Tuesday morning, Joe Geissel banged on Rita’s front door. She peered at him from the upstairs window, wondering if she should go downstairs. Tuesday morning, Joe Geissel banged on Rita’s front door. She peered at him from the upstairs window, wondering if she should go downstairs.
“Mom?” Kyle called from the bedroom next door. “Someone’s at the door.”
Shit, Rita thought as the banging persisted. If she didn’t go downstairs, Kyle would. And there was no need for him to know about Joe—no reason to know how desperate his mother had become in order to protect their lives. It was just her dumb luck again that Kyle was home this morning, that he had the next two days off work at Jill’s. She pulled on her thin cotton robe, ran her hands through her curls, and went downstairs to face the wrath of the man who only last week had told her she was the best thing that ever happened to him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he screamed as she opened the door.
Rita stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “My son is inside,” she said. “Please keep it down.”
“I don’t care if the pope is inside. I want to know what the fuck you’re doing, and I want to know now.” His cheeks were puffed and red with rage, his eyes like little slits in the sunlight. As he shouted, his jowls flopped up and down against the collar of his plaid, short-sleeved shirt.
Rita folded her arms and leaned against the door. She hadn’t realized how old Joe was, how ugly. “I’m not going to speak to you until you calm down,” she said quietly.
He puffed his cheeks again, then dug his hands into the pockets of his chinos. Rita wondered how long it had been since she’d seen him in clothes, then was embarrassed for herself, that her life had been reduced to this.
“What are you doing, babe?” he asked. “Why’d you do this to me?” The redness began to fade from his cheeks.
“I’m just a working girl trying to make a living,” she said. “I thought you wanted to sell your house.”
“I hadn’t planned on getting a divorce in the process.”
Rita hid her inward smile. Sparks must have been flying over the line between Boston and West Chop yesterday. For that, it had been worth her little trip. For that, it had been worth staying up half of Sunday night puking. She looked out to the street, at Joe’s big Mercedes parked crooked on the dirt shoulder, and wondered if the neighbors wondered what a Mercedes was doing in their neighborhood, and if Rita had finally hit it big. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you slept with me,” she replied.
He steadied his slit eyes on her again. “I guess I should be more careful in my choice of partners. I thought I could trust you.”
She sneered. “You never planned to leave her, did you? Well, I’ve got news for you. I never thought you would. In fact, if you had, I wouldn’t have taken you. You’re just a used-up piece of shit scumbag, Joe. If you think for one minute I fell for your bullshit, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.” She wished her insides would stop squeezing together; she wished her head felt as confident as her words sounded.
“I told you I needed more time.”
“You told me a lot of things. Like this was the fourth Mrs. Joe Geissel. And that I was only welcome in your home from Monday through Friday. Do you think I’m stupid, Joe? Is that it?”
“Why did you go to her?”
“Maybe I wanted to see what she has that makes her better than me. Well, you know what? She has shit, Joe. She’s got a face like a truck and if her nose were any higher in the air, she’d take flight.”
He stared at her, his slit eyes opened wide now. The redness had come back to his cheeks.
Rita took a short breath and continued, before she lost her nerve. “I had a buyer for your house, you asshole. A two-million-dollar deal. But you know what? I wouldn’t sell it now if it were the last house on the Vineyard. I wouldn’t sell it if I was down to digging quahogs for dinner again. I don’t need your fucking money, and I surely don’t need you. Rita Blair will make it just fine without you.” She put her hands on her hips and turned to the door. “Now get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
With that, she went inside, slammed the door behind her, stood in the middle of the fraying, braided rug, and started to shake all over.
“Mom?”
Rita clutched the tie of her robe. “It’s okay, honey,” she called up the stairs. “It was just business.” She quickly tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks, but Kyle’s footsteps down the stairs beat her to it.
“Jesus,” he said as he looked at his mother, then darted to the front door. He ripped it open just as Rita heard the gravel spit from beneath the tires of Joe’s Mercedes. “What’s going on?” Kyle asked.
She kept her back to him and went into the kitchen. She stood at the sink a moment, then reached for the coffee maker. “I told you, Kyle. It was just business.” Her words sounded strong, her words sounded confident. She only wished her hands would stop shaking. Taking the coffee can from the refrigerator, she tried to scoop out the grounds. Half the tablespoon spilled out; brown granules skittered across the counter, then pinged onto the tired linoleum. “Shit,” she said as she dropped the measuring spoon into the sink and started to sob.
Kyle’s arm was suddenly around her. “Mom. God, are you okay? Who was that creep?”
“Just a sale gone bad. It’s not the first time.”
“It’s the first time you’ve reacted like this.”
An image of the IRS office came into her mind, followed by the scent of stale jailhouse air, the sound of a cell door slamming. “Oh, Kyle,” she cried, “I do believe your sainted mother has screwed up.”
He guided her to the table. “Sit down,” he ordered. “And tell me everything that happened.”
She sat. “Make some coffee,” she said. “Please.”
“Only if you promise to tell me the truth.”
Rita nodded and tried to collect her thoughts. She listened as Kyle poured water in the coffee maker, dug fresh grounds from the can. He deserved more than this for a mother, she thought for the thousandth time. He deserved a mother he could depend on, no matter how old he got, no matter what. In her selfish need to keep him from worrying the way she had always done with Hazel, Rita had gotten in over her head, bitten off more than she could chew, counted her chickens before they hatched. There was a reason, she realized now, that those old sayings were ever written in the first place.
But what had she done that was so wrong? She had only wanted to own her own business. When Franklin had gotten sick her opportunity was there—Rita Blair’s one chance to be somebody. Sure, she could have gone to work for one of the agencies on the island—it would have been easier. But this was her big break, her very own Good Night, Boston. SurfSide Realty was supposed to turn her life around.
Then the real money problems began.
She tapped her fingernail on the edge of the table and was amazed that she’d been too stupid to know that the one Peter you didn’t borrow from to pay Paul was the IRS.
Kyle set a steamy mug in front of her. Rita ran her thumb over the handle, looked into the dark liquid, and wondered how coffee would taste out of a tin cup.
Her son sat down and looked at her. “Well?”
She picked up the mug, took a short sip. “Well,” she said slowly, “I think I’m going to go to jail.” She set down the mug and kept her eyes fixed on it. She could not look at Kyle, she could not look at the son she’d tried so hard to protect.
“Mom, get real. You said you’d tell me the truth.”
“It is the truth.”
Kyle didn’t move. “Does this have anything to do with the IRS?”
She jerked up her head. “What do you know about the IRS?”
“When I came home the other day, I saw you cram something in your briefcase. You were upset. When you went upstairs to change for the tavern, I looked inside. I read the letter.”
Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She opened her mouth and looked away. “Well, then, Mr. Smart-Ass, I don’t have to tell you what’s wrong.”
“You owe them over twenty grand.”
She held her coffee mug steady with both hands. “Remind me to kill the teacher who taught you to read.”
“Jesus Christ,” Kyle muttered. “What happened?”
Taking another long gulp, Rita realized the time had come to level with Kyle. Though she’d wanted to protect him from this—from everything—facts were facts. She might as well prepare him now for the inevitable. She set down the mug and told him the story. She told him how each week she’d barely been able to write out the net paychecks for her two secretaries, let alone think about the money she was “holding back” for payroll taxes. The truth was, there had been no more money in the checking account to “hold back.” “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said at the end.
He leaned back in his chair. “So you owe the IRS twenty grand. I can get the money.”
“How? I already mortgaged the house to buy the business. I’m broke, Kyle. I’ve been buying groceries and paying the utilities out of the money I make at the tavern.”
“I said, I can get it.”
“You’re not selling your truck. You worked too hard to get it. And you’re not going to borrow it from anyone.”
“My boss is rich.”
“No. I hardly know him. I got myself into this. I’ll figure a way out.”
“No offense, Mom, but you don’t seem to be doing that too well.”
“I tried.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
She took another sip of coffee.
“Can you call Grandma Blair?”
Rita shook her head. “I’m too old to go running to Mommy, Kyle. Besides, I’m not going to screw up your grandmother’s life.”
“What about Charlie Rollins?”
“No.”
“Well, what then? You can’t go to jail, Mom. That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe I’ll sell a house.”
“How many have you sold this summer?”
“None. But it’s still only August.” Rita knew, though, that it was probably pointless. She’d run the scenario over and over in her mind too many times. Joe Geissel had been her one hope.
Kyle grabbed his keys from the counter.
“Where are you going?” Rita asked.
“If you insist on doing this yourself, you need all the energy you can get,” he said. “I’m going out to get us some breakfast. I figure four big, fat eclairs ought to do it.”
He went out the door. Rita wondered how she had, at least, been blessed with having such an incredible kid. An incredible kid, that’s what Jill had called him. Jill. Rita’s mind kicked back into gear. Jill was the one person who might be willing to help. If only Rita could find the nerve to ask.
“I don’t suppose this old house is air conditioned,” Addie bristled, moving to the windows in the sewing room, then snapping the shades from Florence’s half-way-up-and-no-higher position all the way to the top. She pulled off her large-brimmed hat and fanned her round cheeks. She’d been bitching about the heat since she’d waddled off the plane.
“No.” Jill leaned against the Singer and wondered why she always felt small in Addie’s presence. She suspected it wasn’t the difference in their girth. “I can get you a fan.…”
“Better make it two. I need to have my wits about me for tomorrow.” She plopped on the bed, her camellia-flowered, apricot tent dress billowing over the midlife bulges it was supposed to conceal, then settling on the yellowed George Washington bedspread. She began extracting bottles and jars from her Louis Vuitton bag. “I checked with the weather station. Tomorrow will be sunny. We’ll do most of the shooting outside. As planned.”
Apparently, even God wouldn’t have dared to thwart Addie’s agenda.
“Christopher mentioned he’s having dinner with Maurice Fischer again,” Jill said.
Addie pulled out a small mirror and a tube of bright pink lipstick. She pursed her thin lips at the glass and slowly outlined them. “Everything will be fine, as long as Christopher follows my instructions.”
Shifting on one foot, Jill wished Christopher had told her more, wished she didn’t feel as though she didn’t count, as though this deal wouldn’t affect her life, and her career, as well as his. Sometimes, Addie seemed to forget that, too. “What instructions?”
Addie flicked her a glance. “At this stage?” She turned back to the mirror and blotted her lips with a tissue. “He only needs to act as though he’ll do anything Maurice wants.”
Jill wished Addie had said he should act as though they would do anything Maurice Fischer wanted. “Did he tell you about the Sam Wilkins story?”
“Of course. It’s brilliant. Can you do it?”
“I’ll do my best. But even if Sam agrees, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to shape it into our ‘good news’ format.”
“Anything with Saín Wilkins will be good news to Fischer. Right now, he’s more important than your audience.”
Jill didn’t mask her surprise. “But isn’t our format what makes Good Night, Boston so successful? Isn’t it why Fischer was interested in the first place?”
Addie tossed her lipstick and makeup back into her bag. “Don’t be naive, Jill. If this show goes national, there will be more than one change.”
“What other changes?”
“There’s no need to bother about that until the time comes.” Addie stood up. “Did you get a dress for the shoot?”
Jill knew when a subject had been dismissed. She drew in a deep breath and decided she’d let Christopher deal with Addie tomorrow. “I went into town this morning and picked up a couple of earth-mother things. You can choose the one you like best.”
Addie nodded. “Good. But right now, I’m starving. Where does a person get a decent meal on this hotter-than-hell island?”
“There’s a nice place for fresh fish in Oak Bluffs,” she said. “I thought we could take the kids.”
“I hate fish,” Addie said with a snort. “And I’m really too tired to deal with children tonight. Besides, we need to talk about tomorrow. I’m sure the children would be bored.”
Jill forced a smile. “You’re probably right.” She moved toward the doorway. “We can run down to the tavern. I’ll call Charlie and have him reserve us a quiet table.” Then she went into the hall, slouched against the wall, and wondered if, wherever they moved, Addie would be moving there, too.
She awakened to the feel of something warm against her skin. Lying on her side, Jill opened her eyes and looked down at the arm draped over her, at the hand that caressed her breast. She smiled. “You’re early,” she murmured. “Or I’m waking up late.”
“A little of both,” Christopher answered, pressing his nakedness against her back.
His hardness stirred against her as it grazed her buttocks. Below her waist, she began to tingle. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He pulled her back closer to him. “Me, too.”
“I must have overslept because the power saw isn’t going today.”
“Addie’s outside with the photo crew. Give her a minute and she’ll make more noise than a power saw.”
“Oh,” Jill groaned and moved closer against him. “She gives me a headache sometimes.”
Christopher laughed. “I know, honey, but …”
“But she’s only got our best interests at heart.”
“And her fifteen percent,” he added.
Jill turned to face him. She took him in her hand and began to stroke. “Speaking of being realistic,” she whispered, “Addie told me I was naive to think Good Night, Boston wouldn’t change. What did she mean? Oh, and how was your dinner?”
He took a lock of Jill’s hair, entwined it in his fingers. “Dinner was wonderful, but I missed you terribly.”
“Did you dazzle him?”
“You would have dazzled him more.” He lowered his head and sucked her nipple.
“You didn’t tell him about Sam, did you?”
“I told him you were working on a piece that would knock the socks off the world.”
She grinned. “Well, that certainly puts the pressure on.”
He slid his hand between her legs. “I don’t think we need to talk about this right now.”
“But what about the changes, Christopher? What did he say?”
“Just a couple of minor things, including that there will be a big emphasis on promotion.”
“Well, I’d expect they’d promote it.”
“Not them. Us. I get the feeling we’ll have to do a lot. But don’t worry, honey,” he said as he probed his finger around her vagina, then thrust it into her warmth. “I’m sure Addie will handle all that.”
She moved with the rhythm of his finger, but her thoughts were on Addie—on how the woman had already handled their promotion, including the use of Jeff and Amy—the same children the woman had been “too tired to deal with” last night.
“What kind of promotion? More Lifestyles layouts?”
Christopher’s finger stopped. “Jill. Please. I’m trying to make love to you, not conduct a meeting.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m only concerned about our future. I wasn’t the one at dinner with Fischer, remember?”
His penis grew soft. She slid her hand away.
Christopher rolled onto his back and sighed. “Okay, you win,” he said without humor. “He talked about product endorsements. Plus, appearances at film premiers and charity events. They’ll want us to be seen.” He paused. “There. Are you happy now?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, Jill thought of her calendar that was already too packed with work, with her life. “Are they forgetting we’ll have a show to do Monday through Friday?”
He sat up, drew up his knees, and folded his hands on top of them. “That’s another one of the changes. We’ll still be on every day, but the workload won’t be as demanding.”
“We’ll be doing national stuff. How can he say the workload won’t be as demanding?”
He tented his fingers in an upside-down “V.” “Because we won’t have to write the stories.”
She thought she must have heard him wrong. “What?”
“We’ll have a staff to do the writing. And the producing. All we have to do is sit behind the desk and look impressive.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
The warmth he had generated now turned to a chill. “So we’ll be nothing more than talking heads.”
“Hey, if talking heads is what they want, count me in. For a three-year contract at a million five apiece, I’ll talk my head off.”
She yanked back the sheet and got out of bed. “That may be fine for you, you were a baseball player. But, God, Christopher, I’m a journalist. Journalists research. They write. They produce their own stories.”
“Does Barbara Walters do her own research?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“She has a staff, Jill. I keep telling you that you’ve got to think of the big picture. Besides, Fischer isn’t talking Boston. He’s talking Hollywood. L.A.”
Jill threw on her robe and went to the window. She moved the thin sheer drape and looked outside. A small army of blue-jeaned-clad people—women with short hair, men with ponytails—swarmed over the lawn, setting up tripods and umbrellas. Close by, watching them intently, stood Amy. “So, it’s L.A.? Not New York? Or Atlanta?”
She heard the familiar rattle of Christopher’s belt buckle as he pulled on his pants. “A little Hollywood life might be exciting. If you think you can manage to let yourself get excited.”
“Just what Amy needs,” she said quietly, “life in L.A.” She looked down at the life below her, listened to the fervor of voices, felt the pulse of activity. Then she glanced over to her mother’s hydrangea bushes and thought about their predictability, the fact that year after year, they had blossomed there, would continue to blossom there. They were island flowers, rooted in the land. They flourished in the salt air and grew colorful in the limy soil. But Jill Randall had not flourished on this island. She had been an unwanted child, whose roots had never quite taken hold. She had needed something, somewhere different. She had needed to find somewhere where she felt she belonged. Yet even still, deep within her, lay the seeds of the hydrangea, in the soil of the Vineyard.
She turned to Christopher; he was putting on his shirt. She went to him and straightened his collar. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. For Jill knew her life was about to change, about to become everything she had ever dreamed of and more. She couldn’t let the doubts of her childhood ruin it now.
“No problem,” he answered. “I’ll see you outside.”
As Jill watched him go, she decided that later tonight, when they were safely alone in bed, she would make it up to him. They would make long, wonderful love, and then she would read to him from the pages of her mother’s diary. She would share her pain with the man she loved. Maybe then the ache inside her would subside. Maybe then, once and for all, she could move on.