Off Season (23 page)

“More cocoa, sweetie?” Mrs. Mallotti asked, which was weird. Well, not the cocoa part, but the fact that she called Mindy “sweetie” when she’d only seen her once or twice. Fishermen’s families, after all, were not as close as fishermen.

Mindy shook her head.

Mrs. Mallotti smiled and patted Mindy’s shoulder. She moved across the room and asked if Verge Benson or Frankie Paul would like another whiskey.

Yes, of course they would. It wasn’t every day they lost one of their own, and at only sixty-one.

Mindy looked down into the remnants of her cocoa mug and realized she’d never known how old Grandpa was. Sixty-one seemed pretty old. But never knowing when somebody was going to die pretty much sucked.

Like yesterday, when she left for school, she’d never figured Grandpa would be dead by dinner.

Lifeless
was a better word. She’d read that one time in a book. Yesterday when she’d come home from school, she’d seen Grandpa’s feet sticking out from beside his pickup truck in the backyard. He didn’t answer when she called to him; lately he’d seemed to be going deaf. So Mindy walked over to the truck.

That was when she learned that lifeless—
without life
—meant very still and kind of gray. Lifeless meant eyelids open and eyeballs staring upward at the sky, looking not scared or angry but blank. Lifeless meant hands that were sort of stiff, like someone had sprayed starch and tried to iron out the creases. Lifeless meant you didn’t feel the brown oak leaves that had fallen on your jacket and pants and your face.

Now she glanced at her watch and wondered how soon it would be before she could say she was tired and sneaked off to bed. She liked the bed she had last night. It was small and tucked under an eave upstairs. Mrs. Mallotti had given her an afghan made of colored squares—a “Granny” afghan, she’d called it—and it was cozy, which was good, because Mindy couldn’t seem to warm up and hadn’t slept most of the night.

“The girl can stay with us until they find her,” Mallotti said to the others.

Her
, of course, was Mindy’s mother. Little did they know that
Her
would most likely not be interested in coming to her daughter’s rescue, any more than
Her
had cared a lot when Ben …

Mindy stared into the mug and wondered if Ben Niles knew. Then she wondered what would happen now; and if this court stuff would soon be over, without anyone ever knowing that she had told the lie.

Maybe it was over.

Ben fled from Amy and Rita and Rita’s mother and raced back to the house. He grabbed the phone and started to dial before realizing he did not know Rick Fitzpatrick’s number. He fumbled for the phone book. He dialed again.

“He’s in court until this afternoon,” the woman who answered said.

“Tell him I’ll be in New York.” He slammed down the phone.

As he grabbed the keys to the old Buick, a single fear tugged at his conscience: with Ashenbach dead, what would happen to Mindy? Would her long-lost mother return to the Vineyard to reclaim her?

It doesn’t matter, he told himself over the lump in his stomach. It’s none of your business
.

Then he pushed himself out the door and turned his thoughts to the next flight, wondering when it would leave and how long it had been since he’d been off this damn island anyway.

“It’s over, honey,” Ben said as he hugged his wife on the front steps of the Plaza Hotel. He’d been jumping up from the antique velvet sofa in the lobby to the brass and glass revolving doors and then sitting back down again—over and over—until finally the limo pulled up and she got out.

After her came the face that belonged to Mr. Edwards, and a fat woman in a big dress who he knew was Addie, even though they’d never been introduced.

He laughed, stepped away, and adjusted his cap. “Guess I should have said hello first.”

Jill smiled. It has been so long since he’d seen her smile that he thought his heart would melt right there and pour out onto the entrance of the famous hotel which, the doorman had confided, Ivana Trump once had guarded from her perch across the street in Trump Tower and often telephoned to alert him to remove litter from the curb. It was information Ben could have lived without, but chatting with the doorman had been something to do while he’d been jumping from the sofa, waiting for this moment, waiting for that smile.

“Really?” she whispered.

Christopher sidestepped Jill. “This looks like a personal reunion, and I’m bushed, so I’ll say good night.”

Jill kept her eyes fixed on Ben. “What time tomorrow, Addie?”

“Five-forty-five,” the agent replied. “I want the sunrise over the Hudson, with the skyline—and you—in the background.”

Ben didn’t think the sun rose on that side of the Hudson, but it didn’t matter. He squeezed Jill’s hand. “Come on, honey,” he said, “I had them deliver a bottle of their best Chardonnay to the suite, and I’ll bet it’s well chilled by now.”

Jill was stunned. Standing in the crowded elevator, with Ben’s hand in hers, she tried to sort out what was happening.

Ben was not a child molester. It was over. It had been confirmed.

Of course, she’d known he was innocent all along.

The elevator door opened, and they got out. At room 204 he took her key and unlocked the door. Then he reached down and scooped her up. She squealed.

“Ben! What are you doing?”

He laughed his wonderful laugh, the one that made his gray eyes shine with mischief and love. He stepped into the suite and then kicked the door closed.

“I saw that in a movie once,” he said, with a slow, seductive smile. “John Wayne, I think.”

He carried her to the bedroom and gently placed her on the bed, her head on the pillow. He straightened her legs and took off her shoes: first from the right foot, then from the left.

She watched with great pleasure, her camel-hair coat still covering a chocolate wool dress.

He began to massage her toes, his strong fingers kneading one and then the next and then her entire foot from top to bottom, side to side.

She tingled all over. Yes, she thought, this was her Ben. Life would be right again. She slowly arched her back, wanting more, wanting it now.

He moved his hands up to her ankles, then her calves, kneading as he went. And when he reached under her skirt and touched her thighs, Jill thought she would go mad.

But his fingers did not rest on her. Instead, he hooked them around the waist of her pantyhose and carefully maneuvered them over her butt, down her legs, and off her feet.

And then he began again.

This time, however, as he massaged each toe, he bent and sucked them, too, one, then another, then another, encircling each with his warm, wet tongue.

He slid up higher, moving to her ankle, then to her calf, then to her thigh, his tongue sliding, gliding as it went, stopping off in hidden places.

And then he reached her in that place of mounting heat, that place grown damp and hungry. With his fingers, he moved aside her satin panties, then lowered his head, touching her with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue, gently licking at her little firm spot, then sucking it between his teeth and slowly biting down.

She moaned. She moaned again, because the air had left the room and time and pain had left her body and all sensation writhed with great pulsating fervor for his tongue that would not stop and her …

“Oh, God,” she cried and grabbed his head, plunging his face into her heat, moving his head up and down as he nibbled and lapped and did not stop, thank God, he did not stop.

She moaned again.

He licked.

Again.

Again.

And then her body wilted into aching, throbbing oblivion, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Oh, God,” she cried again, this time weakened, this time spent.

He did not leave, but rested his head against her thigh and tenderly wove his fingers through her damp hair.

“I love you so goddamn much,” Ben whispered. “Do you know that?”

She could not answer; she could not speak. She merely moved her hand upon his head and removed his baseball cap.

When Jill awoke, it was dark. Ben was asleep beside her, one arm draped across her chest, his head tucked against her shoulder like a little boy in love. They were atop the blankets but covered by a satin quilt. Except for her panties and pantyhose, she was still dressed. She closed her eyes again and smiled, then moved her body closer to the man she so truly loved.

“Welcome home,” he whispered in the dark.

She snuggled closer. “We’re not home, darling. We’re in New York.”

“But you’re back inside my heart again. Back home where you belong.”

Jill smiled. She turned on her side and stroked his arm. “Tell me what happened. I want to know every detail.”

He was silent for a moment. “Ashenbach’s dead,” he said matter-of-factly. “I never thought I’d see the day I wished anyone dead. But he is. Over-and-done-with dead.”

Jill closed her eyes. “God,” she said, “how did it happen?”

“Don’t know. I guess his heart got tired of him being such a mean son of a bitch.”

Moving her hand up to Ben’s shoulder, Jill gently rubbed. “And?”

“And? And it’s over. Without him to press charges, it’s over. I’m pretty sure.”

Her hand went still. “That’s it?” she asked. “Did Rick say this means you’re free?”

“He was in court. I haven’t talked to him yet.”

“So you’re not really sure …”

He sighed. “Jesus, Jill. I thought you’d be excited.”

She kissed his forehead. “I am, darling. I just hate to think you might be disappointed.”

The telephone rang. Ben groaned. Jill did not move.

It rang again.

“Maybe it’s Rick,” he said.

She ducked, and Ben reached across her. He lifted the receiver.

His tightened face told her that the person on the other end was not his lawyer.

“She’s busy right now,” he said, then paused.

Jill frowned. She propped herself up on one elbow and watched her gray-eyed man.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll be sure to tell her.” His words were followed by a firm placement of the receiver in its cradle.

“That was your co-host,” Ben said, sliding off the bed. “He said you don’t have to be downstairs until nine in the morning. That you’re not doing sunrise, you’re doing F.A.O. Schwarz.” He went into the bathroom.

Jill lay on the bed and wondered if she should tell him that Christopher knew, or if she should simply pray that if the two men were together, the subject would not come up.

Ben stuck his head from the doorway of the bathroom. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “I promise I’m not jealous.”

Guilt quickly washed through her, followed by another prayer that Ben would never learn that she’d come close to breaking her vows when she’d been so scared and so alone.

She closed her eyes again, grateful for her kind and loving husband, hopeful they could now put their lives back together again.

They could, if Ben was right and Ashenbach’s curse—along with his body—was dead and buried and would not come back to haunt them.

During the night they made love again as if they needed to make up for these past weeks, when they’d slept apart more often than together. When the wake-up call came at seven-fifteen, Jill struggled to open her eyes, then keep them open.

Ben was no help. He reached across the huge bed and pulled her close to him, his warmth and his love enveloping her once again.

“I can’t, you crazy man,” she said. “I have to be downstairs at nine.”

“One hour and forty-five minutes from now,” he said as he buried his face in her neck.

She laughed. “It takes me that long to get ready. I don’t exactly have an entourage to make me up and dress me, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Not like the old days, eh? Well, I’m sure your exfiancé won’t notice.”

She decided not to encourage any jealousy. “Well, Addie will notice if I’m ugly and if I’m five minutes late,” she said, regretfully pulling herself from the bed. She was slipping into her silk robe just as a knock came on the door. She looked at Ben as if he might know who was at their door at this ungodly hour.

Ben shrugged. “Want me to get it?”

Jill smoothed her hair. “No,” she replied. “Stay here where it’s warm.”

She went into the living room without shutting the bedroom door. The visitor was Addie, who seemed never
to need sleep, surviving on sugar, caffeine, and lots of action.

“Sorry to stop by without phoning,” the woman commented, “but I’m on my way to breakfast. I wanted you to know that Herb will be here at noon, but there won’t be much time. He has to be in Chicago before dinner.”

Jill pulled her robe together and looked at the agent. “Herb?” But she knew who it was the instant the word escaped, before she could close the door, before she could keep Ben from hearing.

Addie put her hand on her hip as if Jill were a dunce. “Herb Bartlett from Atlanta,” she said. “Attorney at law.”

Jill said good-bye and shut the door on Addie before Ben could bound out of bed, get red in the face, and ask what the hell was going on and why was an attorney en route.