I let out a groan, realizing that was exactly how I must have looked to Dan Freedman. And I wondered how he had managed to keep a straight face during our conversation. Not, I quickly assured myself, that it made any real difference what Dan had thought. After all, he barely even qualified as an old friend. Nor was I likely to run into him again.
On the other hand, I don’t usually go around with black grease on my nose. So I made a face at the mirror, imagining how Aunt Ellen would have used my unsightly condition as an excuse to deliver one of her little lessons on feminine decorum.
“Really, Susan,” I could almost hear her chiding me in the prim, disapproving voice she reserved for times like this, “no proper young lady ever goes out in public with cobwebs in her hair. You must take more care with your appearance.”
“Tomorrow, Auntie,” I murmured, gratefully lowering my body into the tub and punching the bubbler controls to HIGH with my foot. “Today was sort of like the first day of school,” I added, just in case she really was listening. “It doesn’t really count. Tomorrow I’ll get my act together.”
Then the soothing bubbles surged up around me and I lay there like a lobster in a cauldron, sorting lazily through my jumbled thoughts.
My first day back in Freedman’s Cove had not gone at all as planned.
An hour later, bathed, combed and with most of the alien substances removed from my fingers—except for the sticky stuff from the Fix-A-Flat can, which refused to come off—I went down to the kitchen in my robe and slippers to see about dinner. For though it was still early I was absolutely famished.
The meager store of groceries I’d purchased at the minimart the night before formed a tiny, unappetizing island in the vastness of the nearly empty fridge. I contemplated the alternative choices of scrambled eggs with toast or poached eggs without toast, then considered driving to the Food Mart, a chore I’d originally had scheduled for the afternoon.
But going shopping and then returning home to fix something would take hours.
“Dammit!” I complained to no one in particular, “I’m hungry now.”
Grumbling angrily at myself for having let the entire day slip away, I trudged back upstairs and changed into fresh jeans and my warmest sweater. First, I decided, I would drive down to Krabb’s for one of their famous lobster dinners. Afterward I would hit the Food Mart with my grocery list.
I was pulling into the parking lot at Krabb’s when it struck me that I couldn’t remember the last time I had given any serious thought to food of any kind.
I parked the car beneath the restaurant’s flashing neon crab sign and sat there in the garish pink light examining my feelings. The familiar ache in the pit of my stomach was still present. But it was not the same as it had been just yesterday.
Yesterday the ache had seemed to define only the vast emptiness I felt inside.
This evening, I realized, the pain had eased ever so slightly. And at least part of my empty feeling could be attributed to hunger. In fact, I was actually looking forward to eating dinner.
And as my encounter with the eggs in the fridge had demonstrated, not just any food would do.
Yesterday the bland eggs would have sufficed.
Tonight I wanted something delicious.
But that wasn’t all. Today I had enjoyed myself, tinkering with the moped and riding out to the island. Today I had held a normal conversation with an old acquaintance. And though my thoughts had never strayed far from Bobby, not once had I burst into tears. In fact several times thoughts of Dan had displaced those of Bobby.
Perhaps, I reflected, Laura had been right for a change. But then I remembered that getting away from Manhattan had been Damon’s idea first. So Laura was still batting zero.
The important thing, I decided, was that I seemed to be doing far better in Freedman’s Cove than I had back in the city.
And that was progress enough for one day.
Reminding myself to call Damon with the good news when I returned to the house, I got out of the car and went into Krabb’s for dinner.
Krabb’s Seafood House is a sprawling 50s-style restaurant with chrome-edged Formica tables. Pierced metal light fixtures shaped like missile nose cones shine down on comfortable booths padded in vinyl the exact shade of a cooked lobster. Whether the color of the booths was accidental or deliberate nobody can say for sure, because Mr. Krabb, the original founder of the place, died long ago without ever revealing the truth.
Fortunately, the restaurant’s shockingly bad décor is canceled out by the spectacular harbor view from its huge plate glass windows. And the food is uniformly excellent, if generally American-diner plain.
Krabb’s jumbo-sized, plastic-coated dinner menus contain, in addition to the obligatory crab, fish and lobster, deep-fried, baked, broiled or simmered in rich chowders, a standard array of steaks, chops and pastas. The fifty-item salad bar is pretty good, too.
And, if you’re so inclined, you can order a mixed drink, draft beer or wine from the adjoining sports bar, from which the sounds of customers cheering a televised football game was blaring as I entered the restaurant.
So, when the chunky teenage hostess had escorted me to my table in the nearly empty dining room I said I’d like to start with a glass of wine.
She left me a menu, promising to send a cocktail waitress right out. Meanwhile, a busboy appeared with a large basket of crusty French bread and a tub of savory garlic butter. I was busily attacking the bread when the cocktail waitress emerged from the sports bar. She was wearing tight black pants and a sheer blouse that accentuated her large bust. And she looked familiar.
“What can I get for you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Just a glass of Chablis,” I replied, covertly examining her features in the subdued light that is Krabb’s only concession to those in search of a romantic dining experience. Though she had on an excess of cheap makeup and her shoulder-length hair was still a little too blonde, Debbie Carver was actually a lot prettier than I had remembered.
“One Chablis. No problem!” She scribbled the order on a pad, then took a closer look at me. “Hey, didn’t you used to live around here?” she asked.
I smiled. “A long time ago.”
She nodded and smiled back. “I thought I recognized you. You used to spend summers up in one of the Victorians with your grandmother…”
“Actually, she was my great-aunt,” I said.
“Sure! You used to ride around on that cute little red motorbike.” She stuck out her hand. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Debbie Olson. Used to be Debbie Carver.”
I smiled. “Debbie, I’m Sue Marks. Of course I remember you. You went with Danny…Dan Freedman.”
She gave me a rueful little grin. “The curse of living in a small town. Nobody ever forgets anything. Wow, Danny Freedman! Now that’s really ancient history. Gosh, I had such a thing for Danny…” She gazed wistfully at the harbor lights beyond the plate glass, obviously reliving some cherished old memory. “Isn’t it crazy about Danny?” she asked. “I mean, of all people, who would have ever thought he’d end up like he did.”
I returned a blank stare.
“Making it so big, I mean,” she explained.
I shook my head helplessly. “As a house painter?”
“A house painter!” Debbie’s round breasts jiggled merrily beneath the sheer fabric of her blouse and she howled with laughter. “I guess you’re right, though,” she said when she had gotten herself under control again. “Danny Freedman is a house painter!”
She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, wiping away a mirthful tear that threatened to ruin her mascara. “Wait ’til the guys in the bar hear that one.” She gurgled. “It’ll crack them up for sure.”
I sat there with my mouth hanging open as she flounced away and disappeared back into the bar. Within seconds a burst of explosive male laughter rocked the room. A few moments later, Debbie returned with my wine.
“Compliments of an old friend,” she said,
placing the glass before me. Seeing my look of puzzlement, Debbie leaned close and jerked her chin toward the entrance to the sports bar. “A real nice guy,” she whispered. I looked up to see Tom Barnwell coming toward me. He was wearing a yellow golf sweater and there was a lopsided grin on his face and a glass in his hand.
“Watch that one in the clinches,” Debbie advised, giving me a just-between-us-girls wink. “He’s newly divorced and horny as a billy goat.”
Then she was gone and Tom was standing over me. “Sue, why didn’t you tell me you were coming up? I would have had the house aired and the linens changed. The place has been empty since last month.”
Before I could answer Tom leaned over to peck me on the cheek and slipped into the booth across from me.
“It was a last-minute decision,” I replied, disgusted by the reek of scotch on his breath.
“Well, it’s damn good to see you, anyway,” he said. “Damn good!” His eyes were glittering with alcohol-induced fervor and he captured both my hands in his.
“Y’know, Sue, I really made an ass of myself the last time you were up here,” he confessed, breathing hard. “I don’t know what got into me that day, bringing up our night together on the boat…”
I could see where this was going and I wasn’t really in the mood to fend him off politely. Freeing my hands, I picked up my menu, hoping he would take the hint and shut up. I’d been doing just fine so far today and I didn’t want it spoiled.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he muttered, managing to look hurt. “Hell, I was still married to Becky back then…I didn’t have any right at all.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Tom. No harm done,” I said with as much civility as I could muster. “The house looks wonderful,” I added, smoothly switching subjects. “You’ve done a really great job with it.”
“Aw, do you really think so?” he asked, slurring his words slightly. “That makes me real happy, Sue. Y’know, I always give that old place my extra personal attention because, well…Because you and me go back so far,” he said meaningfully.
I looked closely at him over the top of my menu, taking in his puffy eyes and the slightly drooping line of his jaw, which was going quickly to fat. Was that the reason for his divorce, or the result of it? I wondered. He looked like he was getting ready to say something even more personal, so I cut him off.
“I’m starving,” I loudly announced, looking around for a waiter. Tom half-stood and gallantly snapped his fingers like a Latin playboy in an old Fred Astaire movie. In response to his summons, a middle-aged waitress sauntered resentfully over to the table and glared at us. I quickly gave her my order—broiled lobster and a green salad—and she went away.
Tom finally seemed to take the hint that I might possibly not be interested in having him watch me eat, because he started to get clumsily to his feet. “Well, I guess I’d better let you have your dinner,” he said, waiting for me to insist that he stay.
“It’s been nice seeing you, Tom.” I reluctantly gave him my hand again.
“Call me when you get settled in,” he said, giving it an overly familiar squeeze. “I’ll take you somewhere really nice for dinner.”
I forced myself to smile. “Maybe lunch would be better,” I replied.
The surly waitress arrived with my salad, forcing him to move. I felt like giving her a big hug as he lumbered back toward the raucous sounds of the sports bar. My heart sank as he stopped halfway there and retraced his steps back to the table.
“I almost forgot,” he said with a grin. “That was a good one you told Debbie.”
My mouth was already full of salad and Krabb’s delicious blue cheese dressing, so I raised my eyebrows theatrically, like a street mime.
“About Dan Freedman being a house painter,” Tom reminded me.
I chewed faster, then swallowed and washed down the salad with a gulp of wine. “I don’t get the joke,” I said with a note of unconcealed annoyance creeping into my voice. “What is so funny about that?”
Now it was Tom’s turn to look puzzled. “Christ! You really don’t know, do you?”
“No, Tom, I really don’t know. But I’m sure that you’re just about to enlighten me.” If I had fangs they would have been dribbling poison.
Tom took another step toward me, then looked around, as if he feared someone might be listening in on the secret he was about to reveal. “Freedan!” he said in a low voice. “Danny Freedman is Freedan. That’s why your remark about him being a house painter was so damned funny. Debbie thought you were making a joke.”
“Oh!” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Don’t forget now, call me!” Tom gave me a little wave and walked away.
I absently speared another Roquefort-drenched chunk of salad and watched him go back into the sports bar.
“Idiot!” I mumbled to myself, popping the dripping forkful of lettuce into my mouth. How could I have been such an idiot? Dan Freedman—Freedan to his adoring public—was perhaps the most successful commercial illustrator in the United States. His poster work appeared in magazines, movie promotions and national ad campaigns. His company, Freedan Studios, had a lock on a sizable percentage of the huge greeting card market. Limited-edition prints of his paintings sold for outrageous prices through a nationwide chain of Freedan Gallery stores.
Danny Freedman was Freedan.
And Freedan’s specialty, his most sought-after works, were marvelous, idyllic landscapes featuring Victorian-era houses and cottages. I buried my face in my hands and began to chuckle. Because it really was funny. “Danny Freedman is a house painter!”
“Pardon!”
I looked up to see the sour-faced waitress hovering over the table. She was balancing a lobster on a platter and squinting suspiciously at me.
“Danny Freedman is a house painter,” I repeated.
The beginnings of a smile creased the corners of her thin, humorless lips. “Ayeh! That’s a good one,” she said and laughed, placing the steaming platter before me. “Enjoy your dinner now.”
Chapter 11
“How are you feeling, darlin’?”
Damon’s soft Louisiana drawl sounded far, far away. I pressed the cell phone closer to my ear, straining to hear him. “I’m fine, Damon. Can you speak a little louder? I haven’t had the phone in the house hooked up yet, so I’m still on my mobile.”
His voice came through a little stronger. “You sound different, girl. Better.”
“I am,” I agreed. “Coming up here to get away was really a wonderful idea, Damon.”
“You should have gone weeks ago,” he said.
And I was certain he was getting ready to launch into one of his rants about all the money I’d wasted going to see Laura.
“How is everything at the office?” I asked without much hope of distracting him from a lecture.
There was a long pause on the line.
“Damon?”
“Everything’s fine, honey. Don’t you worry about a thing. Damon’s got it all under control.”
Now, I can read Damon like a book. So I knew that three reassurances in a row from him meant trouble. “Oh, shit,” I murmured. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened, Sue!” His voice had suddenly gone up an octave. Something was definitely wrong. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he added, clearly trying to placate me.
I had been sitting propped up in bed with a teacup balanced on my knees. Now I was angrily pacing the confines of my small room, my euphoric mood of a few moments earlier shattered. “Damon, if you do not cut the bullshit and spit it out I’m getting dressed right now and driving back down there tonight!”
“Sue, calm down,” he pleaded. “It’s no big thing. I’ve already taken care of it.”
“Taken care of what?” I shrieked. The first possibility that popped into my mind was that something had gone wrong with a complex estate appraisal we had just completed for a major insurer. The company was a first-time client, and a very impor
tant one. “Did we screw up on the Met job somehow?”
“Good God, no!” Damon laughed nervously. “The Metropolitan appraisal went fabulously. In fact, they’re so pleased that they’re putting us on a long-term retainer…It’s something else. A minor annoyance, really.”
I could hear Damon’s breath coming in little gasps, a sure sign that he was working himself up into one of his stress-induced asthma attacks.
“Okay, I’m sorry I yelled at you, Damon,” I apologized, speaking as slowly and calmly as I could. “Now, just tell me what happened, okay?”
“Your apartment was broken into,” he confessed.
I sank back down onto the bed. Though I wouldn’t class myself as well-off I do love beautiful things and the apartment was filled with antiques, many of them quite valuable.
“Sue, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“It’s really not bad at all,” he assured me. “A typical Manhattan junkie burglary. The morons went through all your drawers and closets, evidently looking for things like cash and cameras.”
Damon emitted a high-pitched snort at the burglars’ stupidity. “They took your third-rate Korean stereo but left the $20,000 Federal side table and the Tiffany sterling.” Then he giggled. “Like I said, morons.” He rushed ahead breathlessly, “Anyway, I’ve already made the police report, had new and much bigger locks installed and called a housecleaning service to tidy things up.” He snorted again, then snickered nasally. “That tacky old stereo really did suck, Sue.”
I finally laughed. “Okay,” I said, taking a sip of my tea and managing to relax just a little. “If they didn’t get anything of value I guess my coming back down there won’t serve any purpose now.”
“Precisely my thinking,” Damon said. “Besides, you can’t live in Manhattan without getting burglarized at least once. There’s a city ordinance.”
I must have been calming down because I even gave the weak joke more of a little ha ha than it deserved. Then I pressed him for the details. “When did this break-in happen?” I asked. “I’ve only been gone since yesterday morning.”
Maidenstone Lighthouse Page 7
