Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  I waited. When no explanation was forthcoming for why he hadn’t brought a flatbed in the first place, since I had told him on the phone that all four tires were slashed, I said, “Can you get one?”

  “It’s back at the shop.”

  “So you need to drive back and switch trucks. What’ll that take, twenty minutes?” I glanced at my watch. I still had time. Granted, unless he could get the tires from another station in the immediate area, my car would be out of commission until tomorrow at the least. But once Phoebe got home, I could use her van. The timing would work. I didn’t have to be at the varsity course until seven.

  Normie made a face. “Y’know, it’s not like this is all I have to do. I was in the middle of a job when you called. I gotta have that one done today.” He shot Marshall a glance.

  Marshall seemed perfectly content. If I didn’t know better, I would say the two were in cahoots about messing me up.

  “Tell you what,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “Since you don’t want to help, I’ll call Triple A.” I pulled out my card. “I gotta say, between you two guys, I have great stuff for my book.”

  Normie’s round face paled. “What stuff?” He shot Marshall a different look now. “What stuff does she have?”

  “Nothing,” the police chief scoffed. “She’s making empty threats, because the fact is that no one in town wants to talk with her. She’s a pariah—now there’s a good word. Tell you what. Be a sport and get the flatbed. The sooner she gets her car fixed, the sooner she’ll leave.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him. “What about who did this?” I asked with a glance at my car.

  “Look, miss,” Marshall muttered, “I’m doing you a favor here. Leave well enough alone, will you?”

  He turned and walked away before I could argue. After a word with Normie, he got in his cruiser and drove off.

  Normie climbed back in his truck and rumbled out of the lot.

  I checked my watch. It was five. Assuming he came right back, I was okay.

  “Can I drive you somewhere?” Kaitlin asked. “I have my Mom’s old Jeep. It’s falling apart, but it works.”

  “Thanks. I’m okay for now.” I rested against the side of my car and hugged my middle. Talk about feeling like I was on hostile turf. And it was only getting worse. “You ought to go. Hanging around me won’t help your image.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “Well, I am.” I smiled. “Really. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  She started off, then turned and came back. “You told them you were writing a book.”

  “And I got a reaction, didn’t I? Interesting, that reaction.”

  “But you told me you weren’t writing one.”

  “I’m not writing one about Middle River. That’s the truth.”

  Kaitlin relaxed. “In a way it’s too bad,” she said with a mischievous half smile. “Know what they say about Normie Zwibble?”

  I put my hands to my ears. “I don’t want to hear this.”

  She said it anyway, and of course I listened. “He’s addicted to playing the lottery, only he can’t buy tickets at his father’s place or he’d be found out, so he drives over to Weymouth. That’s where he’ll buy you your tires. It’ll give him an excuse to go.”

  “The lottery, huh?”

  “And Chief Greenwood’s a junkie.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true. He’s hooked on painkillers. My parents talk about it all the time. Like, it’s a good thing we don’t need him for anything, y’know?”

  I was wondering about that as she set off again. Four tires slashed. That was violence against my property—violence against me. No matter how much I felt the people of Middle River disliked me, I had never been physically threatened before. I felt a trembling in the pit of my stomach as the reality of that sank in.

  With each passing minute, I felt more impotent. Needing to do something, I called Sam. It was only when the answering machine at the newspaper office came on that I realized it was Thursday. He would be out playing golf or, more aptly given the hour, in the country club bar drinking scotch with his pals, one of whom was the great Sandy Meade.

  I shifted from foot to foot. I leaned against one side of my car and studied the diner, then walked around and leaned against the other side and studied the woods. I thought about Sandy Meade and the satisfaction that would come from winning a round with him. It was the only thing that brought me relief as I waited for Normie to come.

  When twenty minutes passed and he didn’t return, I began wondering whether what Kaitlin had said about him was true. And not only about him. About Marshall. Addicted to painkillers? If he was, and if he truly believed I was writing a book about the town, I could see that he would feel threatened. But to threaten me in turn? If he thought that would shut me up, he had another think coming. I would have no qualms about publicizing his problems if he continued to put me in harm’s way.

  I wondered if Sam knew about this. I guessed most of the town did.

  Ten more minutes passed, and I grew severely antsy. When my watch read five-thirty and there was still no sign of Normie, I turned to Plan B and called Phoebe. She was with a customer, so I waited. I kept thinking Normie would come along, in which case I wouldn’t need Phoebe at all. But Normie didn’t come. And Phoebe was distracted. “Why are you at Omie’s house?” she asked when she finally came on.

  “Not her house. The diner. I stopped for something to eat, and my tires were slashed. I’m waiting for Normie Zwibble, but if he doesn’t show up, I’ll need your help. You close at six. Can you be out of there by six-fifteen?” I knew there were closing chores, but Joanne was there to do them. Six-fifteen would give me enough time.

  “Joanne?” Phoebe called away from the phone. “Do we close today at six? Isn’t it eight today? Six? Oh, okay.” She returned to me. “I don’t know if I feel like going out for dinner. I’m exhausted. Should we eat in instead?”

  “We agreed on having the chicken pot pie left over from last night,” I said, but I was realizing the futility of the reminder. “Listen, Phoebe. I’ll call back if I need a ride. Okay?”

  I ended the call and tried Zwibble’s, but there was no answer. I couldn’t believe Normie had forgotten. It didn’t make sense. I mean, if what Kaitlin said was true and he thought I was writing a book, wouldn’t he be afraid of crossing me, lest I tell his secret to the world?

  Of course, if Marshall had told him to make things hard for me, and if he was more afraid of Marshall than of me…

  I tried Zwibble’s again. Still no answer. We were coming up on six o’clock, and I was developing a whale of a headache.

  By the way, if you’re thinking I was standing in the parking lot alone all this time, you’d be wrong. We were into the dinner hour now. Middle Riverites had been coming and going. They noticed me, noticed my car, and went on inside. When they came out, they noticed me, noticed my car, then got in their own and drove off.

  Talk about being stared at. Talk about being the butt of gossip. Talk about being…shunned. It was as bad as it had ever been.

  Now you know, Grace said smugly. Do you understand why I drank?

  No, I do not, I challenged. When you drank, you made it worse. When you drank, you couldn’t write, and that was your tool. You could have hit back that way.

  Like you’re doing, Miss High and Mighty? Write a book that exposes all the phonies there, and you’ll have your revenge.

  But then I lose Middle River and my family completely, I thought and felt stymied.

  Omie. I wanted Omie, but she was home taking a nap. Had she been there, she would have waited with me. She was that kind of person. And her children and grandchildren were of like heart—good elements of Middle River—except that they were surely up to their ears cooking and serving inside.

  Six o’clock passed. I tried to phone Phoebe to get her here, but the answering machine came on at the shop.
There was a private number, only I didn’t have it. Nor did Directory Assistance. Mom’s line at the house just rang and rang and rang, and Sabina’s line was busy.

  By six-fifteen, I was seriously considering walking home. I didn’t like the idea of abandoning the BMW—couldn’t begin to imagine what little “mishaps” might occur if I left the car here overnight. But I might have no choice. Still no one answered at Zwibble’s, which meant that Normie might well have forgotten all about me, and I couldn’t wait forever. I had to be at the varsity course by seven.

  By the time six-thirty arrived, my head was throbbing. I figured I could run home in less than ten minutes, change clothes, and, assuming Phoebe was home with the van, get to the varsity course just in time.

  That was when Normie finally showed up, and I was beside myself with impatience. It took him ten minutes to get the BMW on the truck, and another ten to get my credit card information, which he insisted he needed prior to ordering my tires.

  I wanted to scream. Instead, I gave him what he needed, then quietly asked if he could drop me at home. He refused, claiming his insurance said I couldn’t ride in the cab. I offered to ride in the flatbed of the truck, but he vetoed that, too.

  By now it was six-fifty. No doubt about it, I was going to be late. I knew James had a cell phone (he had talked on it that day at Omie’s), but I didn’t have the number. So I got his home number from Directory Assistance and tried him there.

  A woman answered.

  Stung, I hung up. There was no wife. I was sure of it. A girlfriend? Fine. I was running with James—running—that was all.

  That said, I had to be there in order to run. He had said seven, and I had agreed. Now I was going back on my word. Meades might do that, but Barneses did not—not even when they had splitting headaches like mine.

  “Can I drive you somewhere?” Kaitlin asked through her car window.

  I hadn’t seen her pull up, though I might have guessed she would come. With my eyes on the road searching for Normie’s flatbed truck, I had seen her mother’s old Jeep go past several times. Kaitlin was keeping tabs on me.

  Grateful that someone was, if only this young woman who might well have a case of misplaced idol worship, I rounded the car and climbed in. “My sister’s, as fast as you can drive without getting a ticket,” I said, pressing my fingers to my temple to hold my head together.

  She got us there in two minutes flat.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” I climbed out. “Thank you.” Seeing the van at the side of the house, I ran up the walk, let myself in, and raced upstairs to change clothes. It was seven on the nose when I ran back down and into the kitchen. Phoebe was at the table, eating. She looked up in surprise.

  “Annie? What are you doing here?”

  To this day, I believe she meant what was I doing in Middle River when she assumed I was in Washington. At the time, I simply said, “Gotta go out for a run. Are you okay with the pie?”

  “The pie. Did you cook this?”

  Call me callous, but I couldn’t deal with the mental fuzzies just then. “I’m taking the van.” I looked around. “Keys?”

  “Uh…uh…” She rose from the table and, seeming mystified, searched the counter, the drawer by the kitchen phone, then her purse. I was dying, looking everywhere else I could think of, when she said a vague, “In my blazer pocket?”

  “Which blazer?” I called as I headed for the closet in the hall.

  She didn’t answer. I was trying to remember which blazer she had worn to work that morning, when she joined me and said, “I think it was my white linen. It’s upstairs.”

  I ran up the stairs, found the blazer on her bed and, thankfully, the keys in the pocket. Racing back down, I dangled them Phoebe’s way and bolted out the door.

  I quickly drove down Willow, turned onto School, and flew across town daring, just daring Marshall to catch me, though for sure he was at home eating a big meal by way of rewarding himself for hassling me. A handful of cars were in the high school parking lot, close to the school. Dodging them, I cut through to the very rear and turned the corner, but when the parking strip at the edge of the woods appeared, I caught a sharp breath.

  No one was there—no person, no car—nothing.

  Pulling up, I left the van and actually went to the start of the path. Don’t ask me why. It was as deserted as the parking strip.

  Trembling, I returned to the grass near the van. It was seven-fifteen. I was late. But not that late. Wouldn’t he have waited? Or just started to run without me? That was what any rational person would do. Wasn’t it?

  It hit me then, hit me hard. History was repeating itself. I had been stood up.

  I should have been furious. But it was one too many turns of the screw on a day filled with them. I was suddenly too tired to process much, and my head was killing me. Sinking down on the grass, I folded my legs, put my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands, and let myself cry. Self-pity? Yes, and I had a right to feel it.

  I don’t know how long I sat there, only know that the crying felt good. In time, I wiped my eyes with my forearms, raised my head, and took a long, stuttering breath. I released it and continued to sit. My mind wasn’t quite revived. I felt numb. That was probably why I didn’t hear the approaching vehicle until it rounded that last curve and came into view.

  My numbness dissolved. At the sight of that black SUV, I was suddenly rip-roaring mad. I rose to my feet and approached, so that I was no more than three feet from the car when he opened the door and lowered a sneakered foot to the ground.

  “You are a major son of a bitch,” I cried, rigid with fury. “Do you have any idea what I did to get here—or what my day has been like? I’ve been threatened and vandalized and stared at and talked about, no doubt, because this is Middle River and the average Middle Riverite doesn’t have the balls to do more than talk, except for whoever slashed my tires, and that person is probably on your daddy’s payroll like most of the rest of the town. I don’t know why I thought you’d be better, maybe because you’re a runner, for God’s sake, but you’re a snake, just like your brother, Aidan—the two of you chips off the old block, because I’m sure all this is coming from Sandy, I would put money on that. But if you think you can scare me away, you’re dead wrong. First Marshall, then Normie, now you—you all are pushing me this close,” I held up my thumb and forefinger, barely parted, “to writing my damned book and exposing everything possible about this stinking town. Thought you were being cute letting me sit here waiting, like I waited for Aidan back then? Wrong. I have a life. I have connections. I have power.” Pressing my palm to my temple, I muttered, “And a massive headache, thanks to you.”

  “You didn’t get my message?” he asked.

  I would have screamed if I’d had the strength. “That’s the oldest line in the book.”

  “I called Phoebe and asked her to tell you I’d be late.”

  “Well, Phoebe didn’t tell me,” I charged. The words were barely out when I realized that Phoebe might well have taken the call and forgotten all about it, but even that had a Meade cause. “If she didn’t tell me, it’s because something’s wrong with her mind, no doubt from pollution caused by your mill.” I waved both hands. “But that’s beside the point. I was worried because I was late, so I tried to call you. A woman answered the phone. Does that give me a hint about why you were late?”

  He didn’t smile. “I was late because an account I’ve been trying to land needed another thirty minutes of work. That was the babysitter who answered the phone.”

  I blew out a puff of air and said to the dimming sky, “Oh…Lord. The…babysitter.” My eyes returned to earth and challenged his. “Do I look like a total fool? You don’t have a baby.”

  “I do. Her name’s Mia. She’s ten months old.”

  It wasn’t his sureness that got to me, as much as the softening of his voice. That gave me pause. “Ten months old, and never a mention in the paper?”

  “My father didn’t want it publici
zed. He doesn’t buy into single parenthood.”

  “So you aren’t married?” Nothing about that in the paper, either, but I wanted to be sure.

  “No.”

  “And Sandy is ashamed of the baby?”

  “No. Angry.”

  “But you wanted to be a parent.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you take care of this baby yourself?” I was trying to picture him changing a diaper. He seemed far too…big, was the only word that came to mind.

  “Other than when I’m at work, I do. She’s precious.”

  He said the last with a half smile, and it did something to me, that smile, moved something inside me that made me forgive him anything that had made him late. It struck me that I had behaved like an imbecile, not the sophisticated woman I wanted to be. And of course he could see that I had been crying. My eyes had to be red.

  Bowing my head, I rubbed the back of my neck. “Oh boy.” I felt like a fool.

  “Did you take something for the headache?”

  “No time.”

  Before I knew it, he had produced pills and a bottle of water. “Here.”

  I took them without asking a thing. He wouldn’t give me anything harmful; my gut told me that. I don’t know why it was so sure. After all, James was a Meade. But my gut was also reminding me that he was attractive, and I had no cause to doubt that. He was standing beside me now, so much taller and broader than I, though still lean. And strong. Quietly so.

  A large, silent, authoritative man like James rocking a baby to sleep? The image was striking enough to tie up my tongue.

  I drank more of the water, then lowered the bottle. My eyes met his for a long moment, and for the life of me, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  Then he said, “Want to run?”

  I nodded. Running was definitely the thing to do.

  So he closed up his car, and we stretched. Then we hit the woods. He offered to have me go first, but I motioned him on, and it was wise. For one thing, though the light was starting to fade, he illuminated the path. I don’t know whether it was his tank top, which was white, or the reflective material of his running shoes, or the last of that light on his skin or the gray in his hair. But he was easy to follow—quite a good runner, actually, I decided, as it seemed I did every time we ran. And why my surprise? He was athletic; one didn’t grow up in Middle River and not know that the Meade boys played baseball, basketball, and football. I guess it was just that running was different. If was solitary, for one thing. I would have thought a Meade would want more of an audience. For another, it was grueling. Typically, Meade boys relied on others to get them the ball when they were in a position to score. Running was not a team sport. Your own two legs carried you, or you went nowhere at all.