“I
said
I’m
sor
—”
She raised her head and caught him grinning, hand cupped to his ear.
“Okay, okay.” She smiled unwillingly. “You won another round.”
“You’ll have me begging for mercy at some point, I’m sure.”
“I’ll try.”
She watched him break eggs, stir, pour, scramble.
So how
long have you been married?
The question wouldn’t come out, and she realized with a jolt of horror that right now she didn’t want his wife to be real.
“Where did you grow up?”
“Right here.”
“You’ve lived here all your life?”
“Not all. How about you?”
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She tightened her lips. Okay, so he wasn’t going to talk about himself. Fine. Then she’d tell him about herself. “I grew up in Framingham, Massachusetts, daughter of a junior high science teacher and an insurance salesman. I went to Brown, then to Stanford business school, met my husband Paul when I was twenty-four, got married six months later, started a career in IT sales, got fired, got a call that Paul had ruined us and killed himself, and bingo, just like that, here I am, at your counter, ready to have BEPO.”
Her voice had risen steadily so that she was a defiant col-oratura by the end. There. He had it all. More than she intended, but Paul’s story sprawled out with the rest of it. If he told her she needed to explore her feelings and her rage more deeply, she was going to push his face into the pan.
He moved the eggs around one more time, turned off the flame and added salt and pepper. One glance over at her, then back to his task. “I guess after all that, it better be damn good BEPO.”
She gaped for a half second, then burst out laughing. He turned and grinned, and the shared humor made her laugh again, fresh spasms of giggles overtaking her until she got her breathing under control with a slow in-and-out sigh that reminded her of Martha. “I thought I’d heard every possible reaction to my tale of tragic woe. That was the funniest.
Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Ann.”
And there, in his gentle deep voice, was genuine and re-spectful sympathy and regret, and maybe even admiration for what she’d had to go through.
Her burst of pleasure was nearly sexual. She wanted to waddle over on her knees and embrace his, call his wife and 164 Isabel
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tell her to stay away, so Ann could wallow a little longer in the sensation of not being treated like a patient.
“Here we go.” He served up the glistening concoction, put one plate in front of each of them. “Dig in.”
She dug. Fifteen minutes later she’d polished off her new true love, BEPO, along with two pieces of wheat toast, liber-ally buttered, a glass of orange juice, a glass of milk, and a cup of excellent espresso.
“So.” Clive’s face defined the concept of smug. “She’s not hungry.”
Ann sent him a look. “Because she’s been
starving
herself for so long.”
“Is that right?” He shook his head in mock amazement.
“You’d never know it to look at her.”
She rolled her eyes and got a dimpled smile back. “Can I help with the dishes?”
“Leave them.”
“Really?” What, he left messes for his wife to clean up?
“I’ll do them later, come on.”
She tried to hide her dismay. “We’re going back.”
“I want to show you something. Outside.”
She followed him out his back door, into a neatly mown yard bordered by grasses grown wild, then by more forest, glimpses of the ocean through the trees about a hundred yards off. Down just shy of where the shore dropped in a dozen-foot-high cliff to the rocky water’s edge, a small building perched, a lean-to really, walls open on three sides, screened off from bugs.
Inside, room for a chaise and a chair, pulled up to a built-in writing or reading or eating surface with a spectacular view.
To the right, the spine of a sandbar curved inward, forming a As Good As It Got
165
shallow clear tidal pool in its arch. To the left, forested mainland ending in dramatic ledges sloping to the sea. Ahead, a clear expanse of water, and beyond, more green fingers of the mainland grabbing at the sea.
The sight lifted her mood even higher. Was that what he’d intended? “It’s beautiful.”
“If you need somewhere to go, some time to yourself some afternoon or on a Sunday, just let Betsy know and I’ll come get you.” He glanced at her, then back out into the bay.
Wow. She felt shaky and odd and vulnerable again, and profoundly touched by his offer after she’d been something of a pig to him, not that he’d been Prince Charming either.
If she didn’t watch out, she’d develop a crush on this guy too.
Widow Becomes Maneating Nymphomaniac.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Clive glanced at his watch. “I should take you back.”
“Yeah. Okay.” To her surprise, the news didn’t fill her gut with as big a ball of lead as before. Not when she had the promise of escape. Another day out on the
Tiger Lily II
next week, and the offer of this peaceful glorious place. She might even survive seeing Patrick again, sorting through her confusing feelings about him and who she was now. She might even manage not to maim Dinah.
Maybe she’d turned a corner.
“Look.” He touched her arm, pointed out over the water.
An enormous bird flapped into sight, glided lower, landed and stood in the shallows on long spindly legs. “Blue heron.”
She stared at the bird, who appeared to be posing for a Come to Maine postcard, and found herself moved, not only by the sight, but by the simple fact of standing in silence, 166 Isabel
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watching the bird with a friend as entranced as she was.
One tear slid silently over her cheek. When did it end, this need to pour out saltwater over something that had happened so many months ago now?
She turned away before he could see, pretending to find something in the woods far more fascinating.
“Grief sucks.” His vehemence startled her into unlikely laughter.
“No kidding.”
“You’ll get through it, Ann. Good things will come out of it. It’s just hard to see them at first.”
“You’ve had experience.”
“Few people haven’t.”
“Right.” She got the tear under control, wishing he’d tell her his story too. “Right. Thanks.”
“And another thing.” He took a step away from her, watching the heron intently. “People kill themselves because of who they are, not who they know. His death wasn’t your failure.”
The tight ball in her throat wasn’t a surprise this time.
“I’m trying to believe that.”
“You can. Once you stop making his death about you.”
She bristled. “I don’t think—”
“Stop.” He turned and looked at her calmly. “Don’t take that the wrong way. You proved on the boat that you’re not as much of a prima donna as you seem.”
She made an open-mouthed sound of indignation. “Oh,
that’s
just—”
“Down, girl.” He winked and showed his dimple. “I’m teasing you.”
“Half teasing.”
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“Okay, half teasing. I admit, I thought you were going to be a pain in the ass at first. Arnold and I have seen it all.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Take women out on the boat? For the cash. Plain and simple.”
“Right.” Ann forced her tense shoulders to relax, and grudgingly let her anger go. “Well, thanks. I guess.”
He nodded. The heron took a few long-legged delicate steps in the background. Some small animal scuttled through the dry underbrush nearby. A mosquito investigated her forehead.
“So . . . ” He gestured to the house. “I really do need to take you back.”
“Okay.” She met his eyes, felt stronger again, and able to cope.
They drove in comfortable silence, his truck bumping and squeaking on the rough entrance road into camp. She was already looking forward to next time, and looking forward to anything was a rare luxury these days.
“Thanks for today, Clive. For the lobstering and . . . everything else.”
“You were good company. And a good worker.” He slid his truck into a parking place. “It was easy having you around.”
“Thanks.” He might as well have told her she was Mother Teresa, Marilyn Monroe, and Marie Pasteur all in one. She was definitely going soft in the head. “And thanks for the food.”
“No problem. They told me I had to fatten you up.”
Oh Christ
.
She knew her face fell. Even though she turned away immediately, she knew he saw it fall. Stupid girl, thinking she’d been out of reach of the Grief Brigade.
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As if to underline the concept, before she was even out of sight of Caretaker Clive, here came Patrolling Patrick, striding on the path, heading for the truck.
Subject returning. All
monitoring systems engaged.
Clive turned off the motor. She glanced at him questioningly. “Staying?”
“I need to talk to Patrick.”
Ann laughed, a bitter unpleasant sound. “Of course. A report on the patient.”
She opened the door, slid out of the truck, wanting to put the whole day behind her now.
“I meant what I said about coming by any time.”
“Right.” Another directive from the Betsy Gestapo.
We believe Ann might do better in a more isolated environment. If you
could pad the walls of your lean-to, we think it might be an ideal
place to further our experimentation.
“For my own good.”
“Ann . . . ” He got out of the truck, came around and stopped, eyes focused behind her on what must have been Patrick’s approach.
“Hey, there, Lady Ann, good to have you back.” Patrick’s voice, big and hearty. She turned and saw him, tall, confident, movie-star handsome, eyes glowing with warmth and welcome. “How was your day?”
“You know? I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that.”
She turned and gestured to Judas, standing solidly planted on the gravel lot. “Why don’t you save yourself trouble and ask Dr. Clive.”
Chapter 11
Cindy smiled down at Martha’s perfect cookies and tried to suppress the urge to upend the table and send almond crescents hurtling in all directions. Her mandatory baking class, held in a light airy annex to the camp kitchen, was a disaster, as she knew it would be. Why wouldn’t they let her try something she could actually be good at? Though she wasn’t even sure what that would be. Waiting for her husband to come back from screwing another woman? If they made that an Olympic event, she’d medal.
Martha’s almonds ground into perfectly fine and even grains in the food processor. Cindy’s clumped into almond butter the first time, and the second, came out half ground, half chunked. Martha’s cookies were smooth, symmetrical, evenly dipped in powdered sugar. Cindy’s were misshapen, burned, and blotchy.
“You’ve all done great.” Francine, their plump, cheerful instructor walked by and did a double-take at Cindy’s disas-170 Isabel
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ters, then moved on. “The camp will be lucky to have these for dessert tonight!”
Cindy wanted to crawl under the cookie-laden table. She could see it now, the rush after dinner, the pillaging, the stuffing, and at the end, only her cookies left alone on the table, unwanted and unloved. Maybe she should dump them now, in the trash or into the woods for the birds, to spare them and herself humiliation.
“So ladies, we’re ready to move on to the third stage of our bread-making. Your dough should have doubled in size by now. A gentle poke should leave an imprint that does not bounce back. That means it has risen enough and you can punch it down.”
The women drifted to their dough balls, each in its own bowl, covered with a blue and white striped towel. Cindy lifted her towel without much hope. Sure enough, the dough looked exactly the same as when she put it in. She glanced at Martha’s. Martha’s had risen nearly to the rim. Of course.
“Yours looks great.” She pointed to Martha’s bowl and gestured hopelessly at her own, laughing, so Martha would see how little it bothered her to be such a complete and utter failure at everything she tried. “I guess mine didn’t rise.”
Martha frowned at Cindy’s lifeless lump. “Your water might have been too hot. Or too cold.”
“Probably.” Cindy gritted her teeth. Those sentences were the most that had come out of Martha’s mouth all class, maybe all week. Why had this woman even come to camp if she wasn’t going to talk to anyone? Dinah talked a little too much, but at least she had something to say, and tried to get along with people. Ann just sniped. She was a tall skinny sniper rifle. Martha was a big bowl of bread dough. Maybe As Good As It Got
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if you poked her, the poke would stay indented as a sign that she’d risen enough and it was time to punch her down.
Cindy would like to volunteer for that job.
She knew she was being jealous and childish. Martha couldn’t help being shy and at ease in the kitchen. Cindy could have paid more attention during those Cook-Easy classes Kevin gave her as a Christmas present years ago. But that had been shortly after his first mistress, and she supposed she’d deliber-ately not-tried in order to punish him. If someone pushed her to the wall and forced her, she’d admit to sly pleasure serving him bad food and watching his face shut down into stoicism.
She knew more about stoicism than he ever would, but she liked giving him a taste anyway.
Maybe Cindy hadn’t shown enough interest in Martha, and that’s all Martha needed to warm her up.
“So.” She punched at her dough, which didn’t deflate and sink because it hadn’t risen in the first place, but she was going to go through the motions and bake the thing if it killed her. “How are you liking camp?”
For a second she thought Martha was going to ignore her, and that made her feel like turning and screaming the question repeatedly, right into Martha’s face. Which was a little worrisome because it usually took something like, oh, say, her husband having an affair, to get her that worked up.
“It’s okay.”
“How are your other classes?”