by Jean Stone
Listening to her best friend, Jill tried to determine if she’d known that Rita had lost interest in life, in living. She’d acted the same. But maybe acted was the key word. Rita had acted the way people expected her to behave. Not unlike the way Jill had been acting all day, carrying on with her business as if her husband had not been arrested for one of the sickest crimes imaginable, as if feelings, pain, or anger did not happen.
“Go ahead, say it,” Rita interrupted Jill’s thoughts. “Obviously I didn’t lose enough interest in sex not to do it.”
Jill took back her arm and drew tiny lines in the sand by her feet. “I wasn’t thinking about that, Rita. Honest.”
Rita sighed. “Well, I did have sex a few times. But only with Charlie.”
A quiet grin formed on Jill’s lips. “No kidding,” she said. “So Charlie is …”
Rita nodded. “The father of my child. The second time around.” She picked up another stone, examined it, then set it back on the ground.
“Rita,” Jill said, “this is wonderful.” This time she said it, because she truly felt it.
But Rita’s glance said she didn’t agree. “Why is it so wonderful?” she asked, her tone turning acrid. “I’m too old to have a kid. Besides, what if it turns out not right?” A note of fear had crept into her voice.
“That won’t happen,” Jill said quickly. “There are ways of finding out today. There are tests.”
Rita shook her head. “I liked things the way they were. The way they’ve been.”
“But the time inevitably comes for us to move on. As long as we let it.” The time had come for Jill the day she’d met Ben. “I keep hoping Amy will be able to move on. I think she might have a crush on one of the young men I’ve hired.”
“Amy is Amy. As for me, I’m too old. It’s too late to start over.”
“That’s crap, and you know it. Look at me and Ben.” Speaking his name nearly closed off her airway, nearly made her reveal the injustice that had happened at the whim of that … child.
“You and Ben,” Rita commented before Jill changed her mind. “My mother says you’re the all-American family now. But tell me, Jill, are you pregnant, too?”
“Of course not.” The words shot out too quickly before she could check them. “I mean, Ben is older than we are. We’re not planning …”
Rita nodded. “Neither was I. Nor was I planning to get married.”
“But now?”
“Well, for one thing, Charlie has stopped proposing. I think he’s found someone else. Besides, why should ‘now’ make a difference? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I wouldn’t be good at marriage, Jill. I’ve always known that. I’m too—I don’t know. Too independent.”
“Bull. What you are is too damn scared. Well, you have a right to happiness, my friend. But you have to give yourself the chance.”
Rita did not respond.
Jill looked down at the waves. “Trapped on an island in the middle of the sea,” she said quietly. “That’s how I always felt about the Vineyard. After I came home, after I found my mother’s diary, after I met Ben, well, I realized that the only place we’re ever trapped is inside ourselves.”
As she heard herself say the words, Jill was not thinking of Rita. And then things became clear. Rather than feeling like victims, Ben and Jill needed to act. They needed to go on the offensive. And they needed to do it fast.
She stood up. “I’ve got to get home, Rita. But no matter what your decision, please promise me two things.”
Rita stood and brushed sand from her jeans. “That depends.”
Jill took Rita’s hands. “Promise me that this time you’ll consider telling Charlie. And that—no matter what you decide—you’ll keep me informed.”
Letting go of Jill’s hands, Rita gave her a hug. “I won’t promise that I’ll tell Charlie, but I’ll let you know what I decide. Some secrets are meant to be shared with your very best lifelong friend.”
As Jill hugged her back, she squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that, sadly, some secrets were not.
Okay, so maybe she should tell Charlie, Rita thought as she slogged through the dunes from the lighthouse en route to the tavern. Maybe she should tell Charlie and they should be married and live happily-ever-fucking-after in her little red saltbox with their adorable little child.
Maybe not.
She’d have to make a decision soon. Her first trimester was almost shot. After that an abortion could get tricky. Not to mention that although she’d hung up her form-fitting miniskirts and crop sweaters long ago (not long after Kyle died), soon it would be obvious that she was plump with child.
Hopefully, she thought with a shiver, her mother would have returned to Florida by then.
Hopefully Charlie would not ask if the baby was his.
Hey! she realized, her spirits brightening, her walk quickening. Maybe that was the answer. Why would Charlie have to know the baby was his? He didn’t know she hadn’t been with anyone since that last night they’d slept together back in …
Oh shit.
It had been the night of Jill and Ben’s wedding.
If Jill knew that, she’d probably see it as some kind of magical good omen. She’d probably want to run and tell Charlie herself.
Oh, shit.
She huffed a little and slogged some more, trying not to remember the night, trying to forget that it had, indeed, been magical.
Which was why she could not forget.
It had seemed so right, so natural. She’d been mellow with nostalgia, happy for Jill, feeling safe among friends, feeling close to Kyle because from the Gay Head lighthouse on the cliffs where the ceremony was, Rita could look across the dunes and the inlet and see Menemsha House, Ben’s dream, which Kyle had died trying to protect.
She had felt safe and comforted as if wrapped in a blanket of Kyle’s strong presence, his sweet love. She had felt all these feelings as she stood and listened to the vows and heard the soft cry of seagulls and felt the setting sun on her face.
It had been magical, and it had been the last time she’d had sex with Charlie, for afterward it had all seemed too close, too choking, too much like … commitment.
She stopped and pressed her hand against a gas pain in her side. “Fuck!” she wanted to shout as loud as she possibly could, so that her voice bounced off the neat windowpanes of the perfect white houses that lined North Water Street, the houses she’d been inside only to clean or to sell, rich people’s houses like her friend Jill’s that were made for normal, happy families, not the Rita Blairs of the world.
Then Rita smiled as she rubbed the pain. Maybe it wasn’t gas. Maybe it was a miscarriage, a saving grace in progress, a miraculous event unto itself that would end this nightmare and let her return to her life.
Such as it was.
Such as it would be.
The pain subsided. No other symptoms followed.
And then her eyes were drawn up to the sky as if the answer, the solution, were there. But there was no answer. There was only a seagull, sitting atop the sign for the 1802 Tavern. Oddly, the gull seemed to stare at her, and to smile as if it knew something, as if it were not a grungy-gray bird, but a dove come in peace and in love.
It could even have been Kyle.
She laughed out loud at the thought.
Then, resuming her walk toward the back door, she admitted that maybe a baby wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe a baby would return some life to her tired, hurting heart. Maybe a baby would restore her faith and hope in life.
She laughed out loud again.
And maybe a seagull named Kyle, she thought, planted these weird-ass thoughts.
But as she reached the restaurant door, she decided what the hell, she really had nothing to lose if this time she was honest. Maybe she should, as Jill suggested, give herself a chance at happiness. She could start by telling Charlie she was pregnant once again. With his child. Hopefully the sea
gull would not splat on her parade.
She took a deep breath and went into the kitchen with a childlike grin, like a giggling girl holding in a big secret she could hardly wait to let out.
It was not Charlie, however, who greeted Rita today. It was Amy. She was stirring chowder.
“Am I glad to see you! Charlie’s hung up in Falmouth tonight, and I’m the only one here to do dinner. Grab an apron and save me, okay, Rita honey, Rita pal?”
Rita stood staring at Amy for a moment, the once-wild teenager now the person in charge. Then she grabbed an apron from the rack as she’d been instructed and refused to think about the fact that Marge Bainey lived on Cape Cod, maybe even in Falmouth for all Rita knew.
Chapter 6
The rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Jill thought about Rita and about how life had a way of shaping more twists and turns than the crocheted stitches of one of her great-grandmother’s lace doilies. She straightened, then re-straightened one of those doilies now as she stood at the tall bureau in the bedroom. Ben sat across the room on the deacon’s bench that had once been in the old Congregational church and had somehow ended up there after an auction to raise funds for a new steeple and a roof.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Jill said in a low voice, in case Amy came home and overheard. “I know what we agreed to, but I really think we need to get this out in the open. The less defensive, the less secretive we are, the better. Secrets only end up causing more pain.”
Ben did not respond.
“I think we should start with Addie Becker.” She waited for his reaction, which did not come. She plucked at the doily again, then went across the room to him. “As much as I dislike the woman, maybe she can help us. It seems that she needs me now. What’s that old saying, ‘Tit for tat’?”
He did not smile at her attempt to lighten the mood. He merely looked at the floor and studied the wide boards.
But Jill’s resolve was cemented since her visit with Rita, when she’d been uncomfortably reminded of those strict Yankee curses:
Do things alone.
Don’t air dirty laundry.
Suffer in silence.
Jill had watched her mother and father struggle through their lives with those restrictions; that same penance had robbed Rita of unhappiness for too many years. And Jill was determined not to go down that path.
She sat next to her husband and awkwardly continued.
“You can’t get the right help here on the island. But there must be someone in Boston or L.A.—an expert who deals with these kinds of cases. And one thing’s for sure, Addie knows everyone.”
Ben leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. “So you want the media to get involved after all.”
Jill rose and went to the window. She looked down at the once-plump hydrangea, now thick with blossoms burnished to a light autumn copper. “Addie’s not the media, Ben. She’s a talent agent. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the first time she was confronted with a delicate situation. And she has connections. If I tell her I’ll fill in for Lizette, she might be willing to help.”
Ben folded his arms and leaned back on the bench. “So you will tell her about me—about my delicate situation.”
She nodded. “I don’t know how much I’ll have to tell her. But unless we take control of this, it’s going to consume us. And unless you get the best lawyer there is, you—we—could be in big trouble.” Did he realize that, or did he believe that here on the island, all things worked out?
She turned back to him. “And who knows. Maybe with the right connections, we can even turn this into something positive. Think about it, Ben. You’re not the only man in the world who’s been unjustly accused. We could bring to light the whole social problem. I know the judge said the case is off limits to the press, but rules can be bent if not broken. No one would have to know Mindy was the child involved, and you’d come across as the brave one, the innocent brave one.”
Rubbing her arms briskly, she took a step forward. She wished he’d look at her. “Ben, honey, don’t you see? We have to do something. Look at us, hiding in our bedroom so Amy won’t hear us. And what about Carol Ann? You can’t even tell your own daughter what’s going on. This afternoon I wanted so much to share it with Rita. The fact that I can’t makes it more difficult.”
He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again, they had narrowed. And his face had become pink, no, almost red. He stood up.
“This is insane,” he said. “Think what you want, Jill, but do both of us a favor and don’t say that telling Addie Becker will make it realistic. I’m sorry this is difficult for you. I’m sorry I’ve asked you not to tell our children, and I’m grateful that you did not tell Rita.
“I am sorry for all the problems this is causing you now and will cause you in the future. But have you forgotten how much it cost you to get rid of Addie? And do you think it would be easy for me to turn you back over to Mr. Celebrity? When from day one, I’ve worried that someday you’d regret the decision you made—to give it all up, to be here with me?
“But whatever you do, Jill, don’t lie to yourself. I mean, do you really want to get me an ‘expert’ attorney? Or do you want Addie and her ‘connections’ because you want to be back there with them? Where reality never strikes home, and if it does, Addie’s experts can buy someone off or cover something up?”
He stalked toward the door, then turned around. “And another thing. This isn’t a slant for one of your TV stories, Jill. Call me socially inept, I don’t care. But if you think I’m going to stand beside you on some kind of soapbox for the unjustly accused, you’re wrong.
“And what about all those accusations that aren’t unjust? I’m not going to be a party to anything that would be misconstrued as mockery of the issue.
“I am a man, goddammit. I have some pride. And in this delicate case, Mindy Ashenbach is nothing more than a sad, misguided child. You say you wouldn’t bring her into it, but how long would it be before everyone on the Vineyard figured it out? You’re a mother, Jill. Can’t you see that Mindy is as much of a victim as I am?”
Turning back toward the door, he didn’t hesitate as he said, “Think about it, Jill. In the meantime, I’m going to bunk in with Charlie.”
Ben wondered if he was losing his grip, or if he would before this was all over. If it ever was over.
He stood in Charlie’s apartment above the tavern, in the room Charlie used as an office, and wondered how his life had suddenly become one big if.
He looked down toward Dock Street, then up toward Main. The sky was pewter—a drizzly, grizzly pewter that veiled the white Edgartown houses and shops and made even the brightest autumn colors look like crap, which certainly was in keeping with the way he felt.
He’d spent the night there on Charlie’s old pull-out sofa. He wasn’t sure if he’d been glad to be alone, or disappointed that his friend hadn’t returned from the mainland. Charlie was apparently shacking up with some woman who would probably, at some point, like most of them, expect him to think as she did, to think like a woman.
“Never try to teach a pig to sing.” He whispered the favorite old saying to the walls. “It doesn’t work, and it annoys the pig.”
He knew, of course, that he was being stubborn. But it was his life and his problem, and he wasn’t going to let Jill or anyone else tell him how to resolve it. Especially not his son-in-law, even though both John and Jill seemed to think a killer attorney was what he needed. Ben might be stubborn, but he was not stupid: he was not going to bring in an out-of-towner, a city slicker to save his neck. The town fathers would hate that about as much as they’d hate a child molester. Maybe more.
Glancing back up the narrow Main Street, Ben’s gaze fell on the tall steeple of the old whaling church, built God-only-knew-how-many decades ago by Yankee forefathers who lived a simpler life. For some reason, or no reason at all, it made him think of Louise. A wave of sadness washed over him.
She’d been dead five years now. His
companion of nearly twenty-five years, the mother of his only child, Carol Ann.
He closed his eyes. Would Louise agree that their daughter shouldn’t be told about this situation with Mindy? He and Louise had always believed in sharing the good and the bad with each other and with their daughter for the strength of their family. They had not wanted Carol Ann to be raised the way they both had been—in homes where no one talked about the unpleasantries of life and kids grew up believing the world was a playground, a shelter against wrong, a shield against evil.
They had wanted to teach Carol Ann the importance of family, the value of being close. They had wanted her to know so she would be capable of trust and sharing when her own partner came along.
It was, Ben knew, about emotional intimacy. The kind of intimacy that, no matter what, he could never have with Jill. It was a closeness born out of youthful struggles experienced together: making ends meet, buying their first home, having a child of their blood come into the world.
He opened his eyes and wiped the tears from his cheeks, wondering how Louise would handle this now, his rock of silent strength, his partner for nearly half of his life. Though Ben had been the man, the macho breadwinner and hunter-gatherer of their small clan, Louise had been the one who always knew what to do, the one who had believed in Ben so many times when he’d doubted himself.
“If you want to live on Martha’s Vineyard, let’s do it,” she’d said.
“Start your business, Ben. We’ll manage.”
“Make plans for the museum. Your dreams are as important as your life.”
He could not recall when she’d not been supportive. He’d even let himself believe that she’d have approved of his marriage to Jill: Carol Ann had even said so, the night before the wedding.
But Jill—for all her wonder and all her goodness—was not Louise.
Jill was glamorous and gregarious, where Louise had been quiet and plain. Jill was confident and clever; Louise had been steadfast, loyal, and there, always there.
