The Bright Silver Star (13 page)

“Young lady, I would like you to go,” Martine said to her between gritted teeth. “This club is for members and their guests only. You will kindly take your potty mouth and leave right now.”

“Are you trying to tell me this seedy dump
is private?”

“Get out of here, Chrissie,” ordered Will, moving over toward her. “Get out or I’ll throw you out.”

“Fine, whatever. Just remember what I told you,” she warned Mitch.

“Not a problem. I don’t think I’ll be forgetting this for quite some time.”

Satisfied, Chrissie stormed off, her footsteps clunking on the veranda. Heads turned to stare as she went charging past the dining porch.

“Well, it’s been quite some day for histrionics,” Mitch said wearily. “Sorry about that, folks.”

“No need for you to be sorry,” Jeff assured him. “Not your fault.”

“Not in the least,” echoed Dodge.

“That woman thinks everyone else in the world is exactly like her,” Will said, gazing after her. “Greedy, two-faced, and conniving. And when you try to explain to her that you’re not, she calls you a goddamned liar right to your face. She couldn’t get away with that if she was a guy. She’d get punched.”

“You should have given me the signal, honey,” Donna said, putting up her dukes fiercely. “I would have had no problem decking her.”

“She has a hard job,” Dodge said. “That’s not to defend or excuse her.”

“What she has is a personality problem,” Martine argued. “I wish Esme would get rid of her.”

“She didn’t hire her,” Dodge said. “Tito’s agent did.”

“Fine, then I wish Tito would get rid of her.”

“Hey, let’s not let her ruin our party,” Dodge said, forcing a smile onto his face. “Why don’t you folks take a swim while we start the chow?”

“I think I will,” said Mitch. Although in his case “float” would be the operative word. A true child of the pavement, Mitch hadn’t known how to swim at all when he moved to Dorset. But thanks to diligence and hard work, he’d taught himself how to float on his back—the main thing was to relax and trust in his own considerable natural buoyancy. As he started his way toward the changing stalls with his swim trunks he discovered Jeff was tailing him, stride for stride. “Going to take a dip, Jeff?”

“Not exactly . . . I wanted to ask you something personal,” Jeff said, sucking his cheeks in and out. “Would you go talk to her for me?”

“Talk to who, Jeff?”

“Abby—when she’s at C. C. Willoughby on Thursday. She’s just got to come sign books for me, Mitch. I
need
this, or I swear I’ll go under. Chrissie totally blew me off, and Abby hung up on me as soon as she heard my voice.”

“What makes you think she’ll speak to me?”

“She’ll at least hear you out. She doesn’t
hate
you. Will you do it, Mitch?”

Mitch really didn’t want to get involved in Jeff’s marital problems. But the little guy seemed so desperate and alone that he didn’t know how to say no. “Can I think it over?”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It means I’ll think it over.”

“Sure, sure,” Jeff said with great relief. “Mitch, you’re a real pal. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Honest.”

Mitch continued on behind the open-air showers now to the weathered knotty pine changing stalls, which were grouped on either side of a center aisle, maybe fifty of them in all. Each stall was about three-by-five feet, with a door that was cropped a foot short at top and bottom for ventilation. Mitch’s stall was bare except for a wooden bench and a few pegs to hang clothes on.

He emerged a moment later in his baggy surf shorts, and padded back out to the veranda. Martine was already swimming laps in a roped-in area out by the float. There was no one else out in the water. Will and Dodge were busy laying the ears of corn around the edge of the fire, which was getting good and hot. Jeff was seated back under the umbrella in the shade.

Now Donna joined Mitch, wearing a generously cut one-piece suit and a self-conscious look on her round face. Donna was no long-stemmed bikini babe—she was stubby and short-waisted, and she knew it. “Berger, is that you?” she joked, groping blindly at the air before her. She had removed her wire-rimmed glasses for the swim.

“It is.”

“How do you like my new hot girl suit?” she asked, modeling it with a dainty curtsy. She was definitely feeling her margaritas.

“I like it fine. You ready to go in?”

“Absolutely, but you have to go in ahead of me. I don’t want you staring at my big butt.”

“But this way you get to stare at mine.”

“That’s right, honey.” she giggled, swatting his arm with her hand.

The tide was out, the bottom sandy and soft. It fell off gradually as they slogged their way out, the water calm but surprisingly chilly.
It was still only about chest deep as they neared the float, where Martine continued to swim laps back and forth, the hazy sunlight glistening on her smooth, tanned flesh.

“What’s up with that Rocky Dies Yellow tattoo?” Donna asked, peering at his biceps. “Are you some kind of a Stallone boy toy?”

“No, Cagney.”

“Oh, sure, that’s from the end of
Angels with Dirty Faces.
I love that movie.”

“I didn’t know you were into old movies.” Mitch’s eyes continued to follow Martine, her stroke so effortless and graceful that she barely made a ripple in the water.

“Mitch, there are more layers to me that you can possibly imagine. I’m like a really good lasagne Bolognese—but I’m also old-fashioned.”

“How so?”

“I believe that when you go swimming with one girl you shouldn’t be staring at another.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Were.”

Mitch lowered his voice. “What do you think of her?”

“That’s a funny thing to ask,” Donna responded slowly.
“I should
hate her guts.”

Mitch widened his eyes at her. “Really?”

“Oh, totally. There’s never been a day in her life when she wasn’t pretty, popular, rich, could have any boy she wanted. And look at her now, she’s pushing fifty and she’s still built like I was when I was
never.
Which is, like, so not fair.” Donna paused, letting out a sigh. “But the truth is that she’s a real doll, and she’s been nothing but nice to me since I moved here. Why are you asking?”

“Just curious.”

“And does Trooper Mitry know you’re just . . . curious?”

“Not that kind of curious.”

“Yeah, right.”

Donna headed farther out now, so that the water was up over her head and she had to paddle a little. Back on the veranda, Dodge was
busy working the grill. Will was busy staring out at the two of them—so intently that Mitch couldn’t help wondering if he was jealous. Jeff was still seated by himself at the umbrella table, shoulders slumped.

“What’s up with our Mr. Wachtell tonight?” Donna wondered, squinting back at the shore. “He seems somewhat bummed.”

“He’s got money worries.”

“Hey, who doesn’t?”

“Come on, The Works is an incredible success story.”

“Incredible,” she agreed. “Just as long as you don’t look too close.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mitch, let me put it to you this way—what am I doing right now?”

“You’re, well, you’re at the beach club. You’re in the water. You’re . . .”

“Work
with me here, Mitch,” she said impatiently.

“Okay, I’ve got it—you’re treading water.”

“And what happens if I stop paddling?”

“You sink to the bottom and drown,” he replied, nodding. “But how can that be? Your place is mobbed morning, noon and night.”

“Overhead,” Donna answered simply. “We owe the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. Our payroll is huge. Our debt load is huge. Everything we hold near and dear is tied up in The Works, including the note on our house. Long term, Dodge is convinced we’ve got a winning idea. He thinks we can even franchise it all around New England—anywhere there’s an abandoned mill. But short term, we are just total kitchen slaves. This is the first time I’ve had fun in I don’t know how long.”

Martine started back in toward shore now, waving at them as she swam past, her smile dazzling and white.

“I wasn’t kidding this afternoon, Mitch,” Donna said, coloring slightly.

“About what?”

“Sailing off to Bermuda with you.” Her eyes were locked on to his now.

Mitch swallowed. “What about you and Will?”

“Don’t look too close at that either.”

“You’re having problems?”

“I don’t know what we’re having,” she confessed. “Things just haven’t been the same since we went into business together. But, hey, enough with the Oprah-babble. I’m trying to seduce you, handsome. Do you want to sail away with me or not?”

“This is the margaritas talking,” Mitch said lightly.

“No, it’s all me. I’m dead serious.”

“I don’t have a sailboat, Donna. I don’t even know how to sail.”

“Do you know how to swim?”

“Why do you—?”

She dunked him hard, pushing him underwater with both hands. He surfaced, sputtering, and paid her back. And the fight was on, the two of them frolicking and shrieking like a pair of twelve-year-olds. When they’d laughed themselves out Mitch noticed that Will was waving at them to come in. Dinner was ready.

As they waded in Dodge got busy lighting a dozen or so citronella candles to ward off the mosquitoes. Donna wrapped a towel around herself and made straight for the grill to see how everything was doing.

Mitch rinsed off under one of the open-air shower heads and padded back to his changing stall, where he stripped off his wet trunks and toweled himself dry, feeling tingly and invigorated. As he dressed he heard someone’s footsteps clomp past him on the decking toward a neighboring stall. He heard a stall door slap shut. Then he heard something else.

He heard a man whisper, “Not
here
—someone will catch us!”

And a woman whisper, “I don’t give a damn!
He
does what
he
wants. Why can’t I?”

Mitch froze, drawing his breath in.

“You’re insane!” the man whispered, groaning softly. “We can’t just. . .”

“I
want
you,” she gasped. “Hurry! Give it to me
now.”

Mitch could not recognize them by their furtive whispers. But
there was no mistaking what he heard next—the quick, heavy breathing, the slapping of bare flesh against bare flesh, the steady, rhythmic creaking of the wooden floorboards. The two of them were having it off in there together like a pair of sex-starved high school kids.

And then there was silence.

Mitch immediately tiptoed to the back of his stall and climbed up onto the built-in bench. From this vantage point he’d be able to see over his cropped stall door when they headed back out to the veranda. He was being a snoop and he knew it. But there was no way he was not going to find out who these lovers were.

A few moments later he heard their stall door swing open on rusty hinges. And footsteps, leather sandals clacking against the decking. Martine Crockett walked past, calmly straightening herself. She’d changed into a polo shirt and shorts, and she was striding a bit unsteadily, but she looked as cool, collected, and fresh as she always did.

Mitch waited, breathless with anticipation. After a moment a man emerged, looking flushed and shamefaced.

It wasn’t Will Durslag.

It was Jeff. Martine’s lover was Jeff Wachtell.

Ab-so-tootly.

The party was still going strong at ten o’clock when Mitch decided to say good night.

A dense fog had settled in, signaling that the rain wasn’t far off. His jaw ached and his head was spinning. All he wanted to do was go home, take three Advils, and crawl right under his bed. He could not look at either Jeff or Martine throughout dinner. And yet he was also unable to stop picturing the two of them together, groping each other’s naked, tumid flesh in that changing stall. Nor could he turn off the quiz show that was broadcasting nonstop inside of his mind.

Question: Could this GET any weirder?

Answer: Please, God, no.

Mitch felt so whipped by the time he’d steered his way across the
fog-shrouded causeway for home that he didn’t even bother to turn on the living room lights. Just made straight for the kitchen, where he replenished the cats’ kibble bowl, fished an ice pack out of the freezer, and swallowed his Advils, hearing the mournful call of the foghorn on the Old Saybrook Lighthouse across the river. He was halfway up the steep, narrow stairs to his sleeping loft when something undeniable and truly frightening suddenly occurred to him.

He was not alone in his house.

Noises. He distinctly heard noises. The clinking of a glass. A cough.

His heart racing, Mitch flicked on a light and discovered Tito Molina sitting there in his one good chair, drinking up his scotch. Clemmie dozed contentedly in the actor’s lap.

“Geez, Tito, scare people much?” he demanded.

“I like sitting in the dark,” Tito answered, his blue eyes blazing at Mitch defiantly.

Mitch stood there in guarded silence, wondering what the combustible young star wanted. And whether he should be afraid for his life. Should he try to call Des? Should he arm himself? What with, the fireplace poker? He ended up just standing there, his eyes falling on Clemmie. “She hasn’t sat in my lap all summer.”

“Animals take to me. I’m one of them.” Tito took a gulp of Mitch’s scotch, the glass trembling so violently in his hand that it clinked off of his teeth. The man was wrapped beyond tight.

Clemmie awoke with a yawn, jumped out of Tito’s lap, and wandered off toward the kitchen. Mitch watched her go, jealous in spite of himself.

“That guitar of yours is a piss,” Tito said, his eyes falling on Mitch’s Stratocaster. “Play me something.”

“Kind of tired right now, Tito. What is it you want?”

“To talk.”

“Okay, sure.” Mitch sat on the edge of his loveseat, keeping the coffee table between them. He’d made that himself by bolting a discarded wooden storm window onto a leaky old rowboat. He was
very proud of his coffee table. “But how did you get here?” he asked, snugging the ice pack against his jaw.