Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649)

by Jerome, Celia

  Barry and his father would only start another scandal sheet, if they didn’t already own a bunch. That’s what they did. Everyone knew it. And Barry’d write another story, under another name.

  Unless the mayor got to him.

  Even the mayor’s gift wasn’t infallible. The problem with wiping out a memory was it left room for new memories. The mayor couldn’t follow Barry around, destroying every conversation he had with the nontalented residents and visitors. He couldn’t keep Barry from seeing something strange and wanting to write about it.

  “I say we drown the guy once and for all,” came from the back of the room.

  The judge banged his gavel again. Uncle Henry put his hand on his revolver. “None of that talk, now. We are a peaceable town. And we don’t need any more bad publicity.”

  What we had to do, everyone seemed to think, was keep Barry busy so he couldn’t compose another story or see anything worth investigating.

  They looked at me. “No, I am not going to entertain that rat bastard. If you are suggesting anything more, you should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  A few of the men looked at their shoes. Mrs. Ralston clapped. So did Elladaire, mimicking her.

  “It’s poker night tonight, isn’t it?” I asked. A handful of heads nodded sheepishly, as if it were another secret. “So invite Barry. Russ can interrupt cell phone transmissions, so he can’t get a message that his story got lost. And try to get Mayor Applebaum on an earlier flight.”

  More nods, but mutters that the shithead most likely cheated. And how could Tom levitate the cards, or Bunny keep the room free of smoke when a stranger sat in? More importantly, they didn’t play all night. Barry was still going to want to look at the lights in the salt marshes.

  Once more I was the focus of every eye in the room, and George Washington’s, from the painting over the judge’s bench.

  I bit my lip. Gulped twice. Then said, “I guess I’ll have to try to keep the lights away until the mayor gets back or Barry leaves.”

  Piet took my hand. “And I’ll put them out if he comes too close. We work together.”

  Sure. I drew pictures for bugs and he pictured me naked. What a pair! We were partners in a situation we didn’t understand, didn’t know how to resolve, and didn’t have an inkling where to begin. And we were all the town had. My heart sank.

  “And no more fires, you hear?”

  “No fires,” we chorused. My heart sank lower.

  They looked relieved. I wasn’t. How the hell were we supposed to make good on that promise?

  The problem with working with self-assured, talented, independent-minded people in authority was that they were self-assured, talented, and used to giving orders, not taking them. Put a couple of big dogs together, you get a pissing contest. Put a bunch of wizards together, you get a clash of power. We had a police chief, a fire captain, a judge, a lawyer, the woman who actually ran Town Hall, a technical engineer, and handfuls of other psionic experts. In other words, too many chiefs, not enough Indians.

  Good thing Barry did most of the work himself.

  I knocked on his door. When he answered and I saw the computer plugged in, I asked him to come out for a short walk with me and Elladaire.

  He said he was busy writing.

  I said I’d remembered something important for the story.

  He came with me out to the motel’s front lawn, his room out of sight. Before I set the baby down to play in the grass, I smelled her diaper, to check if it needed changing. It did. Barry wrinkled his perfect nose and curled his luscious lips.

  Now I truly intended to tell him I’d changed my mind about the story. The sneer and the sniff—and knowing what a dick he was—changed my mind again. “How dare you,” I started. Then I shouted and stamped my foot and tossed Elladaire’s dirty diaper onto his sandal-shod foot.

  “You are a cheater and a liar and a user and a dirt bag, Barton Jenner the Turd!”

  “And what are you, if not using me for publicity for your stupid picture books?”

  I gasped. “You—”

  People came out of the motel, yelling. “The power’s out! Someone call the electric company.”

  Barry cursed. “I didn’t shut off my computer.”

  He ran back around the building to his room. I followed with naked Elladaire. Barry had the laptop and his phone in his hands when I got there. “Shit, both batteries must be dead, too.”

  He rushed past me to the motel’s lobby, where the desk clerk was lighting candles. “No telling how long the power’ll be off this time.” The candles caught, which meant either Piet was too far away, or he was thinking really, really dirty thoughts.

  Barry cursed some more, then shouted, “Does anyone have a phone that can text?”

  Half the people in the lobby had no idea what he was talking about. The other half were having trouble with their own phones. “Must be trouble at the cell tower.”

  Barry pounded his fist on the registration desk, which sent one of the candles off its dish, onto the stack of Chamber of Commerce brochures, which caught on fire, which had people pushing and screaming, which jostled another candle that ignited the curtains.

  The sprinklers went off, the automatic call went out to the fire department, and everyone fled outside. The fire engines arrived—miraculously, two of the motel guests noted—in minutes.

  “We were training nearby,” Mac shouted, running past us. While half his men went around back, to check the rooms for guests or smoke, Mac directed his hose at the office. And at Barry, whose pant leg had caught a spark. His cell phone got drowned.

  In seconds the fires were out. Piet appeared. Or vice versa, but no one noticed.

  The police chief and the motel owner arrived at the same time. Mr. Hinkley wanted Barry arrested for starting the fire and causing all the damage. The clerk and I both saw him knock over the first candle in a rage.

  “Bullshit. I’ll sue you for negligence if your fucking sprinklers damaged my computer.”

  “You’ll do it from some other motel,” Mr. Hinkley told him. “Or a jail cell. And I just heard you might have used a false name at registration.” He turned to the judge, who’d ridden on one of the fire trucks. “Isn’t that illegal? It ought to be.”

  Piet, Chief Hammersmith, and I followed Barry to his room. The place was dripping, so was his camera, but his computer didn’t look bad, still plugged into the wall. Then the lights came back on, the TV and the clock and the air-conditioning. They came on in a burst. Smoke came from the computer, then a sizzling noise. Then it went black and Barry wailed in anguish as if he’d been the one electrocuted by the power surge.

  “Sorry about that,” Piet said. “You should always unplug them in a power outage. Or use a surge suppressor.”

  Barry was storming around, kicking the bed, knocking the chair across the room, dumping his suitcase full of soggy clothes onto the floor.

  “You don’t want to be causing more damage here, son,” Uncle Henry told him. He put his arm around the younger man and led him out of the room. “I’d hate to have to lock you up, this being my poker night and all. In fact, I think you ought to go cool off a bit.”

  Mac came in then, and apologized for soaking Barry’s phone. “To make up for it, here’s my cousin’s card. He has a nice little bar on the road to Springs. Tell him I sent you, and drinks are on me.”

  One of the firemen said he was going there, too. Could he have a ride?

  They called the fireman Tank because he could drink more than anyone in town and never get drunk or passed out. He winked at me as he passed by. He’d keep Barry busy for a long, long time, right into tomorrow morning. He’d be in no condition to write anything, not even his name, whatever it was. Then the mayor could join him for lunch.

  So we’d dodged a bullet, temporarily. Now we had to face the flying firing squad.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE OTHER PROBLEM with having a lot of alpha dogs on a team was they all wanted credit for the success. Everyone w
ho didn’t have to go back to work wanted to go celebrate, at a nicer bar where Barry wasn’t. They invited Piet, who looked to me like he wanted to go. Here were people with talents almost as oddball as his, who didn’t ask questions, who didn’t consider him a freak. Besides, he’d had nothing but female company for a couple of days now, me and Elladaire and dinner at Grandma Eve’s, so I told him he should go talk boy talk: fire engines and computers and poker. Edie and I would go food shopping.

  “Without me?” He nodded toward the baby, who was giggling at Mrs. Ralston’s funny faces. The town clerk had arrived in time to get Edie into a fresh diaper, more securely than I’d ever managed. She didn’t want to give her back.

  “Yes, without you. You said she’d be safe and I trust you.”

  He smiled. Mrs. Ralston didn’t. “You weren’t sure when you handed her to me both times?” Now she was eager to get rid of the baby.

  “I was fairly sure.” I went to lift the kid into her stroller, but she decided she wanted to walk now that she half knew how. “No, baby, we have to go to the store. You know, bananas and cereal and dog food.”

  “You’re feeding her dog food?”

  Piet laughed and left in the fire captain’s car. He’d be home—at my home—in time for dinner. I wanted to make a decent meal for him. Or get one from the deli section of the supermarket in Amagansett.

  Then Elladaire unbalanced and fell and started to cry. Everyone stopped what they were doing to see what would happen, from a safe distance. I held my breath. “Come on, Edie, you’re not hurt.” I was getting used to Piet’s nickname for her, and Elladaire started using it herself, or close to. She was Deedee, Piet was Pipi, and I was Lo. Figured. Except when she was tired or hungry or hurt or frightened, like now. Then I was Mama, no matter how many times I told her I wasn’t her mother. I have to admit it felt nice. Until miscellaneous firemen and cops started snickering.

  “Looks good on you, Willy.”

  “You ought to get one of your own. Keep you out of trouble, kiddo.”

  “Your mother’ll be thrilled, Will.”

  I gathered Edie and my dignity and drove off. Then I backed up to pick up the stroller.

  Anyone considering parenthood should be forced to experience the horror of a cranky toddler in a store. That cute little cherub in their minds? Uh-uh. Ugly, scrunch-faced devil’s spawn, more like. Edie didn’t want to get in the cart. She didn’t want the safety belt on. What she did want was to walk, to grab everything she could reach, and she wanted it now, in her mouth, immediately, or else. At least she didn’t set the place on fire. Or embarrass me too much with her upset “mama” cries. I didn’t know anyone in the store, so I didn’t care. I was afraid if I kept saying I wasn’t her mother people might wonder why I had someone else’s crying baby, when I was so obviously inept at childcare. I waited for someone to call the cops.

  Her plaintive cries tore at what little confidence I’d developed by conquering the baby seat harness contraption. So I hurried through the shopping to get out of the place as quickly as possible.

  I found raisins and bananas and cereal and the baby aisle, but what could she eat after that? I had no idea, so I followed a woman with a little kid in her wagon and another one holding on alongside. Both of them were better behaved than Edie. Hell, Little Red would have been better behaved.

  I bought whatever the Good Mother ahead of me did, apple juice and watermelon and blueberries and sweet potatoes that I knew how to cook and baby carrots. She ordered turkey wraps at the deli, so I figured they were okay. And I got an already roasted chicken fresh off their barbeque machine. I added a bag of prewashed salad, chocolate pudding pie, and some ice cream. A fine dinner, if I said so myself. I got some broccoli, too, because it was healthy and looked good in macaroni and cheese. More chocolate kisses, more pretzels, and dog food. I got the dogs some new biscuits too, because I felt guilty giving Edie so much attention and leaving them alone so much. Damn, I was a neglectful dog surrogate mother, too; I’d forgotten to bring Buddy back to Dr. Matt to have his burned lip checked. It looked fine to me when I put the salve on it, but I know my mother demanded the best for her rescues. And Matt Spenser really was a nice man. I’d take care of it soon. Crises and catastrophes had to come first.

  On the way home I gave Edie a little box of raisins. Mom’s car was never going to be the same.

  Piet loved the dinner. “You cooked all this yourself?”

  “Most. Some. The sweet potatoes.”

  “They were my favorite part.”

  My favorite part was watching him enjoy the meal, cutting tiny pieces of chicken for Edie, laughing at her efforts to feed herself. Sure, he didn’t have to swab the table and the chair and the baby. (The dogs cleaned the floor.)

  Piet already looked better after the few days of Grandma Eve’s burn potion. Not that he wasn’t attractive before, in a rough, wounded-hero kind of way, but now you could see where he’d be drop-dead gorgeous without the angry red marks, when his sandy hair grew a little longer and the scraggly, scar-hiding beard either got trimmed or shaved off. I couldn’t decide if he’d look better with it or without.

  I wondered if he’d stay long enough for me to find out.

  When he carefully wiped his chin to make sure no crumbs stuck to the hairs, I also wondered if I’d like kissing a man with a beard. That was a rhetorical question, of course. I did not intend to find out.

  But he smiled across the table at me, laugh lines crinkling around his green eyes. Maybe the question wasn’t so rhetorical. I gave myself a mental kick and ate another forkful of chocolate pudding pie. One decadent pleasure was as good as another, right?

  We were partners. I couldn’t let hormones ruin our working relationship. We were growing into friends, which sex usually destroyed. Love affairs disordered one’s brain, too, which I couldn’t afford right now.

  Tonight we felt like family. Not my family, of course, with its sniping and faultfinding and unmet expectations, but a warm, cozy, loving family. Did I say love? I had more pie.

  Maybe I’d have a family like this one day now that I saw how it could be. Not with this baby, of course, and not with this man. Edie belonged to Mary Brown; Piet belonged to DUE. And I? Tonight I belonged to the bugs I might have brought into this world.

  While Piet got Edie ready for bed, I changed my clothes. I wanted to see the flyboys tonight, to try again to communicate with them. No matter what the mayor convinced Barry he hadn’t seen, there’d be more sightings and more fires, if I couldn’t get the Lucifers to go home. If not Barry, other reporters would come. If not reporters, government investigators, which was just as bad.

  To make sure I saw the lightning bugs, in their full glory and no confusion, I put on a skimpy ribbed white long-sleeved jersey. Yup, you could see my nipples, and yup, it had the effect I wanted. Not on the bugs, but on Piet.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

  “Just trying to keep your mind occupied so the bugs won’t be afraid to come.”

  “You’re playing with fire, woman.”

  I reached over and stroked his cheek. The whiskers weren’t coarse at all. “No, I’m not. The bugs won’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not talking about the bugs.”

  “I know.” I smiled and turned away, making sure he could see the back of my tight jeans. After the chocolate pudding pie, they were so tight I couldn’t bend over, but Piet groaned, so the discomfort was worth it.

  The fireflies came, lighting up the backyard. Then they disappeared.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Piet. “You are turning them off.”

  “Thinking about your grandmother, what she’d look like in your clothes.”

  Talk about a turnoff.

  In the interest of saving the world, I grabbed his shoulder, pulled him close, and kissed him.

  He cursed. The sky lights came on.

  Piet went back in the house. “You talk to your friends. I need a cold shower.”

  He came back be
fore I could finish a scratchboard picture of an angry man stomping on sparks. This time he had Elladaire in his arms.

  “She wasn’t asleep yet, and she should see this.”

  Except the lights instantly dimmed. The beetles were still visible, so they didn’t panic about finding each other. They knew to gain altitude, to gain more fire power, but most of them flew off, leaving a comet’s tail across the night. The remaining swarm came down, closer, dimmer, perhaps curious.

  “What if they remember Edie biting one of their kin?”

  “They cannot hurt her with such low strength. And they don’t appear aggressive at all.”

  I don’t know if Elladaire remembered them, or what happened afterward, the flames, the fire, her mother being taken away in an ambulance, but she was frightened now.

  She cried in Piet’s arms, struggling to get away. No, she wasn’t trying to get away from the bugs, she was trying to get to me.

  “Mama!”

  She held those little arms out to me. Her lip quivered, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Mama.”

  If she didn’t have my heart before, she had it now. “Poor sweet baby. I’m here.” I took her from Piet and held her close, rocking. She hid her face in my chest, pulling my shirt down. Like magic, the fireflies got brighter.

  They came closer. So did Piet. I felt warmer, especially when he rubbed the back of my neck.

  “Stop that!”

  “Then stop the peep show. You’re confusing all of us with your mixed messages.” He came closer still and leaned toward me.

  I started to lean forward, but then I remembered I had a kission. That is, a mission. I stepped away, out of danger. The fireflies went back to quarter-power. Piet was on the job.

  I couldn’t use the scratchboards, not with Elladaire in my arms, so I tried to reach out with my mind even though I was not a telepath and did not know their language. I gathered pictures, emotions, sensations in my head: flying, happy, safe, the beauty of the fireworks display, the fear of my neighbors, the burnt cottage, anger, dread, trespassing, breaking vows, flowers and fish and fire.