The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  Just as she was about to ring the doorbell, the front porch light flicked on. An older woman bustled to the screen door and pushed it open, her face wreathed in a smile. Jill’s own smile faded when she recognized her as the woman she’d met the day before, on the beach. The one who’d called Marc’s house The Monstrosity, said it never should have been built, and mentioned petitions. What would she do if she knew Jill owned that house?

  “You must be the photographer who called?” The woman pushed the door open. “Welcome.”

  “I am.” Jill steeled herself as she went inside. Despite the uneasy start, it felt good to be recognized as “the photographer” instead of “the assistant” or “the temp.” She wanted this job, and how hard could it be to keep herself anonymous? She extended her hand, in a show of confidence. “I’m Jill DiFiore.”

  “I’m Betty Grable. It’s lovely to meet you, dear.” As the woman clasped both of Jill’s hands in hers, her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she spoke again. “We’ve met before.”

  “We have. Yesterday on the beach.”

  “Oh, that awful house.” She tutted. “I remember now.” Then she frowned and lifted her shoulder in a gentle shrug, as if the house was her fault. “Of course, that thing has nothing to do with you, and since we agree on its awfulness, there’s nothing more to be said. Let’s not spoil a new friendship.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips. “It’s nice to meet you properly, Ms. DiFiore. May I take your coat?”

  “Thank you. But please call me Jill.”

  As Betty turned away to hang her coat, Jill felt herself relax. The front room was warm and smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish and cinnamon. Two cozy chairs had been placed on either side of the hearth, with a well-loved couch and a sturdy coffee table in between. A colorful crocheted afghan had been folded neatly and draped over the back, and a selection of magazines were carefully fanned on the coffee table. Looking closer, Jill saw that all the magazines were about gardening. The accompanying newspaper was a slim local one called the Dewberry Beach Trumpet.

  “Are you a gardener?” Jill lifted her gaze from the coffee table to the woman. “I noticed your rose vines outside on the fence. The rose hips are beautiful, and the flowers must have been glorious in bloom.”

  “Oh, they were!” Betty clasped her hands together in delight as her smile widened. “That rose vine is very special to me. It was the first thing I planted when I bought this house forty years ago. Since then, the plant’s been dug up and re-homed—oh, I don’t know—half a dozen times. I think it prefers the trellis instead of the fence, truth be told, but the trellis is being repaired at the moment—our salty sea air gets to everything—so we trained it against the fence. The funniest thing is, it was Brad, Kaye’s son—you’ll meet Kaye in a minute—who suggested training the vine around the fence slats while he rebuilds the trellis. The boy’s a wonder with gardens.”

  Gardeners universally share an enthusiasm for happy plants, and Betty’s chatter made Jill smile. Aunt Sarah had been a gardener too, and Jill remembered how easily she and her garden club friends could while away an entire afternoon discussing the perfect plants for a summer bed. It made Jill happy to imagine how much Aunt Sarah would have liked Betty.

  “But never mind that.” Betty flapped her hands in the air as she realized she’d gotten off track. “As I said on the phone, your call was perfectly timed. We’ve kept everything warm for you. Well, the tea has gone cold, but the spice cake is still warm. Come back and meet the girls. We’ll tell you all about the project we need help on.”

  Betty ushered Jill to a snug kitchen where a group of four older ladies sat around a chunky wooden table. In the center was a quaint tea service placed atop a white lace doily, and a tumble of plates and napkins and forks were piled next to a warm cake. The smell of nutmeg and molasses filled the room and Jill breathed it in, remembering Aunt Sarah’s tiny blue kitchen. As they made room for Jill, in the hubbub of scooting chairs and bringing out an extra placemat, she had a moment to look at the women gathered at the table. They ranged in age, Jill estimated, from fifties to eighties, with an easy camaraderie that suggested their friendship was unwavering. They chose to meet at the kitchen table and welcomed Jill as if she were part of the group already, just what Aunt Sarah would have done—and that was a good sign.

  Already the experience was very different from the Brockhurst interview.

  “Ladies, this is Jill DiFiore, the photographer,” Betty announced.

  There was that title again. Jill felt a flicker of pride.

  “Jill, this is Mrs. Ivey.” Betty started her introduction with the most senior member of the group. Seated at the head of the table, Mrs. Ivey reminded Jill of her first-grade teacher, a woman who had the power to silence a noisy classroom with a frown and comfort a child with a kind word. She wore a cardigan over a printed dress, as Jill’s teacher had, though Mrs. Ivey was quite a bit older.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Jill offered.

  The woman’s gaze sharpened, as if she may have recognized Jill. Which of course was impossible. Marc had discouraged her from mixing with the locals at Dewberry, so she never did. She was confident that nobody in Dewberry Beach would know who she was.

  “Mrs. Ivey works with the town to get us what we need for the festival. Securing permits, blocking off the streets, setting up first aid stations: all of it,” Betty continued. “There’s no one better placed to navigate the bureaucracy of local government, even in a town as small as Dewberry.”

  “I was a middle school English teacher for many years and that comes with certain privileges.” Mrs. Ivey’s voice sounded haughty, but her blue eyes twinkled with unmistakable mischief.

  “Most of the town council were students of yours. I hear they’re still afraid of you,” one of the women teased as she reached for a plate. Tall and thin, she wore a sensible knit cardigan, and her short brown hair was swept off her face and held back with tortoiseshell clips. “Remember that council meeting you busted in on last year? It was supposed to be closed-door, but no one dared to bar you from it.”

  “And this is Kaye,” Betty interrupted with a laugh. “Kaye will always tell you what she thinks, and we love her for it.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Ivey addressed Kaye, as if Betty hadn’t spoken. “The only students who had reason to be concerned were the ones who neglected their work.” Mrs. Ivey’s expression suggested suppressed laughter, as if she were in on the joke.

  The woman seated next to Kaye spoke up. “The fact that everyone in town—without exception—still calls you ‘Mrs. Ivey’ says something, don’t you think?” The woman turned her attention to Jill. “I’m Brenda, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Jill liked Brenda immediately. She radiated an easy confidence, as if she were happy with the world and content with her place in it. She wore a black turtleneck sweater over baggy jeans, and her long dark hair was swept into a bright scarf knotted behind her ear. But it was her necklace that utterly captivated Jill, an intricate mix of turquoise nuggets and silver balls, threaded on delicate silver wire and woven loosely together. The pattern of blue and silver absorbed and reflected the light as she moved, an effect that proved all the more striking against her black sweater.

  Betty must have noticed Jill’s gaze. “Brenda is our resident artist.”

  A kettle whistled on the stove and Betty rose from her chair to see to it. “More hot tea in a moment, ladies,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Brenda’s in charge of artist submissions for the auction on Friday,” Kaye said, picking up the introduction. “She was the one who pushed us to start an amateur show too, and that’s been very successful.” Kaye stifled a smile. “And her most recent contribution was the open call for a crafts table.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Brenda rolled her eyes and groaned. “The painted-shell people.”

  “Who are the shell people?” Jill asked as she noticed Mrs. Ivey shudder good-naturedly.

  Kaye reached for B
renda’s arm and squeezed. “Year before last, we all had the idea to expand the festival. We wanted to make the art gallery more accessible to emerging artists in the area, the ones who had no other place to show their work. Sounds like a good idea, right?”

  Jill nodded.

  “What we wanted was a mix of fine art and handmade crafts.”

  Brenda sighed as she sagged against her chair. “That’s not what we got.”

  “What we actually got,” Kaye snorted, “was an avalanche of bleached shells—glittered, painted, and hot-glued to everything from beer can airplanes to wicker picture frames.”

  Betty called from the sink as she filled the kettle, “Wasn’t that the year Mrs. Ivey arranged for local news coverage to promote the festival?”

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Ivey cut in. “The idea of a place for local artists to show their work is very good. I hope we haven’t given up on that.”

  “We haven’t. I still think it’s a good idea.” Brenda leaned toward Kaye and bumped her with her shoulder, her expression affectionate. “Next time we’ll ask them what they plan to sell. You can be in charge of that.”

  As they chatted and got to know each other, the conversation flowed along with the tea. The sound of laughter filled Betty’s small kitchen. Jill leaned into the warmth of their group and wondered what it would be like to count these women as friends.

  Betty added, “Don’t forget that it was your idea, Kaye, to put the art auction online so people outside Dewberry Beach can participate. That decision alone doubled our profits, three years running.” Betty turned to Jill. “Kaye’s son-in-law, Ryan, does all the technical stuff. He’s a wizard—he sets up the website and does live updates during festival weekend.” Then her voice softened as she flicked her gaze to Kaye. “And Kaye’s daughter, Stacy, just had another baby girl.”

  The tea made, Betty brought a tray to the table. On it was a fresh teapot with a matching mug for Jill. Both were so unusual in shape and color that they had to be handcrafted. The round base of the mug was designed to nestle into the palm of your hand, and the wide handle could be lifted easily, even with gloved or mittened fingers. Perfect for fall evenings beside a fire pit.

  “Those are beautiful,” Jill commented.

  “Our Brenda is very talented,” Betty said, as pleased as if she’d made them herself. “She made the entire set. I only bring it out for very special occasions.”

  “Enough about my work.” Brenda swished her hand through the air, pressing for a change of topic. “Did you happen to bring examples of yours?” Her gaze flicked to Jill’s portfolio. “I know we said no experience necessary, but I’d be interested in seeing whatever you brought.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jill retrieved her case and passed it to Brenda.

  Jill watched Brenda unzip her portfolio and leaf through her photographs, holding her breath when Brenda slowed. Once or twice, Brenda paused to look at an image then murmur softly before turning the page. When she came to the final page, the bridal portrait taken in the Brooklyn warehouse, she stopped altogether. Lifting her gaze to meet Jill’s, her expression changed, to one that looked very much like surprise.

  “Tell me about this one.” Brenda’s fingertips tapped the brickwork behind the bridal veil. “Have you ever shown it?”

  “Shown it?”

  “Formally.” Brenda passed the portfolio to Kaye, who also examined it. “I’m guessing from your reaction that the answer is no.”

  “N-No, of course not,” Jill stuttered, unsure of what to say. “I… No.”

  “Ladies, as far as I’m concerned, Ms. DiFiore has my vote for the job,” Betty interjected. “I was sure even before seeing these lovely photographs. This young lady dislikes The Monstrosity as much as we do.”

  Mrs. Ivey looked up from Jill’s portfolio with a peculiar expression. “You don’t say.”

  Jill hesitated, remembering what the real-estate agent had said about neighborhood goodwill. She wanted this job but needed to sell the house.

  “It seems a bit out of proportion,” Jill said firmly, “so, no. I don’t like the house.”

  “The Goodman palace? Nobody likes that thing.” Kaye frowned as she picked up the conversation. “Chase and I were invited to a party there this past August and we went, even though I knew we shouldn’t have.” Her frown deepened. “I’d made the mistake of hoping the invitation was a sign that the Goodmans had finally decided to mix with the rest of us—those who actually live here—but it wasn’t. I didn’t even meet the wife.”

  “Mix with us? Fat chance,” Betty scoffed. “They’ve owned that house for years and I’ve never seen either of them in town. Not once. I hear they bring everything down from New York, even their weekly lawn maintenance crew. Pretty sure that’s what drove Gerta’s landscaping company out of business.”

  “Anyway,” Kaye continued, clearly still annoyed about the party two months before. “No one from town was there, not even the Pellishes or the Murphys. Can you imagine throwing a party without inviting your next-door neighbors?”

  Jill flinched as she realized that Kaye was Kaye Bennett, married to Chase Bennett, the man Marc had been hounding for years.

  Chase had been a titan in the world of New York finance for almost thirty years. He’d founded a private consulting firm that was said to be the only honest voice in a maelstrom of opportunists. Presidents consulted him, newspapers cited his opinion as expert, and if a CEO was lucky enough to persuade Chase to sit on their board, the company was almost guaranteed success. His firm had a lengthy waiting list, and Marc had been trying to get on it for at least as long as he and Jill had been married, without success. Three years ago Chase had suffered a serious heart attack at his office and the doctors weren’t sure he would ever fully recover. Eight months ago, newspapers reported that Mr. Bennett had sold his company and retired to his family’s summer home in Dewberry Beach. Marc had been overjoyed at what he called a “perfect opportunity.” The clambake party was planned soon afterward and somehow Marc had arranged for Chase to be there. But the Bennetts had left the party early and honestly, Jill didn’t blame them. Marc could be relentless.

  The good news was that Jill had never been formally introduced to either Kaye or Chase Bennett, so neither would be able to connect her to Marc’s house. Still, it was better to be careful.

  “Maybe we should save that discussion for another time?” Brenda proposed gently.

  “You’re right.” Kaye shuddered, as if physically shedding an unpleasant memory. “Sorry. I guess it’s still a sore subject.”

  The tension in the air dissolved and Jill lifted her gaze. She happened to glance at Mrs. Ivey and noticed the woman staring at her with the same quizzical look. As if she’d made the connection and knew exactly who Jill was. But of course, that was ridiculous—Jill had never met Mrs. Ivey before tonight.

  “Ladies, shall we continue?” Brenda directed the conversation back to the festival. “The online art auction will be held on Friday evening. It draws a substantial crowd and is our biggest fundraiser. We need photographs of Dewberry Beach that will make you feel as if you’re part of the community.”

  “Maybe something like this?” Jill reached for her camera. She pulled up the images she’d taken that day and showed them to Brenda.

  Brenda nodded, her smile widening as she flicked through. “Yes. These are exactly what we need. We have more than enough summer pictures but nothing from fall or winter. Nothing from the off-season.” She looked up, puzzled. “These are very good. Are they recent?”

  “Yes. I’ve been in town for a bit and there’s a lot to see,” Jill explained. “I can transfer these pictures to an SD card if you want to use them.”

  Kaye set her mug on the placemat with a gentle thump. “We might be getting ahead of ourselves. Maybe now would be a good time to explain about the job, what we need, and what it pays. You might find that you don’t want it.”

  “Good idea,” Mrs. Ivey calmly announced, her gaze resting on Jill. “You sh
ould have all the facts before you make any big decisions.”

  Jill couldn’t imagine being offered a lead photography job and not accepting, but she didn’t want to appear overeager, so she agreed. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”

  “The festival is called Light Up the Bay and it started years—no, decades—ago. To benefit the school…” Betty turned to Kaye. “It was Kaye’s idea originally, so maybe she should explain.”

  “The idea may have started with me,” Kaye objected gently, “but the execution was definitely a group effort. Years and years ago, the Dewberry Beach Trumpet ran a story about a public school not far from here that refused to serve meals to children who carried a negative balance on their account. Lower income children in that school system were served breakfast in the morning as well as lunch, so denying them both meals meant they were forced to go all day without eating. It was barbaric and completely unfair.” Kaye frowned. “Between us, we collected enough to pay off many of the balances. But the following year it happened again. So we decided we needed a longer-term solution.”

  “We incorporated,” Betty announced confidently.

  “Not quite,” Kaye corrected, reaching across the table to squeeze Betty’s hand. “We’re a non-profit. Chase helped with the filing and the financials. Then we all worked together to organize the fundraisers. For a long time we did a little of everything: raffles, bake sales, rummage sales. We auctioned off babysitting or dog-walking services—whatever we could think of—but our needs were always bigger than our proceeds.”

  She nudged Brenda with her shoulder. “And then this one here suggested an art auction.” Kaye’s smile widened. “We have quite a few local artists and Brenda is one of the best.”

  Brenda frowned, clearly uncomfortable with the praise, but Kaye reached for her arm. “I know for a fact that the pottery you donated was headed for the Tungsten Gallery in Manhattan. That made the news—local and regional.”