Postcards From Last Summer (26 page)

G
etaway Friday.

Tara clicked open her e-mail one last time to see if there were any urgent messages that couldn't wait until Monday. She was ready to go. Josh, however, was still in the conference room going over notes on the senator's child-welfare policy with one of the aides. Since Congress wasn't in session now, Tara didn't think it was crucial to have the policy rewritten today, but then she was still a novice in this world. Her eyes flicked to the time on the computer—four-fifty. They'd have to leave soon if they were going to catch the five-thirty train.

Or maybe Josh would bail, which wouldn't surprise her. She'd told him to stop making weekend plans if he wasn't going to keep them, but he'd sworn that this time he was going to stick to the plans.

The phone was ringing, and Tara realized Penny wasn't at her desk. Most of the staff had left an hour ago, a tiny concession for one of the last summer weekends. Tara picked up the phone and clicked on line one. “Senator Wentworth's office.”

“Give me Josh, dear.” The voice belonged to an older woman.

“I'm sorry, but Josh is in a meeting. May I take a message?”

“This is his mother. Tell him to call me.”

Josh's mother! Tara had never met her, but Josh said he'd told his parents all about her.

“No, wait,” Mrs. Cohen went on. “I won't be here if he calls. I'd better leave a message.”

“Of course, Mrs. Cohen,” Tara said, grabbing a pen. “This is Tara Washington. I'm sorry Josh hasn't made it out to the Hamptons this summer. He's like a superhero around here, and it seems like we've fielded one crisis after another.”

“Yes, my Josh is a real decision maker, a spin doctor,” Mrs. Cohen said. “But don't let him tell you he's suffering. He's been out here plenty of times, dear. Josh gets his beach time in.”

“What?” Tara snapped before she could stop herself. “Excuse me, but I . . . I guess I believed him when he complained about not making it out.”

“I tell him not to whine, it's so unattractive. But really, the reason I called, dear, is to ask him to do me a favor. Would you ask him to stop at Liebermann's for a loaf of marble rye? Have them slice it, of course. I don't know what it is with these Hamptons bakeries; you just can't get good bread out here.”

“I'll give him the message.”
Mom
.

Tara was already on her feet when she hung up. In a flash she was opening the conference room door, interrupting what appeared to be a very boring meeting with Josh staring out the window shaking a bottle of Perrier and the policy writer scribbling doodles on his pad.

“We have to talk,” Tara said.

“Did the senator call?” Josh stood up.

“No, it was someone more important—your mother.”

Josh moved around the table and left the room without even acknowledging the other aide. “Is everything okay at home?”

“Peachy. Before I forget, she wants you to stop at Liebermann's and pick up a loaf of marble rye. Sliced.”

He followed her over to her desk. “And for that you got me out of a meeting?”

She crumpled the pink message slip and tossed it into the trash can. “No, I wanted to let you know that a huge lightbulb just went on over my head, and that I'm not going to miss my train for the Hamptons thinking that you'll make the next one with me.”

“Come again?” He winced. “You're talking crazy.”

“I finally figured you out. You're afraid your parents will find out about me.”

“They know I'm seeing you.”

“Do they know I'm black?”

He perched on her desk and curled foward, crossing his arms. “No . . . but they also don't know that you like pad Thai and black pugs and Woody Allen films. I don't tell my parents everything.”

“But you've kept me from meeting them because you don't know how they'll react to me. You've been going out to the Hamptons without me—and lying about it, I might add—to avoid a confrontation.”

“Let's just say that I think they'd be disappointed.” He frowned, then rushed to add, “In
me.
Not you. That I've hooked up with someone unacceptable. To them. See, they've always had this thing about me marrying a nice Jewish girl . . .”

“Don't pull that one out of your ass,” Tara interrupted. “It's not about being Jewish or Christian, and you know it. This is about accepting me as I am, and about lying to me because you're ashamed of who I am.”

“No, I'm not—”

“Just stop, okay?” She pressed her fingers to her temples, feeling crushed, dazed . . . unable to navigate through this.

“Tara, I'm crazy about you.” He reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You know that. But honestly, I don't see us as a long-term thing. I wasn't thinking marriage or—”

“Neither was I. I just wanted to ease into your life in a natural way, and I thought we were doing that, till you started drawing lines and lying.”

He shrugged. “A few white lies.”

“Lying is unforgivable.”
And racism is intolerable.
She yanked her hand away and snatched up her purse. “I've got a train to catch.” Without looking back, she hitched her garment bag onto her shoulder and walked away.

A
mazing how a cool dip in the pool will quench desire, Darcy thought as she adjusted the towel around her neck and smiled up at Kevin. She was dripping wet, her hair hanging behind her in ratty locks, and he was actually wearing a suit—a khaki linen mix, definitely a step up from the shiny one he'd worn during the first few weeks of her father's trial. He was definitely handsome, but she was in no mood to do anything about it.

“You are going to love this,” he said. “I didn't want to tell you until it was all said and done.”

She squinted at him. If he weren't making her so nervous she'd enjoy the way he looked with a backdrop of budding pink roses climbing the wall behind him and curving overhead.

“I don't like surprises,” she said, searching his profile for the bulge of a jewelry case.
Please don't let it be an engagement ring!
She wasn't ready for that yet.

He put his hands on her shoulders, staring intently into her eyes. “You know how I've been struggling lately. Not so much with sobriety, but with the old man?”

She nodded.

“Well, I've gone over it in group and everyone agrees that it's a no-win situation. I realized that my employment situation had to change, what with my father wearing on me. And it's not healthy for me to be in a bar, with the booze all around me and my old friends who'd be happy to hook me up with some coke.”

“We've talked about this a million times, Kev. You know you need to stay away from Fish. And the thing about Coney's is, it'll be worth so much to you if you just ride it out.”

He shook his head. “I'm talking about survival here, and it's just too hard to be there every day. But it's okay, because I figured out a way out. Back in December I got a call about a civil service test I took two years ago. They wanted to start doing a background check on me, processing me to be a firefighter in New York City. Well . . .” He clapped his hands together, doing the tongue thing in a smug way. “I made the cut, and this morning I went into the city to be sworn in.”

“What?” His story was so twisted, Darcy could barely follow it.

“I'm in the Fire Academy.” He spread his arms wide, as if ready to take a bow. “You're looking at a probie in the Fire Department of New York City.”

“A fireman?” Darcy winced. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Good salary, great medical benefits, a much better work schedule, and—best of all—financial independence from the old man.”

She didn't know what to say. Kevin becoming a civil servant . . . it seemed so unappealing, sort of low class and definitely not in keeping with her plans for him—the Kevin and Darcy Bliss Package. She didn't want to burst his bubble, but she wasn't about to jump in his arms and kiss him as he carried her off to the firehouse.

“You seem very happy about it,” she said carefully.

“I am!” He leaned down to hug her from a distance, avoiding the body press to keep dry. “And I knew you'd be happy, too. Just think about it. We can get an apartment in the city. Probably not Manhattan, but I hear Queens and Brooklyn have some good spots. I'll be in the Fire Academy for the next six weeks or so, but after that we can start looking for a place far away from here.”

“Oh, Kevin.” She tried not to let disappointment tinge her voice. “This really
is
a big surprise. Huge.”

So huge, she didn't know how she'd ever get around it.

E
lle pulled her legs onto the smooth, oversized leather chair and tucked her knees under her chin as the lawyer went on about the codicils in Gram's will, the odd specifications, the trust fund, foundation, and hold on the sale of her house.

“I thought Gram's house was already sold,” Elle said. “That was why I couldn't live there.” Not that she'd want to, since the nightmarish images of her worst summer were tied into that place. Besides, the two-story colonial on Shelter Island had been renovated to include two meandering wings that created a rabbit warren of hallways so confusing, once Elle chose a bedroom she could never seem to find it again. It was no place for a single woman to live.

“The house can never be sold.” The lawyer, Edgar Shoefield, reached into a wood-paneled box on his desk and extracted a cigar, which be popped into his mouth and let droop above the sagging skin of his jaw. Elle suspected he'd been one of Gram's contemporaries, maybe even a boyfriend. “Right now it's rented, being kept available for your father's return to the area. However, if he does not occupy the house within the next ten years, it will become the property of the foundation, to be used as a nonprofit summer camp for children.”

“That sounds totally cool.” Elle had always liked the way Gram worked.

“I'm not sure your father quite agrees, but there you have it. That's the house.”

“But what about Gram's estate?” she asked. “She always told me I'd be well taken care of.” Those words had popped into Elle's head when she'd so desperately wished to help Darcy hold on to the Love Mansion.

“The cash disbursements are another story,” Edgar said grumpily. “Your father has received his, but you're not entitled to yours until you reach the age of twenty-one.”

“Which happens this October.” Duh.

“Yes, of course.”

“So why didn't my parents tell me about any of this?”

His steely gray eyes flashed over his reading glasses. “You're asking me?”

“Yeah, I am, Ebenezer.”

The man sighed, a raspy sound. “In my checkered experience, I've seen parents worry about their children receiving an infusion of cash. I've seen children burn away said infusions of cash. Perhaps it's the obvious.”

“Maybe. So, how much is my inheritance?” Elle was thinking along the lines of a hundred thousand dollars . . . enough for a down payment on a small condo.

He held his cigar away from his mouth as he read from her file. “Ten million dollars, U.S.”

“What?” she shrieked, jumping up in the chair. “Are you yanking me?”

“A little decorum, Ms. DuBois,” he growled, though a smile tugged at his mouth. “I assure you, no representative of this firm has ever ‘yanked' a client.”

“Ten million dollars?”

He nodded. “U.S.”

She slid out of the chair and went to read the file on his desk. “Edgar, I could just kiss you.”

“I know,” he said dryly. “But I'll settle for a resolution of our meeting so that I can make my two o'clock tee time.”

“Goody gumpers!” Elle kickboxed her shadow, then jumped in a circle. “I can pay full price for the Love Mansion and still have money left over.”

“We'll talk in October about inheritance taxes and other ramifications,” he said, extending his hand.

Elle shook, then snatched his cigar from his mouth. “You know, smoking can kill you.”

“I'm eighty-one, Ms. DuBois. Something is going to get me sooner or later.”

“Okay, then.” She shoved the cigar back onto his spotted lips. “See you in October!”

“W
hat time is the realtor getting here?” Lindsay asked as she reached under the hood and turned on the stove light.

Darcy had read that a place should be well illuminated when you're showing it for an open house, and since the September afternoon was overcast, that meant throwing dozens of switches in the Love Mansion.

“Thirty minutes till Cruella the realtor, and the open house starts in an hour.” Darcy flipped through a stack of mail on the cooking island, pausing when she came across a newsletter from Hunter College in Manhattan. She was trying to clear up clutter before the potential buyers arrived, but she wanted to check the calendar to see when auditions were scheduled for their fall theater production. “Did I tell you I'm registered for Hunter this fall? I'm going to finish off my degree, at a more affordable price than Bennington.”

“That's awesome! So you'll be in the city. We can meet for movies or dinner.”

“Yup. I'm even going to try out for the next production.”

Lindsay said something about putting out fresh-cut flowers, but Darcy was only half listening, focused on the page that showed calendars of August, September, and October. Auditions were the weekend of September twenty-third. Perfect, except that she'd have her period. Oh, well, she'd deal with it during tryouts.

Except, when was the last time she'd had it? She didn't recall anything the whole month of August . . .

“Oh, God, I'm late.” Her heart hammered in her chest.

“Don't worry, we'll pull it all together before the open house,” Lindsay said, breezing into the dining room. “In fact, we've still got time to get a pie in the oven, or cookies. That fresh-baked smell is supposed to be irresistible.”

“I'm not talking about the open house.” Darcy followed her into the next room, rolling the college calendar into a tube. “My period is late.”

Lindsay placed the Mikasa crystal bowl on the mahogany table and turned to her. “How late?”

Sick with panic, Darcy hugged herself. “Very.”

“Okay.” Lindsay checked her watch again. “Go out now and get a test kit. Neither of us will be able to stand it till we know the truth, and anyway, we need some frozen pie or cookie dough to stick in the oven.” She turned Darcy around and pushed her toward the kitchen door. “Go now, and don't overthink it. It could be just some change in your body. Stress. You've had a lot of that.”

 

By the time Darcy returned, Gladys the evil realtor had arrived and was already taking command of the house that Darcy had nurtured all summer.

“Get the flowers out of the dining room. It's the room for food,” she said, pointing to the fresh-cut roses Lindsay had floated in the Mikasa bowl. “In there! Much better.”

Darcy plunked the package of cookie dough in Lindsay's hands. “I'm going upstairs to do this,” she said, unable to think of anything else.

The suspense was excruciating, her nerves so shattered that her fingers fumbled when opening the package.

A ten-minute wait, maybe twenty.

She paced in her bathroom, over the pearly marble tiles her mother had been so insistent upon when they'd renovated so many years ago. Italian marble and gold fixtures. A multifaucet shower big enough for an orgy. Well, the shower had certainly come in handy this summer, though it had only been Kevin and her, screwing like bunnies. They'd given up on condoms, but she was on the pill, right?

Sliding open the vanity drawer, she found the pill pack and popped it open. Three white pills remained, along with a blue one in another row. Okay, she'd missed three days at the beginning of the month, but that shouldn't matter, right? She'd heard that after you were on birth control pills for a few months, you were protected from pregnancy if you missed one now and then.

There was a knock on the door. “It's me.”

Darcy unlocked it and let Lindsay in.

“How's it going?” she asked tentatively, closing the door behind her.

“It's just about time to check.” Darcy stepped toward the little stick balanced on the white box, but she didn't need to get any closer to see the pink line.

Very pink.

“Oh, no.” She sank down to the marble tile as Lindsay stepped around her to take a look.

“I take it that means you're pregnant?” Lindsay asked.

Darcy nodded.

“Oh.” Lindsay sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub, her tanned legs dangling, her toes working to keep her red flip-flops on. “I know that wasn't in your plans.”

Tears stung her eyes as Darcy shook her head. “I was on the pill. Sort of.”

“You know what?” Lindsay slid off the tub and kneeled beside her. “It's all going to be okay. Whatever you want to do, whatever you decide, it'll be fine. And I'll be beside you all the way, Darce. I won't let you go through this alone.”

This . . . this pregnancy. A baby inside her?

How could that happen?

Darcy reached out to hug her friend, but as Lindsay's hands patted her back she broke down in tears and sobbed on Lindsay's shoulder.

“It's okay,” Lindsay whispered. “You're not alone.”