by Leary, Ann
“Kinks, Hil,” he said.
“What?”
“On the radio.” He nodded at the cab of his truck. “The Kinks. Ya ever listen to this station, Hildy? They play all the oldies. All the good ones.”
“Not really. Hey, I called you this morning, Frank.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“I’m trying to sell Patch and Cassie Dwight’s house—Ralph Dwight’s kid, Patch?”
“Yeah, I know Patch.”
“Well, the place needs some work. And they have a boy with … problems … you know.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s retarded. See him all the time down the market with Patch.”
“Yes, little Jake has very serious problems and they need to move to Newton so he can go to a special school. Anyway, I might have a buyer, but they want to see the place this weekend. It’s a wreck. It’s a small house, but it needs some touch-up work on the drywall. The whole interior needs to be painted.…”
“Well, I got all my guys workin’ on a job down Manchester this week, Hil. We’re clearin’ some land for a new house. It’s a big job, got all my guys on it.”
“All your guys?”
Frank Getchell’s “crews” are a combination of local barflys, a smattering of undocumented Mexicans, the occasional ex-con, and, each summer, a sizable infantry of high-school and college boys who consider it a manly rite of passage to be on one of Getchell’s crews. They drive, tanned and shirtless, around town in trucks, hauling trailers that rattle with lawn mowers, weed whackers, and other landscaping equipment. Or they stand, again, shirtless, gleaming with sweat, on a ladder, painting the exterior of a house and shouting out whenever a girl they know walks or drives past. At lunchtime, all the beat-up Getchell trucks can be found at the North Beach parking lot, where the guys eat their lunch on the boulders. My daughters and their friends always tried to be in bikinis at noon on North Beach when they weren’t working on weekdays. But now it was fall and these boys had gone back to school.
Frankie shrugged and replaced the gas nozzle. When he looked at the price on the tank, he whistled. “Look at that, Hildy. Almost ninety bucks to fill that sonuvabitch.”
“Hey, that reminds me. Somebody asked me a while back if you’d be interested in selling your riverfront lot. The one next to me. I’ve tried to call you a few times about this over the summer, but … no message machine.”
Frankie squinted up at the sun and then looked at me. “Who wants it? A developer?”
“No. He’s a businessman. From Boston.”
“What does he want it for? Listen, the Who. Now, that’s a wicked good song, Hil.” Frank reached inside and turned up the volume on his radio.
“What do you think he wants it for, Frank?” I shouted over the music. “He wants to put a house on it. That acreage is really valuable. I could come up with a sale price for you that would—”
“Nah. I need it. I like to fish there.” Music was blaring from the cab of his truck and Frankie started crooning along with the tune while screwing his gas cap in place.
“Oh, Frank, I never liked this song, and you’re just making it worse with your awful caterwauling,” I said, covering my ears and wincing. The man had no sense at all. His property was worth several million dollars and he wanted to keep it so he could fish. My commission on a sale like that would sort out my mortgage situation quite nicely.
Frank laughed and bellowed over the noisy radio, “You don’t like my singin’, Hil?”
“You’ve got some rusty-sounding chimes there, Frank; only your friends will tell you the truth. You never could carry a tune, now that I think of it.” This made Frank laugh even more. He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans and was gazing off across the road, his shoulders shaking merrily.
“C’mon, Frank, don’t you even want me to ask him how much he’d be willing to pay?”
Frank leaned into his window and lowered the volume of the music, saying, “Well, sure, ask him. I wouldn’t mind knowin’ what he’d be willin’ to pay.”
“Oh, forget it. I’m not gonna waste his time. You’re sure you don’t know anybody who wants to make a few extra bucks this week?”
“How soon do they need it done?”
“I’m planning to show it on Saturday.”
“Did I see you out swimmin’ last night, Hildy?” Frank asked. He glanced at me quickly, then down at the ground, but he had that insipid grin going again.
“What? Swimming last night? No. I mean … I suppose … you might have. Sometimes I go for a little dip. If it’s a nice night. Yes, now that I think of it, I did wander down for a little swim.…”
“Yeah, I thought I saw you. I was out there, too. In my waydahs. Night fishin’. I thought I saw you. Kind of chilly last night for swimmin’.”
“The water’s warmest this time of year. You know that,” I said.
Out in his waders? At night?
The previous evening was a little foggy in my mind, but now, unfortunately, I recalled the way I had floated out to the boathouse for a second bottle and then, later on, down to the waterfront. Naked as a jaybird, humming and cackling aloud as my girls yipped and yiked and cavorted at my feet.
I glared at Frank. Out in his waders.
“It’s the gettin’ out that kills ya, though.” Frank chuckled, and I remembered squealing in joyous astonishment after my icy plunge and then the way I had staggered, cackling and cursing, out of the frosty surf, the girls underfoot, tripping me and snapping at each other.
Frank was leaning against the door of his truck and croaking along with the idiotic tune like an old toad while I was forced to wonder if he had observed my flight back to my house from the river, laughing madly, my pendulous breasts flapping, my fat ass swaying this way and that, and my hair wrapped around my face like seaweed. I had woken up that morning with leaves between my toes and sand in my hair and had wondered …
Well, now I knew.
I turned to my car and snapped, “I’ll have to get on the phone, figure out who else I can get.”
“Nah, Hildy, wait. I’ll drive up there now. See what needs to be done.”
“Really, you’d do that, Frank?” I asked, softening a little. I turned to face him, even though I knew my cheeks were scarlet. “The Dwights really need the help.”
“I gotta guy down in Beverly I can get to do jobs like this sometimes. Maybe him an’ another guy…”
“That would be so great, Frank. Thanks.”
“No problem, Hil.”
I turned and heard him singing the last words of the song. Frankie was in rare form indeed. I had no idea what had gotten him so worked up.
six
I would later learn, from Rebecca herself, that the McAllisters hadn’t been living up on Wendover Rise a month before Rebecca realized that she had made, possibly, the worst mistake of her life. She had thought that the move to the country would lessen all the anxiety she had experienced while living in Boston. She had always felt intensely competitive, yet not quite up to par, with the other wives at Brian’s firm, many of whom had interesting careers of their own. And the private-school admissions scene in Boston had almost done her in, she later told me. She thought that if she and the kids could live in the country, the way she had lived as a child, they would all be more content. She understood that she would see less of Brian, but wouldn’t it be better for him to see her more relaxed and happy when he came home after a few days in the city, rather than returning every night to a fretful wife? Well, that had been her reasoning behind the move, but once she found herself up on the rise, alone with the kids and the unsmiling Polish nanny, Magda, she felt abandoned. That’s the word she used when she described the situation to me. Brian had “abandoned” her in Wendover.
They had chosen to move to town in March, while school was still in session, so that the boys could make friends in their new schools. By May, she was talking to Brian about reenrolling the boys in their former schools in Boston for the fall. And by the time she had the run-
in with Cassie on the beach, she was ready to start packing. Brian was exasperated with this change of plans. He was growing weary of Rebecca’s impulsive disposition and was now worried about the effect that her chronic dissatisfaction might have on their boys. Brian insisted that she make an appointment to see Peter Newbold—which she did. I remember seeing her leaving his office a few times in the early summer. My office has a window out to the side porch, where Peter’s patients come and go, and I had seen Rebecca wander out, wearing big dark sunglasses, looking very thin. Brian made a deal with Rebecca that they stay for the summer and not make any plans for the fall. After all, the boys loved their new school and their big rambling country house. Brian urged Rebecca to sign them up for sailing lessons and the YMCA camp, which she did.
Then he bought her Hat Trick.
Hat Trick was a young, solid black Hanoverian gelding, imported from Germany by Trevor Brown, an Olympic silver medalist and also Rebecca’s former trainer. Rebecca wasn’t the type to tell you this about herself, but my understanding is that in her late teens she had been short-listed for the U.S. Equestrian Team. Rebecca and Trevor had stayed in touch after she married Brian, and he often sent her photographs of promising young horses, with Brian’s deep pockets in his mind.
Brian had bought his parents a house in Palm Beach years before, and he and Rebecca and the kids often visited them there during the winter months. Sometimes, Rebecca and Brian attended horse shows while in Palm Beach, and the winter before moving to Wendover, they saw Trevor show Hat Trick at the Winter Equestrian Festival—an annual show-jumping event that draws competitors from all over North America to vie for the large cash prizes. Hat Trick was only five years old and was being shown in a low-jumper class, due to his immaturity and lack of experience, but he soared over the fences like a gazelle.
Rebecca knew that the horse had the makings of a great jumper. Indeed, his price tag—in the hundreds of thousands, according to Linda Barlow—indicated that the young horse had Olympic potential. He was far more horse than Rebecca needed, but she swooned over him, and hockey-obsessed Brian was pleased with his name, so he had Trevor ship the horse up to Wendover to surprise Rebecca on her birthday, in April. Later, Rebecca would tell me it was Hat Trick who helped her the most with her transition to Wendover. She had a project.
Mamie Lang is a longtime member of the Westfield Hunt Club, and she told me that it was assumed by most of the area’s riders that Rebecca would join the club so that she could use the facilities there. Westfield has two indoor arenas, several full-time grooms, and some very good trainers, but Rebecca chose to keep young “Tricky” at home with Betty and her older jumper, Serpico. She improved the riding ring that was already on the property and had a series of jumps built. She schooled the horse herself, every day. During the summer months, Westfield Hunt Club has a weekly series of nonrated “schooling shows.”
Westfield has a handful of C-rated shows in the early summer and then a well-known AA show in August, which, like the Winter Equestrian Festival show in Palm Beach, brings top riders from around the country to compete in the Grand Prix jump-off, which offers a cash prize of $100,000 to the winner. But the schooling shows are meant for local riders to gain show experience. Sometimes, the trainers at Westfield and nearby barns will bring talented young show prospects to the schooling shows, just to give them exposure to the environment at horse shows, which can often be quite overwhelming to young horses. This is what Rebecca did with Hat Trick many times over the summer.
Mamie called me the first time she saw Rebecca show Hat Trick at Westfield.
“That horse is absolutely stunning, Hildy,” she said. “All the trainers’ jaws dropped when she unloaded him from her trailer. And even though it was a nonrated show, she and Linda Barlow had his mane and tail braided and he was perfectly groomed. Her tack and boots were polished to a shine. I overheard one of the trainers telling some of his students that that’s the way a horse should look whenever he’s shown, whether the show is rated or not.”
Linda Barlow would later tell me that Rebecca was very particular about horse keeping. The barn was immaculate at all times, the saddles and bridles polished after each and every ride. And Rebecca showed Linda how to braid a horse’s mane, not in the loose, sloppy braids held together with rubber bands that we had all made when braiding our ponies’ manes as kids, but into tiny, tight, perfectly symmetrical plaits that followed the beautiful crest of her horse’s neck like a scalloped piece of decorative trim on a sculpture carved out of onyx. Rebecca taught Linda to use an old-fashioned needle and yarn when braiding, rather than the rubber bands. I could imagine that they made quite an impression at that first schooling show.
Mamie reported to me the degree to which the spirited horse had acted up before entering the show ring.
“He stood straight up, Hildy. He reared up and then he sort of launched himself into the air like those Lipizzaners that you see in the circus. And Rebecca rode him like a pro. She was laughing at his antics and just kept urging him forward. Then she cantered him into the ring and they did a clear round. In the high jumpers. The horse isn’t even six yet. And she’s got such style, that Rebecca. She jumped clear, but she deliberately jumped the last jump from the wrong direction so that she would be scratched for going off-course.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It was the right thing to do. Her horse so far outclassed the others in the show. And some people who go to these shows have never earned a blue ribbon in their class. It really means a lot to them. Rebecca scratched and a seventeen-year-old got the blue ribbon. Then Rebecca loaded that black vision into her trailer and hauled him home herself.”
As the summer passed, and Rebecca attended more shows, the local horse people grew accustomed to her. According to Mamie, other people started braiding their horses’ manes and tails for the shows, and arrived wearing formal show attire, like Rebecca.
“She’s wonderfully old-fashioned when it comes to horses,” Mamie told me. “She’s really setting an example for the younger people about how horses should be turned out all the time. She’s reminding everybody what horsemanship is really about.”
Mamie was entranced with Rebecca and told me that she wanted me to arrange a dinner for the three of us. I promised I would, but I also gave her Rebecca’s number. I figured they might have a better time, just the two of them, over a bottle of wine, without me slurping my Diet Coke between them. But they never did hook up, Mamie and Rebecca. Mamie called her twice to invite her to dinner and twice Rebecca declined politely. Mamie felt snubbed, and that was the end of that.
I did get to see Rebecca show Hat Trick once. It was at Westfield’s big August AA show. Rebecca had entered Hat Trick in the Grand Prix—the most difficult and challenging course, which had the $100,000 purse. Mamie usually hosts a luncheon under a tent at the show, right next to the Grand Prix ring. It’s a benefit luncheon. The proceeds go to a shelter for battered women in Salem. I always buy a table and invite clients. It’s a great place to take people who are looking to buy a home in the area. The hunt club grounds are meticulously groomed and there are beautiful horses and beautiful people everywhere. One of my clients, who was seated at my table, kept exclaiming with delight that she felt like she was in a Ralph Lauren ad. This made me smile. The house she and her husband were interested in looked like it could be in a Ralph Lauren ad, too, and it could be theirs for just $1.5 million.
Brian McAllister had bought a table, and a bunch of their friends from Boston had come out to watch Rebecca ride. They were a boisterous group—clearly they had started with the champagne quite early—and Brian had introduced me around when I first arrived. Most of their “friends” turned out to be Brian’s business associates. There were a few men whom he introduced as his partners, each with what appeared to me to be silly, pretty wives who had slightly overdressed for the event. Two were wearing hats, as if they were at Royal Ascot or something. This is New England. Most people wear simple summer dresses to the West
field Benefit Luncheon. My ex-husband, Scott, told me once that I’m prejudiced against younger, prettier women. I always think they’re “silly” or “ridiculous,” he used to say.
He was wrong. That’s not how I view all younger pretty women.
I always took Rebecca seriously, for example.
Mamie arranged for me to have a table right next to the ring, and my clients and I dined on poached salmon and fresh green beans, spring potatoes, and fresh strawberries and cream. There was a full bar. Champagne was being poured all around me. I kept my eyes on the show arena. When the Grand Prix began, Mamie came and pulled up two chairs beside me. She was with Allen Mansfield, the head trainer at Westfield. It was great having them next to me, as they told me who each rider was, which one had qualified for the Olympics, and which horses were seasoned pros and which were exciting young prospects.
Most of the riders in the Grand Prix were professionals who ran lucrative show barns nearby or in other areas of the country. Some of their horses were famous in the show world. So when Mamie saw Rebecca waiting in the warm-up area, she became excited (I had seen her consume the better part of a bottle of champagne just since sitting down) and she said loudly, “THERE SHE IS HERSELF, AL.”
Allen just grunted and shook his head in disgust.
“ALLEN THINKS HER HORSE IS TOO GREEN FOR THIS EVENT,” Mamie shouted at me, though I was sitting right beside her.
“Shhhhh,” I hissed. “Brian and all their friends are right at the next table.”
“Oops.” Mamie giggled.
“I know he’s too green,” Allen grumbled. “There’s no reason to overface a young horse like this.”
“They look stunning,” I said.
Mamie was laughing at Allen. “Allen’s just bitter that he’s not her trainer,” she whispered. “I think her horse is ready for the Grand Prix. I’ve been watching them show all summer. And Rebecca promised she’d give the prize money to the shelter if she wins.”
