by Sandra Balzo
Besides,’ Mama continued, laying paper-napkin-wrapped sets of silverware next to matching placemats already on the table, ‘you eat too much junk and you'll get fat.’
Well, there was a new sentiment from Mama, who was known to slather doughnuts with butter before frying them up. ‘When I arrived just a week ago this past Saturday, you told me I was too skinny and made me drink whole milk,’ AnnaLise pointed out. ‘And eat cake.’
‘You asked for that hunk of cake, AnnieLeez Griggs.’
Mama was right, but then AnnaLise had needed to gird herself for her return to Sutherton in response to Mama's panicky call about Daisy's blood drive gaffe. Bacardi Rum Cake was as close to a cocktail as AnnaLise could justify at ten a.m. in the morning.
AnnaLise opened her mouth to say so, but Mama apparently wasn't done. ‘And don't you dare be telling me any different, you hear now?’ With that, the restaurant owner whisked the snack mix off the table and disappeared into the kitchen, looking for all the world like she was going to break into tears.
‘My God,’ AnnaLise whispered to Daisy, while keeping a lookout over her shoulder, lest Mama reappear. ‘Is she truly so worried about your appointment with the neurologist?’
Specters of what her mother's best friend might know – or suspect – were dancing in the younger woman's head.
‘My appointment?’ Daisy had moved on to cleaning the glass display case that held the restaurant's cash register on top and ancient candy and bric-a-brac below. ‘Don't be silly. Phyllis is just upset about what the doctor said after her annual physical yesterday.’
Mama returned with a fresh bowl of the snack mix and slapped it on the table, sending Chex flying. ‘Fat my southern-fried ass, Jackson Stanton!’
Dr Jackson Stanton, being Tucker's father. The Stantons had been summer visitors until Theresa – Jackson's wife and Tucker's mother – died. The summer after her death, the widower came with Tucker anyway, and they just never left.
‘He didn't say you were fat, Phyllis,’ Daisy said. ‘He said your cholesterol was up and you should cut out fat.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’ Mama asked. ‘I have a restaurant to run.’ She swept the errant cereal off the table and plopped it in her mouth.
Before AnnaLise could delve further, if she indeed dared, the electronic chime on the door signaled the arrival of a new customer; one that AnnaLise was very happy to see. ‘I'll get this,’ she said, grabbing a menu from the front counter's stack and turning to the man who had entered, newspaper tucked under an arm.
James Duende was about six-one, with shaggy dark hair and eyes the color of melted Hershey's milk chocolate.
But that wasn't what interested AnnaLise. She was still untying slip-knots from her last romantic entanglement.
‘This booth is ready, James,’ she said, sweeping a hand toward the one Mama had just set.
‘Thanks, AnnaLise,’ he replied, taking the offered menu as he slipped past her to slide onto the bench facing the front window. Duende was a recent addition to Sutherton--a writer, and a closed-mouthed one at that.
‘So good to see you back,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I heard you were away on assignment for a few days. I hope it went well.’
‘Last week?’ he asked, unfolding his copy of the High Country Times. ‘It went fine.’ He took a red Flair from the inside of his jacket and laid it on top of the paper before looking up at her. ‘Though not as good as yours, I understand.’
Uh-oh. AnnaLise took the bench across from him and leaned forward. ‘I take it you've heard that Dickens Hart hired me to do his memoirs?’
‘Dickens Hart?’ Duende repeated, leveling those chocolate eyes on her. ‘You mean your father?’
AnnaLise squirmed. ‘At the time I took the job, I didn't know that was the case.’
And still refused to acknowledge him as such. The man was a womanizer and an egomaniac, the former witnessed by AnnaLise's very existence, and the latter by the boxes of journals he'd kept "for posterity" and which now filled AnnaLise's childhood bedroom toward Dickens Hart: The Poor Man's Hugh Heffner.
Probably not the final title, admittedly, but it was the way AnnaLise thought of the project. Still, the money was beyond anything she could earn as a reporter and an outright godsend, given her current suspended state of employment.
AnnaLise glanced over at Daisy, who was arguing with Mama. Business as usual between the two mothers. The last thing AnnaLise needed was an illegitimate father in the mix But then, we get what less of what we want and more of what we deserve.
‘Listen,’ she said to Duende. ‘We both know you're a legendary biographer – the male Kitty Kelley.’
That chocolate in his eyes hardened. ‘I'm a legitimate, highly credentialed author.’
Presumably Kitty Kelley, the queen of unauthorized biographies, thought the same about herself. The likes of Frank Sinatra, Nancy Reagan and the British Royal Family might beg to differ.
Nonetheless, AnnaLise held up her hands in apology. ‘I'm sorry. I know the sensationalized, unauthorized bio isn't your thing.’ Unless it paid well enough. ‘But you know that I had nothing to do with Dickens choosing me to write his autobiography over you. In fact, I tried to price myself out of the market. Unfortunately, I didn't realize he'd gone,’ a sheepish grin toward Duende, ‘upscale.’
That elicited an answering smile from Duende. ‘A reporter who didn't do her research.’
‘I didn't know who you were then, or that you were here for the job. Believe me, if I could back out of it I would, but . . .’
She involuntarily glanced toward where her mother was exchanging the glass cleaner she'd been using for her purse, presumably toward leaving for the doctor's appointment.
Duende put his hand on AnnaLise's as she checked her watch. ‘How is your mom doing?’
AnnaLise shrugged. ‘Fine. For now. I mean, until the next time she's not.’ The reporter colored up. ‘Sorry. Not my best syntax. Maybe you should be writing the Dickens Hart story.’
Duende didn't let go of her hand. ‘Did you have to take an unpaid leave from the paper?’
She felt her cheeks go warmer. ‘Yes, but – ’
‘AnnaLise? Are you ready?’ Daisy stood by the cash register. ‘We need to make a stop on the way, remember?’
‘Of course.’ AnnaLise smiled and slid her fingers out from under Duende's. ‘I have to go. But thanks for understanding. Or . . . uh, at least not being mad.’
Geez, what was it about sitting across from this man that made her incapable of stringing together a proper sentence? AnnaLise Griggs, who, as Mama was fond of saying, not only corrected everyone's grammar, but would copy-edit their thoughts if she could access them.
Granted, the man was a multi-published author, with more than a couple New York Times Bestsell –
‘AnnaLise?’ Daisy sounded impatient and for good reason. The woman had to be nervous about what her doctor might say.
‘I'm sorry, Daisy,’ AnnaLise said, sliding to the end of the bench.
As she did, Duende caught her hand again. ‘If you need anything, please: Just ask.’
AnnaLise hesitated.
‘I mean with the biography,’ Duende said, his olive skin getting a little duskier. ‘I've written a ton of them and you're pretty much a . . .’
‘Virgin?’ AnnaLise asked, thinking it felt good to flirt again, so long as it could be done safely.
‘Well, I was going to say “'rookie,” but – ’
The electronic chime rang out again.
‘Thank God we found that inn,’ an adult female voice said. ‘At least it has a little charm.’
With a smile of thanks to Duende, AnnaLise turned to follow Daisy and stopped.
At the door stood Benjamin Rosewood, district attorney of Urban County, Wisconsin, and, until about a month ago, AnnaLise's lover.
And with him, his wife and daughter.
Three
Tanja Hobson Rosewood. Suzanne Rosewood. AnnaLise knew them from their ph
otos. The framed ones on Ben's desk. And on his walls. Or candids with Ben in the papers.
Tanja, daughter of self-made billionaire Lenny Hobson. Tall, slim and well-kept, her hair was, eerily, the color of rosewood and so thick and shiny it could have been a lacquered, curvy plank of same. She and Ben met while they were classmates at Northwestern University north of Chicago. Married in the fall of 1992.
From the social columns, AnnaLise knew Tanja loved white roses. From Ben, she knew Tanja hated seat belts because they wrinkled her clothes, and oral sex because . . . well, just because.
As for Suzanne, or ‘Suze’ as she was known, any information on the teenager came nearly entirely from Ben. Determined, a Rosewood trait, when he agreed with her. Spoiled, a Hobson trait, when he didn't. She had her father's blue eyes and mother's patrician nose.
‘AnnaLise Griggs?’ The voice was Ben's.
Hide in plain sight, he'd always told her. If you think someone might have seen us together, walk right up to them and say hello.
‘Hello?’ she replied, striving for a ‘do I know you?’ tone because seeing him here, now, was so totally out of context. And so totally beyond comprehension.
‘Why, District Attorney Rosewood,’ she continued. ‘I'm sorry, I just didn't recognize you. It's such a surprise to see someone from home – my new home – down here.’ AnnaLise tossed an apologetic look toward her mother.
‘Please, call me Ben. No need to be formal so far from the office. After all, you're part of the reason we're here.’ Rosewood shook hands with AnnaLise before turning to Daisy. ‘I'm Ben Rosewood. You're . . . ?’
‘Oh, I'm sorry,’ AnnaLise said again, trying to grasp the idea that Ben was here – with his wife and daughter – because of her somehow. ‘This is my mother, Daisy Griggs.’
‘A pleasure,’ Ben said with his best politician smile. Sun-streaked hair, blue eyes, a firm handshake and a record as a Gulf War hero completed the picture. ‘And this is my wife, Tanja, and my daughter, Suzanne.’
‘Good to meet you,’ AnnaLise said, turning her attention to the two women. At probably five-nine, Tanja Rosewood was a better physical match for Ben than five-foot AnnaLise. Even without stilettos, Tanja's head would rest on the DA's shoulder when they danced, whereas AnnaLise's – ’
‘Are you visiting U-Mo?’ AnnaLise heard Daisy ask.
U-Mo, the nearby University of the Mountain, where one needed either brains or money to get in. While AnnaLise had the brains, she would have needed a full-ride to go there and, truth be told, she'd wanted to go away to school. Living at home while attending school, at the time, wasn't what she'd envisioned.
But then again, neither was this.
‘I'm already a student,’ said Suzanne brightly, all the while scanning the diners over AnnaLise's shoulder.
AnnaLise glanced around, seeing only James Duende watching their little group.
‘As of Tuesday last week,’ her mother said dryly, as AnnaLise turned back. ‘Thanks so much for the recommendation on the school, by the way.’
She didn't look thankful. In fact, brows raised to form inverted ‘V’s over both eyes, Tanja seemed speculative, almost accusing.
AnnaLise willed herself not to think it had anything to do with her and Ben – or what used to be her and Ben – but coming face-to-face with Tanja for the first time, it was all she could do to not break down and confess, throwing herself on the betrayed woman's mercy.
Tanja continued: ‘One visit here last spring and Suzanne was entranced. She wouldn't hear of going anywhere else for some reason.’
AnnaLise, who had no memory of ‘recommending’ U-Mo or any other school, was saved from saying something that might have contradicted whatever Ben had told his wife and daughter. Saved, that is, by the district attorney himself. ‘When Suze indicated she wanted a real college campus experience in a picturesque place, I asked Katie to come up with suggestions. She included the university here, said you'd spoken glowingly about the area.’
Katie was a paralegal in the DA's office. And, apparently his beard. Or their beard, in this case. Much more likely for a lowly reporter to be talking to an equally lowly paralegal than to the big man himself.
‘Quite honestly?’ Tanja threw AnnaLise a tight smile. ‘When Suzanne made her decision, I was as surprised as you seem to be.’
Perhaps, though AnnaLise doubted it.
‘She wanted me to go out east.’ But now the girl was craning her neck to look out the window behind her.
‘There are schools with absolutely lovely campuses in the northeast corridor,’ Tanja said, turning away from AnnaLise. ‘And with, I might add, five-star hotels nearby.’
‘Sutherton is picturesque, dear, and you enjoy staying at country inns.’ Ben seemed embarrassed by his wife's attitude.
‘I said I “enjoyed” the White Gull Inn in Door County, Wisconsin's vacationland.’ She idly set her hand on the glass next to the cash register, but quickly snatched it back, rubbing the tips of her fingers together. ‘We were dating at the time. Must you hold me to it twenty years later?’
While Daisy's eyes had narrowed at the suggestion her newly polished counter wasn't as clean as it might be, AnnaLise was contemplating the lovely bed and breakfast in Fish Creek, Wisconsin. The White Gull Inn apparently had not been quite the serendipitous discovery Ben had claimed when he took her there.
Nor, presumably, was the University of the Mountain.
‘I'm sorry to run,’ AnnaLise said, lying through her teeth, ‘but I need to drive my mother to an appointment.’
Daisy glanced at the clock behind the counter. ‘It's not for an hour, AnnaLise, if you want to stay and chat.’
‘I thought you wanted to do an errand to do en route,’ said the prodigal daughter.
‘Yes, but we're already cutting it too close.’ Daisy was looking at AnnaLise curiously. ‘We'll just stop on the way back.’
‘And,’ AnnaLise continued, ‘we should let these good people eat in peace. Besides, who knows what traffic will be like in Boone.’
‘Traffic?’ This from daughter Suzanne. ‘The town's not exactly New York City.’
‘Suze.’ A warning look from Ben, much like the one he'd directed at his wife. Poor guy, having to keep all the women in his life in line. ‘New York City isn't built in the mountains, either. There are only so many roads people can use for travel.’
‘And we'd best get on one.’ AnnaLise moved past them to the door. ‘Before we're late.’
‘What time is it, anyway?’ Tanja slipped open the flap of her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. ‘I have an appointment at three-thirty for an afternoon treatment at the Sutherton Spa.’ The wife looked up. ‘How long will it take me to get there?’
‘Sutherton Spa?’ AnnaLise said uncertainly, looking at Daisy. ‘I don't think I know – ’
‘Yes, you do,’ said her mother. ‘It's where Tail Too used to be, in the Hotel Lux.’
‘Really?’ AnnaLise asked. The Hotel Lux was the 300-room, ten-story facility at the top of Sutherton Mountain. Popular with skiers, it was considered an eyesore by the rest of the community. In fact, its construction had resulted in a law prohibiting the building of multistory structures on ridge lines.
But it wasn't the spa's location in the Hotel Lux that had surprised AnnaLise, rather that it meant the last vestige of the old White Tail Club was finally gone. White Tail – a sixties knock-off of the Playboy Club, but with ‘Fawns’ instead of ‘Bunnies’ – had been located on the fifty-acre island which dominated the northern part of Lake Sutherton. For ski seasons, owner Dickens Hart had maintained a smaller, satellite club in the Lux, though it, too, had been closed for years. ‘Hart opened a spa?’
‘Ask your mother,’ Mama said, throwing a look at Daisy. ‘By all accounts, she knows Dickens Hart better than any of us.’
Daisy, who'd dared to keep the truth about AnnaLise's male parentage secret, even from her best friend, squirmed, just as Mama had intended. She'd eventually let Daisy off the
proverbial hook, AnnaLise knew, but in the meantime Phyllis Balisteri had no compunction about throwing in the occasional barb.
As for AnnaLise, she preferred to let sleeping biological fathers lie. And mothers, likewise.
‘Not really,’ Daisy explained. ‘Dickens turned the space over to his ex-wife about a year ago when he decided to turn the club on the island into condos and shops.’
‘His ex-wife? You mean Joy?’ Joy Tamarack had been Hart's third wife, and though the marriage between the then twenty-five-year-old blonde physical trainer and the aging playboy had lasted but a year, Joy had managed to leverage ‘ex-wife’ into a full-time paid position without benefits. ‘But just last week Joy was pressing Hart to give her space for a spa in Hart's Landing now that she's staying here permanently.’ Hart's Landing being what Dickens Hart modestly had named his new mixed-use development on the island.
‘That will be a second location for the summer season,’ Daisy said. ‘But in the winter, when the skiers – ’
‘While this is endlessly fascinating,’ Tanja Rosewood broke in, ‘could someone please answer my question?’
Daisy, Mama and AnnaLise – all three of them stared at her, none of them seeming to quite remember what that question had been.
AnnaLise hit the answer button first. ‘Tail Too, or whatever it is now, is all the way up the mountain.’ She looked at Daisy for consultation. ‘What would you say? A half hour, maybe?’
Daisy laughed. ‘Only because you drive like a snail.’ She turned to Ben's wife. ‘Instead of following Main Street around the lake to Sutherton Mountain's lower entrance, take the highway north to the upper entrance. That way you can use the Sutherton Bridge and bypass some of the curvier mountain roads. It shouldn't take you more than fifteen minutes from here. Twenty, if you want some cushion.’
‘Then ten for you, Mom,’ Suzanne said, still seemingly preoccupied with who else she might see either in the restaurant or outside it. ‘And if I was driving the Porsche, I bet I could – ’
‘Over my dead body,’ Tanja Rosewood said, cutting her off.
