Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  Chapter 13

  SOMETHING HAPPENED to me that Sunday in the cemetery, and it had nothing to do with what I learned about Kaitlin DuPuis or would later learn about Hal Healy. For starters, it had to do with having a good cry and accepting that my mother was gone and that nothing I did could bring her back. I could fight. I could rant and rave about what might have poisoned her. I could breathe hellfire and vengeance. But Mom had lost her balance, fallen down the stairs, and died of a broken neck. What good was vengeance? Would it put her back in the kitchen, waiting for me to come home?

  Then Kaitlin came by with her fears, and I got to thinking about the ways in which we disappoint our parents. And Hal Healy had suggested I was a bad influence on Middle River’s youth, so I got to thinking about that.

  I was still at it when the service finished, and Phoebe found her way to where I sat. I watched her come toward me steadily, then not so, seeking preventive purchase on each gravestone she passed. I felt something then—an awakening—but it wasn’t until she and I had spent another few minutes of quiet at our parents’ grave, before the awakening took shape. It crystallized when Sabina arrived.

  “I was worried,” she complained, looking straight at me. “I thought maybe something had happened. You never made it inside at all.”

  Inside? Did I need to see the Hayneses, the Clappers, the Harrimans, or the Ryes? Did I need to see the Meades?

  “No,” I replied calmly. “I needed to be here more.”

  “I’d argue with that. The pastor’s sermon was on respect within families.”

  “Sabina—” Phoebe warned.

  “It was about understanding the needs of others,” Sabina went on, clearly not done with me, “even when those needs aren’t your own. We saved you a seat. It was glaringly empty through the entire service. Okay, I know you’re not into organized religion. Anything requiring conformity goes against your grain. But even aside from the pastor’s message, which was really good, family is key. You sitting in church with your family would have gone a long way toward showing certain people in this town that you can fit in once in a while. Show them that, and we might not be on the hot seat quite so much. My friends are asking questions. My neighbors are asking questions. My boss is still asking questions. But you don’t care. It just doesn’t concern you.” Face filled with disgust, she turned to Phoebe. “My family is waiting. Can I drop you home?”

  Phoebe smiled. She might not have had the wherewithal to tell Sabina off. But she didn’t cave in. “I’ll stay a little.”

  Sabina strode off. And we didn’t discuss it, Phoebe and I. She had made a small statement, and I was grateful.

  I was not smug, however. Smugness was a luxury I couldn’t afford where my sisters were concerned.

  I had moved on—or back, however you choose to see it—and as we sat, my thoughts gelled. Seeking revenge might be noble if a Meade cover-up was involved. But it was also exhausting. It required the sustaining of anger, something I might have done at eighteen. At thirty-three? I couldn’t.

  Nor, though, could I let it all go. I couldn’t bring my mother back, but, TRUTH #6: She wasn’t the only one involved. I could fight this fight for Phoebe, who was clearly ill. I could fight it for Sabina, who talked of respect but didn’t have a clue about other threats. I could fight it for Hal Healy, whose concern for the morals of the town’s kids was almost laughable, when you thought about the possibility of poison in the air they breathed, the water they drank, and the fish they ate.

  I’m not sure I can say that I heard my mother speak. I’m not even sure I can say that she would have wanted me to do this. Like Sabina, she was afraid of talk.

  I did hear Grace, but only from afar. Grace didn’t do graveyards. That said, she did like unearthing things that were buried. Oh yes, Grace was all for it.

  Bottom line? Mom was gone. Phoebe was sick. And totally aside from Grace’s need to shock people, I knew this was the right thing to do.

  To: Annie Barnes

  From: TrueBlue

  Subject: Where do we go next?

  That depends. What are your plans?

  To: TrueBlue

  From: Annie Barnes

  Subject: Re: Where do we go next?

  I haven’t thought past finding out whether something in Middle River made my mother sick. No, I’m not planning a book. Isn’t that what you’re asking, again? And if not you, then everyone else, but the question is getting old. Are you willing to help me, or not?

  That depends. There are ways besides a book to publicize a wrong. You could turn the information I give you over to The Washington Post, which would be no different from your writing a book. Same thing if you give it to your pal Greg Steele.

  I take it you don’t like those options. Are you getting cold feet?

  Cold feet? Not by a long shot. Remember, I live here. I have even more reason than you to want things fixed. But here’s my problem. If you do the wrong thing with whatever you find, this town will be transformed in ways your Grace couldn’t fathom. Book, newspaper, nightly news—it doesn’t matter how the story breaks, but if you go for something splashy, Middle River will be overrun not only by the media, but by lawyers. Know what happens then?

  They swarm.

  That’s putting it mildly. Personal injury lawyers come in droves, making wild promises to every possible victim. They organize their class-action suits and film their front-page stories on the lawn of the town hall, and they get their headlines and their big trial and their hefty settlement. Unfortunately, they’re the only ones who make anything on the deal. Northwood loses a bundle paying damages and expenses, and worst-case scenario, goes bankrupt, in which case the economy of the town goes to hell right along with the jobs of the people who live here. And the victims who are supposedly receiving money for pain and suffering? Once the lawyers take their share and the court fees have been paid and the rest has been divvied up between all the people involved, any single victim gets a pittance.

  I take it you don’t like lawyers.

  Wrong. My college roommate is a lawyer. I’d walk through fire for him. But he’s the first one to tell me to avoid litigation. So that’s what I’m doing. I want things fixed, if not for me then for the kids around here. I don’t want the town destroyed, and that’s what will happen if you go for headlines.

  I don’t need headlines. I need answers. If the answers warrant it, I want change.

  If that’s all, then we’re on the same page. The thing is, once I give you information, you can basically do what you want. Can I trust you’re telling me the truth now?

  I ask you—can I trust you’ll tell me the truth? How do I know you aren’t an instrument of the Meades and won’t send me on a wild goose chase just to keep me busy while I’m here?

  Try this. Government regulations allow for a certain amount of pollution. When a mill like Northwood exceeds that amount, it is required to load it into 55-gallon drums and have it carted away to an authorized toxic waste disposal area. This is costly. It cuts into profits. On occasion, Northwood used other methods.

  What methods?

  Your turn. Give me something. We’re trying to establish a mutual trust here. Put up or shut up.

  I have just finished marking a map of the town with dots. Each dot represents someone who has been seriously ill during the last five years. In some instances, there’s no pattern. In other instances, there are definite clusters. Like along the river.Hyperactivity, muscular dystrophy, autism—lots of trouble with kids on th’other side.

  Could be genes. Could be coincidence. Could be toxicity.

  What do you think?

  I didn’t hear back from TrueBlue, but that didn’t alarm me. By the time of our last exchange, it was very late. I went to bed and again slept longer than I would have. But I was on vacation, wasn’t I? What were vacations for if not to sleep late?

  That set me up to go running at eight. Grace couldn’t have been happier.

  Good girl, playing with fire. You’re very borin
g where men are concerned.

  Excuse me, I demurred. You don’t see me in Washington. I’ve dated some unusual men.

  Unusual?

  Impressive.

  James Meade is something else. There’s drama here. He’s Archenemy Number One.

  Actually, he’s Archenemy Number Two. Aidan is Number One, based on past behavior, still unforgiven. But don’t get excited—there’s no drama. So I bump into him running. So what?

  You know what. You like the way he looks.

  Correction. I like the way he runs.

  Same difference. Where is he?

  We’re not there yet. He has a certain route.

  Why does he take that route? Is it near where he lives?

  I don’t know where he lives.

  Haven’t you asked?

  No, I haven’t asked. That would suggest I want to know, and I don’t.

  Is he married?

  Not that I know of. There’s never been a notice in the paper. There has never been mention of a wife, period—no picture of the two of them at a social event. Had there been one, Sam would have run it. He loves the visual.

  What’s James waiting for? What’s wrong with him?

  I don’t know, and I don’t care. I told you. I like the way he runs. That’s it.

  I had barely decided that, when I saw him emerge from the cross street ahead. I fully expected him to continue on as he had in the past. Instead, he looked directly at me and slowed. He ran in an oval until I reached him, then, without a word, started up again.

  I fell into pace behind him. He must have wanted this, or he wouldn’t have slowed, and I couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Flat-footed? He was. But he was good. When you run with someone better than you, you run better. It’s that way with most sports, don’t you think?

  I wasn’t let down. He ran at a speed that may or may not have been his usual but that was a challenge for me, and I kept up. I wasn’t close enough to get the benefit of drafting, but he paced me in ways no one had since I had belonged to a running club years before. Okay, okay. There was an element of pride involved for me. He had issued a challenge; I was determined to meet it. But there was something poetic here. I was using him. I liked that idea.

  Staying ten feet behind, I followed him through the back roads of town, and though there were few houses here, we were passed by several cars. Was I worried to be seen running with James? Not at all. My image in town was at rock bottom; I had nothing to lose. James’s image was another story. It could be tarnished if he was seen running with me.

  But this was his idea, wasn’t it? At any time, he could have poured it on and left me in the dust.

  I half expected he would, if only to put me in my place. It would have been a very Meade thing to do. Then again, he was a runner. I had come to think of runners as a notch above.

  Indeed, he stayed with me—or let me stay with him—until we reached the intersection of Coolidge and Rye, where we had first connected. Then he pointed me off toward Willow, raised his hand in a wave, and continued on straight without looking back.

  Tuesday we ran side by side. We didn’t talk. He gestured when he wanted to turn, taking a slightly different route from the one the day before, and I was fine letting him choose. More so than me, he knew the roads that were best for running. That freed me to focus on striking the ground with the outside of my heel, on keeping my knees properly flexed, on modulating my breathing, and on keeping up with James. But I did it. Breaking off again at Coolidge and Rye, I felt proud.

  He called the house that night. I don’t know what he would have done if Phoebe had answered the phone. I didn’t ask him that. Our conversation was brief.

  “Are you running tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Want to try off-road?”

  I was game. My knee was bothering me a little. A dirt path would be more forgiving than pavement. “Sure.”

  “The varsity course at eight?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  We were the only two who were there, I realized as I drove through the parking lot to the very back and turned a corner to the strip at the edge of the woods, but that was no surprise. Varsity runners didn’t do the cross-country course at eight in the morning, not during the school year, not during preseason, which this was. They would be here later. For now, the place was as empty as the path through the woods promised to be.

  Not that I would have missed James, even if the lot had been full. He was driving the large black SUV I had seen him in once before. Tony O’Roarke had been at the wheel then, but there was no driver now. The windows were open—it was hot already at eight—and James was stretching on the grass not far from the start of the path.

  I parked and joined him there, and I have to say, I felt a qualm then. Shy? I don’t know. He had been bare-chested each of the previous days; today he wore a tank top. Somehow, that seemed more personal—as if, since he had known for sure today that we would be running together, he had given the matter of bareness some thought.

  Okay. I know. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea—namely, me.

  But covering up just that little bit didn’t do a thing in terms of propriety, at least, not in my mind. His arms and legs remained bare—long and firm, with lean ankles and wrists—and the tank top didn’t hide wisps of chest hair or the darker shadow under his arms. Or the shadow of his beard. Or his Adam’s apple. James Meade was very male.

  Then again, maybe he seemed more imposing simply because he was standing in place rather than running. Granted, he looked something like a heron, holding one foot back by his butt and balanced on the other. But he was impressive even on one foot.

  Whatever, I felt vaguely intimidated. Greg and I had been at a media dinner once and I had been introduced to George Clooney. Okay, maybe George Clooney isn’t your cup of tea, but he stirs something in me. James had the same effect now, possibly for a similar reason. He was a celebrity of sorts, certainly the star attraction of Middle River. Given the synergy between the town and the mill, he was the direction both would take once Sandy retired. In that sense, he was a powerful man.

  Power was alluring. That was the intellectual me speaking.

  The visceral me suddenly saw raw chemistry. I hadn’t felt anything physical for Tom Martin, and with Aidan Meade, I had probably been too young and green to get past who he was. Not so with James. He was hot.

  Shy? Intimidated? Baloney. I was attracted to him—which was the stupidest thing in the world. Was I a masochist? James was a Meade, of the same ilk as Aidan. Being attracted to James was just plain dumb.

  I was that. I was also tongue-tied.

  So I stretched. Make that—we stretched. I went through my usual routine, all habit, which was good, because my mind wasn’t on it. I didn’t have to look at James to be aware of what his body was doing. Long legs stretching—torso bent over spread thighs—chest lifted by hands clasped higher than I could ever reach—head angling slowly from one side all the way to the other.

  Foreplay? Oh boy. By the time we started to run, I was loaded with so much energy that I would have beat my own time even without James’s pacing.

  The path was narrow, so he went ahead, and I focused my thoughts on the run. Off-road was different from road running. It took more concentration simply because the terrain was less even.

  By the way, the varsity course was on Cooper’s Hill. Cooper’s Hill. Ring a bell? If so, you are astute. Cooper’s Hill is indeed home to Cooper’s Point, the site of my humiliation at the hands of Aidan Meade. The point, as opposed to the hill, is a lookout over the town, reached by a path that ascends through the woods. It’s an easy climb, even by flashlight at night—ten minutes, max. As for the hill itself, its only other attraction is a slope for sledders in winter.

  The running course, on the other hand, is a favorite of cross-country skiers. It undulates gently around the lower part of the hill for a total of two miles. And if you’re thinking that two miles isn’t much of
a run, keep in mind that two miles running off-road is the equivalent of three on a level surface in terms of time and physical drain.

  That said, I was game for another go-round when we finished the first, and gestured this to James when he looked questioningly back. Yes, my knee was tired, but the rest of me was eager. Having gotten past the attraction thing—one cross over the path to Cooper’s Point and I was cured—the varsity course was the perfect place to run on a hot, sunny day like this. Other than the length of grass that spanned the sledding slope, the path was generously shaded. Here we ran on a bed of leaves, pine needles, and dirt. Yes, there were exposed tree roots to navigate. I tripped over one early on, and barely managed to catch myself before James looked back. I didn’t trip again.

  The second round was more draining. I kept up, but was nonetheless grateful when we reached our starting point. James was covered with sweat—rivulets dripping down his face until he brushed them away with an arm, that arm and the other glistening, body hair plastered to skin—but I was no better myself. The hair that had escaped from my ponytail was glued to my slick neck, my face was gleaming, my singlet and shorts clung to sweat dripping beneath. We were both breathing hard, but I wasn’t thinking about his body then. I was thinking that the run had been fun.

  He must have been thinking it, too, because the look on his wet face was surprisingly pleasant. We stood panting for a minute, just looking at each other. And I grinned. Why in the devil not? If returning to the vicinity of Cooper’s Point was a test, I had passed. I had kept up with James. He was staring at me, and I refused to look away.

  After a minute, he gave a quick little head shake and went to his car. Pulling two bottles of water from a cooler in the backseat, he handed me one. I finished it off in no time, and gratefully took one of a second pair that he fetched. This one I held to my face; it felt delightful against my flushed and sweaty skin. In time, I closed my eyes, tipped my head back, and put the cool bottle against my neck.