Do I Know You?, page 19
And, most frightening of all, very much alone.
* * *
Will’s pacing anxiously in the Prow Room when Bella joins him to meet the lawyer. Outside the massive windows, a gray sky looms, bending to a dark bay.
“You’re late,” Will says, taking long strides toward her and planting a kiss on her hollow cheek, his cologne almost masking the odor of a recent bong hit. “I almost went to get you.”
“Then you would have seen me in my dress before the wedding and that would have been bad luck.” She gives him a coquettish smile.
“A little late for that,” he says, referring to the staged ceremony he and Bella already shot for the new Love & Pease wedding campaign entitled “The Love & Pease Revelation,” a play on revel, i.e., “party,” and elation, i.e., “joy.” Eve was extremely proud of herself for coming up with that. Minutes after their real vows are exchanged, the new Love & Pease Revelation site will go live with these photos accompanying gushing copy and shopping links.
Will takes Bella’s hand in his, leading her down the wide hall to Chet’s old office. Jake and Heather have been summoned to serve as witnesses, and Dani has promised to attend because she can’t resist a car crash.
“I just love executions, don’t you?” she said that morning while sipping a cup of pu-erh tea at the breakfast table.
“She means a document,” Cecily explained to Bella. “Executing a document.”
Dani smiled at her wife. “Did I?”
At the closed door to the office, she hesitates. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?” Will asks.
“I don’t know. It’s nothing to do with signing the agreement. I’m okay with that. I don’t even care about the money. It’s just . . . what does this say about our relationship?”
Will shrugs. “Not much. That where there’s money, there are lawyers with contracts. I didn’t want to do it, but Jake insisted.”
This, she knows, is a lie. While Jake and Bella have often butted heads when it comes to the philanthropic direction of Love & Pease, she is well aware he respects her level head and prudence. Whereas Will, in his brother’s opinion, is a slacker who shouldn’t be allowed the responsibility of watering the houseplants, much less controlling the family business.
“Anyway,” he adds, twirling a strand of her loose hair, “it’s not like you’d ever give me grounds to divorce you, right?”
Is that a threat? “Maybe I’ll die first, in which case you’ll get everything,” she says, testing his reaction. “With my forty-five percent and your five, you’d have exactly half of Love & Pease, far more than Jake and Dani. More than Eve, too.” Funny how they’ve never openly discussed this until now.
“Jesus. I don’t want your pile of dirt. I want you.” And he ends the conversation with a long, slow, dizzying kiss. Bella tastes a faint hint of whisky on his lips, though it’s not yet noon.
When they enter the office, Heather and Jake are seated side by side in upholstered armchairs, she in a peach top and white golf skirt, and he in a nearly identical salmon top with white pants, having clearly dragged themselves off the links. They do a grand job of smiling warmly, Jake standing to shake Will’s hand and Heather giving Bella a quick, efficient hug. Only Dani remains sitting, one leg over the chair arm, an unlit cigarette between two fingers.
“You know Arthur,” Will says to Bella, introducing the lawyer who, of course, she’s met before, occasionally without the family’s knowledge.
Arthur gives Bella’s hand a squeeze that transports her back in time to a dark night, a furtive escape. His piercing gaze under bushy gray eyebrows and cautious “Congratulations” indicate he hasn’t forgotten, either.
“I assume you’ve had a chance to read over the documents,” he begins, cutting to the chase after they take their seats. “Bella, since I didn’t hear from your attorney, I—”
She holds up a finger. “I didn’t show it to another lawyer. I didn’t see the point.”
There is a creak in the armchair to her left: Jake leaning forward in keen interest.
Arthur clears his throat. “Naturally, you’re free to do as you wish, and I understand that with the wedding right around the corner we are facing a crunch. That said, I would strongly advise you to have this vetted by your own counsel if only for your own peace of mind.”
“In other words, sweetie,” Dani interjects, “pay someone not half as clever as Artie here to explain exactly how you’re being screwed.”
Will grips her knee. “Bella’s read it over. She understands the details. She knows her own mind.”
Clearing her throat, she says, “Keep the prenup as is. I don’t care about money. I’ve already donated my inheritance to the foundation, so I have nothing left to give.”
“Ho, ho!” Jake chortles. “Not quite true.”
“It is. And I want you all to listen because I’m not going to say it again.” Turning to Will, Bella continues, “If you leave me or I leave you, it will be after something awful happens, something heartbreaking. Maybe you’ll invent a way to blame me for the ruination of our marriage so you can get hold of my shares of Love & Pease, but I hope not. If that was your goal in proposing, then let’s call off the wedding this minute and I’ll give you my forty-five percent right now.”
“Shit. Don’t make that offer,” Dani says. “He might take it.”
A hush descends and the other Peases are at a loss for words, an unusual occurrence. Jake’s neck has colored and Will rests his forearms on his knees, head bowed. Heather whispers, “Good thing Eve’s not here,” and even Arthur anxiously spins a pen.
“Look, Bella’s noble speech aside,” Jake says, “Will stands to get half of Love & Pease because of this prenup. That’s hardly fair to me and Dani. If anything, the contract should be rewritten so that, should the marriage end due to Bella’s sleeping around or whatever, her shares will be allocated equally among the three of us.”
“Why should Bella have to give up anything because of a divorce?” Dani asks. “We all know Will’s the untrustworthy one here, not her. That’s why Dad gave her almost half the company.”
Now it’s Bella’s turn to blush, her cheeks instantly turning hot.
“Dad gave her half the company because you cracked up a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car,” Jake shoots back.
“And you were showing up the neighbors with your god-awful Taj Mahal in Newton,” Dani says, sitting up.
“Some of my family money was invested in that house, too,” Heather pipes up.
Dani rolls her eyes. “Please. Your so-called family money couldn’t even pay for the hedges to be pruned around that palace, princess.”
“Enough!” Bella holds out her hand for the papers. “This is why I hate, hate, hate money. It brings out the worst in people. Arthur, give me that fucking pen.”
The lawyer indicates where she should apply her signature and which pages she must initial. She works through the three copies with methodical assurance, her penmanship schoolgirl-perfect on the thick legal stationery. After she dots B.V. in the final corner, Heather and Jake take turns signing and dating their own signatures as witnesses.
Then it’s Will’s turn.
Jake hands him the archival pen and checks his watch, as if he’s hoping to sneak in a few more holes. Looking grave, Will signs where he’s directed.
Dani leans into Bella. “It’s been nice knowing ya, sist-ah.”
Bella waves her away. “Stop it, you.”
As soon as he’s finished, all of them rise from their seats, relieved to be done. Normal color has returned to Heather’s cheeks and Jake takes Arthur aside to recount a dull blow-by-blow putt on the ninth hole.
No one notices Will reach for the stack of documents until they hear the sound of paper ripping.
“What are you doing?” Heather practically screams.
“Holy hell!” Jake thunders while Dani slaps her thigh and doubles over in laughter.
Bella gawks, amazed. It’s not enough for him to tear the pages in half; he’s ripping them into tiny pieces until a pile of ecru covers the desk. The lawyer simply rocks back on his heels, regarding his shredded work product. Satisfied with his creation, Will gathers the pieces and pats them into a little hill.
He did it. He actually did it. Bella’s heart swells with pride and relief. Queenie was wrong; he isn’t simply marrying her for her shares. He loves her, fully and completely and forever, just like he promised on that glorious evening in Bogotá. Will might have his demons, he might be a work in progress, but deep down, the magical, delightful, principled boy from her childhood lives still.
Bella throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly.
“I love you, you know,” he says softly into her ear.
She does, finally.
Twenty-Five
JANE
You won’t tell Dave about the Pull-Ups, will you?” Sheila says, low so the children in the back won’t hear, as we leave Indigo. “I’m not trying to hide anything from him, exactly, but, honestly, if he had to change Caleb’s diapers as often as I do, he’d break down every once in a while, too.”
“No problem,” I say, though after Mabel’s little bomb back there in the pavilion that, in fact, Sheila and her kids have been to Indigo, I’m wondering what other white lies she’s told. As for the house with the pool and the indoor swing, where’s that?
“How’d you like Indigo?” I ask, to test her reaction.
“Pretty.” She barrels into the Orleans rotary, totally ignoring a car entering on the right. “We should swing by the grocery store. We’re low on supplies.” Taking a righthand turn into the Stop & Shop parking lot from the left lane, she asks, “Do you mind going in? I’m going to stay and nurse Caleb to soothe him.”
We park and Sheila gets out, unsnapping him from his car seat. “We had to hang around on the beach soooo long while you and that”—she drops her voice—“dealer chatted, my baby’s schedule is all catawampus and so is he.”
Mabel lowers her backseat window, which has been programmed to stop midway for safety. “I’ll stay here, too. Me, tired.” This grammatical error is meant to be whimsical, I’m sure, as I’ve overheard her correct her highly educated father on his misplacement of a direct object.
Dazed, I mumble, “What are we getting?”
“My full list isn’t ready. I’ll text you some more ideas.” Sheila shoves a collection of cloth bags into my arms. “But can we stick to veggies tonight? We’ve had so much seafood. I could do with a few greens. A kale, almond, apple, and cheddar salad might be nice.” She unbuttons her shirt, stuffing Caleb against her breast. “Thanks. You’re so sweet.”
Slightly disoriented, I dutifully get out of the car holding the cloth bags and head to the store. Actually, I’m grateful for a few minutes to myself. There’s so much I need to unpack.
First off, although I’ve been trying to avoid running into Bob, he needs to know what Cobb said about Kit being scared shitless and being pressured to buy drugs for—most likely—Jake Pease.
At the double doors, my phone dings and Sheila’s text pops up: ORGANIC kale, apples, cheddar, almonds, olive oil, grass-fed buffalo (if avail.), mac & cheese, milk, clementines, Josh chardonnay, water (Cape is yuck!), yogurt, and Seventh Generation Free & Clear training pants.
Ugh.
I enter to a whoosh of chilled air. Grabbing a cart, I throw in the bags and plow ahead to the crowded produce section. Stacked oranges, apples, grapefruit, and kiwi fill the aisles, along with a cornucopia of additional fresh fruit and vegetables. To the left, the deli line stretches all the way to baked goods, with beachgoers ordering to-go sandwiches, since there are no vendors allowed along the National Seashore. The entire store is geared to this one consumer dynamic: the well-off tourist in a rush, willing to blow the budget.
“Nothing worse than being in this hellhole when everyone else is out on the water, am I right?”
It takes a second to realize this question has been addressed to me by a man in a peach Vineyard Vines shirt and a Mets cap who is way too old to be wearing Oakleys indoors.
I grip the cart handles, frozen in place. He’s the dude from the beach, only he was wearing a Yankees cap earlier, right? Also, don’t I know him from somewhere else?
“And how come these never open?” Frustrated, he licks his fingers and plies apart the thin plastic vegetable bag. “Great. I probably just picked up the flu and now I’m going to spend the next three days flat on my back. So much for a vacation!”
Where else do I know him from? This is killing me. Think, Jane, think. He’s staring at me, expecting a reply to his innocuous observations.
“I try to get through this place as fast as possible,” I say. “That’s my strategy.”
“Good luck. This store is a zoo.” He tosses a bag of carrots into the cart. “See ya.”
He heads off to the fancy cheeses and I backpedal to the apples, my brain churning. Did I see him on Coast Guard Beach? At Long Pond with Caleb and Mabel? Did we pass on the bike path? At Ben & Jerry’s? He wasn’t in a Yankees cap, though. Mets, that was it.
And now I remember exactly where I saw him before: Serena’s. He was coming into her seafood market while I was going out. Serena knows him. She treated him like a favorite customer.
At the meat counter, my phone dings again. Another order from Sheila. Better get 2 bottles of Josh since there’s 4 of us. Three drinkers, actually, I think.
“Surf and turf.” It’s Vineyard Vines again, picking through shrink-wrapped packages of rib eye. “Ka-ching!”
Smiling weakly, I look for grass-fed buffalo. In my peripheral vision, I sense him trying to catch my eye. He’s not here by accident, I have the feeling.
My instincts now on red alert, I turn down the organic staples aisle, picking out boxes of acceptable mac and cheese, a bag of almonds, and a bottle of olive oil. He’s nowhere in sight for the rest of my excursion, which is a relief, until I enter the wine aisle and see him holding up a bottle of white. “If my wife were here, she’d buy this crap by the barrel,” he says, his cart horizontal so I can’t pass.
He meets my gaze and raises his eyebrows, like he knows I know. He wants me to know I’m being stalked.
Ding! Crap. Another message. Not now, Sheila! But it’s not from her; it’s from Stan.
My fellow Viking tells me you’re on the Cape. You and I talked about this. Not a wise idea, Bumble.
Why did Erik tell him that? My boyfriend might be book smart, but he has zero discretion.
Don’t worry, I text back. I won’t go near the wedding. Had a great deal on a rental too sweet to resist. When I look up, Vineyard Vines is gone.
Until I get to the checkout area, where he cuts in front of me and into the shortest line. “Beat ya!” he declares, pumping his fist.
If he weren’t a New York sports fan, I’d definitely classify him as a certified Masshole.
I redirect to self-checkout, where I quickly swipe, pay, and get out of there, my cloth bags straining at the seams.
Outside, I find a place in the shade and sit, breathing deeply to calm my jitters. Then I Google the number for Serendipity Seafood. I want to know who Serena’s customer is and why he’s on my ass.
“Serendipity Seafood,” a perky young voice answers.
I watch Vineyard Vines cross the lot to a big black Lexus SUV, the plate too far away to read. He pops the back, shoves in the groceries, closes the hatch, and gives me a little salute before getting into the driver’s seat and taking off.
“Hi, I’m looking for Serena,” I say, glad he’s out of my hair.
She tells me she’s just finishing up with a customer if I don’t mind waiting. I tell her no problem and am put on hold.
Two seconds later, the perky woman’s back on, her tone having shifted straight to curt. “I’m sorry, but Serena had to run out and won’t be back for the rest of the day. You can leave a message if you want.”
Huh. I’d take this as a personal insult except I didn’t identify myself. . . . Oh, wait. Chances are my name showed up on Serena’s caller ID.
“Could you tell her Kit’s sister called?” There. Let that sink in. “You have my number.”
“Jane Ellison, right?”
Confirmed. “Got it.”
“She’s super busy so it might not be until tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say, and hang up, feeling even more unsettled.
A milk- and sun-sated Caleb is sleeping in his seat and next to him Mabel is reading a book, possibly a Russian novel, when I return. Sheila leans out the driver’s side window, fanning herself with a copy of The New Yorker. “Geesh, you were gone a long time. I almost turned on the air.”
I’m too frazzled by my Stop & Shop stalker and Serena’s brush-off to let this barb sink in. “The lines were intolerable,” I lie, loading the bags in the rear next to the colorful, sandy beach clutter.
“Guess what.” Sheila turns the key in the ignition as I click my seat belt. “All those TV news trucks we saw on the bridge weren’t there for a wedding. They were there because some woman died.”
“A Pease?”
“Don’t think so.” Sheila swings around the rotary, cutting off one car and nearly sideswiping another to get ahead of traffic. “Apparently, she was a friend of Eve Pease from her soap-opera days. Queenie something.”
I rack my memory for a Queenie on a soap and draw a blank. Soaps never were my thing.
“CNN said she had a heart attack yesterday morning. It’s awful, though, to have something like that happen in the midst of a celebration. You think they’ll cancel the wedding?”
Gripping the dash as Sheila bounces over the curb of the rotary, I scoff. “Are you kidding? They’ve invested millions in this event, from what I’ve read. It has to go on. What will they do with fifty-two roast ducklings and a planeload of imported Colombian carnations?” I sit back and try to relax, employing the calming techniques I learned when I was hospitalized.
My whole universe feels like it’s fraying at the edges and I have to make sure I don’t unravel with it.
Twenty-Six
