Island Girls (18 page)

“They’ll be able to e-mail us,” Tim said.

“Yes, darlin’, but some of them like to be able to actually hear a friendly, helpful voice on the phone.”

“In some cases,” Jenny offered pleasantly, “it takes a long time to help someone—”

Genevieve didn’t hesitate. “Keep track of the time you spend on the phone calls and I’ll pay you a consulting fee, extra to the basic commission.” Before Jenny could speak again, she added, “If
you have to drive to their homes, of course I’ll pay your driving time and gas. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” Tim answered.

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Genevieve rose. “Fine, then. I’ve got to dash. Keep in touch. See yourselves out, darlins.” With a swish of her silk dress, Genevieve made her exit.

Jenny flashed a wry smile at Tim. “For a big woman, she moves fast.”

They closed their laptops and stood up. “So we’re good?” Tim asked Jenny.

“Seems like it.” She slipped the laptop carrier strap over her shoulder.

They went out into the hall, where the maid waited to open the front door for them.

“Thanks,” Tim said, and they went down the steps into the bright summer day. After the air-conditioned house, for a moment the humid July heat stunned them. They stood on the brick sidewalk, gathering their thoughts.

Jenny was aware of Tim next to her, so tall, smelling of a citrus aftershave, something he seldom wore; she bet he’d put it on for the appointment with Genevieve. He wore a button-down shirt in a dreamy blue that matched his eyes, a red tie, and khakis. He looked so damnably masculine, adult, and handsome Jenny’s knees went weak. A wave of sensual pleasure passed through her as one of those unexpected moments of good health and a fine sunny day stilled her normal need to rush. She let her head fall back, closed her eyes, and gave a silent thank-you to the universe.

“You look like you’re ready to be kissed,” Tim remarked.

Her head snapped back up so fast she almost cracked her vertebrae. “What?” She hoped he didn’t think she’d been coming on to him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, backing away. “Just—good, it’s good that Genevieve’s happy with the site, right? See you.”

Puzzled as much by her emotions as by Tim’s words, Jenny watched him walk away.

It was her night to prepare dinner. To forget her problems, Jenny chose a complicated recipe for paella with lots of different seafood. She tossed in extra spices because she was in that kind of mood.

The evening was hot and humid. The women loaded up their plates, filled their glasses with wine, and carried everything out to the patio to eat. At first, they hardly spoke, absorbed with the delicious meal, but after a while they sat back in their chairs, content and sated.

“I could get used to this,” Arden mused. “Cooking only every third night. Eating homemade gourmet meals instead of what I usually eat—takeout, or a bag of popcorn and a pear.”

“I enjoy cooking,” Jenny admitted. “It takes my mind off other things.”

“Like what?” Arden asked.

Jenny gave herself a moment to think while slowly sipping her wine. “Well, … it’s complicated.”

Arden chuckled. “Who is he?”

Jenny nodded. “You’re right, it’s a man, but not how you think.”

Meg looked concerned. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

“No. What I’m talking about is something you two, with all the things you have to crab about, will never need to consider.” Jenny fiddled with her napkin for a moment, then lifted her chin and blurted, “I don’t know who my father is.”

Arden snapped, “Dear God, you’re always making it clear that Dad is
your—
”

“My birth father.” Jenny put it right out there in the evening air.

“Your biological father,” Meg clarified.

“Right. The guy who knocked up my mother.”

“For heaven’s sake, haven’t you asked Justine?” Arden demanded.

Jenny toyed with the last forkful of rice. “She refuses to talk about it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Arden said.

“She says I have a father. Rory is my father, and I don’t need another.”

Arden plonked her elbows on the table. “Jenny. Reality call. Ever heard of biology? Genes? What in the
hell
is Justine thinking?”

Jenny’s mouth tightened. “I know you hate my mother, but—”

Meg interrupted. “Jenny, what Arden means is that you need to find out who your biological father is for medical reasons. What if he has some kind of genetic disease?”

“Disease?” Jenny shrieked. “Why would he have a disease?”

“I don’t mean disease, necessarily. I mean, you need to know what traits he passed on to you genetically. Because you could be passing them on to your children.”

“This is the most depressing conversation I’ve ever had,” Jenny moaned.

“Look, don’t head right for the fatal stuff,” Arden suggested, keeping her voice mellow. “I’m thinking of normal issues like high blood pressure. Late-onset diabetes. Thyroid problems. Even things like dyslexia or bipolar disorder.”

“We all have something,” Meg added sympathetically. “That’s just part of being human.”

“Plus,” Arden insisted, “I think it would do you good to meet
your biological father. Just to set eyes on him.” After a moment, she challenged, “Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

“I
am
curious,” Jenny admitted quietly. “I mean, that’s why I brought it up.”

“Then do something,” Arden urged. “Find him.”

“I know. I
know
.” Jenny made a face. “But I don’t know how to go about it.”

Meg patted Jenny’s hand. “You have to convince your mother to tell you who he is.”

“What if she continues to stonewall me?”

Arden grinned wickedly. “Scare her. We’ll look up some diseases and find some creepy symptoms. Tell her you’ve been shaking or twitching or whatever—”

Jenny glared at Arden. “There is something so very wrong with you!”

Arden laughed.

Meg persisted in her gentle voice: “Jenny, I don’t think you should put it off. Why not get serious with Justine? You have a right to know.”

Jenny picked up her wineglass, but it was empty. She set it back down on the table. “I can’t just call her up and demand that she tell me.”

“I agree,” Arden said calmly. “Something like this should be done face-to-face.”

A rush of relief swept through Jenny. “Right. And Mom’s in Boston and I’m down here, so I’ll have to wait until the fall. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”

“Jenny, you could go to Boston tomorrow,” Meg pointed out.

Jenny shook her head violently. “No, because we have to live here together for three months or the house won’t be ours.”

“Please.” Arden rolled her eyes. “Dad didn’t stipulate that we
could never leave the island for three months. Just that we live here, and we’re doing that.” Jenny chewed her lips.

Meg said, “Jenny. You really should go talk to your mother. Now’s the time.”

Jenny shoved back her chair and paced around the table, thinking. When she sat back down, she said with a touch of triumph in her voice, “Fine. And you should tell Liam you’re in love with him.”

Meg tossed her fiery hair away from her shoulders. “Jenny. We’ve been through this.”

Slyly, Jenny said, “You know, I looked at your notes.”

“What?”

“You left them on the dining room table the other day. The outline.”

Meg put her hand to her forehead. She knew what was coming.

“What are you talking about?” Arden asked.

“I read your outline. You tell us everything about your precious May Alcott, but did you tell
us
about who she married?”

“No. Why should I?” Meg demanded defensively. “The subject has never come up.”

“Please,” said Jenny.

“
What
are you talking about?” Arden asked again.

Jenny faced Arden with a victorious grin. “Meg’s revered May Alcott married a man fourteen years younger than she was!”

“Aha.” Arden sent a piercing glare Meg’s way. “And you’re worried about loving a man a mere five years younger?”

“It’s more complicated.” Meg wriggled.

“How?”

“Ernest Nieriker was not May Alcott’s colleague, almost boss. Besides, May died in childbirth about a year into their marriage,
so Ernest didn’t ever get the chance to leave her for a younger, slimmer woman.”

Arden slapped her hand to her forehead. “You are one twisted sister!”

“Don’t be so freaking superstitious!” Jenny scolded. “Whatever happened to May Alcott is not going to happen to you just because you’re writing a book about her.”

Meg nodded unhappily. “I know.”

Jenny said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll face off with my mother. I’ll make her tell me about my birth father. But only if you go up and talk with Liam about your feelings and your fears.”

“Those two things aren’t comparable at all!” Meg objected.

“Well, we both don’t want to do them,” Jenny told her.

“Then what does
Arden
have to do?” Meg asked.

Arden snorted. “Why should I have to do anything?”

“Because
we
do.” Meg crossed her arms over her chest.

“What do you want me to do?” Arden asked.

Meg thought. “Ask Palmer White to dinner.”

“Please, no.”

“Why not?” Jenny asked.

“He’s not my type,” Arden finished, squirming uncomfortably in her chair.

“Why not?” Meg asked. “You’ve certainly spent a lot of time with him this summer.”

“He’s arrogant, opinionated, bossy, and a workaholic,” Arden said.

Jenny cleared her throat loudly.

“Okay, I am, too,” Arden agreed. “But Palmer’s high-powered. Type A. He’s at the top of the ladder. I’m still working my way up and I want to deserve any advancement I get.” She turned the conversation back to Meg. “Well? Are you going to talk to Liam?”

Meg equivocated. “He’s up there, I’m down here.”

“So invite him down here,” Jenny told her. “If you need an extra bed, there’s the front bedroom, empty and waiting. If you really need an extra bed.”

“Or go up there,” Arden suggested. “I’ll hold the fort down here.”

“I know!” Meg clicked her fingers. “Jenny and I will go to Boston if you invite Palmer here for an intimate little dinner while we’re gone.”

“That is so lame,” Arden sighed.

“I don’t think so.” Jenny was grinning now. “It makes lots of sense to me. If Meg and I have to do something difficult, so do you.” She leaned toward Arden, getting right in her face. “Or are you scared of him?”

Arden rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

The car ferry was booked, so Jenny and Meg agreed to pool their money to rent a car when they got to Hyannis. The plan was for Jenny to drop Meg at her apartment in Sudbury and pick her up in three days, keeping in contact by cell phone.

Zipping north on 495 in the cherry-red Toyota, they chose a rock station featuring Coldplay, Arcade Fire, and Foo Fighters, tacitly allowing the music to prevent any kind of serious conversation, which in both cases would probably have been a long, repetitive shriek of:
What am I doing? Should I go back? Is this the right thing to do?

Jenny left Meg at a white gingerbread Victorian where Meg rented an apartment two blocks from the campus. Meg insisted she’d be fine without a car; she could walk to a small health food store for what she needed, and if she called Liam—
when
she called Liam—he could drive her anywhere she had to go. Or just come to her apartment, as planned.

Justine still lived in the French provincial mansion she’d
shared with Rory in the posh Boston suburb of Belmont. Its grounds were stunning, with lots of topiaries, a “water feature,” and even a few statues. As a real estate agent, Rory insisted he needed to live in a house that would inspire respect. Jenny had a room of her own for her occasional visits from the island.

Parking on the familiar circle drive, she pulled out her overnight bag and walked around to the back of the house. Here, glass doors opened into the fragrant, lush conservatory, which led to the Mexican-tiled steam, sauna, and shower room Justine relaxed in after exercising in her private gym.

Justine wasn’t there. It was just around one, so perhaps her mother was in the kitchen fixing herself lunch. Jenny headed that way.

Canned laughter led her toward the small private den—as opposed to the larger, slightly overwhelming media room, with its movie theater seating and enormous screen.

Justine was curled up on the sofa in a winter robe, eating Smartfood popcorn from the bag and staring listlessly at a talk show.

“Mom.”

Justine jumped so fast half the popcorn flew from the bag. “Jenny! You startled me!”

“Oh, Mom, you look terrible.” Jenny entered the room with a sinking heart.

Justine’s hand went to her unwashed hair. “I haven’t organized myself for the day.”

Observing other bags of junk food, empty cans of diet soda, and slithered stacks of tabloid magazines that occupied all the other surfaces in the den, and smelling the unmistakable odor of an unclean woman’s body, Jenny understood that Justine hadn’t organized herself for many days.

“Where’s Estrella?”

“I told her to take a month off with pay so she could go back to the Dominican Republic and visit her family. I don’t want anyone around. Right now I don’t need a housekeeper.” Justine set the popcorn bag on the coffee table. The bag slowly slid off onto the floor. “Jenny, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you phone?”

“It was very spur-of-the-moment,” Jenny said. Sitting on the sofa, she reached out to take her mother’s hand. “Mommy. Look at you.”

Tears welled up in Justine’s eyes. “I miss Rory. Why should I bother about anything when Rory’s gone? Who cares what I look like, what anything looks like, without Rory?”

Jenny started to argue, but changed her mind. “Let’s get you showered and dressed, okay?”

With almost childlike willingness, Justine allowed Jenny to lead her by the hand through the echoing chambers of the mansion and up the stairs to Justine’s suite. Jenny pulled her mother’s slightly disgusting sticky robe off and tossed it into the laundry hamper. She guided Justine toward the shower and turned on the water. Slid the door shut and waited. After a moment, she heard a sigh ease from her mother as the hot water washed over her, providing its generous, natural relief.