by Ellery Adams
“But I want this to be official.” Her plaintive tone was distinctly juvenile. “If you come to my screening, then we’ll be in all the magazines. It’ll make a huge statement. My mom and stepdad will see that you’re serious about us, and of course you’ll sell a bunch of CDs just by being in People. Come on, Blakey. Do this for me.”
“Heidi.” Blake spoke her name with an undercurrent of scorn. “It’s not like I haven’t been in People before. Besides, I told you that I need to keep up the appearance of being single. Girls don’t want to listen to the tunes of some whipped loser. They like to dream, to hope that they’d have a chance with me. I’ve gotta stay a fantasy. Being your boyfriend doesn’t fit with that whole picture. Don’t you get that?”
Heidi’s disappointed sigh seemed to blow across the room. She raised a flute filled with the restaurant’s finest champagne to her lips but then placed it on the table again. “It’s not fair.” Olivia could imagine her pursing her pretty lips. “But I can’t keep lying to my parents. You know how close my mom and I are. What if she calls Lila’s house? What if—” “Look. I’m going to meet with some people late tonight and then, tomorrow morning, we’re outta here. The Gulf-stream is all gassed up. We’ll climb aboard, pop a bottle of Moët, and...” Blake mercifully lowered his voice to an inaudible whisper, which was followed by a theatrical squeal from Heidi’s side of the table. “After one night in Vegas, we’ll be back in LA. You’ll be home in time for dinner.”
Olivia leaned toward Camden, whose gaze was fixated on the painting behind her shoulder. He waved a spoonful of crème brûlée in the air with his right hand. “Delicious!” he suddenly pronounced.
“He obviously doesn’t care about her at all. Poor girl,” Olivia murmured to Camden, shooting a sideways glance at the young man. She had to admit he was good-looking in a scruffy, rebellious sort of way. His black hair, dark eyes, and square jaw certainly lent him a masculine air, though he was far too reedy for Olivia’s tastes. However, she could see that other women in The Boot Top were also casting covert looks in his direction, for there was a magnetism about Blake Talbot, a mixture of conceit and coarse beauty, that most women found destructively fascinating.
Camden was unsympathetic to Heidi’s plight. “He never cares about any of them. Deep down, they all know it too, but we all deceive ourselves, do we not?”
“That we do,” Olivia agreed. “And you’ve got foam on your lip.”
Heidi continued her argument as Olivia and Camden fell silent again. “Why can’t I meet your friends? I don’t want to be in that beach house all by myself at night. I came out here to be with you.” Her pout was as extreme as a toddler’s.
“These men are not the kind of people you’re used to,” Blake answered flatly, grabbing the bottle of champagne from the silver ice bucket in the center of the table. He filled his glass to the brim and then jammed the bottle back into the chilled bucket without offering to replenish his date’s empty flute. “You wouldn’t fit in.”
“Just because I play a minister’s daughter on TV doesn’t mean I am one! You have no idea what I’ve lived through. I haven’t told you everything about my life!” Olivia and Camden found Heidi’s indignation amusing and they both smiled and nodded as though one of them had just received the punch line of a rousingly good joke.
“Well, you sure don’t act like a choir girl between the sheets,” Blake said huskily. “If everyone knew how wild Miss Junior Idaho or Indiana or whatever redneck state you’re from really was, you’d be on the cover of all the magazines.”
“Shut up!” Heidi hissed. “Oh, let’s just go. I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Oh, babe,” Blake purred. “I’m just messing with you. You know I think you’re the most smoking-hot chick in the whole world.”
“Notice he didn’t mention brains,” Olivia commented.
Camden smirked. “Or anything about her burgeoning talent.”
Unaware of the acute attention being paid to her, Heidi slipped her thin arms into a white silk cardigan and then folded the garment across her high breasts. “Then why won’t you introduce me to the guys?”
“The guys are not like my bandmates, Heidi,” Blake growled. “They’re not my posse—they’re a bunch of ex-con fishermen and knife-carrying scumbags who’ll do anything for a buck. Got it?”
“Then why are you hanging out with that sort?” Heidi asked and Olivia was pleased on behalf of her gender that the young woman had finally exhibited a hint of intelligence.
“Let’s just say I’m making an investment in my future.” Blake waved his hand in the air, rudely signaling for the check. “That’s the end of the subject, Heidi. We’re going.”
“Well, I just hope you’re not buying drugs,” Heidi said with a sulk. “I don’t approve of them, and besides, there’s plenty of those back home.”
“Right, like you’re such an expert on the subject.” Blake was openly derisive. “You’re not the one who has to rock your ass off in front of thousands of people. You get to sit around between takes, getting manicures and drinking mocha soy lattes.”
“No matter how much pressure I’m under, I’ll never take drugs!” Heidi whispered as she stood. “So I hope that’s not what your big, secret meeting at that gross bar is all about. If rumors about drugs or anything illegal affect my reputation, I’d be kicked off the show and my marketing value would go way downhill. I’m supposed to be a role model. Don’t you care about my future? I have two films debuting this summer!”
Blake grabbed her roughly by the arm and propelled her past Olivia and Camden’s table. “It’s not drugs, babe, so get off your high horse. It’s something much more dangerous than that,” he muttered darkly. “And since I’ve gotta protect your precious rep, I won’t tell you anything else, except that my plan is going to make me a shitload of money.”
Camden stared after them, a greedy gleam in his eyes. “I wonder what bar he could be referencing?”
“If Heidi thinks it’s gross and fishermen hang out there, then there’s one likely choice. Blake is conducting his illicit business at Fish Nets. The establishment where Millay works.”
“Olivia my dear, after we’re done with our dessert, how would you like to—”
“Not a chance,” Olivia cut him off. “Later this evening, after we’re done here, I will be in my lovely house, clad in a pair of silk pajamas, cocktail in hand, watching Masterpiece Theater. I confess to having enjoyed myself tonight, but I have no intention of spending a single minute in a foul-smelling bar filled with men whose cologne is a mixture of smoke, sweat, and fish or with women whose clothes are either three sizes too small or veritably see-through. Nothing you say will convince me to change my mind.” She placed her empty mug against its saucer with a firm clink. “I will never set foot in that disgusting place.”
“Never say never,” Camden said with an expressive wink.
Olivia felt an inexplicable tinge of anxiety as she headed into the kitchen to collect her thoroughly gorged poodle.
Chapter 3
The fog comes on little cat feet.
—CARL SANDBURG
The fog had always brought gifts to Olivia Limoges.
They were infrequent. And odd. Yet she knew they were meant for her. An aloof child, ever drifting along the shoreline near the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, Olivia had spent endless hours turning over the slick husks of horseshoe crabs or collapsing holes dug by industrious coquinas. She poked at sand crabs with sticks and taunted seagulls with crusts from pimiento cheese sandwiches.
Olivia kept her gifts in pickle jars. She labeled each jar with the year on a piece of masking tape. Even now, at forty, she loved to twist the lid from one of the glass jars and pour the contents out onto the saffron and cobalt scrolls of her largest Iranian rug, releasing the scents of seaweed and ocean dampened sand. She’d lean over, her shock of white blond hair aglow in the lamplight, and finger a marble, a wheat penny, a star-shaped earring with missing rhinestones, a rusty skeleton key. T
hen, another year: a yellow hair barrette in the shape of a dragonfly, a fishhook, a one-shot liquor bottle with no label, a tennis ball, a steel watchband, a shotgun shell.
Today she took the metal detector along on her morning walk. She went out early, as soon as the fog rolled back, dressed in cotton sweats and Wellingtons. Haviland danced through the surf beside her as they marched north by northeast, Olivia swinging the detector back and forth like a horizontal pendulum as she inhaled the salt-laden breeze. Her Bounty Hunter Discovery 3300 issued a cacophony of vibrating clicks and murmurs that sounded more like the language of dolphins than something constructed of metal and electrical wire.
Haviland barked at a low-flying gull as the digital target identification on the Bounty Hunter’s LCD display screen leapt toward the right, showing a full arc of black triangles. Olivia paused, removed her trench shovel from her backpack, and began to dig. She could have ordered a top-of-the-line detector—one with an attached digger, incredible depth perception, and the ability to function underwater, but she preferred the challenge offered by the simpler model.
“Help dig, Haviland,” Olivia commanded her dog in much the same tone she used on the employees of her restaurant or the tenants of the buildings she owned downtown.
Haviland responded immediately, his front paws burrowing into the soft, damp sand. Olivia waited until the poodle had created a pile behind his hindquarters the height of a termite mound and then she began to shift through the sand too.
“Nothing. Let’s see if we need to look deeper.” Olivia leveled the detector over the hole and it chirped excitedly. She turned the volume down and nodded at her canine assistant. He resumed his work.
Then, Olivia saw a flash of metal beneath Haviland’s right paw. “Whoa, Captain.”
Haviland’s liquid brown eyes were sparkling in the morning sun. Olivia grinned at the poodle, her blood quickening in anticipation of their find.
Rubbing clots of sand from the rectangular metal object, which was slightly larger than a matchbook, Olivia held her new treasure flat on her palm so that it might be bathed in the newborn light.
“It’s some sort of box.” She eased open the case and upturned it, shaking loose a sprinkle of sand. The interior was empty. Olivia closed her eyes and lifted the box to her nose. There were no lingering scents, no telltale remnants of a heady perfume or an exotic spice. “There are letters here, Haviland.” She peered at the lid. “Something illegible and then the letters E period M period. Doesn’t sound familiar. Ah! There may be some writing on the front too, but it’s covered by splotches of rust. We’ll have to soak this for a spell.”
Stroking the soft curls between the poodle’s ears, Olivia stood and slipped the small box into her pocket. “Breakfast time, Captain.”
Haviland barked and the pair retraced their steps. The Bounty Hunter, now rendered mute as its owner was always satisfied with a single discovery, was slung over Olivia’s shoulder like a rifle. The pair walked for a mile, Haviland trotting faster as soon as he caught the sight of the orange “No Trespassing” signs flanking the path that wound through the dunes toward Olivia’s low country-style home. She paused to appreciate the sunlight dazzling against the bank of windows facing the Atlantic. The gray stonework seemed to absorb the hesitant warmth, and Olivia never failed to gaze upon her custom home without a feeling of deep contentment.
Haviland raced ahead of her toward the Range Rover, but Olivia pointed at the house. “It’s not a Grumpy’s day. We’ve got quite a list of errands to do.”
Although she had a state-of-the-art kitchen with cherry cabinets, soapstone countertops, and a bevy of quiet and efficient appliances, Olivia wasn’t much of a cook. Most mornings, she microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal or grits, mixed the cereal with a thick pat of butter, and then rounded out her meal by eating a banana or a handful of pitted prunes. If she didn’t feel like dirtying a bowl, she went to Grumpy’s.
As Haviland pressed his wet nose against her leg, indicating an eagerness for his meal, Olivia rummaged around in her deepest cabinet. “I’ll have you know that I only bought this double boiler for you, Captain. Your polenta will be ready in no time. What would Michel or I have done if I hadn’t discovered such a glorious list of healthy recipes on that fantastic Coddled Canine website? Why right now, you might be eating canned dog food!” Haviland flattened his ears as Olivia crashed pot and pans. “We’re lucky Michel doesn’t mind cooking for you. He’s told me you’re to expect chicken liver dumplings for dinner. Ah, here’s that double boiler.”
After stirring together the mixture of cornmeal, milk, and Parmesan cheese and leaving it to simmer, Olivia sat down in front of her MacBook. She pushed her partially completed critique of Camden’s chapter to the far side of the desk and directed her mouse to Google’s home page. The rectangular container she and Haviland had unearthed on their walk was now soaking in vinegar, but she had brushed off enough of the heavy clots of rust using baking soda and a toothbrush to reveal an acronym reading, “G.E.M.” Olivia took a bite of a soft, overly ripe banana and typed the letters into Google’s search box.
“Global Electric Motors. That’s a bit too modern for this object, I’d say. Graphical Environment Manager. A relatively new term. So is this reference to documentation for PCs.” She continued to scroll down the list of results, bypassing references to gem mining, gem shows, and the county of Gem, Idaho. “None of these fit.”
Haviland put his paws up on the counter closest to the cooktop and sniffed.
“Your polenta! Forgive me, my dearest.” Olivia removed the top saucepan and scooped the contents into a ceramic bowl on his elevated feeder. “It’s still too hot. Let’s rinse off our mystery box and see if the rust is gone while your breakfast cools.”
The poodle watched eagerly as Olivia dumped the vinegar into the sink, rinsed the silver box, and gingerly dried it with a paper towel. Squinting, she eased back the lid and smiled. “Here’s something! It says ‘G.E.M. Brooklyn, New York. Made in U.S.A.’” She shut the lid and turned the case over in her hand. “Looks like a patent number here.”
Olivia returned to her computer and refined her search. “Gem pawnbrokers in Brooklyn, Acme Smoked Fish on Gem Street in Brooklyn, Gem Auction Company. Brooklyn. No, no, no!”
After pouring herself a second cup of coffee and serving Haviland his polenta, she decided to switch tactics. Logging on to eBay, she typed in the exact words found inside the silver lid.
“Eureka!” she yelled and Haviland barked in excitement. “G.E.M. safety razor. Produced between 1912 through 1979 in Brooklyn. Formerly known as G.E.M. Cutlery Company of New York.” Olivia showed her poodle their metal container. “This piece of steel is a shaver head, Captain. It’s missing its blade and the handle too. According to this auction, it’s worth a whopping twelve dollars.”
Haviland lowered his head and closed his eyes, clearly ready for a post-meal nap. Olivia stroked the smooth metal of the shaver head. “Now, now. We don’t do this for profit, Captain. You don’t have to act so disinterested. It’s the adventure we’re after.” She shut the lid of her laptop. “You lick your bowl clean, I’ll get dressed, we’ll put this little gem in ajar, and then we’re off to the furniture store.”
The sun had seared away all traces of the fog by the time Olivia turned from her gravel drive and climbed onto an empty stretch of gray blue asphalt the color of a heron’s plumage. On the narrow street marking the northernmost end of the compact town of Oyster Bay, there was once a plethora of vacant stores and available parking spaces, but ever since Time magazine had hailed Oyster Bay as one of the nations “Top Ten Best-kept Vacation Secrets,” their half-deserted berg had been overrun with tourists.
Pale-legged vacationers descended like a locust swarm to trample the natural beauty of the shoreline, watch birds through thousand-dollar binoculars, sample Southern country cooking until their buttons burst, and host drunken deep-sea fishing trips for their rich friends. In their wake, they left behind mounds of garbage,
soiled linens, crisp, inconvenient hundred-dollar bills, and a sour taste in the mouths of the yearlong residents.
Despite this influx of new faces and businesses, Olivia had to drive for more than an hour to reach a decent furniture store. She quickly selected two sofas and a pair of oversized club chairs in warm fabrics, a room-sized sea grass rug, and breezy curtains in a shimmering ecru.
Trouble arose, as Olivia expected it to, when the designer informed her that the furniture would take eight to ten weeks to be delivered and that the items on the floor were absolutely not for sale.
“How would we be able to show how wonderful this sage and almond checkered fabric looks on our club chairs if it wasn’t in the store?” the woman questioned rhetorically.
“Perhaps there is another equally attractive chair in your warehouse?” Olivia suggested, placing a fat roll of twenty-dollar bills into the woman’s hands. “And I would certainly make it well worth the while of the gentlemen delivering my new furnishings if they could arrive at my cottage, say, by five this afternoon?” Placing her credit card and a calling card bearing her name, address, and phone number on the designer’s desk, Olivia met the other woman’s eye.
“I’m going to check on my dog,” she announced. “I’ll be back in to sign my receipt in a moment.”
She had been right in assuming that the decorator wanted to examine the wad of twenties more closely before agreeing to the deal. Olivia was also confident that four hundred dollars in cash would sway most people into figuring out a way to break the rules, especially since no one would be the worse for the transgression.
After promising Haviland that her errand was almost complete, Olivia walked briskly back into the store, scribbled signatures on several pieces of paper, and then drove off in search of some colorful art.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to eat first, Captain. Should we be naughty today?”
