Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  Nor would I have imagined that she would have taken up my cause. Of course, there was always the possibility that she was doing it to validate having been fired, or that she was simply filling a void. But that she had come to my side after a lifetime of dissension? That made me feel good. Made me feel really good. Like she was validating what I was doing. Like I wasn’t bucking the tide in this. Like I wasn’t alone.

  I was in a good mood making dinner for Phoebe and myself that evening. My chicken salad was another of Berri’s recipes, given to me spiritedly that afternoon. Berri was in love with her philanthropic lawyer, with whom she had spent the entire weekend. I suspected she would have even given me her great-grandmother’s top-secret waffle recipe, she was feeling that magnanimous.

  The chicken salad was enough. Made with poached chicken, chopped peanuts, and sliced green grapes, drizzled with a uniquely sweet dressing that made all the difference, and served with mini corn muffins, it was delicious. Even Phoebe liked it, and she did eat, hungry after spending the day at the store. Tom was doing her first IV infusion the next morning. Knowing she might miss a few days of work, she had been trying to get things in order.

  We talked about that possibility over dinner. I had promised her that I would fill in, and now Sabina planned to join me. Though Phoebe was tired this late in the day, which meant that her mind was more cloudy than clear, she was able to answer most of my questions.

  I took notes. After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen. I checked my e-mail. I looked at the clock.

  By nine, Phoebe was upstairs. Sitting on the edge of her bed, I said, “I’m going out for a little while. I’ll just drive around, do some thinking. Will you be okay?”

  Dryly, in one of those clear moments, she said, “I’d better be. You won’t be staying here forever.”

  I felt a twinge. Guilt? Nostalgia? Regret?

  Whatever, she was right. She would be on her own soon enough. “But you’re going to be feeling better,” I said in an urgent whisper. When she simply looked concerned, I asked, “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

  “Yes. She said it would get worse before it got better.”

  “That’s why I’m here. That’s why Sabina’s here. That’s why Tom’s here. You’ll be better in no time, Phoebe. I promise.” Giving her arm an encouraging squeeze, I left the room.

  You may be thinking that I had some gall being so positive about something that was really quite iffy. But I didn’t think it was iffy, and Phoebe needed my confidence.

  Then again, that’s probably not at all what you’re thinking. You’re no doubt wondering why I didn’t tell her I was going to James’s house. Why I lied.

  Well, I didn’t really lie. I did plan to drive around and do some thinking. I just chose not to tell her that I was making a stop. And I had good reason for that. James was a Meade, and the Meades were the enemy, not only in terms of abuse of power, but in terms of mercury leaks and, now, Sabina’s firing—which James had to have known about. He could have stopped it in a second. He was higher on the ladder than Aidan.

  At least, that was the perception. For the first time, though, as I crossed town to his house, I wondered about that. What was it TrueBlue had said with regard to which of the Meade sons would take over after Sandy? I had said James was in line, but he had written, Don’t be so sure. TrueBlue worked at Northwood. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe he knew something most of the town didn’t know.

  Maybe James wasn’t the crown prince after all. Hadn’t he cautioned me not to clump him with his father and brother? He did seem different—for starters, in temperament. I needed to ask him about that. All in all, we had lots to discuss.

  Naturally, I forgot about everything else the instant I went up the walk and was greeted by James holding Mia. The child was absolutely precious in her pajamas, a slim little girl with diaper padding, her small legs straddling James’s torso, one arm around his neck. Her face was already familiar to me—creamy skin, dark eyes, rosebud mouth. She had a tiny barrette in her dark hair. I leaned closer to see it.

  “Mia,” I read, then said to the child, “That is the prettiest barrette I’ve ever seen.” She smiled. “On the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen.” To James, who was smiling, too, I said, “She really is the sweetest thing. Can I hold her?”

  When he started to shift her, I held out my arms, but Mia’s lower lip went out and began to tremble. Wary eyes stayed on me, but she leaned closer to James.

  “Another time,” he said. “Come on in.”

  We went to Mia’s room and played with her for a few minutes. By the time he put her on the dressing table and changed her diaper, she was warming to me, playing with the furry puppet I held, even laughing aloud when I made it tickle her neck.

  There is nothing like a child’s laugh. I had discovered that when Sabina’s kids were young, and was reminded of it now. A child’s laugh is infectious. It is uplifting. It is innocent and pure and filled with hope and light. It is about prioritizing life, putting the good things first, placing exquisite value on moments of harmony.

  I say all this to explain why, after Mia was settled in and the monitor turned on, James and I went right down to the leathery den on the first floor to talk and made love instead, which actually answered one of the questions I had. What he had meant about not doing one-night stands was that this wouldn’t be a one-night stand. And it wasn’t me who started it. He was the first to make a move—a hand on my neck as we left the baby’s room, fingers linking with mine as we went down the stairs, an arm circling my back as he guided me to the den. He couldn’t keep his hands off me, and after his hands, it was his mouth. That mouth touched everything.

  Did I object?

  Of course not. I loved what he did.

  I didn’t hear Grace once, but then, she had no need to speak. She approved of this, probably wished she could have done what we did with the impunity we had. A free spirit in the buttoned-up fifties, she had taken flack for the role sex had played both in her own life and in the lives of her characters. To this day, I’m convinced that much of the negative reaction to Peyton Place had less to do with sex, per se, than with the sexuality of its women. Those women threatened people. Take Betty Anderson. After dating her for months, Rodney Harrington had turned around and taken Allison MacKenzie to the school dance. Furious, Betty went to the dance with John Pillsbury. Halfway through the evening, though, she lured Rodney to John’s car for some heavy petting, got him thoroughly aroused—then kicked him out of the car onto the ground and stormed off.

  Call her the worst kind of tease, but she had the guts to make a statement. It was a statement of strength, and it was threatening both to men, who feared being on the short end of a stick like that, and to those women who didn’t dare do it themselves.

  I dared. But then, I lived in a different time from Grace. Part of the transformation I experienced in college had to do with discovering my sexuality. With the right partner, I thoroughly enjoyed sex.

  There in the den of his house, James was the right partner. End of discussion.

  Actually, beginning of discussion. Once we were satisfied (make that, physically exhausted), we had to talk, and I did start that part of it, but he didn’t object. We sat in the dark on the Berber rug in the den. Still naked, we faced each other, but we no longer touched. I could make out his general features, but details were lost, and that helped. Between the scents of leather and sex, and the dark, I was emboldened.

  “Sabina was fired,” I began.

  “So Aidan said. I’m sorry he did that.”

  “You disagree, then?”

  “Yes, I disagree.”

  “But you didn’t stop him from doing it.”

  “I couldn’t. I don’t control Aidan.”

  “Who does? Sandy?”

  “When he wants to. He’s getting older. He likes it when Aidan makes the tough decisions.”

  “Like that was the right decision to make?” I asked in alarm.

  “Tough do
esn’t mean right. I’ve already said I disagree. But Sandy doesn’t. He doesn’t like dissension within the company.”

  “And Aidan’s his hatchet man.”

  “You could say.”

  “What are you?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What role do you play for Sandy?”

  “I do product development, and not for Sandy. It’s my own thing.”

  “Isn’t Sandy involved?”

  “No.”

  “Or Aidan?”

  “No. I work independently.”

  “I was starting to get that impression. Don’t you three get along?”

  “We’ve had issues.”

  “Like mercury?” I asked. After all, that was the crucial issue for me.

  James was silent for the longest time, during which I would have liked to have seen the details of his face. I could tell that he was frowning. At least, I thought he was.

  Finally he said, “Like mercury. I’m sorry about Phoebe. Are you sure that’s what’s wrong?”

  “We won’t know conclusively until she has the treatment. James, I meant what I said about Tom. I don’t want him being made a scapegoat. He’s an innocent party in this. He just happens to be the one who can administer the treatment.”

  “Tom won’t be punished,” he said with the quiet authority that made me believe.

  “And if he treats other people after Phoebe?”

  “I’m all for it.”

  “What if word spreads that the mill has a mercury problem?”

  “The mill doesn’t. Not now.”

  “But it did, and it could again. I know about the toxic waste buried under the clubhouse and the gazebo.”

  “There’s no toxic waste there.”

  He was playing with words. Annoyed, I reached for my blouse. “Not anymore,” I conceded, “but there was. And what about under the Children’s Center?”

  “There’s no problem with the Children’s Center.”

  I put my arms in the sleeves. “Did you say that about the clubhouse and the gazebo, too?”

  “No. But I’m saying it about the Children’s Center. It’s being monitored. If there’s a problem, we’ll know before anyone is harmed.”

  “What about all the people who have already been harmed?” I asked, buttoning up.

  He sighed. “Annie, I’m doing what I can.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m doing what I can.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, I can’t say any more right now.”

  I groped around in the dark, found my shorts, and pulled them on.

  “You don’t have to leave,” he said quietly.

  Standing, I stepped into my sandals. “I do,” I said. I pushed my hands into my hair and held it off my face. “Talking about this tears me apart. If you can’t say any more, it’s because you don’t trust me—”

  “I trust you.”

  “—and if you don’t trust me, that demeans what we just did. So that leaves me thinking about why I’m here—I mean, not only here, in your house, but here in Middle River. I came to solve a mystery, and I have. It’s starting to look like my mother died, James—died—because she was exposed to mercury from your mill. Phoebe has been suffering from the same thing. God knows how many others are, too. I don’t know how you can let that happen. I don’t know how I can be with you, knowing you let it happen. How do you live with yourself? How do you sleep at night?” I pointed toward the stairs. “And how do you justify letting that child stay with a nanny here in the safety of your home, while the rest of the children in town risk being poisoned every time they go to day care?”

  A shrink would say that I deliberately provoked James—deliberately painted him as the bad guy—because I needed to put distance between us, and I suppose it was true. I was feeling too drawn to him. I was liking him too much. And how not to? He had never been anything but respectful to me, had never been anything but solicitous and caring, whether we were running or making love. Moreover, he was an exquisitely gentle father. My heart melted when I saw him with Mia.

  Fine. I could blame the Northwood problem on Sandy and Aidan. But James was there. He knew what was happening. And no, I didn’t think he was doing enough.

  I told myself that at least a dozen times on the drive from his house to Phoebe’s, and then I turned on my computer and found two e-mails that helped me focus again. The first was from TrueBlue.

  Do you have people to connect with those dates yet? We can’t do anything until you do. Even if they don’t agree to talk, if you find enough sick people who were at the sites in question on or around the dates in question, the circumstantial evidence may suffice. Finding those people was your job. Are you going to do it or not?

  He sounded impatient. He sounded annoyed. But he was right. I was slow.

  I’m working on it. I have reinforcements coming in to help tomorrow. And what about your job? I need copies of internal memos showing that the Meades knew about the mercury. And then there’s the issue of the showdown. Do you plan to show up when I confront theMeades?

  I sent it off with a determined click and opened the second e-mail. It was from Greg.

  WE SUMMITED THIS AFTERNOON, AFTER THE MOST UNBELIEVABLE ASCENT. WHAT AN EXPERIENCE! WAIT’LL YOU SEE MY PICTURES. THEY MAY BE THE LAST I TAKE FOR A WHILE, THOUGH, BECAUSE SNOW’S PICKED UP. GOTTA CONCENTRATE ON THE DESCENT. BESIDES, PHOTOS TAKEN UNDER WHITEOUT CONDITIONS DON’T SHOW A HELL OF A LOT. WOW. THIS IS AMAZING. CAN’T WAIT TO FILL YOU IN.

  Knowing Greg as well as I did, I felt his triumph. And I couldn’t wait for him to fill me in, either. I missed seeing him, missed bouncing ideas off him, missed our dinners together and evenings spent with friends at local bars. I had a great Washington life. Soon enough I would be back.

  In the meantime, he was an inspiration for me to plod on.

  Chapter 23

  I RAN AT six the next morning, in part because I knew that I had to deliver Phoebe to Tom at eight and that this would allow me to spend time with her before we left, and in part because I knew James couldn’t run that early. I was annoyed at him. I was annoyed at men, period, because TrueBlue hadn’t answered me yet. He wanted results from me but wasn’t willing to produce any himself. Did he distrust me, too?

  The old feeling of being alone returned. It was me against the world.

  Good, said Grace. Maybe now you’ll do what needs to be done.

  Forget it, I argued. I am not doing your bidding. I am not writing a book. I am not destroying the Meades just to validate you.

  Then you’re a fool. James Meade didn’t prove to be so perfect, did he? What did I tell you? They’re all two-faced rats. They take what they want and then, by Jesus, they’re gone.

  Well, I’m not gone. I’m still here. The Meades will answer for what they’ve done. But a book is a wasted effort. Times have changed, Grace. Tell-all books are a dime a dozen. No. I want direct confrontation.

  Oh, honey. Come on. Do you truly think that will work? You need the masses behind you. You have an audience. Use it.

  I didn’t need the masses behind me, I realized. I needed the law behind me.

  Inspired on that score, the first thing I did when I reached Miss Lissy’s Closet was to go up to the office and phone Greg’s lawyer friend Neil in Washington.

  I know. I had an agreement of sorts with TrueBlue not to take the lawyer route, but there were different lawyer routes to take. TrueBlue decried the splashy, very public class-action one that might destroy the town in the process. What I had in mind was more subtle. If I could gather enough evidence to show the Meades that they stood to lose big if there ever was a public legal case, I might get them to deal. Call it blackmail if you will. I call it gentle persuasion.

  As it happened, my phone call was unproductive. Neil was on trial, and I knew how those trials went. He could be tied up in court for weeks. The fact that this trial was ongoing in August, when most law-enforcement pers
onnel—not the least of whom being judges and their clerks—wanted to be on vacation, spoke of the demands of the case. Neil would definitely return my call. I just didn’t know when.

  I might have been discouraged if Sabina hadn’t arrived at the store just then looking utterly defiant. “Ron is furious with me,” she announced, plunking her shoulder bag on the office desk. “He says I was irresponsible talking to anyone at the mill about something that may not be true. He says I put my own needs before those of his and the kids, and that infuriates me. In the first place, if Aidan is going to fire him because of me, why would Ron want to work there, period? Isn’t my speaking up a matter of principle? In the second place, why do I have to be the major breadwinner in the house? What about his responsibility? If he’s worried about money, let him get a second job. Me, I’m worried about the health of my children—because something’s up, Annie. You hit pay dirt this time. Aidan wouldn’t have fired me if I hadn’t touched a nerve.”

  “We need proof,” I warned.

  She grinned. With a conspiratorial gleam in her eye, she reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of CDs. “We had an electrical problem at the office yesterday morning. I was thinking I could work in one of the other buildings until it was fixed, so I stuck these in my briefcase. I didn’t use them after all, but I never removed them. When Aidan and his goons arrived to escort me out of my office, the security chief searched my briefcase, but apparently he isn’t familiar with CDs in skinny little jewel cases. I had them in a side pocket. He never even saw them.” She waved the CDs in delight. “These are backups of some of my most important information, including access codes. I can get into any account I want, Annie. Anything that is in the mill’s computer system is ours.”