Beach Roses Page 23

  Rita did not know if Hannah was regretful about her daughter or her mother or the fact that she’d chucked a chance to be a doctor because she’d been ashamed and scared. On another night, Rita might have asked. But not on the night that Rita was feeling guilty about Joe; guilty about not telling them about Mindy and the man, for which she somehow felt responsible; and guilty that she didn’t have a clue where or how to find a man in jeans, carrying a camera, and missing his Yankees cap.

  Then the doorbell rang and Rita felt like she’d been saved.

  The women looked at one another.

  “I’ll get it,” Rita said, standing up, because Katie should not leave her bed and Joleen was in her studio and Hannah didn’t seem inclined to move.

  There were lots of people Rita would have liked to have seen when she opened the door. But, of course, this was her life and that’s not how things happened.

  Gripping the old doorknob, Rita stepped back and tried faking a smile. “Faye,” she said, “what a surprise.”

  She’d been reunited with her son and had come back to sell the Vineyard house. She’d heard her messages and she said she was concerned.

  “Hannah,” Faye said, sitting on the edge of Katie’s bed, facing the table. “Maybe I know someone who can help find your daughter. A private investigator. The one who found my son.”

  Hannah’s eyes glazed with silent tears. She shook her head. “Evan and I don’t have that kind of money. Besides, the police are trying …”

  “I’ve known the man for years,” Faye said. “He’d do it as a favor to me.”

  Rita would have liked it better if Faye hadn’t turned out to be a decent person. It had been easier to justify those afternoons with Joe when she’d fantasized that his wife was a cold, uncaring bitch.

  “Even if he found her,” Hannah said, “it’s pretty obvious Riley doesn’t want to be around me. She’ll be fifteen this summer. How do you chain a teenager to an island or to anyone or anywhere if it’s not what she wants?”

  Rita recognized self-pity when she heard it. “Listen to Faye,” she interrupted, though her eyes did not venture toward the woman. “At least let her friend help.”

  “But what if Riley’s in San Antonio? What if she’s found my mother?”

  Faye looked at Rita, then back to Hannah, “Then he’ll find your mother, too, if that’s what you want.”

  Hannah lowered her head and quietly cried.

  Faye put her arm around her. “Hannah, it will be okay. In fact, my friend is on the island. As soon as I heard the message about your daughter, I called him. He’s going to meet us for breakfast at The Black Dog in the morning.”

  Rita gulped another bite of cupcake and wondered if she could go home now.

  R.J. hadn’t exactly offered to meet them for breakfast. He’d suggested meeting them that evening; he said he’d been trying to reach Faye for a week, though Faye could not imagine why. After all, R.J. had his ladyfriend and they were on vacation, what did he need with her?

  She couldn’t possibly meet him at night. Daylight felt more professional, less as if she were an older woman who’d been attracted to a younger man who had another lady on his arm, because why wouldn’t he? Daylight would make her feel less desperate.

  Besides, Faye thought as she escorted Hannah into the restaurant the next morning, Faye was no longer desperate—if the word Claire had used had truly suited her. Greg was back under her wings and under her roof and there was no need for desperation now. Faye Randolph loved again and was loved again, by a son and not a partner, but a son was better anyway, for there was nothing for her to prove, only the opportunity to be herself without any of the expectations that a man like Adam Dexter—or even R.J. Browne—would have of her, starting in the bedroom, because no one except her doctors had seen Faye naked since the first breast cancer and that was how things were going to stay.

  Hannah said she’d like to face the water and the pier where the ferries came and went. Maybe she hoped to catch a glimpse of Riley.

  Faye sat next to Hannah and braced herself to act happy to meet R.J.’s friend, the woman whose face, no doubt, would be aglow from days of sex with the man who, despite Faye’s resolutions, managed to completely turn her on.

  “Faye,” his voice said softly and, with a ready, manufactured smile, she turned around, because their backs were to the door.

  “R.J.,” she said, extending her hand, which he took in his large, strong palm and held a bit too long. “This is my friend, Hannah,” Faye said, turning to Hannah. When Faye turned back, R.J. stepped aside and said, “And this is my friend, Bob Johnson.”

  Bob Johnson was not a woman.

  He held his hand out and said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” both to her and to Hannah while Faye sat there, stumped.

  Was R.J. gay?

  Was it possible for a gay man to give off such … such chemistry to a woman?

  The men sat down, with R.J. across from Faye.

  “So,” R.J. said, rubbing his hands together lightly. “We’ve had quite a week. I actually think I might be fished out for a while.”

  Faye looked at him and blinked.

  “Best time of the year for cod,” Hannah said while Faye fought to regain her composure.

  R.J. had not been with a woman? The morning he’d arrived, what had he said? That he’d left his friend shopping? Naturally she’d assumed …

  “Oh, we caught our share of cod,” the friend named Bob Johnson replied, and R.J. laughed and Faye just smiled.

  The men ordered short stacks of buttermilk pancakes. Faye ordered tea and a small omelet and hoped she wouldn’t get any more proverbial egg on her face. Hannah had tea, but said she’d pass on the food.

  Then R.J. got down to business. “Start at the beginning,” he said to Hannah, who paused a moment then explained about the ferry and that Riley had left with a pile of silver certificates that had belonged to her late grandmother.

  Throughout the meal, Faye’s mind wandered. Would it be as easy for her to abandon the Vineyard as it was for a fourteen-year-old? It was so wonderful to have Greg in her life again. She wanted to be near him, to share part of his life. But Greg’s life was out West … Could she really go there? Was she really ready to relinquish the damp and drafty, wonderful beachfront house?

  Faye loved the island, had loved it since she’d been a girl.

  And what about Claire? Though Faye and her sister had never really seen eye-to-eye, the truth was, Faye would miss her and her chaotic energy, her blasting in and out of Faye’s life while arriving or departing en route from another port of call. That was Claire’s life: always on the go with Jeffrey, her trust-fund-baby husband, to whom travel and adventure were sort of like a job.

  But despite her comings and her goings, Claire had always managed to be there for Faye—through Dana’s death and Greg’s leaving and through the divorce. And through the cancer—well, the first time.

  “Bob has to get back to his wife in Boston.” R.J.’s words leapt across the table. She realized he was speaking to her. “But I can stay a few more days.” He turned back to Hannah. “I’d like to start by seeing some of your daughter’s things. Pictures, a diary, anything like that.”

  Hannah nodded, then R.J. smiled at Faye. “But I hate dining alone,” he added. “Faye, would you join me tonight?”

  Was that Hannah’s foot that kicked her beneath the table? Faye straightened the napkin in her lap. “I’d love to R.J., but Greg is here …”

  “She’d love to, R.J.,” Hannah said quickly. “Her son owns two restaurants. I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of cooking a meal for himself.”

  Faye wanted to protest, but then decided not to. If she’d learned anything at all, it was that life came and went too quickly not to sometimes say yes.

  What a dunce. If Rita had been born any more stupid, she could have tried out for one of those reality-based TV shows where contestants ate rats and worms and God-knew-what in the name of being cool.

 
She could not believe she hadn’t thought about the Jeep until after she’d opened her eyes this morning to the sound of Olivia babbling at Oliver in the next room. Rita had snuggled under the covers and smiled, wishing Charlie had been there to share the delight of their children—theirs!—making lovely children sounds.

  She was feeling a pang of longing for her husband’s gentle touch when a thought popped suddenly into her mind: the Jeep! Throwing off the covers, she bolted from the bed. She drove her hand through her Brillo pad of hair, jumped into her robe, and darted from the room. She used the bathroom quickly, the way a mother learns to when she’s pressed for time. She ran across the hall, smiled at the twins, changed their diapers one, then two, put on their sweat suits, and hauled them—one per hip—down the steep stairs of the old saltbox that Rita had refused to leave even though Charlie now built mansions with his buddy, Ben, and Hazel had offered to pay for one with the inheritance from her “short-lived but profitable” marriage that had begun on the Vineyard and ended in Coral Gables.

  Well, Rita thought, of course she wouldn’t give up this ramshackle of a house. After all, she was Rita Blair Rollins, Queen of the Stupid People.

  Hazel and Mindy were already at the table: Hazel studying the newspaper and Mindy studying the air around her, as only a twelve-year-old can seem to do.

  “We forgot about the Jeep,” Rita said to Mindy. She plopped the twins into their highchairs one, then two, and poured coffee into the big mug that Hazel had set out. “It’s a rental,” Rita said, “which means there are less than a dozen places on the island that it could have come from.” She took a big slug of her coffee. “What’s more, I’ll bet that half the rental places are closed until Memorial Day. It shouldn’t be hard—even for me—to track down the guy with the camera who was asking all the questions.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Hannah hated parting with pictures of Riley: What if Riley never came home? Could R.J. Browne be trusted to give the photos back?

  He had dropped his friend off at the ferry, then followed Faye and Hannah to Hannah’s house. Evan was not around, maybe he was in the greenhouse smoking a joint. How much more stress could Evan take? How much more could she?

  She took photos of Riley off the wall in her workroom; she returned to the living room and handed them over.

  “How would your daughter know what to do once she was across?” R.J. asked, as he scanned the shots taken last summer, plus a few at Christmas and Riley’s ninth grade class picture. “Did she often go over to the mainland?”

  Hannah sat on the plaid sofa. She had told Hugh Talbott these things already, and she would tell a million people if it meant getting her daughter back. “We went every fall to shop for school clothes.” She stared at her untouched teacup. Faye had been so kind to make coffee and tea, though they’d just had breakfast. Hannah recalled the first night of the group, when Faye had excused herself because she “did not belong” there. Hannah was glad the woman had changed her mind. She took a sip of tea to let Faye know she was appreciated. “We waited to shop for school clothes until after Labor Day, until the crowds thinned.”

  “Did you take your car across?”

  “Yes. We drove up to Falmouth. And to Hyannis, to the mall.”

  “Did Riley go to the Cape for any other reason?”

  “My mother-in-law took her to a few plays. Summer stock in Woods Hole.” She told him about Mother Jackson’s theater and Riley’s love of the stage. Then she told him about the recent Sunday they’d spent in Hyannis. “But I’m sure she didn’t meet anyone. It was a last-minute family trip.”

  R.J. set down the photos. He did not say whether or not he thought Riley was pretty. He did not comment on the streak of bright pink hair in the Christmas pictures. “Do you think she might know how to get from the ferry to, well, to anywhere? For instance, would she have known about the trolley that goes into Falmouth or where to catch the bus to Boston?”

  A trolley into Falmouth was news to Hannah. And she did not remember where the bus station was located.

  She shifted on the sofa and tried to cover the thinning fabric on its arm. Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve gone over and over this in my mind, but I still don’t know how she could do it.” She did not add that Riley was a smart girl, and that she certainly could have figured out logistics. The part that Hannah didn’t understand was, how had Riley mustered so much independent will? Had her anger at Hannah been that powerful?

  “She might have gone to San Antonio,” Hannah said suddenly.

  R.J. raised an eyebrow.

  Faye sat beside her on the sofa and put her arm on Hannah’s shoulder. “That’s a long shot, R.J.,” she said. “Maybe you have enough to get started?”

  The man stood up. “Sure thing. Faye? I’ll pick you up at seven?”

  Faye nodded and R.J. said he’d be in touch, and then he left. When the door had closed behind him, Hannah burst into tears. Faye sat and stroked the hair of Hannah’s wig as if it were real, as if it might bring her comfort, which it did not.

  “Can I do anything for you, Hannah?” Faye asked. “Anything at all?”

  “Yes,” Hannah finally said. “If you’re not busy tomorrow, could you bring me to the hospital? Now that my chemo’s finished, they want to do some tests before they schedule surgery.”

  Faye agreed and did not ask why Hannah’s husband would not be taking her; why Hannah did not want to interrupt his self-imposed retreat from his family and from the world.

  “It was a guy named Darryl Hogan,” the tattooed clerk at Island Jeep Rentals told Rita as he shuffled through some paperwork and pulled out a pink sheet. “Yep,” he repeated, “Darryl Hogan.”

  Rita drummed her fingernails on the counter. She resisted the urge to reach across and grab the paper from his hand. Sometimes even Rita knew what was rude and what was not, and the good news was that she’d found him, Darryl Hogan, and that the low-life media-scum had rented his Jeep from Chuck Lewiston’s establishment near the airport. Rita and Charlie had known Chuck from the second grade, when his family moved to the Vineyard from New Bedford. He was a small and geeky kid, and hadn’t changed as an adult. According to tattoo-man, Chuck was, in fact, off-island now, loading up on more Jeeps in preparation for the season. He’d instructed the clerk to “give Rita Blair anything she damn well wanted.” Rita supposed it didn’t hurt that back in junior high school, Chuck had peeked in her window while Rita took off her bra and he didn’t know that she’d known, but she had and she hadn’t pulled the shade. Even back then Rita had sensed that Chuck would never be a ladies’ man, and his opportunities to see a naked woman might be few and far between.

  Her eyes moved down and up from her once-titillating breasts: she thought of how, back then, breast cancer had not crossed her mind.

  She pulled out her pen and a small notepad. “What did Darryl Hogan give as a local address?” she asked, because every renter of every vehicle had to leave instructions where they could be reached, not for any special reason except to keep them honest.

  “Vineyard Haven. Mayfield House.”

  She dropped her notebook back into her purse without writing down the name. Why would she be surprised that Darryl Hogan was staying at the same place as that private-investigator-friend of Faye’s? Rita’s life; Rita’s luck. At least Rita knew the owners of the inn; maybe she could get some information from them quickly and get out of Vineyard Haven before she’d have to see Faye more times than she could handle.

  Mayfield House sat up on the hill that rose up from the harbor and overlooked Vineyard Sound. It was a big old Captain’s house, freshly painted in yellow and trimmed with white, ready for tourist-time. Rita shuddered at the impending crunch of summer as she marched across the gravel drive. Things could be worse, she told herself. Faye’s Mercedes could have been parked in the lot, but thankfully was not.

  Ginny answered the door. She wore a red-and-white bandana tied around her head and had a cleaning rag in one hand
, a bucket in the other. It was hard to believe that not so long ago the woman had lived the high life in Los Angeles. She had a daughter who was a famous soap opera star and, rumor had it, Ginny had undergone a plethora of bad marriages before landing on the island and tying up with Dick Bradley, who’d been a widower too long.

  All of which only proved you couldn’t judge a book by its jeans-and-sweatshirt cover, though Rita knew she was the last one who could stand in any sort of judgment. Besides, she’d known Ginny a while, long enough to know that the woman was for real and it looked as if the marriage was one that was going to “take.”

  “A guy named Darryl Hogan,” Rita said to Ginny after they took a seat out on the porch. “I was told he’s staying here?”

  Ginny nodded. “He was. He checked out this morning.”

  “Shit.” There she went again. At least the twins weren’t around. “Damn. Was he alone?”

  “Alone with a bunch of cameras.”

  Well, that wasn’t exactly news. “Did he talk to anyone? Make any phone calls while he was here?”

  “I can check.” Ginny disappeared inside and Rita waited on the porch, her eyes glued to the driveway, on guard for a Mercedes. A few minutes and no Mercedes later, Ginny returned and gave Rita a slip of paper. A phone number was written on it. The area code was two-one-two. New York City. Home of many media giants.

  “That’s the only place he called,” Ginny said. “But in the two days he was here, he called there seven times.”

  Obsessive. Compulsive. A prerequisite, Rita supposed, to being a reporter.

  She tucked the number in her pocket. “He hasn’t returned the rental Jeep yet.”

  With a shrug, Ginny commented, “He said he wanted to see some of the island sights.”

  “And he took his cameras.”

  Ginny laughed. “What the heck does one need with more than one camera?”

  Rita stood up. “Probably for the eyes in the back of his head. The son of a bitch is from the rag media. Tabloid stuff. He went after a friend of mine.”