze at.
I never did catch Jay’s eye, but my new persona flourished. I dated other guys. Some were runners, some were not. All admired my legs in shorts. It was a whole new experience for me.
Over the years, I have come to race less and run more for the simple enjoyment of it. I always feel better after I run. I’m told it’s a chemical thing having to do with endorphins, though I’ve never delved into the science of it. I do know that after a run my head feels more clear, my limbs more limber, my insides more in sync with the rest of me. After a run, I feel well oiled. Conversely, when several days pass without a run, I’m logy.
That’s how I felt waking up Thursday. So I put on a singlet, shorts, and running shoes, stretched right there in the kitchen, and slipped out the door while Phoebe slowly emerged from her own lethargy over coffee and eggs.
Normally I run at six in the morning to beat the heat and then return for my prime hours of work, but Middle River was cooler than D.C. and I wasn’t working. Running at eight here, though, raised a different problem. Middle River would be up and about.
So, as I had done in my convertible the day before, I stuck to the back roads, and it was really nice. There were no cars on the road; the area was strictly residential, houses spaced farther apart, and though I spotted the occasional native watering the lawn or weeding the beds, there was enough land between us so that I was barely seen.
Running north up Willow to the end, I turned east and cut across town on pavement that was buckled and cracked but forgiving in the way of a withering hag. These roads weren’t named after trees; when the town’s founding fathers had run out of those, what recourse did they have but to name streets after themselves? So there were Harriman, Farnum, and Rye streets. There were Coolidge, Clapper, and Haynes streets—and, of course, Meade Street. None of these namesake families lived in this neighborhood; they were closer to the center of town in homes that were larger and more imposing. The houses here were even more modest than ours on Willow. These were small Capes that, if enlarged, had been done so in the form of caboose-type additions tacked on. All were well-tended, though, with pretty walks and flower beds, and matching shutters and doors.
I had a favorite here. It was a bungalow at the very end of Hyde Street, tucked under a clan of hemlocks and looking like a gingerbread house, with its chocolate siding and pale pink trim.
Omie lived here. But more on Omie later.
Feeling good, I ran on at a steady pace. I turned right at the end of the road and was in the process of returning to the center of town when I spotted another runner.
Another runner? I mused wryly. What was Middle River coming to?
I might have asked him—yes, the runner was a guy—had he been closer, but he was on the cross street several blocks ahead. He glanced at me as he passed, then disappeared.
Oh boy, sweetie, he’s a good-looking one, said a salacious little voice in my head.
Unable to see much this far away, I promptly dismissed the remark, but my commentator didn’t leave. Neither a fly nor the purr of a cat this time, the words were crystal clear.
He’s tall. I like them tall, she reminded me. Who do you think he is?
Haven’t a clue, I thought.
There’s nothing like a bare-chested man to stir the juices.
He’s a runner, I argued. It’s a different kind of bare-chested. He’s probably all matted and sweaty.
Sweat is sexy as hell. Follow him, sweetie.
I will not.
No? For God’s sake, what good are you?
“Hey! Aren’t you Annie Barnes?” asked a man who had emerged from his front walk during my brief distraction. He was short and beyond middle age, very much the opposite of the runner (okay, I did get a general impression), and he seemed to expect me to stop and talk.
Stopping and talking was something Middle Riverites did. Not me. Especially not while I was running.
I raised a hand as I ran past, but didn’t slow down. I had hit my stride. I felt good.
Was I being rude? Probably. When in Rome, as th
e saying goes.
But my feelings of guilt only went so far. The town already thought the worst of me. What was a little rudeness but a validation of that?
By now, you may be thinking I was disliked by everyone in Middle River during the years I lived here. This is not so. I had a few friends. Granted, they weren’t exactly my peers. But they were supportive.
One of those was Marsha Klausson. For as long as anyone could remember, she had owned The Bookshop. It was located on Willow, three doors down from Miss Lissy’s Closet, and it had been something of a second home for me. As a child I spent hours cross-legged on the scuffed wood floor in front of the bookshelves, browsing through everything appropriate for my age before picking one to buy. That was the deal my father made—we could each buy one a month. Though at that time we had little money to spare, he wanted us to build our own little libraries. One book a month would give us a good start, he announced.
Then he died. I was ten at the time, and my mother carried on the practice, but she never beamed over my purchases the way Daddy had. She also directed me toward what she felt to be the “proper” book, at which point I began spending more time at the town library. My tastes were mature. I had moved on to J. D. Salinger, Jack London, and Ursula K. Le Guin when most girls my age were still on Louisa May Alcott. I’m not sure my mother would have approved of my reading Lord of the Flies or The Great Gatsby, but these books intrigued me. They were my escape.
Mrs. Klausson seemed to understand that. I was her “staff reviewer” long before the practice became commonplace. By mutual agreement, we kept my reviews unsigned. We were co-conspirators in this. I got to read books without buying them; Mrs. Klausson got to talk books without reading them. I continued to send her reviews even after I left Middle River. Once in a while, I still did. We corresponded by traditional mail. As computerized as the store had become, she wasn’t an e-mail person. Nor could I ever call her Marsha. Nearing eighty now, she would always be Mrs. Klausson, and not only in deference to her age. She had been natty before nattiness reached Middle River. I suspect I was drawn as much to this difference in her as I was to her books.
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