by Jean Stone
She quickly left the veranda and raced up the stairs to room number seven, looking for Jess.
Chapter 19
“What’s the damn difference?” Ginny asked Jess. “We have to stay until tomorrow anyway. Even if Melanie doesn’t know, even if you decide you don’t want her to know, at least you’ll find out the truth once and for all.”
Jess rolled from her back onto her side and faced Ginny. She wondered why everything was always so clear-cut to her friend, as though she had been spared any pain in her life. “I thought you’d understand,” she said quietly. “It hurts too much, Ginny. I am going to be grateful for all I have and not interfere in anyone else’s life.”
“You didn’t feel that way five years ago when you wanted the reunion.”
She closed her eyes. “Maybe I have finally learned something from that. Susan’s son never wanted to meet her; Phillip got to meet P.J. only to have her die; and of the four of us, you … well, you’re the only one who had a happy ending. Maybe I’ve decided that twenty-five percent of happiness is not worth seventy-five percent pain.”
“You’re an asshole,” Ginny said.
“Yes, well, perhaps I am.”
For a moment, Ginny said nothing. Jess opened her eyes to see if she was still in the room. She was. She was standing by the window, looking down on the lawn.
“So because you’re too damn sensitive,” Ginny said, “you’re going to let Morticia win.”
“Stop calling her that, Ginny. Her name is Karin.”
“Karin, Schmarin. Is that what’s scaring you into leaving?”
“Karin has nothing to do with it. She’s not scaring me at all. It’s obvious she sent the letter and left me that message, but she hasn’t done or said anything since we’ve been here.”
“Well, I think she’s a fruitcake.”
“And I think what she is, is a lonely, troubled woman.”
“Collecting that pathetic sea glass,” Ginny continued. “Doesn’t it bother you to think that she’s the one who ended up raising Melanie when Dick’s wife kicked the bucket? Doesn’t it bother you that she’s had such an influence over your kid’s life?”
“Melanie seems fine, Ginny. She has a lovely daughter and a respectable job. If Karin raised her, maybe she didn’t do such a bad job.”
“Bullshit. She’s a fruitcake. How come she never got married?”
“Maybe she was too busy taking care of my daughter.”
“Well, why the big turnaround? Why is she blowing the whistle on her family now?”
Jess rolled back onto her back and stared at the canopy. “Oh, God, Ginny, I don’t know. I’m only sorry I ever started this again.”
Ginny walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. “You’re forgetting one thing, Jess.”
She closed her eyes again. “What?”
“You didn’t start it.”
“I could have ignored the letter and the call.”
“What about Richard? Can you ignore him?”
Richard. The pain crept in around the corners of her eyes. An image of Melanie and Sarah on the playground came into her mind. A picture of young Richard—young, seventeen-year-old Richard—followed.
“Maybe you’re afraid to see him,” Ginny continued. “Maybe you’re afraid you’ll spit in his eyes, not that he wouldn’t deserve it. You say you’ve learned a lot about pain, Jess. Well, I don’t think you’ve even begun to learn it. You can’t learn about pain until you feel it. Until, down to your bones, you feel it.”
“I think I’ve felt quite enough in my lifetime.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Until Jake dropped dead.” She paused a moment, her voice cracking a little. “Use Maura as an excuse if you want, but at least try to be honest with yourself.”
Jess sighed and looked at her friend. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe she was simply afraid of feeling any more pain.
“If you don’t face this now, kid, you’ll always wonder,” Ginny said, then rose from the bed. “And I think you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. But it’s up to you. I’m going to take a walk downtown, buy some tacky souvenirs, and try to think of a way to convince my daughter not to give that scumbag stepson of mine a rotten cent.” She headed for the door, then turned back. “Think about what I said, Jess. Life has no guarantees against pain. But as long as we’re here, kid, we might as well grab whatever happiness we can.”
What she needed to do was call Maura. Jess had not checked on the kids since she’d come to the Vineyard; it would be perfectly normal for her to call, say hello, and make sure they were okay. Her daughter would not think it strange. Her daughter would not read into the call that Jess was trying to ground herself once again, that she was trying to reassure herself that her life was fine without another daughter, and that anything else would simply be more complications—complications she and her family did not need. Hearing Maura’s voice would do that for her.
First, however, she placed a call to her shop, where Carlo told her everything was fine, to enjoy herself, not to hurry back.
Then she hung up and dialed again.
Travis answered the phone.
“Hi, honey,” Jess said, then a quick churn of her stomach reminded her that was how Melanie had addressed Sarah. Hi, honey, was what she had said to the sweet little girl with her leg in a cast. “It’s Mom.”
“Hey, Mom. What’s happening? You having a good time?”
“Yes, dear. Martha’s Vineyard is lovely. How are you doing? How’s Maura?”
“We’re okay. I’ve been working my tail off. I don’t think I’ll be a landscaper in my next career. Too hard.”
Jess laughed. “You’ve never been afraid of a little hard work.” Of all her children, Travis was the one who did not take their financial comfort for granted.
“I never had to rake bark chips before. When are you coming home?”
She tugged at the phone cord. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Well, no rush on this end. Maura’s not here half the time, and I’m teaching myself to cook.”
An imaginary picture of a teenage-boy-ravaged kitchen flashed into her mind. “Cook?” she asked, trying not to sound too alarmed. “What are you cooking?”
“Chicken.”
“Make sure you wash it well.”
He groaned. “Don’t let my freckles fool you. I’m not exactly an imbecile.”
She laughed then asked, “What about Maura? Is she there?”
“I don’t know. Let me check.”
Before she could tell him to stop, never mind, he covered the receiver and shouted, “Hey, Maura! Mom’s on the phone!” She took a deep breath and waited, hoping her voice would not betray what was really going on in her heart, that she really needed to talk to Maura, to remind herself of what was important in life.
“Maura!” Travis shouted again. Seconds passed. She must not be home. A wave of anxiety passed through Jess for needing her daughter too much. Then she heard a click on the line.
“Mom?” It was Maura.
Jess sat up straight. “Yes, honey. I just called to say hi.”
“Where are you?”
Her eyes danced around the room as if she’d forgotten where she was. “I’m still here,” she said quickly. “On Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Oh. Is your friend still there?”
“Ginny? Yes. We’re having a good time.”
“Oh.” There was silence a moment. “Mom, what are you doing there?”
“I told you. Ginny recently lost her husband. I’m trying to help her …”
“Did you find your baby?” Her tone was sharp-edged as a razor.
Reality collided with fantasy again. Maura and Travis might be grounding for Jess, but they were not—could not be—her whole life. Sometimes, like now, Jess had feelings of her own. Feelings that she needed to address or that would haunt her forever.
“I figured out what you’re doing, Mom,” Maura continued. “Some lady named Loretta Taylor called yesterday. She wan
ted you to know she found out for sure that Mabel Adams was dead.”
“Yes,” Jess replied slowly, “I knew that.”
“She mentioned the Vineyard. I told her you were there. She said you must have found your baby. Then she hung up.”
Jess did not, could not, reply.
“Mom, I thought you were going to stop all this stuff.”
“Honey …”
“It’s not fair, you know. Not to me. Not to Travis.”
Jess noted that Maura had not mentioned Chuck, as though her older brother were no longer a part of the family, just because he lived in Manhattan and was close to their father. Apparently, Maura’s week in the islands had done little to reglue the bond between father and daughter after all.
“Honey, I’m not asking you to understand,” Jess said. “Any more than you asked me to understand when you went on spring break with your father.” She felt guilty for the silence that once again draped over the line. “I need to do this for myself, Maura. Please accept that. And please accept that it has nothing to do with you.”
After a moment, Maura said, “I only wish you had been honest with us in the beginning. About the real reason for your trip.”
“How would you have reacted?”
“I would have told you I hated what you were doing.”
The veins in her head constricted more tightly. “And I would have tried to explain that we are all entitled to have some privacy, and some respect for our feelings,” she said. “Perhaps you haven’t learned that in one of your psychology classes yet.”
“Okay, Mom,” Maura replied brusquely. “I get the message.”
Jess cleared her throat. “Well, then, I’ll see you when I come home. We’ll talk then, okay?”
After a heartbeat, Maura replied, “Sure, Mom. See you.” She hung up the phone and left Jess sitting on the edge of the bed, receiver in hand, wondering if things could ever be the same between them again, yet filled with resolve that Ginny was right. Life had no guarantees against pain. And if Jess didn’t get this over with once and for all, she would regret it for the rest of her life. She would stop acting so childish and she would go and meet Richard, and Maura would get over it or Maura would not.
• • •
Ginny bought a hand-knit sweater for Consuelo, a gold charm for Lisa—the map of Martha’s Vineyard with a small diamond chip—and a tie-dyed, short dress for herself. The dress was a “trapeze,” the politically correct nineties term for a “tent,” that actually looked good on her, skating over her newly-formed lumps and bumps as if they weren’t there at all. Not that she cared much how she looked, since—for once in her life—she wasn’t looking for sex. But she had to admit the brief flirtation with Dick Bradley had set off something—nothing scintillating, maybe, but something that, well, that felt good. He had a generous smile and a warm laugh, and, what the hell, if Jess decided to stay another day or two, Ginny might as well take advantage of the opportunity to see if her libido would ever return. And maybe she could get him to tell her the truth about Melanie, about what really happened thirty years ago. After all, she thought, leaving the dress shop, men say things in the bedroom that they’d never say in the parlor—especially if the parlor was loaded with clocks ticking and tocking all over the place, reminding the male species that time was, indeed, marching on and their heart might give out before the top of the next hour.
As she headed for the bookstore—Bunch of Grapes, the sign read, which seemed fairly absurd for the name of a store on an island called the Vineyard in a town where no alcohol was allowed—she thought she heard her name being called from across the street. She looked over and there stood Phillip on the curb, waving his arm like he was hailing a cab.
“Ginny!” he shouted across the traffic-clogged one-way street. “Lisa’s here. Come on over.”
She didn’t bother to go to the crosswalk. A guy in a pickup truck blasted his horn, but Ginny refrained from giving him the finger. She might have, if Lisa had not been within eyeshot. Lisa had learned enough about Ginny’s character flaws in the past few days to last a lifetime and a half.
“So what’s going on?” Phillip asked, pulling a folding chair out for Ginny to sit at their table. “Is everyone staying until tomorrow?”
Ginny dropped her bundles and plopped herself down on the chair, which wiggled and wobbled on the uneven bricks. “We don’t have much choice. But I don’t know what Jess intends to do. Old Man Bradley told me Richard is coming back tomorrow. I don’t know if she’s going to see him or not.”
“Not see him?” Lisa asked. “Why would she not see him after all this?”
Ginny shrugged as a waitress appeared. “I’ll have a burger and fries,” she said, then looked down at her bags and thought about the tie-dyed trapeze that lay inside. “No, change that. I’ll have a salad. With oil and vinegar on the side.” She might not drop the twenty pounds that she’d gained since Jake died in one afternoon, but she damn well might feel more like flirting if she weren’t such a water-retaining blob.
The waitress left. Ginny reached into her bag, pulled out a small box, and set it down beside Lisa’s plate. “For you,” Ginny said. “Happy Memorial Day.”
Lisa’s eyes lit up. She’d probably looked just like that when she was a kid, Ginny thought, at Christmas or on her birthday. Lisa’s family had probably been big on presents, not like Ginny’s mother, who’d never been able to afford much besides cigarettes and booze, though during the holidays they were packaged to look like they were tied in red bows.
Lifting the lid slowly, Lisa peeked inside. She took out the gold charm. “Oh, Ginny,” she exclaimed, leaning over and kissing her cheek. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Ginny shrugged. “I just wanted you to know … well, I’m glad you came.” She did not add that what she was really glad about was that Brad was not here, that he was back in L.A.
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said, with a look in her eyes that told Ginny she knew exactly what Ginny had been thinking, and that it was okay. “I wish we could have done something to help Jess, though. She’s such a nice woman.”
“Well, it ain’t over till the fat lady sings,” Ginny said with a laugh. “Or until I do whatever it is I decide to do.”
“Ginny,” Phillip said, “Lisa and I have been thinking that maybe there is something she and I can do.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow.
“We thought we could go to Melanie. Maybe if the two of us talked to her … we’re the same age … we were both adopted …”
Without hesitation, Ginny shook her head. “I think Jess would shit if you ever did that.”
“Why?” Lisa asked. “She walked into our lives and shocked the hell out of us. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is …” Ginny began, then was distracted by that sensation of being stared at by someone.
Ginny turned her head. And there, on the opposite side of Main Street, stood Morticia. Watching.
“Shit.” Ginny got to her feet. “I’m sick of this crap.” She began to move just as Phillip jumped up and took hold of her arm.
“No, Ginny, please,” he said. “Leave it alone.”
“That woman is a freaking fruitcake.”
“I know. But she’s got some kind of problem. Leave her alone.”
“You talked to her?”
“Only by accident. She thought I was someone named Brit. I tried to talk to her, but she blew me off.”
Ginny stared at the woman who stared back at her and suddenly realized that despite what had or had not happened thirty years ago, Dick Bradley had had his share of heartache, and his share of pain. But so had Jess. And so had Ginny. And she was sick to death of all this dancing around, all this spying and sneaking and pretending to be who and what they were not. It was time to get on with the show, whether Jess liked it or not. Jess didn’t have to confront Richard if she didn’t want to, but Ginny for one was going to find out what had happened. And Jess was going to be told the
truth. And then Ginny was going to go back to L.A. and have it out with Brad, once and for all. She straightened her back. “If you kids want to talk to Melanie, I won’t talk you out of it.” She looked down at the bag that held her new dress. “As for me, I’ve got a plan of my own.”
It was long past time. Karin turned away from the trio at the café and started walking down Main Street, heading toward the only place she could ever find peace.
Tomorrow, she told herself over and over again. If they did not do anything by tomorrow, she’d take action herself.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
She fixed her eyes on the ground and kept walking toward West Chop. Maybe today Brit would come back. If he’d never left in the first place, none of this would matter now. For if he had not left she’d have been married by now with kids of her own and it wouldn’t have mattered a damn whether or not Daddy or Richard or anyone of them cared about her. It wouldn’t matter who Mellie did or did not belong to. None of it would matter because she would have had Brit.
But maybe he would come back today. Maybe he would see her picking sea glass on the beach, the way they had picked it together. Maybe he would find a special stone, just for her. The way he had so long ago. Then she would string them together—no, not for Mellie, but for herself. She’d make a long stranded necklace and a bracelet to match and a crown of sea glass to wear in her hair. She’d wear it on her wedding day—the wedding between the Yank and the Brit that had taken so long to occur.
And she would be as beautiful as the girl in the New York Times clipping tucked under the ribbon tied around the letters to the young boy named Richard. She would be as beautiful as that long-ago photo, of that society girl named Jessica Bates Randall … the girl they had told her had not wanted her baby, but whose father had paid hers to raise it instead … the girl Karin had been led to believe had not wanted her baby, had not wanted Mellie at all.
