“Watch your head,” Richard warned as they made their way through a bar area, where low beams stretched across the ceiling. It was most difficult for Jeff and Mick, who each stood over six feet. “This place was built in the fourteen hundreds,” Richard continued above the din of afternoon pint-drinkers who decorated the bar. “People were shorter then.”
They ducked to the back and climbed a few stone stairs. “Find a table,” their leader said, “I’ll go order.”
There was one free table, actually half a table, as the other half was taken by some serious Oxford-looking types with philosophy on their minds. Jeff squeezed between the table and the wall, and Amy went next, sandwiched
between the boys. That left Jill to share close quarters with her ex-husband, the father of her children.
The small room reminded her of her own college days—carefree, indulgent, loud. It was packed with people, and the air was filled with laughter and jolly-goodness so indicative of Europeans at feeding time, even the English, who had not exactly been known for fine cuisine until recently.
The fine cuisine Richard offered was fish and chips and shepherd’s pie. He set overflowing baskets on the uncovered wooden table, then returned to fetch beer. Jill wanted to comment on his hostmanship, but knew it would come out sarcastic and upset the kids. Instead of saying anything, she shoved a french fry into her mouth.
The beers were large and slopped over the rims. Richard set them down and set himself beside the woman he’d once said he loved.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Isn’t this great?”
“I didn’t know it was here, Dad,” Jeff said.
Amy pushed her beer over to Mick. “Too strong,” she said. Mick smiled appreciatively, and Amy smiled back. Jill suspected that the spark that flashed between them was only her imagination.
She cleared her throat. “It’s a wonderful place.”
“I’ll bet I could get some ideas here,” Amy said. “For authenticity. Old English stuff.”
Jill smiled and settled back to be the listener, not the speaker, to savor the camaraderie of the busy, laughing people at their table and all around them and know that none of them—not one—had heard anything about Ben. There was no possibility that after they left, the others would gab about them or call their phone number and hang up. Until now she had not known how much those possibilities had nagged her, and how much energy it had consumed to pretend it didn’t matter.
“So how’s married life, Jill?” her ex-husband asked. She chewed a piece of fried fish, pretending to have a mouthful, when in reality she was trying to figure out how to answer.
She faked a swallow. “Fine,” she said, and took a swig of beer.
Richard laughed. “Well, I guess some of us do it better than others. I’m divorcing Becky.”
She nodded with slight amusement. She’d thought his wife’s name was Brenda. Maybe that had been the previous one.
“I’m never going to get married,” Amy announced. “That way I’ll never have to get divorced.”
Jill and Richard looked at each other, then at Amy. Jill wanted to say something to Richard about the great example he was setting for their children, but decided she wasn’t one to talk.
“My parents are still married,” Mick contributed. “Thirty years this summer.”
It reminded Jill of the freelancer from Providence. She wondered if it were possible that the divorce rate wasn’t nearly what she’d thought, and if, in reality, she—and Richard—were among the few people left in existence who couldn’t seem to get it right.
Suddenly the room grew warm; the noise around them grew louder. She took another sip of beer and wondered how soon lunch could end and she could get out into the fresh air.
Rita told Ben she’d stay out of it.
They’d talked until way past dark, when Rita said she’d better get home or Hazel would be frantic. She tried to get it through his thick, balding head that by not sharing this with others, he was selling his friends and family short. “Secrets suck,” she said.
He’d nodded and pointed to her belly. “Don’t they, though.”
She’d said, “Touché,” and felt like the pot calling the kettle a lousy shade of black.
But women handle secrets much better than men
, she reasoned. Except, apparently, for Jill, whose response had been to run away even though Ben needed her—her support and her love.
The next morning when Rita tried to call Jill, all she got was the machine. Even in England, her friend could be elusive.
So now, as Rita took off in the Toyota, again headed up-island for Menemsha, she knew that fixing this might be solely up to her.
Sure, she’d said she’d stay out of it.
But, well, she was Rita, after all.
She decided to befriend Fern Ashenbach. Maybe that would allow her to get close to Mindy and carve a pathway to the truth.
As the old car rumbled up-island, Rita felt good to have a mission, like a sleuth in a detective story, a private eye. But when she turned into the driveway at the Ashenbach three acres, she thought it sad that Jill wasn’t here to share this. It was the kind of escapade they would have relished when they were kids.
Fern greeted Rita in a fancy bathrobe, waving her fingernails into the wind. “Manicure,” she explained. “Not quite dry.”
Rita hoped it was dry enough for Fern to sign the contract for the listing. She had planned to check with probate first, to see who really owned this house, but decided it could wait: a signed contract warranted reason for being there, and right now being there was all that she needed.
“Hap was supposed to come up this weekend from
Barbados, but he took a charter to Cuba instead.” She blew on her nails. “Hap is my boyfriend.”
Rita wondered if Hap knew about the “scandal” and was in on the blackmail attempt.
“Ever been to Cuba?” Fern asked.
“No,” Rita replied, and did not ask if Hap was going to come back on a raft. She followed Fern into the kitchen and took a seat at the table across from a collection of polish bottles and removers and little pieces of cotton.
“Are you going to marry him?” Rita asked.
Fern laughed. “Who knows?”
“Well, I think being married is even scarier than being a single parent.”
“No shit,” Fern agreed. “So you’re not married. Is this your first baby?”
“My first one died. So this will be my one and only.”
Fern plunged her fingers into two water glasses that were filled with chunks of ice. “Mindy’s my one and only.”
Rita pretended that she and Mindy had been properly introduced. “I have this lousy feeling that raising a kid isn’t as easy as it used to be. It’s like the world is different, you know?”
Pulling her fingers from the glasses, Fern examined them closely. “Kids are a pain in the ass,” she said with perfect clarity. “Well,” she added, as if realizing she’d sounded harsh, “sometimes they’re okay. But they’re kind of like dogs. I mean, your life changes, but theirs doesn’t. Know what I mean?”
No, Rita did not know. She had never considered Kyle a pain in the anything. It was obvious why the little girl on the roadside had seemed so forlorn. “Well, Fern,” she said quietly, then plunged in, the way Fern had plunged her fingernails into the ice, “I guess nothing’s ever perfect,
and things change all the time. How does your daughter feel about leaving the Vineyard? I assume that’s what you’ll do.”
“Right now she thinks I have to sell the house because her grandfather left some debts, that it’s the only way we can survive.”
Excited that Fern was taking her into her confidence, Rita knew she must go slowly so she wouldn’t seem suspiciously eager. She must be concerned, but not nosy.
“Dave Ashenbach worked hard all his life,” Rita said, not knowing if it was true or not, but knowing that few fishermen had it easy. “It’s hard to believe he didn’t have any money.”
“Not enough for Hap and me to buy our boat. When my father-in-law kicked the bucket, I realized that this could be my chance to finally make it. Shit, you can’t imagine how degrading it is to always work for rich people.”
Rita tried to look sympathetic.
“I deserve to be the one living on a boat. A sixty-footer at least. No more schlepping for those rich slobs. Hap and I decided we’re even going to dock in a slip right next to them. If they’re lucky, maybe we’ll invite them over for cocktails.”
Then Fern stood and plucked a pen from the counter. “Did you bring the contract?”
Rita swiftly opened her bag, her heart beating softly at this piece of news:
Fern and her boyfriend wanted a yacht
. Even with Vineyard house prices, even with three acres, Fern would need to amass all the money that she could. And Ben was an easy, ready-made target.
Sliding over the contracts, Rita asked nonchalantly, “What about your daughter? Will she live on the boat, too?”
“Who knows?” Fern scanned the papers, then signed them. “But believe me, I’m going to do whatever it takes. I’ve been gypped long enough.”
And then Rita felt dread. Dread for Ben, for the child—and for Jill, who needed to get her ass back here, the sooner the better.
Ben was glad he’d told Rita. There was a certain kind of solace in unburdening the soul. He had not felt it since Noepe died. He did not know if Rita believed him, but she was an objective person, with nothing at stake. He supposed this was why shrinks did so well—their lives would not be uprooted and destroyed by anyone’s confession.
He wished he could tell Carol Ann. Was Rita right—was he selling his friends and family short? Jill had implied the same thing. But neither woman could know the shame that just the thought of child molestation evoked inside a man, the accusation that he was capable of violating the most sacred trust of innocence.
The very thought made him want to vomit.
He ran a square of sandpaper across a two-by-four and wondered what the hell he’d thought about before this happened, before it consumed every waking moment of his days and many nights.
The doorbell rang upstairs. Ben put down his work and climbed the winding cellar steps. But even before he reached the door, he knew who was on the other side by the silhouette that played upon the frosted glass. His elation, however, quickly dissipated when he saw the look upon Carol Ann’s face.
In one short second, he knew that she knew.
“Dad,” his daughter said when he opened the door, “we have to talk.”
Yes, they did.
Carol Ann had heard it at the town hall where she worked.
“Too bad about your father,” one of the local cops had whispered. “It’s hard to believe a guy his age would, well, you know, touch a kid.”
So much for the gag order.
She didn’t cry while she related it, didn’t even flinch. But Ben recognized the stonelike quality to her voice as anger. It was the way he always sounded when he was so pissed that he could shout. Or scream. Or ram his fist at a doorjamb as he’d done last night.
“I didn’t even go home and tell John,” she said. “I called him and told him to pick up the kids. I said there was something urgent I had to do, and that I’d see him later.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ben said, “John already knows.”
They had moved into the music room; she was sitting on the settee, he on the high-backed wing chair facing her.
Pink rose in her cheeks. “How long has he known?”
Ben sighed. “Since the beginning of October. That’s when it started. Your husband bailed me out.”
For a moment neither said anything. Then Carol Ann said, “Is this why he’s always made sure we’re too busy to see you? Why he said the kids couldn’t go to Sturbridge.…” Her words trailed off, then she said, “Is this why he said you and Jill wouldn’t be home on Christmas? Oh, God, Dad. Please tell me none of this is happening.”
He rose from the wing chair and crossed the room to her. He was not going to avoid touching her—she was his daughter, for chrissake. He sat down next to her and took her hands in his. “John was trying to protect you, Carol Ann,” he said. No matter how pissed off he was at John, he wasn’t going to cause trouble between them.
She stared at him a moment and did not blink. “I want to know what happened.”
He did not pause a heartbeat. “Mindy Ashenbach accused me of touching her breast. But even if she had a
breast—which she does not as yet—I wouldn’t go near it. I hope you know that.”
“Of course I know that, Dad.”
She didn’t have to say anything more. She only had to look at him, her gray eyes reflecting his, with Louise’s gentle, caring face, the face that he knew, no matter what, would always love him, would always stand behind him. That history of
family
, those years of struggle and survival and sharing to the depths, had built a strong foundation layered with trust. It was the innate trust that he and Jill could never have, no matter how much they loved each other.
A trembling started inside his shoulders as he held the soft hands of his lovely, trusting daughter. Then it quivered in his back and traveled down his arms and up inside his head. And there on the antique settee, Ben broke down and cried.
Carol Ann brought Ben a shot of the single malt, neat, the way he liked it in the best of times, the worst of times.
As he touched the warm, golden liquid to his lips, it almost seemed amusing the way his life had suddenly been transformed and women were flocking to his aid. Well, Rita and Carol Ann did not exactly constitute a flock, but their support mattered. Would Jill think he deserved it? He also wondered if Carol Ann’s trust would be uprooted when she learned everything.
“So Fern is trying to blackmail you? Please, Dad. Why don’t you just tell the police?”
He had not wanted to tell the police because he hadn’t even told his wife. He had told Rita and now he had told Carol Ann, but he had not told Jill about the blackmail attempt for a half million dollars. As it was, Jill already wanted to pay Fern off and let her get away with it.
“I need to let my lawyer take care of it. I didn’t want to screw things up more than they already are.” He moved back to the wing chair where he was more comfortable, and to gain distance to tell her what was coming next. “Besides,” he said, “there’s something that could complicate the situation.”