by Jean Stone
Lifting her dress, she unzipped the fly of her jeans and rubbed her belly. “Slow down there, partner,” she said. “After tonight we’re home free.”
Her stomach seemed bigger tonight than last night, bigger, even than this afternoon. Hauling herself up from the sofa, she went to the full-length mirror on the back of the door. With her dress raised to her breasts, Rita smoothed her hand over her mound, then stood sideways to examine its size.
She let out a low whistle. Yes, it was definitely a good thing that Charlie would be gone tomorrow. Because there was no way he could look at her and not see what she could see.
“Rita!”
Rita’s hand froze over her belly. In the mirror she saw Amy emerging from a stall. Slowly she lowered her dress, but it was too late. Amy’s eyes were stuck to Rita’s baby belly, like peanut butter to marshmallow, like oatmeal to ribs.
With her best effort at nonchalance, Rita turned to Jill’s daughter. “Hey, kid,” she said, “I thought you were doing last call.”
For the second or two during which the Spice Girl Amy did not reply, Rita ran through about a hundred scenarios in her mind.
My mother’s cooking has made me fat.
Menopause, Amy. Just you wait and see.
Think I’d better sign up for the gym.
The scenarios came, and all of them stank. Besides, reality would soon be undoubtedly evident, and she couldn’t lie to Amy.
She could deflect the conversation by saying she’d seen the video boys together. But that might hurt Amy, and she couldn’t do that, either.
The only answer, then, was to tell the plain damn truth.
“Well,” she finally said as Amy dragged her eyes from Rita’s stomach up to her face, “looks like I’m caught. Red-handed, so to speak, as opposed to red-headed. Which I am, too, though not for long because Doc Hastings won’t let me dye my hair again until my term is over.”
The merriment from the distant bar sneaked into the silence of the bathroom. “You’re pregnant,” Amy said.
Rita smiled. “Sort of.”
Dumbfounded was a good way to describe Amy’s open-mouthed look.
“Don’t worry,” Rita added, “I’m not contagious.”
“Does my mom know?” Amy asked.
Rita laughed. “Actually, yes, she does. She’s thrilled.” She could tell that Amy did not know whether to show happiness or concern. Pregnancy was acceptable to her generation, but Rita was, after all, her mother’s age, for God’s sake. Rita put a hand on Amy’s arm. “In case you’re wondering, it’s good news.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“But who’s—”
Well now, that question was more difficult to answer. Rita hadn’t yet decided how to handle it, and if anything, she’d thought no one cared about those things anymore. But like Hazel and Jill, Amy apparently did.
She held a finger to her lips. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
But Amy still stared. “It’s Charlie’s, isn’t it?”
From beyond the ladies’ room door, the party sounds revved again. Rita was about to say that it didn’t matter who the father was, the baby was hers, hers as Kyle had been, mother and son, when Amy flinched.
“Does he know?” she asked. “What about Marge? He’s going to Florida with her. Why would he if …”
Rita grasped Amy’s hand tightly. “Charlie is not involved this time,” she said firmly. “He is not involved, and it’s none of his business. Okay?”
Amy scowled. “You’re a really cool person, Rita,” she said, “but you’re a lousy liar.”
Just then, an angry shout shot through the air, coming from the direction of the 1802 bar.
The punch Ben took to his jaw came from a lefty, an amazon guy who was dressed like Darth Vader, and had too much beer on his foul breath.
It hurt like hell.
He grabbed the side of his face as he faltered backward, crashed against a bookcase, and slumped onto the floor. He sat in something wet. Cider, he hoped, but it was not. It was too warm. He must have wet his pants. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped the sheet of his ghost costume would mask his humiliation.
Then a big bear hand was on his shoulder, hauling him up again, swinging back that black-clothed, left arm—which someone else grabbed.
“Let him go!” came Charlie’s shout.
Darth Vader dropped Ben to the floor again, turned, and took a punch at Charlie, too. But Charlie was smarter than Ben. Charlie ducked.
“Hold it!” came another shout.
Ben did not recognize the voice, but even from his compromised position, he knew the silver handcuffs were not part of a costume. They looked too real; they looked too familiar.
“Out of here, Ashenbach!” the voice shouted once again, and then Ben knew his savior was Hugh Talbot. He closed his eyes and waited for the ruckus to pass.
He waited and he drifted, as noisy crowd murmurs traveled through a tunnel down onto the wide-board floor.
The next thing Ben knew, Jill was kneeling by his side. “Ben? Honey, are you okay?”
He rubbed his jaw.
Behind her, Hugh appeared. Darth Vader was nowhere in sight.
“Your neighbor had a few too many,” Hugh said to Ben, offering a hand to help him up. “I threw him in the cruiser. Are you okay?”
Ben looked at Hugh’s hand but did not take it. He was too tired to stand up, too numb. He blinked, then noticed the semicircle of costumed creatures standing a self-protective distance behind Sheriff Hugh. It looked as if he’d stumbled onto the set of a John Carpenter film.
“Get some ice!” Jill demanded.
“We’re all out,” retorted Charlie.
“Great,” Jill muttered.
Ben closed his eyes again and wished everyone would go away, wished the room would stop spinning around and around, wished the voices would speak more clearly and not as if from the bottom of the sea.
“I was afraid of this,” Hugh was saying. “I heard about the party. I followed Ashenbach out here.”
Now something cold was on his face. His eyes opened involuntarily. “Honey,” Jill said, “you’re okay now. Charlie put some cold water on a cloth.”
The pain eased some. On the other side of Jill, Hugh squatted.
“You can press charges,” he said, “if you want.”
Ben looked at Jill. She kept her eyes on the cloth she was moving up and down his jaw.
“No big deal,” Ben said. “He’s been dying to do that for years.” That would not be news to anyone.
Hugh stood up. “Right. Well, it’s up to you.”
There were witnesses, of course—the hundred or so people who still stood around the scene. Gawkers, neighbors, stunned, perhaps, that this could happen in their town, that one grown man would sucker punch another at a party in a bar.
Unless, of course, they knew the man’s motivation.
But now Ben had a chance to win their sympathy. All he had to do was say, “Tell the son-of-a-bitch I did not touch his granddaughter.” He could have said that, he supposed. He could have said that in front of all these witnesses who knew Dave Ashenbach was crazy, who had just seen it for themselves. Maybe Ben could win this battle after all.
Then he remembered this was not about a traffic violation or about trespassing on land.
So instead he said, “Forget it.” He took the cloth from Jill. “Come on, honey. Help me up. Let’s go home.”
Jill helped him up, and so did Hugh.
Ben tugged at the wet sheet that clung to his back. Then he headed for the door, as the crowd of gawkers parted like the Red Sea, clearing the way.
Rita had seen a lot in her day, and she supposed she’d see more still.
But Dave Ashenbach disguised as Darth Vader taking a punch at Ben Niles? In the 1802 Tavern? At a Halloween party, no less?
She wanted to take off after them and find out what the hell had happened. But Ben and Jill had slipped out so quickly, she figured they’d be bet
ter left alone.
Standing outside the ladies’ room, she saw an unmistakable bewildered look on Amy’s face. Rita stepped into the crowd. “Okay everybody, party’s over!” she shouted. “See you in the spring!”
Over a few protesting mutters, she went over to the doorway and flipped a switch. Bright yellow light washed out the eerie, creepy green glow. Then she adjusted the folds of her witch costume and figured that sooner or later, she’d find out from Jill what that was all about. Because best friends had no secrets, no matter how old they got, no matter how many men came into their lives, and no matter how much things changed.
Chapter 12
“I’m not paying for your opinion.” Grandpa’s words to Dr. Laura were so gruff this morning that they came upstairs and through the walls.
Mindy, however, could not hear the response, because Dr. Laura had a soft voice and never raised it up.
She didn’t like that Grandpa yelled at the doctor. No matter that it seemed fairly dumb to waste all that time and Grandpa’s money talking about nothing special, it didn’t seem right that Grandpa was yelling. Dr. Laura was nice to Mindy, despite it all.
She went to her bedroom door and cracked it just a little. She strained to make out the words.
“Violence begets violence, Mr. Ashenbach. Mindy needs exposure to some emotion other than anger.”
“What happened between Niles and me is between two men. Not a kid. And it’s not your job to shrink my head. But if you intend to keep the job you have, quit sticking your nose into other people’s business.”
“Anything that affects Mindy is my business. She is a troubled child.”
“Bullshit. She’s no more troubled than you or me.”
Mindy kind of liked that, the way Grandpa jumped to her defense.
“Well, a lack of positive parental attention can lead to much unhappiness,” Dr. Laura said. “Addiction can be one manifestation. Your son was addicted to alcohol, if I’m not mistaken.”
She wondered if Grandpa was going to slug her the way he told her he’d slugged Ben last night.
“There are other manifestations, of course. Difficulty making friends. Overachieving. Lying.”
That last remark brought that lava rumble inside Mindy again. It rolled so loud, she was afraid they’d hear it down the stairs. She held her breath.
“My granddaughter does not lie.” It came out like a hiss, as if Grandpa had his teeth clamped together and just pulled back on his lips.
There was silence for a few minutes. Mindy wondered what was happening. Was Grandpa squishing out a cigar? Had Dr. Laura quietly gone out the door, never to come back? And, if so, why did that made her feel a little sad?
“Would you prefer that I returned to Boston?” Dr. Laura had not left.
“What I think doesn’t matter. The court wouldn’t like that.”
“So you’ll keep me here because it looks good.”
“It’s the only reason you were brought here in the first place. Because my lawyer said we needed someone.”
“Not because you were worried about Mindy.”
“Because I was worried Niles would get off scot-free.”
“Not because you were afraid your granddaughter’s emotional stability was damaged.”
Silence again.
“You know what I think?” Grandpa asked, the hiss back in his voice. “I think you’d better take your fancy words and your liberal ass out of here before I get pissed off and deck you, too.”
“What about Mindy? Should I come and see her tomorrow?”
Something went bang, like Grandpa’s hand against a wall. “Just get off my property and out of my sight before I do something you’ll regret.”
Mindy heard the back door shut. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, then heard Grandpa mumble “Stupid bitch,” and she knew full well what that meant.
“Rita, we need to talk.”
In all the years Rita Blair had known Charlie Rollins—and those years had been many—she’d never seen him quite so pissed off. Well, there had been the time Emma Johnston had tried to sue the tavern because she said it was Charlie’s fault her husband was a drunk; and then, just a few weeks ago, after waiting in line since dawn, he’d not been given one of the last two building permits they needed for Sea Grove. Yes, Rita had seen Charlie pissed a few times over the years—but not like this, not as he was now, standing at her front door, his face tight as steel, his eyes sharp as daggers and directed at her.
She pulled her bathrobe protectively around herself. “I’m afraid I’m still recuperating from the party,” she said, “and my mother’s asleep—”
Charlie pushed past her and went into the house. Rita closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and shut the door behind him.
“Do you have something to tell me?” he asked.
Good old, get-to-the-point Charlie. She turned and faced him. “About what?” she asked, knowing that someone had told him—Amy, perhaps, or Jill. It must have been Amy. Lately Jill was too preoccupied with her own stuff, with her own life.
Charlie folded his arms and dropped his gaze to her belly.
“You’re pregnant, Rita. True or false?”
She scrunched her red curls and thought about making a reference to this not being a game show. Then she thought of Kyle and knew he would advise her to keep sarcasm to herself.
She sighed. “Amy told you.”
He moved his hands to his pockets and did not deny it. “When were you planning to? After I was married to someone else?”
So it was true—he was going to marry Cher. She wondered if they would live in one of the palatial homes at Sea Grove, one of the homes designed and built in part with Kyle’s legacy money—their own son’s money.
Suddenly Rita felt as pissed off as Charlie looked. “What the hell does it matter to you?”
In the silence of the house, she could hear him breathing. Hazel, she was sure, could hear it as well.
“It’s my baby, isn’t it? You’re going to have my baby again, and you’re not going to tell me. Again. Jesus, Rita.” He did not finish that thought but ran his hand across the back of his neck. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a stroke there in her foyer.
“It’s not yours, Charlie,” she said. She followed her words with a quick prayer that Hazel would not lunge from the bedroom, denounce her daughter, and expose the lie. “You can go to Florida. You can marry Miss Margie. You have no obligations here, except, of course, for your share of Sea Grove.”
The look on his face changed, but she could not be sure what it had changed to.
“Are you sure, Rita? It’s been a long time … well, the last time was the wedding, wasn’t it? Ben and Jill’s wedding?”
“I was already pregnant,” she said before he could continue, before he could conjure those images up once again, of the sun and the warmth and the love that was shared. “I didn’t know it, but I was already pregnant.”
The look may have been one of disappointment, she could not be sure.
“Then who …”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, Charlie.” For a moment, they did not speak. Then Rita leaned against the door. “It’s taken me a long time to get over Kyle,” she said. “It’s been so hard, you know? To fill in that hole. The way I figure it, it won’t be another Kyle, but God’s giving me another chance.”
“But what about the father? Will he be in his life?”
“I don’t know, probably not. But the world is different today. It won’t be so hard. For me or for him.” She could not believe that her words sounded so convincing. She could not believe that she could stand here and lie and practically believe the lie herself. “Thanks for the concern,” she added, patting her stomach. “But we’ll be fine.”
He looked back to her belly, then up at her. “So you’re glad, then?”
She nodded, hoping he couldn’t see how hard she’d just swallowed.
“Well, if you’re happy then, well …” He laughed. “Hell
, I think I’m jealous. I was so pissed off and now I’m jealous. Kind of stupid, huh?”
No, she wanted to reply, it wasn’t kind of stupid, it was really kind of nice.
“Jesus,” he repeated, “Well, if you need anything, Rita …”
She shook her head, this time with her heart truly up in her mouth, this time with her brains truly down in her ass. Somehow she managed to stand on her toes and kiss his cheek. “Have a great time in Florida. Write if you get work.”
Charlie smiled and ruffled her hair. “You’re okay, kid, you know that? You’re right—you’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine.”
Rita nodded so she didn’t have to speak again, for if she did, it might trigger a nonstop crying jag.
She opened the door, and he stepped past her.
“Give my best to your mother,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you in the spring.”
“Yeah,” Rita said, “have a nice life.” Then she closed the door on the father of her two kids and wondered why she felt so sure it was right to let Charlie—the one man who had ever loved her—walk down the sidewalk and out of her life.
The following weekend brought moving day. Jill had once hoped that she’d be helping Amy pack her suitcases to go to college, not to leave home. Not at eighteen.
“Two blocks is practically next door,” Amy had argued again this morning while loading heaps of clothes into the car. “In fact, if there was a huge roof over Water Street, it would almost be like I was only moving down the hall.”
Packing CDs in an old shoebox, Jill mused that once one left home, it was often for good, or for twenty-five years as it had been for her, which was about the same. In the past, Amy had gone off to private school or visited her father in England, but until now she had not removed her belongings—all her belongings, from beaded shoes to linen skirts, from crop sweaters to feather earrings—from under Jill’s roof.
Still, Jill worked busily, wanting to be finished, looking forward to leaving for Sturbridge tonight to return to some work, to return to normalcy. Whatever that word meant.
She sealed the box and realized that right now the best she could hope for in the normalcy department was that the freelance shooter from Boston would show up in Sturbridge and be moderately good.
