Twillyweed (8 page)

Whoever it was disappeared and for a moment. She told herself it must have been a seal. That was it. No one swam in this weather. But she peered harder, straining her eyes and craning. Then, far out, an arm came up, reaching. A glint of bracelet caught the light then dropped and was swallowed up. Jenny Rose scudded forward. It was a woman. Drowning!

She looked frantically left and right, but there was no one. “Oh, my God,” she said and waved back. But now there was no wave, no answer. She looked again right and left for someone to help, but seeing not a soul, she skipped to the shoreline, hopping on each foot, yanking off her sneakers and red sweatshirt and jeans, casting them into the sand. The shock of the cold water was nothing in comparison to the fear of what she would do when she got there. What if the person pulled her down? That's what they said happens. She was so scared she didn't even think to pray. Getting there seemed to take forever. It was like in a dream when you move so slowly, so slowly. She kept going, giving it all she had. When she got to the place she had aimed for, there was nothing. God. Nothing. She flailed around, feeling for life. Nothing. Nothing. A hank of seaweed brushed her and she grabbed hold of it to fling it away, then pulled it up and screamed with fright when it came with a face like a watery grave, eyes open, gaping at her, then suddenly it vomited bracken and choked with a horrible but living gasp and she saw it was Radiance. Radiance!

Jenny Rose was ready to punch her to keep her from pulling them both down, but then Radiance slunk in her arms, passing out. Jenny Rose grappled for a hold under her arms. She tried to tow her in. She kept going under, though, so she had to hoist Radiance faceup onto her shoulders and tread water toward shore. She was aware the tide was going in. Thank God for that. She couldn't have done it with the tide against her, she knew it. She kept having to stop and lurch upward for air. Twice she thought it was hopeless, she'd never get her in. Once Radiance half rallied and struggled wildly, but Jenny Rose got hold of her hair and pulled her by it until she dropped, giving Jenny Rose moments to get her hand under Radiance's chin and then, sideways, she swam them both in.

When she got near the shore, she thought they'd be safe, that someone would come, but no one was there. Her heart sank. She could just see the sun breaking into the eastern sky—it was just coming up—and she staggered, pulling them both onto dry ground. They lay there for moments, maybe minutes, Jenny Rose gasping and Radiance now waking with the feel of solid ground beneath her, stunned, retching onto the sand on all fours then collapsing. Jenny Rose staggered down the stretch of beach to where her jeans and red sweatshirt lay, praying her cell phone was still in her pocket and not landed in the water when she'd flung it off. She flinched, her foot cut by something, but she staggered on, crab-walking, crouched over, to get to the red fabric landmark. The phone was there. She was trembling, shaking so hard now, the slippery wet cell phone lurching up into the air the moment she clutched it. She caught it by reflex alone, barely able to hold on to the thing while her purple-and-yellow cold finger frantically hammered out 911.

Claire

It was early next morning when the plastic surgeon finally arrived, looked me over, and declared me fit without professional reparations. The medics were bringing in a drowning and the whole place was in an uproar, so I gathered my stuff and moved to the waiting room. I was about to call a cab to get me back to Sea Cliff, when the reason for all my troubles strode into the hospital lobby. He sidestepped and navigated easily through the turnstile door.

“How's the nose?” he greeted me cheerfully.

“Great. I always wanted a nose job.”

“They said it wasn't broken.” He frowned, the lines around his eyes crinkling. He'd shaved and showered, it seemed. I scowled at his alert, well-rested self, his clean shirt and leather bomber jacket, his big chunky head and small ears. He was as tan as an overdone biscuit and had eyes the color of … well, I'd never seen eyes just that color. I didn't know what they were. All I knew was that they weren't going to get me in trouble. No, sir. I wasn't sure why I was so mad at him. He had, after all, brought me here after my fall, but he prickled me in some visceral way. I vaguely remembered hollering crazily at him yesterday. And he'd then left me here. Well, he didn't know me from Adam, did he? But, I realized, he must have called to inquire about my nose. All right, so it wasn't broken, but I did have two black eyes. My pants were still ripped. I was glad, at least, that I was wearing a long blouse under my jacket, untucked now, pregnancy style, which covered my tailpipe. The young lady at the information desk was tapping her hair—always a giveaway. She twinkled admiringly at this, this big lug, and he smiled charmingly back. I had no idea why such behavior would catapult me into a rage. I clung to my prescriptions and my purse and drooped unhappily. She could certainly have him. All I wanted was to get out of the place and go—where? Where was I going?

“C'mon.” He hoisted me into an about-face and escorted me out the swivel door.

“Stop
doing
that!” I yanked my arm away from his, but I went along with him. He did owe me a ride if nothing else.

Not bothering to park in the lot, he'd left his car right in front of the ER. He drove an old black Saab 900 convertible and hadn't bothered to put the top back up.

“It might have rained while you were in there,” I scolded sanctimoniously.

“Nah. Won't rain. Rain's over.”

“Ah.” I looked up at the filthy sky and shivered. “And you know this because …”

“Got one a those weather sticks from Maine. Never wrong. So. Where to?”

I blinked indecisively, caught between wanting to know about the magical weather stick and wondering where I should go first. He had his brawny arms resting on the steering wheel, the wrists furry with dark gold. He looked about my age. I knew his type. Men like him always dated girls in their thirties. Not that I cared. Yesterday morning at just this time I'd been treated to a visual of Enoch's diverse tastes. Was it only yesterday morning? No, it was the morning before, two days ago.
I must change these clothes
, I reminded myself, past tiredness. “If it wouldn't be too much trouble, back to Sea Cliff.” My cell phone rang.

“Hello?” I shouted.

“Aunt Claire! It's Jenny Rose. I'm fine,” she shouted back.

“Oh, good. Look, I'm sorry about last night,” I blurted, “but something happened—”

“To my mother?”

“What? No. No, of course not. You sound upset,” I said, covering my ear to the wind.

“I waited for you. I've been calling and calling! So much has happened!”

“Really?” I held my phone out to look at it. Twelve messages had popped up at once. Then I realized cell phones don't work in the hospital. “I'm on my way to Sea Cliff. Are you free?”

“I've got the kid,” she shouted. “Come over later to Twillyweed, if you can.”

“Okay. Are you sure you're all right?”

She laughed. “Bloody freezing. I've had quite a morning! But I'll be glad to see you!”

“Me, too.” I closed the phone. “My niece,” I explained but said no more. Once he dropped me off I'd never see him again. We were on open road and the fresh wind made me shiver.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted, resting the back of my head on the leather. It felt wonderful. He handed me a scarf—his handy, girl-of-the-moment scarf, I presumed. I thought of my ex-husband and his actress girlfriend and all the heartache they'd put me through. Enoch and his present fancy. He was a snake. Men. They were all the same. “You can just let me out near the square.”

“I can't very well dump you in the square, now can I? You're on painkillers. You can't drive. Look at the trouble you got in yesterday.”

“Excuse me. What has one thing got to do with the other? And who got me into trouble? You did.” That wasn't exactly true. I softened my tone. “Look, I'll be completely fine. My niece—that was she on the phone just now—is here from Ireland working as an au pair right in town, at a place called, if you can believe it, called Twillyweed.”

He burst out laughing. “Of course she is. Where else would a niece of yours be working?”

“I don't get the joke.”

“You're right there. There is no joke.” He raked his fingers through his hair, “However, in light of what's happened to you, I think you do deserve an explanation.”

We both settled into our seats. He began, “Ever since my mom died, these real estate people have been sending buyers over to look at the cottage. I simply
mentioned
I might want to sell. Jesus. You'd have thought I was giving away platinum bars. I thought I'd go berserk. They won't leave me alone. The phone always ringing, women like yourself climbing onto the
Gnomon
.”

Women like myself!

“It was enough to make a grown man cry! Women everywhere. While I was eating. While I was in the head, for Christ's sake. It started in the funeral parlor.” He evoked a high female voice, “‘I'd just like to get a quick look inside!' they'd say. Is every woman on Long Island a real estate agent?”

“But I'm not—”

“I know you're not. But, you see, you certainly looked like one.”

He meant my tailored conservative suit, I supposed. “These are not my clothes,” I protested absurdly. “I borrowed them to go look for a job, but then—oh, what's the difference!”

He studied me with those unnerving green eyes for a moment and then went on, “I was up at the cottage and spoke to my mother's neighbor last night. She said you'd noticed the sign. You see, the thing is, I don't know what I want done with the house yet. I don't know if I want to sell or keep it or what. What I really need is to rent it. Until I can get it cleared out, though, I can't.” He scratched his head.
In five years he'll go bald
, I thought with satisfaction.

“I live on the
Gnomon
,” he went on, “but that doesn't mean one day I wouldn't want to have a cozy port in a storm. It's a good structure, that. Built to last. And on the water, isn't it?”

I said nothing. My brain was going ahead of me a mile a minute. Imagine I could stay there for a while, it was telling me. But of course that would be too good to be true. …

“Suppose …” He hesitated, then finished, “I were to make you an offer?” He glanced at me as we sped along. “Maybe work out a deal where you could stay at the house while I figure things out.”

I straightened my spine. “How long were you thinking?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Till the fall anyway.”

“But how much were you thinking?”

He looked at me. “I wouldn't be able to pay much. It would be more like a house-sitting job till I could sort through the tons of stuff she's got. I'd need a lot of help with that.”

Then idiot me says, “Hold on. Pay? You mean you would
pay
me to stay there?”

“You said you were looking for a job.”

“I was,” I admitted.

“Well, I'll be needing a woman's help. I can't go through all her things. I just can't. I don't like to use the locals. They're all so nosy. My mother's death was so”—he paused—“sudden. And people in town love to talk. I thought I'd ask at the convent but now you've turned up …” He threw another glance my way. “It'll take time to sort through all her stuff. She loved antiques, and the place is in a mad bit of clutter.” We'd turned off the highway and the road flew by in bursts of Bradford pear. “To be honest she was turning into a pack rat. I couldn't accept rent. There's hardly room in there to swing a cat.” He frowned at me over his shoulder. “But like I said. I couldn't pay much.”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph
, I thought,
sounds like my ship's just come in!

“However,” he went on, “I think it only fair you see the inside before we talk a deal.” Then, “Is there someone I could call for references?”—he assessed me with those piercing eyes.

“There is my mother,” I joked. “Once you talk to my mother you'll know all the bad things about me. Or,” I proposed, rambling on flippantly, “there's my ex-husband and his girlfriend. Or my ex-fiancé and his boyfriend …”

“There must be some sort of official who could give you a character reference?” he said, scrutinizing me doubtfully.

I thought of Swamiji. Nah. That wasn't what he meant. I shrugged. “Not really.” And then I remembered Jupiter Dodd. Years ago, before I was married, I was a sort of successful fashion photographer. For ten years I poked around the continent and in India. Jupiter Dodd was my New York contact and he'd made quite a name for himself editing several prestigious magazines. I smoothed my lap. “I do, actually, know someone of consequence who would speak for me.”

“Good.”

“I think I might even still have his card somewhere.” I grappled through my purse. “I always have one. I just haven't— Ah! Here it is. A little dog-eared and bedraggled, I'm afraid.”

“Doesn't matter.” He took the card and pocketed it without his eyes leaving the road.

“I have to be honest. I thought I'd be paying rent.”

He grabbed a look at me. “As it happens, that's my one prerequisite—I'll be needing someone honest. My mother had some valuable pieces amid the junk.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is, the house is in such bad condition—I wouldn't want you to sue me because I'd rented you an unstable environment.”

“Oh. You mean like if I fall through a hole in the floor, it will be my tough luck.”

“That's it.” He grinned.

“A gentleman's agreement, then?”

“Yes.”

Our right hands went instinctively toward each other. They clasped in a perfect fit. For one moment we held on. Embarrassed by what felt unnervingly like intimacy, I pulled away. “It couldn't be any worse than the house I just lost.” I sighed, gazing out the window.