Plain Jayne (14 page)

Well, so much for staying here to finish my
revisions. Even if Caroline magically changes her mind—not likely after
catching me so obviously listening in on a conversation with her
husband—there’s no way I can stay here. I’m mortified. Plus, now I know
way
too
much about Luke-Ass’s private life. His messy, depressing private life. Ick.

Not to mention, he thinks I’m a bothersome
head case. I guess I already knew he thought that, but it’s another thing to
hear someone come right out and say it.

Abandoning the pretense of working on my book,
I set aside my open laptop and cross the wooden gazebo floor so that I’m
peering through the lattice at the beach below. The water looks hard today.
Like the waves are slapping the surf, instead of caressing it. It’s not that
the water is choppy—on the contrary, it looks as smooth as sapphires—but the
waves are breaking with tremendous force, as if they’re trying to punish the ocean
floor. I wonder what’s happening way out in the ocean, where these swells are
forming. Is there a storm that’s not even visible this far away? Or is the
cause something as simple as high winds? Whatever the reason, I can’t take my
eyes off the waves, even when I begin to cringe as I anticipate their violent
breaking.

Here in Marblehead, it’s a blue-sky, puffy
clouds day, the kind of day that epitomizes the word, “summer.” The weather
doesn’t seem to have a clue that people like Lucas and Caroline Edwards exist
or that their toxicity could seep into others’ lives. But the ocean… the ocean
looks like it has experience with their type.

The sound of footfalls on the gazebo’s steps
alerts me to company. Expecting to see Paulette when I turn around, my expression
is one of mutual sheepishness at our being caught eavesdropping. It quickly
shifts to pure embarrassment, complete with blushing and perspiring, when I see
that Lucas is my visitor. I was hoping that Paulette would deliver my things to
me, with the request from my hosts that I leave as soon as possible. I would
have been okay with that. I would have understood. And I would have been
grateful not to have an uncomfortable confrontation regarding my gauche behavior.

Before I can grope for the right thing to say,
he sits down on the top step, turns mostly away from me and says to his feet,
“I’m sorry you heard all that.”

“I—Huhwhat…?” is the intelligent utterance
that plops from my mouth in response.

He’s rolled up his shirtsleeves to below his
elbows, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. He slides off his
shoes and peels off his socks, stuffing them into his shoes, which he sets
aside on the steps. “I didn’t realize you were trying to have tea with Paulette
in the kitchen.”

I start to confess that we were only having
tea in there so we could eavesdrop but hold back, barely, and say instead,
“Don’t worry about it. Life is… messy… sometimes.”

Glancing over his shoulder at me, he
clarifies, “No. I meant… I’m sorry you heard us talking about… you.”

That’s right… I’d almost forgotten that I had
a bit part in their drama as the high-maintenance head case. Pretending I don’t
care, I shrug. “Whatever. It’s not like I didn’t already know you feel that
way.”

Shortly, he replies, “I don’t, of course.
Don’t be ridiculous.” He clambers to his feet and steps up into the structure.
Sand rasps between his bare feet and the floorboards. At my skeptical glare, he
says, “I only said that to Caroline so she wouldn’t jump to any insane
conclusions of her own.”

“‘Insane’ is right.”

“Level-headedness isn’t one of her strong
suits,” he replies, incorrectly assuming I’m referring to her, when really I’m
talking about her insinuation regarding Luke-Ass’s relationship to me.

I refuse to say anything bad about her. I hardly
know her or their situation, for one thing. But more than that, she’s his wife.
Sort of. And, apparently, the mother of his unborn child.

I’m trying to figure out if it’s appropriate
to congratulate him about his impending fatherhood when he narrows his eyes at
me. “Why would I think you’re crazy, anyway? Is there something you’re not
telling me? Because as far as I can tell, you’re remarkably ordinary.”

He makes it sound like more of an insult than anything
he said about me to Caroline.

Compared to her, I
do
seem relatively
normal. Who bickers about a gravy boat when she’s pregnant, her marriage is at
stake, and her husband is enumerating all the ways he’s willing to continue to
perpetuate the sham that it currently is? Lady, forget about the damn gravy
boat!

I’m more concerned with puzzling through this
than responding to his questions. He eventually gives up on hearing an answer
and says, “Well, I’m going for a walk on the beach.” He bends over and rolls up
his trousers. “Being around Caroline always makes me want to walk into the
ocean and never come out again.”

I snort at his description.

“You think I’m kidding. Anyway… I have to
figure out how I’m going to get her the hell out of here. My usual bargaining
chips are nothing in the face of what she said in there.”

About that… He’s being awfully callous about
it. I mean, I can understand that it may not be the best news in the world,
coming from someone who makes you want to kill yourself, but I think you’d have
to be incredibly jaded not to be moved by it. Even if it’s moved in a negative way.
But show
some
emotion! He’s so… flat.

None of my business,
I warn myself sternly before calling him on his unemotional state. For
all I know, he’s a wreck on the inside. He
does
strike me as one of
those people who experiences strong feelings but rarely lets anything but anger
show. And even when he lets his temper get the best of him (which is often), he
usually rapidly recovers and then appears as if nothing happened. Maybe
he’s
crazy.

At least some hint of my thoughts must be
apparent in my expression, because when he straightens and glances at me, he
sighs. As if explaining the situation to someone who spent much of her
childhood eating lead paint chips, he says, “She’s not, you know. Pregnant. She
makes this claim every time we’ve been… together. She had a full-blown
hysterical pregnancy once, because she convinced herself so thoroughly of it.”

“TMI,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

“Pardon?”

Blushing, I say quickly, “Never mind. I’ll
pack my stuff and… and… Is there a bus stop nearby?” Marblehead doesn’t seem
like the type of place to attract too many bus travelers, but it’s the first
mode of transportation that springs to mind when I think,
Get me the hell
away from this dysfunctional nightmare.

He looks down his nose at me. “No.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll call a cab…?”

“I mean, no, you’re not leaving.” When I
flinch at his firm tone, he revises, “Unless you want to, that is.”

I gaze longingly down at my laptop, which was mere
hours ago the instrument of some of the most inspired, free-flowing writing
I’ve ever experienced. Ever ever. I
don’t
want to go. I want to stay
here and finish my book. But not if Contemptible Caroline’s going to be hanging
around, too.

As if he can read my mind, he says quietly, “I
promise I’ll get her to go away. Somehow. It may take a day or two, though.”

“I don’t want to get in the middle of this…
whatever… you two have going on,” I tell him for what feels like the thousandth
time, “but… I
was
writing well before she got here.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Anything you’d be
willing to share with me? After my walk, of course. I desperately
need
to, uh, clear my head.”

I’m loath to show him anything yet. Not until
I’ve had a chance to proofread at least three times everything I’ve written
today. “Umm… maybe. Maybe tomorrow?”

“So you’ll stay?” he checks, backing down the
gazebo steps and continuing his backpedaling through the grass, toward the
beach.

I nod and sit at the table, resting my fingers
on my laptop keys. “Yeah. If it’s okay.”

His smile makes a brief appearance before
ducking behind his usual serious expression. “More than okay. And, please,
don’t worry about this thing with Caroline. Concentrate on your writing, and
I’ll take care of everything else. Without involving you at all. I promise.”

Again, I nod, but I don’t know how he can make
such a promise. Seems to me like Caroline’s the one in control, not him.

Chapter Twelve

Why did I agree to participate in this
ridiculously awkward farce of a dinner? I feel like the sullen daughter caught
in the middle of her parents’ rancorous divorce as I poke at my new potatoes
and endeavor to get through the meal without uttering a single syllable. My
parents in this analogy are arguing and insulting each other without saying a direct
negative word.

Lucas started it with, “Darling, make sure you
eat your vegetables, especially that spinach. Folic acid is good for the baby,
you know.”

Caroline added a heaping serving spoonful to
the current no-thank-you helping on her plate. “Yes, that’s right. And you
should double up on your steak portions. Iron and protein will help with that
little problem you sometimes have in the bedroom, Dear.”

If I didn’t believe he was physically
incapable of it, I’d say he blushed. “Oh, now don’t exaggerate,” he said in a
cavalier tone. “That’s only ever happened in the presence of trolls posing as
normal, sane women. It’s a brilliant manifestation of natural selection.” He
smiled charmingly at her.

Back and forth they go until I set my fork
down with a clank, pick up my plate, and carry it into the kitchen. Paulette’s
in here, busy cleaning up. At my entrance, she turns from the sink, where she’s
scrubbing a broiler pan, and watches me plop into one of the chairs at the
kitchen table.

“Everything all right, luv?”

I stab at my food. “Yes. Now it is, since I’m
no longer eating in the same room as those two lunatics.”

She snickers. “Oh, they’re passionate, that’s
for sure.”

“Passionate?!” I nearly choke on my food.
After swallowing, I state, “They’re horrible. What even possessed them to ever
get married?”

Matter-of-factly, she answers, “Money, mostly,
I’d say.” She goes back to scrubbing the pan. “Although I think they had an
affection for each other at first. I know Luke was quite smitten with Caroline.
But when you’re young, it’s exciting to be with someone who’s a little… wild.
That excitement wears off once adult life sets in, I’m afraid.”

It probably helps that Caroline’s movie-star
beautiful, too. I don’t add that to the commentary, though. It will only prompt
Paulette to assure me of my own attractiveness, and the last thing I want is
for her to think I’m comparing myself to Caroline, for any reason. Plus, I
don’t have any illusions about my looks. You can dress up my first name any way
you’d like, but I’m still as plain as any regular old Jane, “y” notwithstanding.

Of the three of us sisters, Shannon was the
prettiest. Everyone said it. It went this way:  I was (I suppose,
am
)
the smart one; Shannon was the pretty one; and Nicole was the funny one. I
don’t think it’s allowable to be more than one thing. So “smart” it is. Not pretty.
Not funny. Just smart. And not necessarily in the sense of “intelligent.” I’d
say it’s more of a creative smart than anything. Not that I’m complaining. It’s
served me well. Until today, that is. Today, I’m cursing it, because it’s
landed me in this predicament.

Not for the first time, I’m wondering why I
couldn’t get the standard, kind, grandfatherly—or better yet,
grandmotherly—editor, who patiently marks run-on sentences and other minor
grammatical misdemeanors and maybe offers some mild suggestions for improvement
here and there regarding diction or syntax. No, I had to get peppery, volatile
Lucas Edwards, with his demands for major revisions, his gorgeous house on
Marblehead, and his train wreck of a personal life. Eff me.

If it weren’t for the magical gazebo in his
backyard, I’d be running away from this place as fast as I could.

All conversation seems to have ceased in the
adjoining dining room, but I’m not going back out there. Their strained
silences are surely as bad for digestion as their snarky comments. I’m fine
with eating in here, like one of “the help.”

I’m swallowing the last bite from my plate
when Lucas comes through the swinging door with his hands full of dirty dishes
and cutlery.

Paulette glances at him and clucks the
admonishment, “I would have gotten those, Luke. How many times have I told
you?”

He sets the plates next to the sink and
shrugs. “Why? I have legs and hands and arms, and I wanted to see if Jayne had
told you how rude and inappropriate Caroline and I were being at the dinner
table.”

I can’t help but smile at his acknowledgment,
but before I can reply to his indirect apology, Paulette says with a nervous
glance at the dining room door, “Oh, I already knew it. Jayne didn’t have to
tell me anything. You and Caroline are like two children.”

“She went up to bed, so you don’t have to
worry about her hearing you.” He leans against the counter and comes close to
whining when he says, “Why won’t she go away, Paulette? Why does she insist on
making my life miserable?”