Beloved

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  They went through the little wart and knocked and waited at the diamond-paned door. Jane was beginning to wonder whether there was some secret password; but eventually someone noticed them and waved them in. She and her mother stepped inside to a scene of good-natured chaos, with potluck dishes being passed and stored and heated and covered and uncovered and assembled and refrigerated, all without an apparent system. There was, after all, no woman of the house.

  Still, Mrs. Adamont wasn't a bad pinch hitter. She was there, twinkle-eyed and in her element, to take Jane's pan of lasagna from her and put it somewhere logical. Mrs. Adamont was the only one who seemed to know intuitively where the pot lids, big spoons, and wine openers were. She gave Gwendolyn Drew a cheerful "how-do-you-do-again"; handed their gift to a couple of kids to put on the gift table in the keeping room; advised Jane with a wink that Mac and Billy were moving the beer tub out of the kitchen and into the keeping room; and greeted the next incoming guests, all without missing a beat.

  Jane and her mother made their way through the crush, looking for the guest of honor, introducing themselves as they went. It hardly seemed necessary; just about everyone knew who they were.

  Uncle Easy's younger cousin Doris sure did. She buttonholed Jane's mother and said, "Look around. Now this is how it's supposed to be. That boy has never once had us over, not since his wedding reception. First the excuse was, she was too busy fixing up the place. Then the excuse was, she was gone and who'd do the cooking? And you know, she never did like this house; it was set too far back from the road for showing off. But don't it look nice? Too bad it didn't work out."

  Gwendolyn agreed completely, even with the parts she didn't understand, and she and her daughter moved on.

  They bumped into the two elderly sisters from the back row at Aunt Sylvia's wake. "We think it's so much better," the sisters said pleasantly, "to tell someone what you think of him before he's six feet under. Have you tried our cucumber sandwiches?"

  Dorothy Crate was there, too, looking down her long, aquiline nose. "Mother couldn't be here today. She isn't well, despite the fine weather we're having. It was so kind of Mac to ask us to Mr. Zingg's party. Such a ... surprise."

  And Jane finally got to meet Billy's wife, Carol, complete with a fat and pretty Sarah in a pink baby sling. "Boy, am I glad you gave Billy the work," Carol said, shaking Jane's hand warmly. "We were two months behind in the rent ... my folks were all tapped out ... I didn't know what we were gonna do. Doesn't Bill do fine work, though? I hope you'll pass his name around. Maybe it'll make up for the car the dope took."

  Jane's mother smiled when she was supposed to, and nodded when she had to, and generally was the gracious trooper she'd always been. But it was obvious that she was looking for the man next door, and the man next door hadn't yet arrived.

  Jane was surprised to see that Mac's son Jerry was there, playing Nintendo with what were apparently a couple of his Nantucket cousins. But she was even more surprised — shocked, really — to see that Jerry's mother was at the party. Celeste McKenzie was standing at the mantel, a little preoccupied and aloof, although her smile was friendly enough for anyone who stopped to chat.

  God, she's a knockout, Jane realized anew. In her subtly textured sweater and her beautifully tailored skirt, Celeste was definitely in the running for best dressed. Jane herself had worn a soft, simple white blouse and a denim skirt because she knew the company would be mostly casual. Now she regretted it.

  "Who is that?" her mother murmured into her ear.

  "That's Celeste McKenzie, Mac's ex. She's a Boston attorney."

  "And looks it. My goodness. She married our host? Where is our host?"

  Their host was apparently done with his hosting and moving like a steam locomotive across the room to be with Celeste. Jane watched with dismay as Mac, oblivious to the merrymaking, fell into an intense discussion with his ex-wife.

  "I thought you said he didn't talk much," her mother remarked.

  "I guess he does, when he has something to say."

  He doesn't see anyone else in the room, Jane realized with a sinking heart. And that definitely includes me. So she'd been wrong, after all, to think she'd seen nuances. Actions spoke louder than nuances — and so far, she herself had seen precious little action from this guy.

  She watched mesmerized as Celeste suddenly flushed and dropped her voice and looked away. Mac seemed to be pleading with her, trying to force her around to his way of thinking. Whatever it was he was selling, she wasn't buying.

  It could be about something as routine as whether Jerry can take karate lessons, or who gets to keep all the Calphalon in the kitchen, Jane insisted to herself.

  "Jane, for goodness' sake. You're staring."

  I'm jealous. God help me, I'm jealous of her. Jane blinked, trying to break out of the spell she was in. "I am not staring," she lied. "I was just trying to remember if I turned off the oven. Yes. I'm pretty sure I did. Ah, there he is — the guest of honor himself, interrupting the McKenzies."

  "Shall we wish him many happy returns?" Gwendolyn asked politely.

  They went up to the trio and Jane introduced her mother first to Uncle Easy, and then, with a certain amount of dread, to Celeste McKenzie. Almost as an afterthought she remembered that her mother had never met Mac.

  Uncle Easy pumped Gwendolyn Drew's hand and said gallantly, "So you're the visiting mum. You're even better looking than they say — and the reports have been pretty good." And then he winked.

  Celeste McKenzie said wearily, "Uncle Easy — behave yourself."

  Mac's look was droll. He, too, shook Gwendolyn's hand. "Welcome to Nantucket," he said to her, giving Jane the briefest of glances. "I trust you're enjoying your brief sojourn."

  He was using that snotty, yacht-club tone Jane knew so well.

  Celeste knew it, too. She gave her ex-husband a look that blew the chip right off his shoulder. "No one loves Nantucket as much as Mac does," she explained to Jane's mother, "and he won't forgive us for being so unfeeling."

  Celeste turned her attention to Jane. She gave no hint that Jane had been there for the bitter confrontation between Mac and her. "So you've inherited Sylvia's old place. Tell me what you've done with it so far," Celeste said, slipping her arm through Jane's and leading her over near a table filled with chips and dips.

  Uncle Easy took off again, leaving Jane's mother — oh, boy — with Mac. Jane kept an eye on the pair while she rattled on to Celeste about Lilac Cottage. She couldn't imagine what the two of them could be talking about.

  "We still have to paint the outside," Jane finished up. "We're waiting for warm weather, but spring is dragging its feet."

  "Spring always drags its feet on Nantucket. It sounds as if you've been working hard. You should be careful, Jane," Celeste added with a pained look at her ex-husband. "Redoing a house is a great way to destroy a relationship."

  It was candid advice; Jane wondered why Celeste hadn't taken it herself.

  "I'm not getting into renovations all that deeply. And besides," Jane added with a self-conscious glance at Mac, "I don't have a relationship to destroy."

  "Don't you?" Celeste took a sip from her wine. "It doesn't look that way to me."

  Mac was trying not to look their way and not succeeding. And in the meantime Jane's mother was tracking who was looking at whom and just how longingly. Well, good, Jane thought, suddenly tired of it all. Maybe she can tell me later what the heck was going on here.

  She was about to say something noncommittal when Celeste interrupted her. "I'm glad we had this chance to meet again. When I was here last ..." She laughed softly. "When I was here last I put on quite a show. I've had time to think over the way I deal with Jeremy, and I guess Mac is right. Partly. Do you have kids?"

  Jane shook her head and Celeste continued. "Then you don't know the pressures on a single mother." She rubbed a red-tipped finger across her sculpted eyebrow as if she were struggling to understand those pressures herself.

  "It's —
I don't know — you want to give the child everything, everything, to make up for what you've done to his world. You want him never to feel any pain, of any kind, ever again."

  Even as she smiled apologetically, Celeste was searching out her son. When she found him, still huddled with his friends in front of the TV screen, a look both tender and fierce came over her.

  She said, "So that's why you run the risk of taking a perfectly normal ten-year-old and turning him into what Mac would call a sissy. It's not a case of too much love, as Mac thinks it is. It's a case of too much guilt."

  "Celeste, you don't owe me an explanation," Jane said, embarrassed. "That was a rough afternoon for everyone. Words were bound to be said that —"

  "Oh, but I wanted to explain. I'm an attorney; I know that every situation has two sides. I wanted you to hear mine," she said simply. "Whups, I think you're being paged."

  Jane looked up to see Cissy across the room, frantically waving the back of her hand at her and pointing to a ring on it. Bing was with her, looking bemused by his sister's manic behavior. Instantly Jane felt less tense. Bing was a warm bath, a box of chocolates, and a good book, all rolled into one relaxed and easygoing smile.

  Celeste excused herself as Cissy rushed ahead of her brother and flashed a sapphire in front of Jane, saying, "See? I told you he loved me!"

  "Cissy! Does this mean you're engaged?" Jane asked, amazed that Phillip had made the commitment.

  Cissy looked crestfallen. "Who said anything about being engaged?"

  "Well, that was dumb of me," Jane said, trying to laugh it off. "So it's a friendship ring?"

  "Those are for preteens!" Cissy said indignantly. "No, this is a ring that ... expresses ... a depth ... well, I'm not sure exactly how Phillip worded it, but it means he really loves me."

  Bing, who'd caught up to his sister by now, paused behind her and rolled his eyes. He slipped an arm around Jane's waist and dropped a light kiss on her lips. "Missed you, damn you," he murmured, brushing his lips against the lobe of her ear. It was a first, public display of his feelings for Jane, and she had to admit to feeling a thrill.

  Aloud, Bing said to Cissy, "So we can assume that Phillip is finally coming out of the closet about you?"

  "Yes you can!" Cissy said triumphantly. "Probably. He never really said. But — yes!"

  "Will he be here later?" Jane asked innocently as Bing went off in search of wine.

  The sunny expression on Cissy's pretty face clouded over. "I don't think Mac even invited him. Phillip never said a thing about coming, and I was afraid to ask. I think it's really crummy of Mac. Look at this place; the whole island is squeezed in here. What is Mac's problem, anyway?"

  Jane just shook her head. "I was getting worried about you," she said, thinking of Bing's warning about Dave. "You just dropped out of sight. What do you do all day over there?" Obviously Phillip didn't hole up with her; Jane had seen his Mercedes periodically come and go.

  Cissy went all dreamy-eyed. "Oh ... I don't know I play music ... think about him ... look at magazines ... watch TV ... wait."

  "A prisoner of love?" Jane said it in the kindest possible way, but the truth was, she thought Cissy was insane. The girl was putting her whole life on hold, while some man tried to make up his mind what to do with her.

  "Yeah ... you could say that," Cissy admitted with a slow, sensuous smile.

  Bing returned, juggling three plastic glasses, and they talked about what a great house Mac had. To Cissy it was just another perfectly restored piece of Nantucket history; she wandered off in search of more interesting topics. When she was out of earshot, Bing said to Jane in a low voice, "No sign of Dave, I take it?"

  "None, and I watched your place like a hawk."

  Bing frowned and said, "I told her about him; do you think she cares? This morning I caught a glimpse of a white Trans Am driving past; I couldn't see if it had a New York plate. Dave has a white something-or-other."

  "It's a pretty common car," Jane said. She was thinking, God. Another paranoic. There must be something in the water.

  "All Cissy can think of is that she got a ring today. She can't seem to remember that it's also the anniversary of her wedding to Dave," Bing said, scowling.

  "Ah." That could complicate things.

  "Jane?"

  Jane turned to see her mother waiting to be introduced to "her Bing." She made the introductions and Bing, courteous to a fault, asked whether Gwendolyn would like a glass of wine. She said yes, Bing went off again, and Jane said, "Well, what do you think?"

  "I think he's an amazingly attractive man, and he has excellent manners," Jane's mother replied, delighted.

  "I mean, about Mac."

  "He impressed me as a man with a lot of anger," Gwendolyn said thoughtfully. "That's all very well when you're young or an artist — but he's at least forty and runs a business."

  "I take it you two didn't hit it off, then."

  "We didn't not hit it off. I would never give him the satisfaction. Anyway, he likes Bach and so do I. There was some common ground."

  Jane sized up her mother with her short, perfect hair, her clear, untroubled gaze, and her cool and articulate manner, and thought: No way is there common ground.

  She was scanning the room for Mac, who had disappeared again, when she saw Jeremy coming up for air from Nintendo. Their eyes met; the boy looked pleased to see her. He flashed her a V-for-victory sign which she didn't understand, and then he went back to his Nintendo. Bing returned with a glass — made of real glass — of wine for Gwendolyn.

  "I want to learn everything I can about your daughter, Mrs. Drew," Bing said. "She's as tight-lipped about her past as a Gothic heroine — at least, she has been lately," he added with a mournful look at Jane. "And her modesty can be exasperating. I figure the best way to learn anything about her is to go straight to the source."

  He took Jane's amused mother by the elbow and said, "I see a quiet corner." Then he turned to Jane with his rascal's smile and added, "I've abducted your mother; go find someone else to play with, darlin'."

  They went off and Jane decided to see how life was treating Mac's son. The boy certainly looked happy— younger and more carefree than on his last visit to the island. The scar on his forehead was nothing more than a tiny pink reminder; and that, too, would someday disappear.

  They exchanged greetings. "What was this for?" Jane asked him, flashing him his victory sign.

  Jerry grinned and said, "I'm staying over for spring break, and Dad says it's partly thanks to you."

  "He did? Did he say why?"

  "Yeah. He said you read him the riot act."

  "Jer, come on! Your turn!"

  His cousin slapped him on the back of his head and Jerry elbowed him in his ribs while the third boy grabbed the Nintendo control and tried to steal a turn. The boys were busy being boys, and Jane left them to it. She decided to see whether she could be any help in the kitchen and got drafted immediately into carrying out cold salads and hot dishes.

  The activity in the kitchen was at a fever pitch. This was it, the serving of everything at once, the moment of truth at any buffet. Mrs. Adamont was barking orders like a company sergeant, making grown men hop and their women laugh. Billy was running around like a chicken without a head, looking for a pitcher. Mac came in at some point and began a frantic rummage for extra serving spoons.

  Jane was wondering how Celeste was managing the willpower to stay out of her own kitchen when Celeste did walk in, a three-year-old in her arms, and said, "Give Uncle Mac a good-bye hug." The toddler threw her arms open wide and fell forward into Mac for the hug. With a huge grin the child said, "Rub noses, rub noses." Mac, a spoon in each hand, laughed and held her little shoulders and rubbed her little nose and Jane felt a stab as deep and as sharp as she'd ever felt in her life.

  "Della's taking them home," Celeste said to Mac. "Jimmy's a little feverish; he's sitting around like a bump on a log."

  "Geez — he must be sick," Mac agreed. "Are these the o
nly spoons we had?"

  Celeste said yes and suddenly they both looked sad, and Celeste turned away and left the room. Then the whirlwind passed over Mac again, sucking him back into it, and he began the next frantic search for the next needed object.

  And all the while Jane was thinking, This is a real family in a real community where people care. Time and the outside world have taken their toll, and the ties are a little frayed, but everyone cares about everyone else. Even the divorced ones care.

  "Hey! Daydreamer! Are you gonna fish or cut bait?" Jane shook herself free to see Mrs. Adamont brandishing a wooden spoon at her. "Can you carry this crockpot of baked beans? It's heavy."

  "Sure," said Jane; but Mac intercepted the cargo. "I'll take it. You can have the next load." His smile was unlike any of the half dozen he'd allowed her to see so far. It was affectionate. And the timbre in his voice — also new; also affectionate.

  "Don't forget to plug it in!" Mrs. Adamont shouted after him. "Here, dollink, take out another batch of paper plates. People are going to want to double them up. Why Mac bought the cheap ones I'll never know. Take some more napkins, too. These are awful. The man's been shopping for himself for three years; you'd think he'd learn."

  Jane took the stuff out to the small oak table piled high with eating tools. Mac was crawling around under the big dining table, plugging in the crockpot cord. When he came back out, he smiled and said, "I don't know why I bothered. Doris's beans will be gone in five seconds."

  He stood next to Jane, hands on his hips, and looked around. "That should do it, then," he said, looking every inch like the lord of his manor.

  The dining table was groaning under the weight of the food. From the chourico and peppers to the teriyaki chicken wings, from the Swedish meatballs to the New England cornbread, everything looked delicious. There was no rhyme or reason to the meal; it was as thrown together as the red, yellow, pink, and blue streamers spiraling the room, as diverse as the guest list itself.

  The kids, obviously near death by starvation, were lined up by the table with paper plates flattened against their chests. There was some, but not too much, pushing and shoving as they waited for Mac, who waited for Mrs. Adamont, to give The Signal. When she finally said, "Okay, people, let's eat," there was a quiet but intense scramble for the marshmallow ambrosia, the little hot dogs on toothpicks, and the nachos, in that order. Mrs. Adamont scolded the first three kids for being pigs and encouraged the others to at least look at the spinach pie.