Chapter 21
And though her years of training told her she should get an all-important confirmation of Sam’s “confession,” she then remembered she was no longer a street reporter, bound by street reporters’ rules.
As she chewed the tip of her pen, her gaze drifted to the ceiling. The new beams were in place, looking every bit like the original ones. Incapacitated or not, Ben Niles had made sure the work on the house was perfect and, thankfully, almost complete. Jill knew that Jeff had been a big help to Ben, and for that she was grateful. It was wonderful to see at least one of her children with a focus, a purpose, unlike Amy who went to the beach alone every day, and sat in somber unhappiness each night at dinner. For both the kids’ sakes, Jill was eager for them to return to their schools, their normal lives. As if anything would ever be normal again.
She still, however, had to decide what to do about the contents of the house. Any lingering thought that she might call the church women was now impossible. What if they had known about her brother? What if they knew the truth about Kyle?
Rita may have known someone who could take care of the house, but she could not call her either. Jill’s stomach still felt sick at the thought of her friend, and of her friend’s son, her father’s son.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind and looked around the room, at the antique furniture, the scrimshaw humidor, the curio table filled with her great-great-grandfather’s whaling hook, his tavern record book, the inkwell and quill pen, the gold pocket watch. Jill knew these things were more than memorabilia of an era gone by—they were valuable, but not to her. She knew that all she had to do was look up an estate liquidator in the yellow pages; still, she procrastinated. Anyone she called would probably have known her parents, and the less contact she had with islanders now, the better.
“When we’re done here we only have to put the whale in place,” Ben’s voice drifted from the dining room. “Would you like to do that for me, Jeff?”
“Sure,” Jill heard her son reply. “Where does it go?”
“In the glass over the front door. We’ll replace the block that’s there.”
Jill bent her head and returned to her notes. The house was almost complete; her reason for being here nearly over. Christopher and Maurice Fischer would be here Friday, and Monday they would load up the Range Rover and get back to her real life, where no mothers or brothers or halfbrothers were lurking, and no diaries existed.
All she had to do was find someone to come in and clean out the junk. She wished there was someone she could trust to ask.
“I couldn’t have done this without you, Jeff,” Ben’s voice drifted again from the next room.
Jill sat up straight. Ben Niles. Why hadn’t she thought of him before? She rose from the desk and went to the doorway of the dining room. “Ben?” she asked. “I have a problem you might be able to help me with.”
He had a wooden stick in a can of paint and stirred with his left hand in an awkward, spastic motion.
“I will if I can,” he said as he looked up at Jill, his soft gray eyes set in a smile.
“You’ve seen everything in the house. I’d like to turn it over to someone—an estate liquidator or someone. But I don’t know anyone appropriate on the island.”
He paused. “You’re going to get rid of everything?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to sell it furnished?”
Jill frowned. She hadn’t thought of that. “Well, I suppose … I don’t know. Surely the next owners wouldn’t want the personal things. Pots, pans, the sewing machine …”
“I can ask around.”
She hesitated. “No. There’s no need. I just thought maybe you knew someone …”
“Tell you what. I’m going to Nantucket tomorrow. I’ve got to try and put off my next job until this damn arm is healed. It’s quite a cottage, and I know the people are into antiques. Maybe they’d be interested in some of the things.”
This wasn’t exactly what Jill wanted. She didn’t want to sell things piecemeal: she wanted to dump it all quickly, in one place. She wanted to sever her responsibility—and her ties to the Vineyard—in one swoop.
“I don’t know.…” she said.
“Would you like to come with me?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
He moved a drop cloth with his foot. “Maybe if you talked with the people, you might be able to strike a deal. Get rid of the whole lot, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“Oh, it’s what I want all right. You’re going tomorrow?”
“We’ll wrap up here today.”
Jill turned to Jeff. “Would you mind if I went to Nantucket?” What she’d really wanted to ask was if he minded staying here to watch over Amy. Hopefully, Jeff would know that.
“I don’t care, Mom. Maybe I’ll go to the beach with Amy. Play some volleyball.”
She said a silent prayer of thanks again for her brilliant son. “What time are you leaving?”
“I’m catching a nine o’clock flight.”
“Not the ferry?”
“The ferry is for tourists who have two hours and fifteen minutes each way to kill.”
“Right,” Jill replied, not wanting to admit that in her nearly eighteen years of living on the Vineyard, she had not once gone to Nantucket, not even for the famous inter-high school football games. Her mother had not allowed it. “Shall I meet you at the airport?”
A silver limousine waited for them at the airport. Jill did not hide her surprise. “Your reputation must certainly precede you,” she said to Ben with a smile.
“They must have sensed that the beautiful Jill McPhearson would be accompanying me,” he replied as they stepped inside the leather interior.
Jill sat down and tried not to show her surprise that Ben took this all so lightly, and that he had called her beautiful. “This doesn’t impress you, does it?” she said, once they were under way.
“What? The limo?” He laughed. “I think it’s fairly ridiculous. But if it makes my clients feel better to have the hired hand picked up in a stretch, hey, who am I to take their fun away?”
She began to wonder once again what the real story was behind Ben Niles, and was irritated that Christopher had not felt it could be worthy of Good Night, Boston. As they rode along the narrow streets that were cluttered with bicycles and bordered by too-close-to-the-road white houses and shops, Jill thought there must be many people who lived on the Cape and Islands with lives like Ben Niles—content in their crafts, superior at their work, yet, aside from big paychecks, were largely unrecognized.
“The Yankee article certainly impressed my publicist,” she commented.
“It was a fluke.” He laughed again, his dimple sinking into his right cheek. “A friend of one of my neighbor’s is a writer. She was on the Vineyard last summer, and I guess she was bored.”
Jill smiled, and wondered if he’d had a relationship with the woman, then wondered why she was wondering that. “Addie said it was a fine article.”
“It was embarrassing.”
She thought about the upcoming Lifestyles spread. Until then, until the kids were involved, Jill had not minded publicity. She’d always felt it was part of the job. “Yes, well,” she said quietly, “the media can be embarrassing.”
Ben laughed but said nothing.
“I’d like to look at the stables now,” he said. “Perhaps you would take me, Mr. Sherman? Then Jill and your wife could talk business.”
The woman, indeed, was an antiques dealer. “Not the flea market kind, my dear,” the sweet woman spoke softly as she peered over bifocals at Jill. “Only exclusive materials. They must be authentic.”
“Oh,” Jill reassured her, “believe me, they’re authentic. They’ve been in my family forever, I think.”
The woman frowned. “It’s a shame you have to let them go.”
“I don’t have to.” Jill found herself defensive. “I want to. I’ve no need for them. My fiancé and I will be moving to the West Coast.” She quickly described the larger pieces—the rolltop desk, the Victorian settees, the four-poster beds. “There are other things as well. A sewing machine, pots and pans …”
Mrs. Sherman nodded, making notes on a small pad decorated with a border of violets. “I don’t get over to the Vineyard often,” she said, “but my daughter can do the legwork. Perhaps you know her. Misha Sherman?”
Jill shook her head, grateful she’d never heard of her.
“Misha is our eldest,” Mrs. Sherman continued. “We adopted her when she was eleven—just before Israel gained their independence in 1948.”
“You adopted her?”
“My husband was in international finance. His work took us all over the world, but we made Nantucket our home. We raised nine adopted children here—all from different countries. All orphans of war.”
Jill smiled. It was difficult to believe this frail, seemingly private New Englander had a life so rich, and had done deeds so philanthropic in an era when so many—like Florence Randall—had sequestered themselves from the world and lived only for themselves, and their own flesh and blood.
“You never had children of your own?” she asked gently.
“Oh, my yes. Four. All boys, God bless them. But there was always room at our table for more. Would you like to see their pictures?”
Jill nodded and followed Mrs. Sherman’s slow steps into the house, into a large, sunny living room resplendent with color, antiques, and warmth. An ebony baby grand filled one corner, its top protected by a crocheted shawl that was lovingly covered with a multitude of picture frames.
She listened carefully as Mrs. Sherman pointed out each of their children and each of their grandchildren—a happy blend of light- and dark-skinned faces, blonds and brunettes, thin children, chubby children, short and tall—their laughter singing through the small squares of glass set in the neat little frames. Jill thought of the photo-less house in which she’d grown up and felt a pang of loss for things she’d never known.
“It looks like the United Nations,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, my dear, it’s nothing so politically noble. Just one big family, making the best of our world: two doctors, three teachers, a lawyer, and … oh, my, I believe I’ve lost track.”
Jill’s eyes moved over the pictures again. She realized there was quite a story here. Not a sensational Sam Wilkins story, but a good story. A story with soul.
It was after one when Ben returned with Mr. Sherman.
“You must stay for lunch,” Mrs. Sherman announced. “We have fresh cod cakes today.”
“Jill,” Ben asked, “would that create a problem for you?”
She thought about the Shermans, about the kind of life they’d had. She thought about her need to find out more. It may never be a story that would make national airwaves, but her curiosity would not let it go. “No,” she replied with a smile. “No problem at all.”
By midafternoon, heavy clouds enveloped the sky. When Ben mentioned they must get back to the Vineyard, the Shermans seemed genuinely sorry to see them leave.
So was Jill.
The limo dropped them at the airport, and Jill stood at the chain-link fence, while Ben went to check on the gate. She studied the cluster of small planes and wondered how many of these people had stories: people like the Shermans, wealthy, salty islanders, who had done good for the world, yet remained unnoticed. Their lives had purpose—still had purpose, even in their elder years. Jill silently wished Christopher could see the depth of such stories. “You have to think bigger than that, Jill,” she could almost hear him say. “No one cares about some old people on Nantucket.” Maurice Fischer, she knew, would agree.
“I hope you aren’t in a hurry to get back,” Ben said as he came back to where she stood. “Fog’s rolling into the Vineyard, and the plane’s not taking off.”
“Oh,” Jill said, hoping she sounded disappointed.
“We can just about make it to the ferry, if you don’t mind the long trip.”
“Two hours and fifteen minutes with tourists?” she asked with a smile.
“And their bikes,” he groaned.
“I think I can handle it.”
They took a cab to the docks and scooted onto the Hi-Line boat just before it backed away from the pier. It was not, Jill noted, as large as the Woods Hole ferry.
“Passengers only,” Ben remarked as they scanned the deck in search of seats, all of which seemed to be taken by weary-looking travelers with sunburns.
“Let’s stand by the rail,” she said. “I love to watch the water.”
They pushed their way to the rail and found a space big enough for the two of them. The boat began to roll and chug toward the open sea. Then, the skies began to drizzle.
“I’d say we should go below,” Ben said, “but you can be sure it’s packed down there.”
She tilted her face to the rain. “It’s okay. I love the rain,” she answered. “I’d forgotten how much.” She licked a drop off her upper lip and turned to Ben. “I hope your wife won’t be holding dinner for you.”
“I have no wife, Jill. I’m a widower.” He said the word as though it were a foreign, unknown land, like Siberia or Mars.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” He tipped the brim of his cap as though trying to shield his eyes.
“How’s the arm?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“The cast should come off next week. I’ll be back in my house and back in my car.”
“Your car is unique.”
“It’s dependable.”
“It suits you.”
He smiled.
She shifted against the rail. “You did a remarkable job getting my house done.”
With his gray eyes steady on the water, Ben nodded. “Like I said, I don’t leave a job unfinished.”
Jill brushed back her hair. Raindrops coated her forehead.
“I feel responsible, Jill,” he continued. “For what happened between Kyle and your daughter.”
She flinched. “You? Why?”
“Because I should have made it more clear to Kyle what was expected of him. And what wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Ben. Kyle is …” She choked on the sound of his name. “Kyle is a grown man. He should have known better, even if Amy didn’t.”
“I shouldn’t have allowed that girl to hang around your house. She was a bad influence on your daughter.”
Jill folded her hands on the rail. “I encouraged it, Ben. I encouraged their friendship so I could get Sam Wilkins’s story.”
“And did you?” he asked. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Suddenly Jill felt as though tears were going to drown her eyes. She thought about Amy, Kyle, and Rita. She thought about her mother’s diary, and wished she felt confident to keep moving ahead. “I’m not sure,” she answered. “Do any of us ever really get what we want?”
Ben shook his head. “I’ve been trying to restore a house in Menemsha. To turn it into a hands-on museum. Looks like I’ll never get that.”
“Why not?”
“Politics. Personalities. Greed, you name it.”
“Tell me more.”
“Twenty questions?”
Jill smiled.
So he told her. He told her how unique Menemsha House was going to be, from its place atop the dunes where Gay Head meets his land.
Jill remembered the big old Vineyard house next to Sam’s. “I’ve seen the house,” she said quietly, “from Sam Wilkins’s.”
He nodded and continued his story. When he reached the part about how his arm was broken, Jill was horrified. “All over a museum?”
“A museum to me, who knows what it represents to whoever tried to kill me. A friend of mine says that men have different passions.”
She wondered if that friend was a woman, but decided it was best not to ask. “Ben, isn’t there something that can be done?”
“I tried. They don’t want money, but I suspect you already know that about islanders. I came up with a plan to provide school buses, too. But I never got to present it. Not that it would have made a difference. They have their own agendas, and don’t care about anything else.”
“Except their privacy.” Jill laughed. “They despise having their privacy intruded upon, their dirty laundry aired.”
Ben scowled. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Generation after generation, it remains the same.” He stood up straight and looked at Jill. “But sometimes we get what we want. Take you for instance. You want to sell your house. That will happen.”
She turned to him. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? That I’m going to sell the house?”
“It’s your house. But it’s such a classic. The architecture is incredible. I just hate to see a fine old place like that one be turned over to some family who doesn’t appreciate its value, or who will turn it into one of those god-awful Bed and Breakfasts.” He shuddered.
Jill laughed. “But don’t you think that life is cyclical? That sooner or later, everything must change?”
“No. Not unless people force it. Look at the 1802 Tavern. How many years was that in your family?”
She winced. “Since it opened. Until my father died.”
“You’ve never mentioned your parents,” he said. “You left the island early, so I assumed you couldn’t wait to get away.”
“I didn’t really know my parents,” she heard herself say. And then, whether it was because of the slow, dreamlike rolling of the boat beneath her feet, the hypnotic rise and fall of the ocean, or the fact that she had held the pain of the last few weeks in too long, Jill said, “I found my mother’s diary. In the widow’s walk. I learned some things I wished I hadn’t known. I learned I had a brother. I learned my mother didn’t want me.”
With her words, the irony struck her. “It’s odd, isn’t it? That I have made a career out of delving into other people’s stories, but I never examined my own until now?”
Ben placed his hand over Jill’s. “I’m sorry, Jill. I didn’t mean to pry. Please, this is none of my business.”
At least he didn’t tell her she was overreacting. “I need it to be someone’s business,” she said quietly. “I can’t keep this inside me any longer.”
“Well,” Ben said as he looked out to sea, “I’m a good listener. For a tourist.”
She held back a moment, then spilled out each detail, bit by bit, as page after page of her mother’s diary flashed into her mind. When she neared the end, she told him about Rita. About Kyle.
“All these years, I’d felt I abandoned my father, that I let him down by leaving him alone with my mother.” She gave a short laugh. “Apparently, I needn’t have been so concerned about him.” Her words trailed off as their sound resonated the pain.
Ben did not speak: he simply slipped his arm around her—his one good arm, his strong carpenter’s arm. She dropped her head against his shoulder and wept with the soothing rain, feeling foolish that she had bared so much, and wishing there were some way she could thank him for listening.
The Wednesday before Labor Day weekend, Jill sat at the desk in the living room, trying to ignore the strong scent of fresh paint and the sounds of sweeping brushes coming from the dining room. After several meetings with Sam, she finally had enough for a story. She compiled her notes now and roughed out the visuals. It would be Fischer’s decision whether the segment should appear on Good Night, Boston or be saved for their syndicated show. Jill thought it would be a smash for their premier—proof that Christopher Edwards and Jill McPhearson would be viable competition on the national scene.