Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  Sabina’s mouth tightened. “Are you planning to write about us now that Mom is gone?”

  “No.”

  “I think you are. You’ll ask your questions and piss us off, and then when you’re back in Washington and we’re cleaning up the mess, you’ll write something that’ll make the mess even worse.” She held up her hands, palms out. “I’m asking you. Begging you. Please, Annie. Mind your own business.” The plea was barely out when she turned, strode to the door, and pulled it open.

  Phoebe stood there. Seeming wholly oblivious, simply surprised to see Sabina, she said, “I didn’t know you were here. But I’m making, um, I think, what was it I was thinking, well, I think I’ll make eggs for breakfast. Should I make enough for three?”

  Chapter 2

  THE MIDDLE River Clinic was on Cedar Street, half a mile from Oak. Like the town itself—in that very euphemistic way—the clinic building was deeper than it appeared from the front, stretching an entire block to School Street over grassy dips and swells that were liberally strewn with, yes, cedars and oaks. Appropriately, the School Street entrance fed directly into a small emergency room that, over the years, had been a staging area for the treatment of countless playground wounds, strep throats, and allergy attacks. The oldest generation of Middle Riverites had been born and given birth here too, back when the clinic was a bona fide hospital. Nowadays, except for the most sudden of cases, childbirth and such took place in Plymouth.

  The first floor housed offices for the doctors who serviced the town as part of the Middle River Medical Group. The second floor was rented out to independent practitioners, currently including a large team of physical therapists, a pair of chiropractors, and an acupuncturist. Psychologists were scattered throughout—small towns always had those—along with lawyers, investment counselors, and computer people. Sandy Meade wasn’t picky; he owned the building and wanted every space filled. He might have balked at renting to a video store stocking adult entertainment—he did have standards—but he was fine with most else, as long as the rent money arrived in full each month.

  The building was a handsome brick structure, two stories high, with white shutters, gutters, and portico. The last time I was inside was to visit the emergency room the Thanksgiving before I left town. Sam Winchell, who owned the newspaper and whose family lived out of state, had been joining us for Thanksgiving dinner since Daddy died; that last year, he cut himself sharpening the turkey knife. I was the person he was closest to and, hence, was his designated driver, while the others stayed home keeping the food warm.

  By the time I arrived this August day, I had already dropped Phoebe at work, stopped at the post office and run into all those people who asked if I was going to write about them, visited Harriman’s Grocery, and returned to the house to fill the refrigerator with food. It had been pathetically empty. Eggs for three? Phoebe hadn’t had eggs enough for one. With Sabina gone—and no arguments there—we two had settled for stale bran flakes. Dry.

  I was no fool. While in town, I had also stopped at News ’n Chews for a bag of chocolate pennies. A pack of M&Ms would have satisfied my chocolate craving, but I could get M&Ms anywhere, anytime. Chocolate pennies, hand-dropped by the Walkers for three generations and counting, were something else. They were well worth the risk of my being seen by even more people.

  But then, word was already spreading. I suspected my own sisters had told friends, who had told friends, who had told friends. I wasn’t about to drive my convertible down Oak Street—that would be a distasteful show on my first day back—but there was no way I could be invisible in a place desperately in need of food for talk.

  Thomas Martin, the doctor who had treated my mother, was the director of the Middle River Clinic. He was new to town by Middle River standards, brought in three years ago when old Doc Wessler retired. The Middle River Times described Dr. Martin as not only a respected general practitioner, but a man with a business degree that would stand him in good stead for the demands of running a modern clinic.

  I didn’t call ahead for an appointment; the Middle River Clinic wasn’t Memorial Sloan-Kettering. Nor did I tell either of my sisters what I planned to do. I didn’t want an audience here, didn’t want idle minds speculating. For the record, I simply wanted to thank the doctor for seeing my mother through her final days. Though I had met him after the funeral, I hadn’t had the presence of mind to be overly gracious. Granted, my gratitude would be misplaced in the event that he had bungled her case and misdiagnosed her illness. But he was an outsider, like me; for that reason alone, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  He was with a patient when I arrived, but his secretary knew me. Growing up, we had been classmates, my bookworm to her cheerleader. Her eyes widened and she smiled, which was more than she had ever done in response to me back then.

  “You look great, Annie,” she said in surprise, then added in immediate sympathy, “I’m sorry about your mom. She was a nice woman, always kind, whether you ended up buying something at the shop or not. And coming in here, she was always respectful. Some aren’t, you know. They hate the paperwork and blame us for it. Well, we hate the paperwork too. Wow, Annie, you really do look great. Being famous must agree with you.”

  “I’m not really famous,” I said, because success as a writer was different. There was no face recognition, no entourage, no advance man. My name was known in reading circles, but that was it.

  Not that I said any of that now. I was socially tongue-tied and defensive, both of which were conditioned reflexes where Middle River and I were concerned.

  Graceless, I forged on. “I was hoping to see the doctor to thank him for taking care of my mother. Does he ever take a break?”

  “It’s coming right up,” she replied cheerily, standing. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Five minutes later, the man appeared. He wore the obligatory lab coat, over an open-necked blue shirt and khaki slacks. His hair was short and dark, his eyes clear and blue, his body lean. When I stood to meet him, I saw that he was just about my height, perhaps the half inch taller than me that my sister always claimed to have.

  An incompetent quack? If so, he showed no guilt, but rather approached with an easy smile and a friendly hand. “You’re the lady of the hour.”

  I was immediately disarmed by his warmth, though, in truth, I might have liked him simply because he wasn’t a native of Middle River. Moreover, since he wasn’t from here, there was nothing emotional to hinder my speech. With a comfort I had developed in the last fifteen years, I said, “Sounds like you’ve had your ear twisted by someone other than Linda here.”

  “Three out of four patients this morning,” he confirmed, eyes twinkling.

  “Please don’t believe what they say. There’s a whole other side to me.”

  “As there is to us all,” he remarked and, without ceremony, took my arm. “I’m buying coffee,” he said, guiding me out.

  The coffee shop was actually a small restaurant run by two of Omie’s grandchildren. Younger than the diner by that many generations, it was called Burgers & Beans, the beans meaning the coffee kind, to judge from the rich smell that greeted us when we walked in the door. In addition to burgers, there were sandwiches and salads. We stuck to coffee.

  “Want to chance it outside?” Tom asked, darting a glance at the patio, with its round wrought iron tables and umbrellas in the sun.

  I smiled appreciatively. The fact that he understood my reluctance to be seen made me like him even more.

  But the cat was already out of the bag. It would have been absurd for me to hide now. “Sure,” I said lightly. Putting on a courageous face, I led him past several people who were definitely familiar and openly staring, to a table at the patio’s edge. Whiskey barrels filled to overflowing with impatiens marked the border between flagstone and grass. I sat in the sun, just beyond the umbrella’s shade. It was still early enough in the day for the warmth to feel good.

  After settling himself, Tom said, “We have som
ething in common, you and I. I spent ten years in Washington—college, med school, and residency.”

  “Did you?” I asked, our connection deepening. “Where?”

  “Georgetown all the way.”

  “We’re fellow alums. Did you live near Wisconsin?”

  “For a while. Then Dupont Circle. It’s a fabulous city. Hot in summer, but fabulous.”

  “Hot in summer,” I confirmed and took a drink of coffee. Middle River could be hot—might well be hot this very afternoon—but not with the relentlessly steamy heat that seared Washington day after day.

  “Is that why you’re here,” Tom asked, “to escape the heat?”

  I was amused. “What did your patients say?”

  “That you were here to write. That you’re Middle River’s version of Grace Metalious, and that of course,” his eyes twinkled again, “I knew the Peyton Place link.”

  “You did know it,” I surmised.

  “How not to? It’s the basis of tourism here. The inn offers Peyton Place weekends, the town historian gives tours of the ‘real’ Peyton Place, the newspaper puts out a Peyton Place Times issue on April Fools’ Day each year. And then there’s the bookstore. You can’t walk in there without seeing it. Peyton Place is still prominently displayed, along with a Reader’s Companion that outlines the parallels between Peyton Place and us.”

  “Do you remember Peyton Place?”

  “I’m forty-two. It came out before I was born, but it was on my mother’s nightstand for years after, all dog-eared and worn. I read it when I first came here.”

  “Did it make you rethink your decision?”

  “Nah. Peyton Place is fiction. Middle River has its characters, but it isn’t a bad place.”

  I might have argued and said that Middle River was a vile place for one who didn’t conform to its standards. But that felt like sour grapes on my part. So I simply cleared my throat and said, “Sandy Meade must have made you one sweet offer to get you to leave wherever you were after Washington to come here.”

  “Atlanta,” he said easily, “and I wanted a quieter life. I bought a house over on East Meadow. It’s three times the size of anything I could have bought elsewhere, and I had money to spare for renovations.”

  “Annie?” came a curious voice.

  I looked around at a woman I instantly recognized, though I hadn’t seen her in years. Her name was Pamela Farrow. She had been a year behind me in school, but her reputation for being fast and loose made the leap to my class and beyond. Back then, she had been a looker with shiny black hair, warm green eyes, and curves in the right places well before the rest of us had any curves at all. Now her hair wasn’t as shiny or her eyes as green, and her curves were larger.

  She hadn’t aged as well as I had.

  I’m sorry. That thought was unkind.

  I atoned with a smile. “Hi, Pamela. It’s been a while.”

  “You’ve been busy. We hear about the incredible things that are happening to you. Do you really live with Greg Steele?”

  I wouldn’t have guessed Pamela knew who Greg was; she didn’t strike me as the type to watch the news, evening or otherwise.

  And that was another unkind thought, which was why I hated Middle River. It brought out the worst in me. Back here for less than twelve hours, and I was being snide again. It was defensiveness, of course. I was lashing out with words, or in this case thoughts, to compensate for feeling socially inept. Which I wasn’t now. At least, not in Washington. Here, I regressed.

  I nodded in reply and drank more of my coffee.

  “Well, we love hearing news of you,” Pamela gushed. “You’re our most famous native.” She turned to the man with her. Unfamiliar to me, he wore glasses and a shirt and tie, had neatly combed hair, and exuded a style of conservatism. I was floored when Pamela said, “Annie, this is my husband, Hal Healy.”

  I would never have guessed it. Never. Either Pamela had changed, or this marriage was a mismatch.

  I held out a hand; he shook it a bit too firmly.

  “Hal was brought to town to be principal of the high school,” Pamela said with pride, and here, too, I was surprised. The high school principal in my day was a sexy guy not unlike Tomas Makris in Peyton Place. Hal Healy had the look of a marginal nerd. “We’ve been married six years,” Pamela went on. “We have two little girls. You and Greg don’t have kids yet, do you?”

  Not wanting to explain that Greg and I weren’t sexually involved, I simply said, “No. We don’t. I assume you both know Tom?”

  “Oh yes,” Pamela said with barely a glance at the doctor. I might been flattered by her attention to me, if I hadn’t thought her profoundly rude to Tom. “So tell me,” she went on in something of a confidential tone. “We’re all wondering. Are you really here to write about us?”

  I smiled, bowed my head, and rubbed my temple. Still smiling, I looked back up. “No. I’m not here to write.”

  Her face fell. “Why not? I mean, there’s still plenty to write about. I could tell you stories…” She stopped when her husband gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “Honey, they’re having coffee. This isn’t the time.”

  “Well, I could,” Pamela insisted, “so if you change your mind, Annie, please call me. You look so different. Very successful. I always knew you’d go places.” She grinned, waved, and let her husband steer her away.

  Dismayed, I turned to Tom. “She didn’t know anything of the sort. I was a pain in the butt back then—a gangly runt with an attitude. And I wrote lousy stories.”

  “Well, you don’t now,” the doctor said, suddenly seeming almost shy. “I read East of Lonely and liked it so much that I bought and read your two earlier books. You’re an amazing writer. You capture emotion with such a sparseness of words.” He was actually blushing. “I say your success is well earned. So when it comes to Middle River, you have the last laugh. People like Pamela, they really are proud of you. For what it’s worth, I’ve never heard anything bad.”

  “You’re too new to town,” I said, shaking my head, but his words were a comfort. He reminded me of Greg, not as much in looks as manner. Both were easygoing and could blush. Honest was the word that came to my mind.

  Yes. I know. I wanted to like him because I needed a friend, and because I needed a friend, I didn’t want to consider the fact that Tom might be smooth and glib and not honest at all. My mother was dead. I had to remember that.

  But then Tom said the one thing that could most easily make me forget. “What do you know about Grace Metalious?” he asked.

  I grinned. “Most everything.” I could be smug about this as I wasn’t about much else in life. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did she really drink herself to death?”

  “She drank heavily, some sources say a fifth of vodka a day for five years. And she died of cirrhosis of the liver. A plus B…”

  “Gotcha. What was so bad about her life that she had to escape into booze? Was it not being able to write a follow-up to Peyton Place?”

  “Oh, she did a follow-up. Her publisher insisted on it. But she hadn’t wanted to do it, so she dashed it off in a month. They had to hire a ghostwriter to revise it and make it publishable. In any event, it was widely panned. There were two other books after that, one of which was her favorite. Neither book was well received.”

  Smoothly, he returned to me. “So here you are with a major success, like Grace with her Peyton Place. Do you worry about matching the success of East of Lonely?”

  “Of course I do,” I said baldly. “There’s ego involved, and professional pride, even survival as a writer. It’s a mean world out there. But I do love the process of writing.”

  “Didn’t Grace?”

  “Yes. But my success didn’t come with the first effort. Hers did. When you score a home run the first time up at bat, it’s hard to top yourself the next time. Besides, there were other things that got her down—like her agent. He cheated her out of a lot of money. The little she did get, she spent
. She had expensive tastes.”

  “For a Manchester girl?” Tom asked with a smile, and at my look of surprise said, “Hey, I took the Peyton Place tour. She grew up in Manchester with her mother and grandmother.”

  “Uh-huh. In a house full of women. Like me.”

  “Her father left,” he cautioned. “Yours died. There’s a difference.”

  “But we were both tenish when it happened, and the end result was the same. There was no father in the house to hold the reins. The women did it. They were strong, because they had to be. Which brings me to the reason I’m here.” About time, Annie. “I want to talk about my mom.”

  He grew serious. “I’m sorry about her death. I wish I could have done more.”

  “The fall killed her. I know that. She broke her neck and died from asphyxiation. But before that—was it really Parkinson’s?”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Hard to say,” he admitted. “She had an assortment of symptoms. The tremor in her hand, the balance issue, the trouble walking—these were consistent with Parkinson’s. The memory problem suggested Alzheimer’s.”

  “But you choose Parkinson’s.”

  “No. The most treatable of her symptoms were the ones associated with Parkinson’s, so those were the ones I addressed.”

  “Did you suggest that she see a specialist?” I asked with something of an edge, because Tom Martin was, after all, only a general practitioner, and while I had the utmost respect for GPs and the way they juggled many different things, we weren’t talking about a common cold or the flu.

  “Yes,” he said calmly. “I gave her the name of someone at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, but she never went. She felt it was too much of an effort. And that was okay. I consulted colleagues there and in Boston. They studied her file via computer and agreed with my diagnosis. There’s nothing more that an actual trip to Dartmouth-Hitchcock would have accomplished. There are no tests to conclusively diagnose either Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s. It’s strictly a clinical diagnosis, a judgment call made by the physician. The medication I gave her helped as much as any could.”