Back Talk (18 page)

Market. “I know it’s November and kind of chilly but I brought us a little picnic,” she said. She saw the shrine. “It’s beautiful, Hilton.

Your mother must have been a special woman.”

“It’s our way of remembering her,” Hilton replied.

Anne put the bag down. Jessie started pawing around in it.

“Wine, cheese, a baguette and grapes, red and green. Yum. How come we never thought of that?”

Liz gave her one of her “You’re such a swine” looks.

“Well, it seems like such a good idea,” Jessie said. “That’s all I meant.”

“Come see the shrine up close,” Hilton said as she took Anne’s hand. It wasn’t until they’d taken a few steps that Hilton realized what she’d done. It felt good. It felt natural and Anne didn’t appear to think it was weird so Hilton tried to relax.

“That’s her?” Anne asked, pointing to the picture.

“Yes, when she was about my age.”

“You look a lot like her. She was very pretty.” Anne squatted down next to the shrine.

“Thank you for coming. I know it’s kind of sad and weird.”

“It’s all right, Hilton. Really. I’m just glad you wanted me to be a part of it.” Anne stood and touched Hilton’s cheek.

Hilton closed her eyes and basked for a moment. She knew if Jessie saw this her conjectures would all be proven correct. Hilton knew she was right, only she wasn’t ready to let her feelings surface or discuss them with anyone, including Anne.

Anne broke her reverie. “What’s with the limo?”

“It’s Percy.”

“I didn’t know you two talked.”

“We don’t. He just comes and sits in the limo each year.”

“What! He gets this close to you and never says a word? That’s not right. Mind if I go have a word with him?”

“What would you say?”

“I’m going to tell him what a schmuck he is, that he has an incredible daughter and he might want to get to know her before it’s too late.”

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“Feel free. Beware of the cold fish.” Hilton couldn’t decide if she was scared or amused by Anne’s sudden defense of her.

Anne went tromping up to the parking lot.

“Where’s she going?” Liz asked in a panic.

“She’s going to tell Percy that he’s a schmuck for hiding out in the limo.” Hilton chuckled to herself, thinking that anyone who could make Percy feel uncomfortable scored big points in her world.

“Awesome,” Jessie said.

Hilton sat down on the quilt.

“Is that such a good idea?” Liz asked tentatively.

“I can’t see how it can possibly hurt.” Hilton stared out at the surf as it came rolling in. She heard the distinct rumble of a Harley as it came up the road. She lay down and rolled on her side, propping herself up on one elbow and facing Liz. “Tell me it’s not her.”

“It’s not her.”

Hilton rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, letting out a sigh of relief. She really didn’t want to see Nat right now.

“Hilton?” Liz said. “I lied. Just be polite. She won’t stay long.

She doesn’t have that kind of attention span.”

Hilton sat up. Shannon, who’d been chasing gulls on the beach, came roaring back. She barked at Nat, who stuck her hands in her pockets and almost looked shy.

“Hey,” Hilton said.

“I just thought I’d stop by, and you know, pay my respects.”

“That’s nice, Nat,” Liz said diplomatically.

“Percy here?” Nat glanced up at the limo.

“Same as always,” Hilton replied. Anne was standing with her back to the beach and talking with Percy.

“How’s Emily?” Nat asked.

“She’s great!” Jessie interjected. “They hang out all the time.”

“Cool. Well, I’ve go to go. Sherry’s waiting.”

“Sure,” Hilton said. She watched her walk up the hill. She waited for her heart to explode and bleed all over the perfect sand beach but it did nothing of the sort. Instead, she got this strange 132

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sense of absolute detachment. For the first time in her life she realized there would be a point when Nat wasn’t going to be there.

They were actually going to part.

“Jessie, why did you say that?” Liz asked.

“Because it’s over. Isn’t it, Hilton? If Nat thinks Hilton is still hanging on she’ll be back.”

“She’s right,” Hilton said. “And I’m okay with that.”

Anne returned. “That didn’t go in the direction I planned.”

Hilton smiled, knowing the sentiment well. “What did he say?”

“He basically told me that my opinion has been noted. The dysfunctional nature of his family, however, was none of my concern. I guess he’s got a point.”

“Percy is a pretty cold fish,” Liz said. “I had a political science seminar once and he came to speak. It was like he wasn’t human.

Sorry, Hilton.”

“Like I care,” Hilton responded.

The black limo started to creep down the road toward them.

The tinted back window slid down. “Hilton?” Percy croaked from inside. “I gave Ms. Counterman’s suggestions some review.

Perhaps it is time we end this little feud of ours. Would you like to come to dinner at the house?”

Hilton stared at him. He was a lot older than she remembered him and a considerable amount frailer. She did the math. He would be sixty-six now. His gray hair was reduced to a few thin spots around the sides. He looked old and creepy. She replied, “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His steely blue gaze met her own.

“I can’t. Gran made me swear before she died that I would never see you again.”

“Deathbed promises can be most bothersome and slightly impertinent, considering the person issuing them won’t be around to see the results. Did she tell you why?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“It’s not very pleasant.”

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“Grant me the unpleasantry.”

It was once again a battle of wills on the same beach that had changed all their lives forever. Only this time she wasn’t a six-year-old girl standing next to the bloated corpse of her mother. She had power this time. “Gran said you were evil and you destroyed the lives of anyone who loved you.”

“I see,” Percy’s bony white hand curled over the edge of the window.

“We wouldn’t have anything to talk about anyway,” she said diplomatically, suddenly feeling he needed the opportunity to save face.

He declined to take it. “There’s always the weather. Next year, then.” The tinted window went back up and the limo drove off.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Jessie snapped. “It’s gray for the rest of the winter, and if you don’t watch it you’ll grow mushrooms on the top of your head from all the fucking rain.”

“I almost felt sorry for him,” Hilton said.

“You’re like the million-dollar baby. Gran bought you from him. He chose money over his own kid. What kind of man does that?” Jessie said indignantly.

“I know. I overheard them the night Percy signed over custody.

He needed money and she wanted to protect me. He’d never admit that.” The picture was still fresh in her mind. The cracked door of the den and Percy yelling at Gran. She’d run to her room and later Percy came up and kissed her forehead. She pretended to be asleep.

“Hilton, are you all right?” Anne asked quietly.

“Yeah, I’m not like him, am I?”

“No, not ever. You have your mother’s heart and your grandmother’s soul,” Liz said quietly.

“Maybe you do have some of his emotional detachment,” Jessie said. “Ouch!” she said as Liz stepped on her foot. “And you don’t trust a lot of people,” she continued. Liz stepped on her foot again.

“Damn it, do you not know my foot is there?” She glared at Liz.

“I’m trying to get you to shut your big fat mouth.”

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“No, Liz, she’s right. I don’t give myself over easily.”

Anne took her hand. “Discretion is not a bad thing, Hilton.

Especially since you are who you are.”

“She’s right,” Liz said.

“Besides, we’ve got your back,” Jessie said. She sat down on the beach and removed her shoe. She rubbed her foot.

“Is it all right?” Liz asked as she peered down at it.

“You’re the one that did it.”

“I know that! But I can still be concerned. Sometimes brutal honesty is not always the best policy. Besides, Hilton is expanding her horizons. We have Anne now,” Liz said.

“And Veronica and Melissa,” Jessie chimed in. She put her shoe back on, obviously convinced the damaged appendage was going to survive. “Now, let’s eat.”

“Yes, let’s,” Hilton said, suddenly feeling much better. She had a new life now. The two people who’d caused her the most trouble were no longer lurking around her, unconsciously giving her pokes and prods just to see her react. She was over Nat, and she’d told Percy the truth. It couldn’t get much better than that.

They all sat down on the big quilt. Jessie prepared the feast with Anne’s help. The sun made a brief appearance and the seascape burst with a plethora of color. Hilton gazed out on Puget Sound and thought life was kind of like that, sometimes gray and depressing and then suddenly, out of nowhere it became bright and full of color. She wished her mother would have stuck around for those moments.

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Two weeks had passed since that day on the beach and Anne never ceased to wonder how fast time flies when you’re actually enjoying yourself. She’d been working on Web ideas with Hilton, and they’d gone shopping together for an addition to Hilton’s wardrobe, who had discovered that there were winter clothes.

Anne thought perhaps Veronica, who was still madly in love with Jessie, had gotten to her. She’d seen them perusing a
Vogue
and an
Elle
magazine together. Shannon had survived another round with the groomer and Liz and Melissa were getting along famously.

Life, up to this point, had been pleasant. Almost too pleasant.

Something was bound to fuck it up.

By Thanksgiving day, the only thing getting her through it was the knowledge that she would be seeing Hilton and the girls afterward for drinks and five-card stud. She’d been saving her change all week. It was a Hilton house tradition that Gran had started and the girls diligently upheld. It appeared Gran hadn’t believed in 136

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gambling, but cards required skill so she allowed it and, judging from the stories, reveled in a good game of poker.

After she stoically helped her mother peel potatoes and cut up celery and onions for the stuffing, she’d been released from KP to go and visit with her father in his study. He was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigar and reading the
New York Times
. He was muttering to himself. He looked up when he saw her. Anne had his green eyes and thick, brown hair, although his short beard and mustache had turned white. He always reminded her of a jovial-looking Ernest Hemingway.

“The
Times
has become a cesspool for hack journalism. It used to be a good paper until it started this political agenda hogwash.

Yellow journalism at its worst. History really is circular.”

“Then why do you read it?” Anne sat down in one of the burgundy wing back chairs. His study looked like a page straight out of
Architectural Digest.
Her mother had the uncanny ability to make every decorating project picture perfect. A brass nameplate on the desk read Malcolm Counterman, PhD Dark oak bookcases lined the room and were a testimony to his intellectual prowess.

Anne doubted her father even noticed the absolute correctness of his study, how his wife had thought of every detail of what the study of a Doctor of Political Science should look like. Her system of organizing their lives had worked out until her daughter lost her husband to another man. This turn of events didn’t bode well in Brochure Land.

“I don’t know. I just always have. It’s like an old friend that’s gone off the deep end but you can’t cut yourself loose.”

Anne laughed.

“So how’s the book coming?” he asked.

“Shh, you’re the only one who knows.” She stole a look at the door. Her mother was a notorious eavesdropper.

“So how’s it coming?” he whispered when she gave him the thumbs-up signal, indicating the coast was clear.

“I write a couple of pages a day and hopefully they’ll accumu-late into something like a novel.”

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“Ah, the doctrine of incrementalism. It’s becoming a lost art in today’s culture, which is a pity because small steps will eventually get you there. I think the Victorians were the ones who perfected it. They had the moral fortitude along with the luxury of time to know that Rome wasn’t built in a day. This business of living in the fast lane will be our demise.”

Anne smiled at him. He was the only one who ever understood her aspirations, first the radio career and now her desire to write thrillers. She’d always toyed with the idea but it was her father’s gentle prodding that got her started. Before he’d retired five years ago he wrote papers for think tanks and op-ed columns, and although his imagination wasn’t as fanciful as hers, at least they shared some literary leanings.

She asked, “Is it bad to achieve one’s dream only to become dis-enchanted with the end product?”

“No, I think it’s the normal landscape for overachievers.” He looked at her over the top of his black reading glasses.

“I’m changing.”

“Precisely.”

Anne’s mother retrieved them for dinner. As her father carved the turkey, Anne poured the wine, dreading the inquisition to come. She knew it was hiding somewhere between the mashed potatoes, the cranberries in orange sauce and the biscuits. She couldn’t see it holding out until the pumpkin pie. Her mother hit her while she was passing the butter.

“Gerald called the other day.”

“He did?” Anne responded innocently. She looked at the biscuit she had just finished buttering. A second earlier it looked appetizing, all fluffy and moist. It was no wonder she’d been thin most of her life. Her mother always chose the dinner hour to engage in verbal calisthenics.