by Mary Simses
“That’s right,” Roy said, nodding. “I grew up here.”
“Seems like a nice place,” Hayden said. “Pretty quiet, though. What do people do for R-and-R? Any golf courses around?”
Roy studied Hayden, from his Top-Siders to his cantaloupe-colored polo shirt. “Oh, you’re a golfer?”
Hayden nodded. “Yeah, but not often enough. Are you?”
“No. Never really got interested in it,” Roy said. “There are plenty of other things to do here, though. In the winter you can cross-country ski or snowshoe or go ice skating. Drive a skimobile.” He paused, and we stepped back from the chickens as a group of teenagers passed through.
“In the summer,” he went on, “people fish. A lot of folks have motorboats, or they go sailing. Some people like to swim.” He glanced at me.
“Yes, Ellen told me she’s been doing some swimming,” Hayden said.
I shot Roy a warning glance. “Hayden was glad I was able to get some exercise.”
“I didn’t think you’d ever go in such cold water,” Hayden said.
Roy tipped his cap back. “But if you were on the Exeter swim team and you made it to the nationals, I would think…”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, glaring at Roy. I saw him stifle a smile.
He leaned against a display table. “So how long are you staying?”
“Just a few days,” Hayden said, putting his arm around me and pulling me closer. “I thought I’d better come up here, since I can’t seem to get Ellen to leave.”
I forced a smile.
Roy cocked his head and stared at me. “Is Beacon growing on you, Ellen? That happens to people, you know. Sometimes they come and they never leave.”
“I just need to stay a couple of extra days,” I said. “Tie up some loose ends in connection with my grandmother.”
Hayden squeezed my shoulder. “I’m not too worried about Ellen overstaying her welcome here. She’s a city girl if I ever saw one. I don’t think she’d survive in a town this small. She’s used to moving way too fast…she doesn’t have the patience.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about Hayden’s remark. Yes, I’d lived in the city for years and no, I didn’t have any desire to live somewhere else. But did that mean I couldn’t do it if I really wanted to? He made it sound as though I were incapable of change.
Roy shrugged. “Sometimes people don’t realize they can slow down until they do it.” He looked from Hayden to me. “I think Ellen could probably live and be successful anywhere, including Beacon.”
“Well, thanks for that vote of confidence,” I said, trying to laugh and make light of Roy’s comment. There was a strange undercurrent in the conversation, like voltage barely registering on a gauge, and it was making me feel uncomfortable.
Hayden’s hand stiffened against my shoulder. “I didn’t mean she couldn’t do it,” he said. “I just don’t think she’d be as happy living outside of an urban area.” He turned to me. “Right, honey?”
What was going on here? I felt like I was in the middle of a tug-of-war. “I don’t know,” I said, Hayden’s arm suddenly feeling heavy on my shoulder. “I live there now and I’m happy, but I think I could be flexible.”
“Well, there you go,” Roy said, smiling. His dimples were showing again.
“We’re leaving in a few days,” Hayden said in a tone that indicated he was through discussing this topic.
I slid out from under his arm. “Well, I think we ought to get going, Hayden, don’t you?” I took his hand so I could guide him away. “Maybe the Porters will be home and we can stop by.” I turned to Roy. “I found the house where my grandmother grew up and I want to show Hayden. So I think we’ll—”
“Oh, that’s great that you found her house,” Roy said. “Where is it?”
“On Comstock Drive.”
Roy nodded. “Near Kenlyn Farm.”
“Yes, right by there,” I said. “We passed that on the way here. Somebody told me it used to be a blueberry farm.”
“Yeah, it was,” Roy said. “A long time ago.”
“Looks like it’s just gone to ruin now,” Hayden said. “Too bad. It’s a huge piece of undeveloped property. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t come in and built something there. Houses or condos.” He grinned at me. “Maybe a golf course?”
“Hayden’s got golf on the brain,” I said, smiling, as a crowd of children entered the tent, escorted by two young women who were instructing them to stay with the group.
“Why does it need to be developed?” Roy asked, a little edge to his voice. “Why does everything have to be turned into houses or condos or…a golf course? Why can’t some things just be left alone?”
The black Jersey Giant rooster, with its bright red comb, began pecking anxiously at the floor of his cage.
“Well, I was only kidding about the golf course,” Hayden said, glancing at me. “Ellen can tell you I’m always—”
“I can’t count the number of stories I know about nice towns that got ruined by overdevelopment,” Roy said, shaking his head. “People come up north from the city, developers wanting to make money…you know. They find a place like Beacon and they think it’s nice because it’s pretty and it’s quiet. So they build a bunch of houses or condos.” He looked toward the black rooster but I could tell he was seeing something else.
“Yeah, then they put in a golf course and a country club,” Roy went on. “A big marina and a bunch of restaurants. And pretty soon they’ve got the Gap and Victoria’s Secret and Bed, Bath and Beyond right there on their doorstep. And then they wonder why it’s not pretty anymore and it’s not quiet.” He looked at me. “And then they move on to some other place while the people who have lived there all along are stuck with a town they don’t even know anymore.”
The black Jersey Giant rooster shook its wings and let out the loudest screech I’d ever heard. I jumped. “That thing’s got quite a voice,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Yeah, he does,” Roy said, his mouth a thin, straight line, like a dash between his ears.
I rubbed my arms to get rid of the goose bumps that had appeared. “Let’s hope Beacon never ends up with a mall and chain stores. That would be horrible.”
Roy glanced around the tent. “Yeah, well…we’ll see.” When he turned back to us, the blue of his eyes had vanished into slate. “It may already be happening.” His voice was flat, cold, like something buried deep underground. “Kenlyn Farm is being subdivided into a million pieces and they’re all being sold. So your idea about developing it”—he looked at Hayden—“it’s already happening. Maybe the golf course will be next.”
Neither Hayden nor I said a word. And before I could think of an appropriate response, Roy tipped the brim of his baseball cap, muttered, “See you,” turned, and was gone.
Hayden and I looked at one another.
“What was that all about?” he said.
I grimaced. “Not sure. He didn’t seem too happy about the idea of that farm becoming a golf course.”
Hayden shook his head, confused. “What did I say? I wasn’t trying to insult the man.”
“I know, Hayden. Let’s just forget it.”
“And what was that lecture about developers?” Hayden began walking toward the entrance to the tent. “Let’s just get out of here.”
I followed him through the fairgrounds, his pace steadily quickening as we wove around blueberry vendors and rides, passed the HOMEGROWN FROM MAINE displays, and veered through the arts and crafts area toward the exit.
“Wait up,” I called when he got too far ahead.
“Come on,” he yelled back. “Let’s get out of this hayseed place.” Then he turned to look at me and tripped over a stack of lobster pots artfully arranged as a display. He went sprawling to the ground, landing on his stomach, arms and legs splayed.
“Hayden!” I ran and crouched down beside him.
His eyes were closed in a grimace. A few people stopped and stared, and an old man sprang out of a
nearby booth to see what happened.
“My ankle,” Hayden moaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, but it hurts like hell. Why’d they leave those stupid cages in the middle of the street, anyway?” He tried to raise himself to a sitting position.
“Do you want some help?” I offered my hand.
He waved me off. “No, I can do it,” he said brusquely. Gradually he sat up. Then he clutched his ankle and took several deep breaths.
“Maybe I should get some help,” I said.
“No, let’s just go.” Leaning on me, he slowly stood up and dusted himself off.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked as he limped toward the parking lot, using my shoulder as a crutch.
“No, I’m not going to be okay. I think I sprained the damned thing. I told you I didn’t want to see any chickens.”
They were mostly roosters, I thought. But I wasn’t about to correct him.
Chapter 13
Never Make an Enemy
of the Media
Hayden didn’t say another word until we got back to the car. “You’d better drive,” he said, hoisting himself into the passenger seat and pulling his injured leg in after him as though it were a package he was bringing along for the ride. He shoved his seat belt into the holder with a loud snap.
I backed out of the parking space and headed down a row of cars toward the exit. “Sorry the fair turned out…um…you know. Sorry about your ankle.”
Hayden moaned as he wiggled off his shoe. His ankle had swollen to the size of a grapefruit. “Oh, God, look at that.” He winced.
“You’re going to need some ice,” I said, turning out of the parking lot and onto the road. “I’ll stop at the first place I see.”
He flipped down the visor to block the sun. “I can’t believe I tripped over those damned cages.”
I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh, but I couldn’t entirely suppress the smile.
“What? What?”
“They were lobster traps.”
He waved me off. “Yeah, I know. That’s what I meant.”
I turned by a sign that read SCENIC ROUTE, realizing too late that I might not have gone this way before. I followed a road that meandered through a little shingled town and a harbor where people were packing coolers into motorboats and hoisting sails on sloops. We drove by an inlet where weathered houses stood watch on a hillside and small children in swimsuits carried silvery galvanized pails full of things I could only imagine. Minnows flickering in ocean water. Sand. Shells.
Hayden craned his neck and looked around. “Do you know where you’re going? This isn’t the way we came. Maybe you should turn on the GPS.”
I had no idea where we were. “Of course I know where I’m going,” I said, looking for something familiar. We needed ice and a quick route back to the inn, and I didn’t need Hayden any more stirred up than he already was. At the edge of the water I spotted a restaurant with an outdoor patio and umbrellas over the tables. “I’ll run in there and get some ice.”
“I could use some food,” Hayden said. “I’ll come with you.”
He hobbled along beside me to the patio, where a dozen tables were covered with plastic red-and-white checkered cloths. A woman in a T-shirt directed us to a vacant table. We ordered drinks and I asked for a bag of ice, while Hayden put his leg up on an empty chair.
The menus included a number of lobster-related items that looked appealing, but when I thought about the cause of Hayden’s injury I dropped the idea.
“I’m having the fried clams,” I told him, closing the menu. “And a house salad.”
Hayden squinted at me. “Fried clams? Fried?”
“Just this once. They taste good and I don’t eat them every day, so it’s not going to kill me.” I took his hand and squeezed it. “Come on, we’ll get some ice for your ankle, you’ll be fine.”
“I guess,” he said with a resigned shake of his head. The waitress returned with two iced teas and a bag of ice, which Hayden immediately draped across his ankle. Then he ordered my clams and, for himself, a grouper sandwich. “But could you please make sure they broil it?” he asked.
After the waitress left, we sat and watched boaters walking up and down the pier with fishing poles and tackle boxes. I sank farther into my seat, closing my eyes, feeling the sun on my shoulders.
“I wanted to wait for the right time to tell you this,” Hayden said.
I opened my eyes. “Tell me what?” I couldn’t predict if this was going to be good news or bad news. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look alarmed, either.
He adjusted his position in the chair. “At the Men of Note dinner, one of the people I met was the editor of the New York Times Styles section.”
“Really?” This didn’t sound like bad news. I took a sip of iced tea and reached for a pack of sugar.
“Yes, Tom Frasier. He wants to do a story about our wedding.”
“Oh,” I said as I began to stir in the sugar. “One of those ‘how they met’ pieces?” I could handle that. They would probably just do a quick phone interview with us and publish something lighthearted.
Hayden adjusted the bag of ice. “Well, actually, it’s a little more complicated than that. They want to do a feature article about us and the wedding. With photos…you know, the whole thing.”
Feature article…photos. This was sounding like a bigger deal. I felt a twinge in my chest. “What do you mean, a feature article? What do they want to write about? Did he say?”
“All kinds of things. Who made your dress? Where are you getting your hair done? What color nail polish are you wearing? I don’t know.”
“Nail polish? I don’t even know myself,” I said.
“Well, they probably won’t ask you that, Ellen. I’m just saying…”
His voice faded into the background as I put down my spoon. This new information was descending upon me like something cold and dank. Sure, I’d been in the newspaper before. An Internet search would reveal dozens of things about me, like the articles in the Times itself on the Sullivan project and the Wall Street Journal pieces about the Cleary Building and the Battery Park deal, not to mention a few radio interviews and magazine mentions. But that was different. That was work-related. This was personal. I didn’t want my personal life invaded by the media.
I watched a group of tan college-age boys get into a Boston Whaler with a cooler and fishing gear, part of me longing to take off with them and never come back.
Hayden put his hand over mine. “It will be fine, honey,” he said. “And the more you do this kind of thing, the more you get used to it.”
Somehow, that didn’t make me feel any better.
“How does this work?” I said. “Do they meet with us in person? Together? Separately?” I hoped they weren’t going to ask me any tricky questions, try to make me say something foolish or something that would embarrass Hayden or his family. “They’ll meet with us together, right?”
“Don’t look so worried. I’m sure we can do it together.”
I took a big gulp of iced tea. “And what about the photos? Where do they take those?”
“Well, they’ll definitely be taking photos in the church,” he said. “And they’ll be at the Metropolitan Club for the reception.”
The wedding and the reception. They were covering both. I reached for another sugar packet.
“And…well, there’s something else,” Hayden said.
I emptied the packet into my glass. “Yes?”
“They’re interested in our family backgrounds. Mine because…well, the political connections. And yours because your father was such a financial guru and all…”
My skin was starting to feel prickly.
“Anyway, Tom Frasier called me early this morning, when you were asleep, and when I told him where we were and what you were doing up here, he got kind of excited about it. He said he might want to include it as an angle for a sidebar. You know, girl with small-town roots marr
ies into big political family.”
A sidebar? My family was becoming a sidebar?
“Hayden, I don’t want to be a sidebar. I don’t want any of this.”
Hayden gazed into my eyes and ran his hand along my cheek. “Look, sweetie, I knew you might be a little concerned, and I want you to know that I thought this through very carefully. I analyzed it from every possible angle, I promise you. And no matter which way I looked at it, I came out with the same result—we should do it.”
“But—” I raised my hand.
“Just hear me out. Please.” He leaned in a little closer, his eyes focused, his tone of voice the one I’d heard him use in court, steady and convincing. “First of all,” he said, raising an index finger as though he were ticking off numbers. “My father’s always telling me you should never make an enemy of the media. And he’s right. We don’t want to get them mad. They never forget.” He raised another finger. “Second of all, we can use this to our advantage. It won’t hurt either of our professional lives to have a little extra media coverage and let people get to know us better, will it?”
He didn’t wait for me to respond. “We’ll just make sure we get in the points we want to make,” he said, “no matter what they ask.” I imagined that might be harder than it sounded, but I knew it was useless to interrupt him. “And third,” he went on, raising a final finger, “it could also help my run for city council next year. Just one more way to get my name and face out there.” He looked at me, waiting for me to concur.
My foot twitched under the table. “Hayden, I’m really not comfortable with this. You’ve come up with all these rationales for why we should do it, but they don’t make me feel any better. This is our wedding.”
He looked away, his eyes fixed on something across the patio. “I can’t tell them no, Ellen. The Times is already calling our wedding the social event of the season. There are places to draw the line in the sand, but this isn’t one of them. And anyway, we’re inviting over three hundred people. A couple of photographers will barely be noticed.”
