“I don’t know how your mother does it,” she says, sadly envious of mom’s robust health. “She’ll outlive us all.”
“Who knows,” I say diplomatically. It’s true, though; she will. Which she dreads more than anything. No one wants to be the last of a dying breed.
I watch the old couple successfully negotiate their way out of mom’s driveway and onto the road, then I walk back to the veranda, nursing the last of my wine from dinner. As I slouch against the porch railing my mother comes out and joins me.
“I like her,” she says without preamble. She lights up a Kent, using my father’s old World War II Navy Zippo, a cherished keepsake. I don’t chastise her about her smoking—at her age it doesn’t matter.
“Good. She was worried about that. Well, maybe not worried. Concerned.”
“She’s strong. She can tame you. You need taming.”
“I’m a pussycat, mother.”
“You’re an alleycat is more accurate.” She takes my wineglass from me, sips. “Try not to mess this one up.”
“Mess what up?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You botched it with that lovely Mortimer girl. Don’t do that with this one.”
Man, oh man. She wants to marry me off, she doesn’t care who it is, as long as it’s to a presentable woman of childbearing age. “It’s not like that, mom. We’re friends.”
Her laugh is derisive.
“We are.” I’m on the defensive again with her. Parents can guilt-trip their children without breaking a sweat. “She and Johanna Mortimer are friends, that’s how we met. You know that. This is a platonic relationship. It’s better that way, believe me.”
She shakes her head in disagreement. “I’m an old woman, Fritz, but I still have my eyesight. Maureen likes you.” She pauses. “And you like her. Admit it.”
I’m busted. “I do like her, okay? But it’s not going to happen.”
She smiles. “We’ll see.” She stubs out her cigarette. “I’ll go help Maureen bring out the ice cream. You stay here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She goes back into the house. She’s going to be disappointed when Maureen returns to Boston in a few weeks and nothing’s happened between us. Ah God, mother, what a disappointment I am to you.
• • •
The three of us sit outside, spooning up our chocolate sundaes. I feel like a specimen under a microscope that’s being scrutinized by two competing but collegial scientists; my mother with a critical eye toward promoting further engagement between Maureen and me, Maureen enjoying watching me squirm at knowing that I’m being watched. Her pleasure in my discomfort is not malicious, but she’s above the fray, so to speak, while I’m mired down in the pit.
The sound of tires crunching oyster-shell gravel breaks me out of my musing. “That must be our neighbor,” my mother announces.
“James Roach?” I ask, surprised and dismayed.
Maureen gets a look of anxiety on her face, hearing me say Roach’s name. I make an imperceptible head shake—leave it alone.
“Yes,” my mother answers, oblivious to our distress. “He’s asked about how you’re doing, so I invited him over for dessert. He’s such a nice neighbor, don’t you think?”
No, mother. I don’t think he’s a nice neighbor. I think he’s a hot-air balloon with a scary agenda. But I keep my mouth shut.
“Hello?” Roach appears in the doorway to the veranda. “Am I too late?”
My mother rises to greet him. “Of course not,” she says brightly. “There’s plenty of ice cream for everyone. Did you have your supper? I can fix you a plate.”
“I’ve eaten, thank you.” He steps onto the veranda.
I slouch to my feet and reluctantly stick out my hand. He shakes it vigorously. Then he turns to Maureen. “Have we met?” he asks, looking at her closely. The tone of his voice implies that they have.
Maureen, who stood when I did, shakes her head quickly. “I’m sure we haven’t. I’m not from around here.”
“This is Maureen O’Hara,” my mother says, introducing her without missing a beat about her name. “From Boston. She’s down here on a research project. This gentleman,” she tells Maureen, “is our part-time neighbor, James Roach, the assistant secretary of state.”
Maureen doesn’t offer her hand to be shaken. “I’ve never met a secretary of state before,” she says with a straight face.
I manage to hold my laughter. She is one tough cookie, this woman. One of the many reasons she turns me on.
“Assistant,” Roach corrects her with transparent false modesty. “So—Boston.” The word rolls around on his tongue like he’s sampling a first-growth Bordeaux. “We had another delightful young woman from Boston here recently.” He turns at me. “You remember Miss Mortimer, don’t you, Fritz?”
Asshole. “Sure.”
“Johanna’s a friend of mine,” Maureen informs him. “That’s why I’m down here. She recommended it. For my work.”
“What sort of work is that, Miss O’Hara?” He catches himself. “Excuse me. Is it ‘Miss’?”
“Yes. Or Ms., either one. But you can call me Maureen, Mr. Roach,” she says, sparring with him.
“James,” he responds. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind, James.” She glances over at me.
“And your project?” Roach politely asks again.
“I’m a biologist. I’m studying the local plant life.”
“And animals,” my mother chimes in. “Maureen’s—”
Maureen cuts her off adroitly. “May I get your dessert for you, Mr. Roach . . . James?”
My mother’s a wise old owl—she gets it. “Allow me.” She walks back into the house to get Roach his ice cream.
“Animals?” Roach asks. He wants to know what everyone who comes into his sphere does, even if obliquely.
Maureen sits down next to me. “All kinds of stuff,” she says dismissively.
“Birds as well?” he asks.
“Birds?”
I watch this verbal tennis rally with intense interest. She isn’t going to let him sucker-punch her.
He looks over at me with a crooked smile. I know his use of the word bird is a double entendre, and he knows it, too, but he doesn’t know that she knows. “Fritz is an avid bird-watcher.”
“Really?” She looks at me, turns back to Roach. “We have done some bird-watching,” she acknowledges. “It’s hard not to, there’s such an abundance of wildlife all around here.”
“Here we are!”
My mother comes out with Roach’s dish of ice cream. The bowl is huge, a serving bowl rather than a dessert size. She hands him the bowl and a spoon. “It’s homemade, my cook made it.”
I turn away to hide the smile on my face. Mattie’s never made ice cream in her life—this is Häagen-Dazs, straight from the carton.
Roach looks askance at the huge portion. “I don’t know if I can eat all of this.”
“Fiddlesticks,” my mother says with a wave of her hand. She can get away with using archaic expressions, it’s part of her old-lady charm. “Any real man can eat tubfuls of ice cream. My boys could never get enough of Mattie’s ice cream when they were little. Dig in, James,” she commands him.
Dutifully, he spoons up a bite, tries it, smiles gamely. “This is delicious.”
Mother beams. “Mattie will be delighted to hear that.”
Roach turns to me. “Have you been out sailing, since our last time?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity,” I mutter. I don’t want to have a conversation about his boat, because I don’t want my mother to know about my near-fatal accident.
“Don’t let your ice cream melt, James,” my mother trills, oblivious to any tension between us.
Maureen, however, immediately picks up on my uneasiness. She glances over quizzically, as if to ask “what’s he talking about?”
I don’t acknowledge her unspoken entreaty, but I’m pissed off by Roach’s bringing up such a
n ugly incident. The man is altogether too arrogant and confrontational for my taste; it’s almost as if he’s baiting me. Buster was right—this man is not to be trusted. I need to keep him and this topic at arm’s length.
“I haven’t been out on the water much recently,” I tell him. “I’ve been busy doing other things,” I say evasively.
“I trust that’s not a permanent situation,” Roach counters. “You know my boat is yours to use.”
I give him a noncommittal shrug. This man really makes me queasy—not only because of my having spied on him, but more important, because of what I’ve seen. I’m going to have to figure out how to tell my mother, without alarming her, that I don’t want her to have him here again, certainly not when I’m around.
Why he’s around at all is bothersome to me, and not only because of my own situation with him. What’s he doing hanging around with an octogenarian and her wayward son? This guy rubs elbows with presidents and kings—we should be off his radar screen.
“This is such a beautiful spot you have here, Mary,” he says to my mother. “What are your plans for it? I don’t mean now, of course. I’m talking down the road. It must be difficult to manage an estate of this size.” He glances over at me. “Of course, it’ll go to your children someday. Then it’ll be their responsibility.”
My mother shakes her head. “It’s theirs, of course, when I go, but they don’t want the responsibility, do you, Fritz?” she says, staring at me intently. “Living here, this life in general, is not for my children.”
There she goes, guilt-tripping me again. But that’s how it is—this is not my life, nor my siblings’. We made that decision decades ago. We just want her to be here for us so we can cherry-pick, use it when we want. But she’s right—we won’t keep on with it. Tullis ownership of this farm will be finished when she is.
“A shame,” Roach comments. “It’s such a desirable piece of property.” As if the thought just came to his head, he says offhandedly, “If the occasion were ever to arise that you wanted to sell it, I would hope you’d speak to me first. Since I have the adjoining property now.”
Of course! That’s the reason he’s sniffing up our asses. It’s so obvious—he wants this property. Put it together with his, he has several miles of contiguous waterfront tied up, virtually impenetrable from the outside.
“It’s not for sale,” I jump in firmly, almost harshly.
The vehemence of my response seems to take him aback. “I was merely dipping my oar in, so to speak,” he says with alacrity. “Please don’t take any offense.” He smiles at my mother—the cat that wants to eat the canary so bad he’s almost salivating. Let him drool all down his shirt. I’d put down stakes here myself before I’d ever let James Roach own this property.
Maureen doesn’t know the subtext of what’s going on between Roach and me. She’s been with me when we’ve spied on Roach, but she doesn’t know about the shooting incident on the boat. Still, she’s keenly aware of my uptightness, I can feel her vibe. She reaches over and strokes my hand, a gesture for which I’m grateful.
“Would anyone like a glass of port?” my mother asks, unknowingly but welcomingly breaking the tension.
It’s late. I have to take Maureen back to her motel, then drive home. “’Bye, mother. I’ll call you in a few days.”
She gives me a dry kiss on the cheek. “Stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She gives Maureen a kiss, too. “Don’t be a stranger, Maureen. You’re always welcome here—with or without him.” She gives me the eye.
“Thank you. I’ll be back soon,” Maureen promises.
Roach is leaving, too, since we are. “Thanks for having me over, Mary,” he says.
“That’s what neighbors are for, James.”
She goes inside and closes the door behind her. The three of us start down the front steps. A recently polished black Lincoln sedan with dark-tinted windows is parked in the driveway next to my road-dirt-speckled Jeep.
“Good night,” Roach says to us, offering his hand. “Don’t forget about my offer,” he reminds me yet again.
I shake his hand reluctantly. “Good night,” I say perfunctorily. “I won’t forget.”
“Good night,” Maureen throws in.
I take her arm to lead her to my car. As we draw near the Lincoln the driver’s-side door opens and out steps Wallace, blocking our path.
I recoil. “What the fuck . . .” I cry out involuntarily.
Maureen, brought up short by my vehement reaction, looks at Wallace, who holds himself military-erect, staring at me.
“I sure as hell didn’t expect to see him again,” I say to Roach, trying to will myself to stay calm. Inside, the butterflies are swarming in my stomach.
For a moment, no one says a word. I glare at Roach, whose expression indicates that he’s aware he’s committed a faux pas.
Wallace, who isn’t encumbered with a conscience, breaks the silence. “What happened out there was an accident.”
Maureen stares at Wallace quizzically. She doesn’t know he was with Roach when we were spying on them; she was too far away, she couldn’t see them through the long lens, as I did. So she doesn’t know why there’s so much tension between him and me, but she can feel it. It hangs over all of us, thicker than the humidity. She squeezes my hand in silent support.
“I thought I mentioned it,” Roach finally says, lamely.
“Mentioned what?” I ask heatedly. I’m so angry I’m almost incoherent. I’m shaking; I want to punch someone in the face. Roach first, then Wallace. “What did you think you mentioned? That this asshole was still around? Is that what you forgot to mention?”
“Hey, look—” Wallace starts.
“Hey look, nothing! What the fuck is he doing here?” I yell at Roach. “I don’t want him on my property!”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Roach has his hands in front of him in the posture of a supplicant. “Calm down for a minute, will you? Will you let me explain?”
“What’s to explain? He’s fired, then he isn’t? I can see that, I don’t need an explanation for that.” What I really want is an explanation for what they’ve been doing out on Roach’s property with all the mysterious flying in and out, but I don’t think this is the best time to bring up that subject.
“What’s going on?” Maureen asks. She’s scared—she’s never seen this kind of violent reaction from me.
I point at Wallace. “This asshole almost killed me, that’s all.” I glare at him. “You gonna draw on me again?”
Wallace is fighting to control his emotions—I can see the muscles quivering in his face. “I never drew on you.”
“Bullshit semantics. You pointed a gun at me and fired.”
“It was an accident.”
“That would’ve soothed my mother when she was putting me in the ground,” I say, moving toward him. “Get your ass off my property, and I mean now!”
Wallace holds his ground. “I am not a killer, and no spoiled shit like you is going to call me one.” He points to Roach. “And don’t tell me what to do. I go with him, wherever he goes,” he says, goading me. “He gives me my orders, no one else. And if you don’t like that, junior, you can fucking well stuff it.”
That rips it. I jump him, smashing him hard across the face. “You sonofabitch!” I yell.
Caught flat-footed at my unexpected physical assault on him, Wallace loses his footing and staggers back, his hand to his face. There’s blood on his mouth, where I split his lip.
“What the hell?” He looks at the blood on his fingers, not believing that I’d hit him, and worse, that I’d beaten him to the punch. “That was the wrong thing to do, ace,” he says with a bully’s smile. He brings his fist up to pay me back, and then some.
“Fritz!” Maureen is grabbing at me. At the same time, Roach jumps in between us, denying Wallace the chance to strike back at me.
“Shut up,” he yells at Wallace, pushing the man away. “You never know
when to leave it alone, do you?” He turns to me. “This has gotten way out of hand. I’m sorry. I didn’t expect anything ugly like this to happen.”
“You should have, after what happened before,” I tell him unforgivingly. “That’s who he is, you heard the words come out of his mouth. He’s an asshole, pure and simple.”
Wallace, his hand at his mouth, glares at me. Maureen, caught up in something I badly wanted to keep from her, is wide-eyed in shock and dismay.
Roach nods. “You’re right. I should have. Please.”
I allow him to take my arm and lead me a few steps away, so he can talk to me without being overheard.
“I was going to fire him,” he says softly. “He certainly deserved it.”
He’s distressed—this situation reflects badly on him. This is a man with a huge ego, who’s very concerned with how he’s perceived. And right now, he looks stupid; and worse, incompetent. “But for reasons which I can’t get into with you right now,” he continues, “that course of action was not possible.” He looks back at Wallace, who is rigid with anger. “But it’s obvious that your take on him was right: I should have gotten rid of him, and now I will. So please—let this go. You don’t want to lower yourself to his level,” he adds, appealing to what he thinks (or hopes) are my better angels.
He’s overestimating my capacity for forgiveness, but I don’t want this ugly scene to go on any longer, especially not with Maureen watching. Thank God, at least, that my mother wasn’t out here to witness this. She’s upstairs in her bathroom getting ready for bed, she wouldn’t have heard the ruckus.
“Okay,” I say woodenly. “I’ll let it go this time. But if I ever see that piece of shit again, anywhere on my property, we’ll have a real problem.”
“It will all be handled, don’t worry,” Roach says again. He’s trying as hard as he can to placate me.
“Good,” I say, finishing it. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
I walk back to Maureen, who has been watching all this in disbelief. I take her arm, escort her to my car. As we drive away I can see Wallace through my rearview mirror. He’s staring at me with unconcealed hatred.
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