by Jane Green
“Oh God,” Charlie says. “I never even said sorry for that night. I had no idea what deep trouble we were in, and Keith was being difficult because he knew and he didn’t know how to deal with it. Tell me you don’t hate him.”
“I thought you were the one who hated him?” Kit raises an eyebrow at Charlie.
“Well, yeah, right now I do, but it won’t last, and just because I’m allowed to hate him doesn’t mean my friends are.”
“Good point.”
“I don’t hate him,” Tracy says with a smile, then disappears.
“You see,” Charlie leans forward and hisses to Kit. “She is weird, isn’t she?”
“What do you mean, I see? I was the one who was saying it. I felt like she couldn’t wait to get away from us.”
“It’s just weird. What do you think’s going on?”
“I honestly don’t know. And I don’t even know how we find out. It feels like she has some sort of secret life.”
Charlie starts to laugh. “Wow. Working for Robert McClore must be rubbing off on you. This is sounding more and more like one of his thrillers.”
“No, but seriously? Think about it. She moved here a couple of years ago, didn’t know anyone, no one knew her. We all take people at face value, assume that everyone’s as decent and honest as we are, but not everyone is.”
“You realize we could be talking about Annabel here?” Charlie interjects.
“Well, yes. I guess we could be. The point is, back to Tracy, that we really know nothing about her. I thought we did. I mean, I’ve considered her one of my closest friends, but we only really know what she’s chosen to tell us. Annabel at least is related, at least according to my mother. I say that maybe we should try to find out a bit about Tracy. And not because I think there’s anything weird to discover, but because I’m worried about her. It feels like there’s something she’s not telling us, and we may find some information that will help us.”
Charlie looks uncharacteristically upset, and Kit realizes how much this is bothering her.
Kit takes a deep breath. “Okay, so I wasn’t going to tell you because I thought it would freak you out, but I Googled her.”
“You did? See! I’m not the only one who thinks she’s being strange.”
“I thought that whole scenario on Saturday night, when she was asking you for money, was out of character, and I think it’s really bizarre that she seems to be dating my boss but won’t talk about it. And you’re right—on top of her acting like she can’t wait to get away from us, she also looks terrible.”
“So, did you find anything?”
“Not really on her. I mean, a bit. I found pictures of her when she was married to Richard Stonehill, which were freaky because she looked completely different. She was a blazing redhead. I swear, you’d never recognize her. But I did find something else that was . . . odd. You remember how she mentioned a first husband? Jed? I found him. Jed Halstead. And he has a criminal record.”
“Are you serious?” Charlie is shocked.
“I know. I felt the same way.”
“But what does that mean, criminal record? What for?”
“Larceny and credit card fraud. That was all I could find. God knows what else there is.”
“Oh Jesus.” Charlie whistles. “And what about Tracy? Nothing on her?”
“Not that I could find. Just an old story which linked her to him, but she was never implicated.”
“God. I knew my instincts were good. So what now?”
They sit in silence for a while.
“It’s just so strange. What do you think the story is?”
“I have no idea,” Charlie says. “But I’m pretty certain there is a story. Hey, why don’t you ask Robert McClore? He’s the expert on mysteries.”
“Oh right. Hey, Robert, don’t you think there’s something totally weird about your new girlfriend? How do we find out more? That would be one surefire way to get myself fired.”
“Don’t tell him it’s about Tracy. Say . . . say it’s about Annabel.”
“You know what?” A smile spreads on Kit’s face. “That, as Annabel would say, is sheer bloody genius.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Edie swings into Rose’s driveway, pulls out her tennis racket and marches up the steps and into the house.
She has been friends with Rose for almost fifty years and has been coming to this house for swimming and tennis and parties for all that time. In almost five decades nothing has changed. The house, a stucco contemporary that was featured in all the architectural magazines of the time, was once the biggest and grandest house on the street, but it is now dwarfed by the huge shingle houses that surround it.
Many an offer has been made, because the plot is worth a fortune. Rose is used to going out to the mailbox to find many a handwritten envelope.
“We love your house,” they all say. “It would be a dream house for our growing family, and we’d love to talk to you if you ever decide to sell.”
Some have been more forward, some even asking her to name her price. A couple of times, hedge fund boys, at the height of the boom, threw ridiculous numbers at her and were aghast that she wouldn’t accept, not understanding that this wasn’t about money, this was about her home.
And she isn’t stupid. However many times the letters tell her how much people love the house, she knows that in their eyes they see a demolition. The thought of the bulldozers coming in and razing all that she has built, loved, shared with her husband before he passed away, is inconceivable. She will not allow it to happen.
They would all love to buy Rose’s house because hers occupies a double plot, almost four acres, and is perched on a hill, with magnificent views over the harbor, but Rose has often said that the day she leaves, she will be carried out in a coffin.
She has a tennis court, a pool, even—heaven forbid in these days when safety is paramount—a waterslide, and opens her house regularly to all the neighborhood kids, who are thrilled to tumble down a slippery slide into an icy-cold swimming pool, for she does not believe in heating a pool when there are far more important priorities.
The house is filled with paintings and sculptures, either works by friends of Rose, a painter herself, or those bought while she was married, when she and her husband traveled all over the world.
There are books lining the walls, and these are not books for display but books that have been lovingly held and read and reread, their pages well thumbed, their spines sometimes split.
Blown-glass animals from Murano, huge lumps of amethyst and rose quartz, porcelain pill boxes that were her mother’s—it is a house that has only been added to over the years, with nothing ever taken away.
The cream of Highfield high society has always been found in the living room of Rose’s house, or sipping cocktails on the terrace. Not the people who consider themselves high society today, the hedge fund husbands and their gala-giving wives, but old Highfield, the people who founded this town, who moved up from Manhattan. The artists, the writers, the actors, together with the handful of old-money names whose families, in some cases, are traceable back to the Mayflower.
This Saturday morning tennis game has been going on for twenty years. Back when they both had living husbands it was a foursome, and now they have revolving spots, different people coming every week, Rose making sure that whoever is invited is interesting, for she always has a luncheon afterward, with more people dropping in, and there is nothing Rose loves more than bringing people together.
For twenty years, Rose and Edie have been bickering like an old married couple themselves. They try not to partner with each other, for Rose spends the entire time muttering that Edie is as slow as molasses, and Edie complains that Rose spends too much time at the net and has a horrible backhand.
Newcomers are always horrified at the way they talk, but the regulars have learned to ignore it. As soon as the games are over, Edie and Rose are back to being best friends, and by the time they all sit down to l
unch, you would have no idea that just minutes before they were shrieking at each other.
“Rose!” Edie calls up the stairs.
“Come up!” Rose calls down. “I’m in my dressing room. Anyone else here?”
“Don’t think so.” Edie pushes open the door. “What are you getting so dolled up for? It’s only tennis.”
“This isn’t dolled up. It’s lipstick. That’s tantamount to brushing my hair. So who’s this fellow you invited?”
“Steve Halladay. He’s attempting to woo the lovely Kit, and I don’t trust him. And I know you’re a rather wonderful judge of character, so I thought I’d invite him to join us and see what you think of him.”
“I don’t care about his character,” Rose says. “How’s his tennis game?”
“No idea. Consider this one a favor for me.”
“Of course.” Rose smiles tenderly at Edie, who thinks once again that despite the bristle, Rose is more kindhearted than anyone she has ever known.
“Who’s your contribution?”
“Lovely fellow. Bobbie Bhogal. He’s some sort of hugely successful entrepreneur, lots of businesses in England, and the most delicious English accent. You know how I love an Englishman.”
“So how’s his game?”
Rose laughs. “I don’t really care either. He’s here for a few days on business. He has all these Internet Web sites, and I thought it would be nice to invite him. If he’s hopeless I’ll just have him sit on the side and tell us stories. Honestly, I could listen to him talk for hours.”
“Why, Rose! You sound like you have a soft spot for him!” Edie looks at her slyly.
“Well, I do. Or at least I would, if he was forty years older, or I was forty years younger. Plus he has a beautiful wife and a set of twins. Sadly, it is not meant to be.”
“So how do you know him?”
“George Sullivan told him to look me up if he was ever in New York. He was in New York last week, and he phoned. I took him out for dinner.”
“You old flirt.”
“I know! But isn’t it fun? And George says he’s a good man, so at least we know we won’t have two bad seeds. Oh, isn’t that the doorbell?”
“I’ll go,” Edie says. “You stay and finish troweling on your makeup.”
“Yay, Steve!” Kit claps and roars from the sidelines, Annabel at her side. “You’ve got to admit,” she mutters out of the corner of her mouth, “he’s pretty damn gorgeous.”
“I will say that although he’s an ‘older man’ ”—Annabel makes quote marks with her fingers—“”he”s a damn fine-looking one.“
Kit turns to look at her with a grin. “I keep forgetting you’re twenty-eight. Let me tell you, by the time you hit the ripe old age of forty, men like that are better than damn fine specimens, they’re a dying breed.”
“Aren’t they just a little bit saggy and wrinkly?”
“No more saggy and wrinkly than me. Actually, I’d say Steve’s in pretty fantastic shape. Look at his leg muscles when he runs.”
“Granted, he is pretty fit.”
“So, what did you think of him?”
Annabel laughs. “We only said hello. I didn’t have much of a chance to form an opinion. Anyway, it’s not my opinion you have to worry about, is it? What Rose thinks of him, that’s the million-dollar question.”
“I’m not sure she’s focusing on him.” Kit glances over at Rose. “She’s too busy making googly eyes at Bobbie Bhogal.”
“So what line of business are you in?” George, a native New Yorker who makes no bones about it, turns to Steve as Bobbie pulls up a chair and joins them at the table.
“I’m in computers,” Steve says. “How about you?”
“Well, I’m a journalist, but Bobbie knows an awful lot about computers, don’t you, Bobbie? What kind of work in computers?”
“Mostly software design,” Steve says, then asks Bobbie, “What do you do?”
“My business is really retail, but we’ve taken huge advantage of the Internet opportunities and have a number of successful Web sites right now. Do you do Web site design?”
“Not really. Programs for businesses, that kind of thing.”
“Would I have heard of any of them?” George is persistent.
“Unfortunately not,” Steve says, changing the subject. “But I’m working on it. So, George, how long have you been in Highfield?”
Kit, sitting to Steve’s right, smiles. She understands him not wanting to reveal everything about himself. God knows there have been enough times when she has faced a barrage of questions, and she hasn’t been in the mood to talk.
Under the table Steve rests his hand lightly on her thigh. She moves her leg closer to him and he looks over at her and winks.
“George, stop monopolizing these handsome young men,” says Rose, as she sails over with a plate of salad in her hand and sits down at the table. “It’s my turn. Steve, I want to know everything about you.”
And Steve, removing his hand, has no choice but to turn to Rose and answer her questions.
“So?” Edie corners Rose in the kitchen. She knows she ought to wait until everyone has left, but she can’t, she has to know now what Rose thought of Steve.
“Well, he’s fifteen flavors of delicious, isn’t he?” Rose says dreamily.
“Oh Rose, I wasn’t asking about your loins. What does your head think of him? Don’t you think he’s a little smarmy?”
“Smarmy? Good Lord, Edie. No. I think he’s perfectly charming, although he’s so unbelievably handsome I’m not sure I care too much what his personality is like. The fact that he is charming and funny and, by the way, extremely interested in me, is only an added bonus.” She peers at Edie. “Edie Dutton! If I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous.”
“Jealous?” Edie splutters with indignation. “Jealous of what?”
“Jealous because Kit is the daughter you never had, and you love having her all to yourself. I think you’re scared because this Steve is delightful, and if she falls in love with him and ends up—oh, I don’t know—marrying him, Kit won’t have any time left for you, and you’ll be back to being all on your own again.”
“Rose, that’s ridiculous.” Edie sniffs.
“It may be, but I’m right. I know I am. Don’t worry, my dear,” she says, patting her arm, “whatever will be, will be, and you and I will always have each other, so you don’t have to worry about being lonely. You could always move in here, you know that.”
“If I moved in here I’d end up going to prison for murder,” Edie grumbles, and she turns and walks out of the room. She is irritated, because while she doesn’t trust Steve, doesn’t like him at all, she also knows that however much she may not want to admit it, there is a grain of truth in what Rose said.
Perhaps more than a grain. Perhaps a whole barrelful.
Kit sails through Saturday with a large smile on her face. From tennis in the morning to lunch, then the evening, when Annabel offers to babysit and Kit is able to run out and meet Steve for a quick drink.
They sit at the bar of the Driftwood Inn, knees intertwined, holding hands and—oh how teenage is this!—even making out, ignoring the comments all around, sheepishly smiling at the cheering patrons when they break apart.
Kit feels giddy with excitement. This is like being sixteen again. She hasn’t felt this young, this energized, this excited about life, for years, and didn’t think she would ever feel this way again.
She assumed that this heady feeling came with youth, disappeared as you trudged your way into middle age, never thinking that she would get a second chance at it, never thinking that it would feel so good, would be as stimulating and addictive as a drug.
Kit can feel the electricity when his leg touches hers. She wants to rip his clothes off here and now. If I had a spoon, she keeps thinking, I would eat you up whole.
She wants to kiss him, lick him, inhale him. It is as if she has woken from the deep coma of her almost sexless marriage—at le
ast that was what it was in the latter days—to find that her libido has been quietly and secretly welling up somewhere, leaving her with an appetite that is terrifying in its voraciousness.
“Can we go back to your place?” she whispers, knowing that it is too soon to bring him into the house when the kids are there. That, she isn’t ready for.
“I wish we could,” he says, nuzzling her neck and groaning in disappointment. “I’ve had painters in all day and it’s the most godawful mess, plus it stinks. Sheets covering everything up, dust everywhere from where they sanded. I don’t even know how I’m going to stay there tonight.”
Kit tries to hide her disappointment, but, like a child with a view of candy, she doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t know how to wait. “Damn.”
“Soon, my darling.” Steve smiles, and placing his fingers underneath her chin he lifts her face, kissing her frown away. “What are your days without the kids this week?”
“Wednesday and Thursday. And next weekend I have no kids.”
“So how about on Wednesday I cook you dinner? At your place? And then maybe on the weekend we could go away somewhere? I keep hearing that there are all these romantic inns dotted around the Connecticut shoreline, and I’ve barely been out of Highfield.”
“Are you serious? I’d love that! Oh God! An inn! That would be so romantic!”
“We’ll bring boots and do some hiking, and we’ll find somewhere that has roaring log fires in the bedroom. Lots of books, and—hey, if we feel like it, we can always forego the hike and stay in bed all weekend. Maybe we could even go up Friday.”
Kit frowns again. “I work on Fridays, remember?”
“Oh. Yes. I forgot. Don’t you think he’d give you the day off?”
“I don’t really like asking him. He’s not great with change.”
Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know why you work there. I still think it’s too lowly for you, an assistant.”
