JANE
You won’t tell Dave about the Pull-Ups, will you?” Sheila says, low so the children in the back won’t hear, as we leave Indigo. “I’m not trying to hide anything from him, exactly, but, honestly, if he had to change Caleb’s diapers as often as I do, he’d break down every once in a while, too.”
“No problem,” I say, though after Mabel’s little bomb back there in the pavilion that, in fact, Sheila and her kids have been to Indigo, I’m wondering what other white lies she’s told. As for the house with the pool and the indoor swing, where’s that?
“How’d you like Indigo?” I ask, to test her reaction.
“Pretty.” She barrels into the Orleans rotary, totally ignoring a car entering on the right. “We should swing by the grocery store. We’re low on supplies.” Taking a righthand turn into the Stop & Shop parking lot from the left lane, she asks, “Do you mind going in? I’m going to stay and nurse Caleb to soothe him.”
We park and Sheila gets out, unsnapping him from his car seat. “We had to hang around on the beach soooo long while you and that”—she drops her voice—“dealer chatted, my baby’s schedule is all catawampus and so is he.”
Mabel lowers her backseat window, which has been programmed to stop midway for safety. “I’ll stay here, too. Me, tired.” This grammatical error is meant to be whimsical, I’m sure, as I’ve overheard her correct her highly educated father on his misplacement of a direct object.
Dazed, I mumble, “What are we getting?”
“My full list isn’t ready. I’ll text you some more ideas.” Sheila shoves a collection of cloth bags into my arms. “But can we stick to veggies tonight? We’ve had so much seafood. I could do with a few greens. A kale, almond, apple, and cheddar salad might be nice.” She unbuttons her shirt, stuffing Caleb against her breast. “Thanks. You’re so sweet.”
Slightly disoriented, I dutifully get out of the car holding the cloth bags and head to the store. Actually, I’m grateful for a few minutes to myself. There’s so much I need to unpack.
First off, although I’ve been trying to avoid running into Bob, he needs to know what Cobb said about Kit being scared shitless and being pressured to buy drugs for—most likely—Jake Pease.
At the double doors, my phone dings and Sheila’s text pops up: ORGANIC kale, apples, cheddar, almonds, olive oil, grass-fed buffalo (if avail.), mac & cheese, milk, clementines, Josh chardonnay, water (Cape is yuck!), yogurt, and Seventh Generation Free & Clear training pants.
Ugh.
I enter to a whoosh of chilled air. Grabbing a cart, I throw in the bags and plow ahead to the crowded produce section. Stacked oranges, apples, grapefruit, and kiwi fill the aisles, along with a cornucopia of additional fresh fruit and vegetables. To the left, the deli line stretches all the way to baked goods, with beachgoers ordering to-go sandwiches, since there are no vendors allowed along the National Seashore. The entire store is geared to this one consumer dynamic: the well-off tourist in a rush, willing to blow the budget.
“Nothing worse than being in this hellhole when everyone else is out on the water, am I right?”
It takes a second to realize this question has been addressed to me by a man in a peach Vineyard Vines shirt and a Mets cap who is way too old to be wearing Oakleys indoors.
I grip the cart handles, frozen in place. He’s the dude from the beach, only he was wearing a Yankees cap earlier, right? Also, don’t I know him from somewhere else?
“And how come these never open?” Frustrated, he licks his fingers and plies apart the thin plastic vegetable bag. “Great. I probably just picked up the flu and now I’m going to spend the next three days flat on my back. So much for a vacation!”
Where else do I know him from? This is killing me. Think, Jane, think. He’s staring at me, expecting a reply to his innocuous observations.
“I try to get through this place as fast as possible,” I say. “That’s my strategy.”
“Good luck. This store is a zoo.” He tosses a bag of carrots into the cart. “See ya.”
He heads off to the fancy cheeses and I backpedal to the apples, my brain churning. Did I see him on Coast Guard Beach? At Long Pond with Caleb and Mabel? Did we pass on the bike path? At Ben & Jerry’s? He wasn’t in a Yankees cap, though. Mets, that was it.
And now I remember exactly where I saw him before: Serena’s. He was coming into her seafood market while I was going out. Serena knows him. She treated him like a favorite customer.
At the meat counter, my phone dings again. Another order from Sheila. Better get 2 bottles of Josh since there’s 4 of us. Three drinkers, actually, I think.
“Surf and turf.” It’s Vineyard Vines again, picking through shrink-wrapped packages of rib eye. “Ka-ching!”
Smiling weakly, I look for grass-fed buffalo. In my peripheral vision, I sense him trying to catch my eye. He’s not here by accident, I have the feeling.
My instincts now on red alert, I turn down the organic staples aisle, picking out boxes of acceptable mac and cheese, a bag of almonds, and a bottle of olive oil. He’s nowhere in sight for the rest of my excursion, which is a relief, until I enter the wine aisle and see him holding up a bottle of white. “If my wife were here, she’d buy this crap by the barrel,” he says, his cart horizontal so I can’t pass.
He meets my gaze and raises his eyebrows, like he knows I know. He wants me to know I’m being stalked.
Ding! Crap. Another message. Not now, Sheila! But it’s not from her; it’s from Stan.
My fellow Viking tells me you’re on the Cape. You and I talked about this. Not a wise idea, Bumble.
Why did Erik tell him that? My boyfriend might be book smart, but he has zero discretion.
Don’t worry, I text back. I won’t go near the wedding. Had a great deal on a rental too sweet to resist. When I look up, Vineyard Vines is gone.
Until I get to the checkout area, where he cuts in front of me and into the shortest line. “Beat ya!” he declares, pumping his fist.
If he weren’t a New York sports fan, I’d definitely classify him as a certified Masshole.
I redirect to self-checkout, where I quickly swipe, pay, and get out of there, my cloth bags straining at the seams.
Outside, I find a place in the shade and sit, breathing deeply to calm my jitters. Then I Google the number for Serendipity Seafood. I want to know who Serena’s customer is and why he’s on my ass.
“Serendipity Seafood,” a perky young voice answers.
I watch Vineyard Vines cross the lot to a big black Lexus SUV, the plate too far away to read. He pops the back, shoves in the groceries, closes the hatch, and gives me a little salute before getting into the driver’s seat and taking off.
“Hi, I’m looking for Serena,” I say, glad he’s out of my hair.
She tells me she’s just finishing up with a customer if I don’t mind waiting. I tell her no problem and am put on hold.
Two seconds later, the perky woman’s back on, her tone having shifted straight to curt. “I’m sorry, but Serena had to run out and won’t be back for the rest of the day. You can leave a message if you want.”
Huh. I’d take this as a personal insult except I didn’t identify myself. . . . Oh, wait. Chances are my name showed up on Serena’s caller ID.
“Could you tell her Kit’s sister called?” There. Let that sink in. “You have my number.”
“Jane Ellison, right?”
Confirmed. “Got it.”
“She’s super busy so it might not be until tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up, feeling even more unsettled.
A milk- and sun-sated Caleb is sleeping in his seat and next to him Mabel is reading a book, possibly a Russian novel, when I return. Sheila leans out the driver’s side window, fanning herself with a copy of The New Yorker. “Geesh, you were gone a long time. I almost turned on the air.”
I’m too frazzled by my Stop & Shop stalker and Serena’s brush-off to let this barb sink in. “The lines were intolerable,” I lie, loading the bags in the rear next to the colorful, sandy beach clutter.
“Guess what.” Sheila turns the key in the ignition as I click my seat belt. “All those TV news trucks we saw on the bridge weren’t there for a wedding. They were there because some woman died.”
“A Pease?”
“Don’t think so.” Sheila swings around the rotary, cutting off one car and nearly sideswiping another to get ahead of traffic. “Apparently, she was a friend of Eve Pease from her soap-opera days. Queenie something.”
I rack my memory for a Queenie on a soap and draw a blank. Soaps never were my thing.
“CNN said she had a heart attack yesterday morning. It’s awful, though, to have something like that happen in the midst of a celebration. You think they’ll cancel the wedding?”
Gripping the dash as Sheila bounces over the curb of the rotary, I scoff. “Are you kidding? They’ve invested millions in this event, from what I’ve read. It has to go on. What will they do with fifty-two roast ducklings and a planeload of imported Colombian carnations?” I sit back and try to relax, employing the calming techniques I learned when I was hospitalized.
My whole universe feels like it’s fraying at the edges and I have to make sure I don’t unravel with it.