Off Season (38 page)

“Even though right now she can’t sell her story or get
you to ‘settle,’ the woman apparently is determined to make a big score. She said she knows her ‘rights.’ And that after the criminal trial, she’ll file a civil suit. She thinks she’ll get her money that way, because of all the attention it will draw because of Jill’s celebrity.”

“A civil suit?” Ben asked, and Jill was glad, because she could only hear the words “Jill’s celebrity” echo like a death sentence somewhere in her mind.

“Yes. At which time, I have to caution you, there will most likely be no gag order, because she, Fern Ashenbach, will sue you, Ben Niles, for pain and suffering brought on by what she claims you did to her daughter and by the humiliation of the trial.” He laced his words with sarcasm and mockery toward the woman who claimed she had rights.

“And no matter what happens at the trial, the whole world will know,” Jill stated.

Bartlett nodded, and in Ben’s face, Jill saw that pale anguish return. She closed her eyes a moment, then stood up and left the room.

There was no sense calling Addie, who would probably lash out with hot-headed anger. Not that telling Christopher would be any easier, but Jill thought he might handle it better, with fewer threats and less intimidation.

She went upstairs and called him and left a message on his voice mail. Twenty minutes later, just as she heard Herb Bartlett and his assistant downstairs saying good-bye, Christopher called.

“I’m en route to New York,” he said. “Good-bye, L.A.”

Jill drew in a shallow breath. “You’re en route, as in for good?”

“Yep. I’m in an airplane as we speak. Thirty-some-odd thousand feet over somewhere. The Rockies, maybe. I don’t know. It’s dark.”

“It’s dark here, too.”

He laughed. “Did you call to tell me that?”

She twirled the cord around her finger. “No. I called to say I’m backing out of the contract. I won’t be doing
Good Night, USA.”

He paused a second, then laughed again. “Have you been drinking?”

“This is serious, Christopher. You know about the situation with Ben. Well, now the girl’s mother has said she will file a civil suit. There will be no gag order against it, so chances are she’ll also sell her story to the tabloids. She thinks she can get away with it, because it will cause a huge scandal because”—she choked on her next words—“because of who I am. If I—we—are just getting back into the spotlight together, the world will jump on it. It will kill the show, and you’ll go down as well.”

“How much does she want? Whatever it is, I’m sure Addie will pay.”

“No, I don’t want Addie involved.”

“Then I’ll pay her, goddammit. This affects my future, too.”

She wanted to say it was his own fault. She wanted to remind him that he was the one who’d stayed in touch with Hugh, as if he had possessed her even when she’d married someone else. She wanted to say it was his own fault because she needed so badly to blame someone else.

She stared down at the deacon’s bench and remembered the day Ben sat there, the day he told her the news. “I’m out, Christopher. It means Ben and I will no longer be able to afford Herb Bartlett, but we’ll work something out. As for the show, I should have known better. I should have left well enough alone.”

“Addie will sue you.”

“I’m sure she will. But let her know that my house is in my kids’ names and Ben’s is in his daughter’s. There’s nothing else she can touch. She’s already taken it all.”

In the silence, she could hear the gentle hum of the jet engines.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“I cannot do this to my family,” she said. “And I will not do this to my husband. If I weren’t who I am, no one would care. By being in the public eye—by returning to the public eye—I can’t have a real life, with its flaws and
its hurdles. I’ve forgotten what a miserable place fame creates.”

He did not say anything for a minute. “Why do you still want to be with me, Christopher? Can’t you see I belong where I am?”

“You belong with me, Jill.” He laughed. “You’re the first woman who ever walked out on me, did you know that?”

She did not. “But why did you help us get Bartlett? I thought you wanted Ben to be found innocent. You said you wanted me to be happy.”

He laughed again. Oh God, he laughed.

“I thought you’d need to know you had the best man on your side. But even Bartlett can’t help your husband. He’s not innocent, Jill. Wake up and accept that Ben is as guilty as sin. He’s a child molester, for chrissake. Get your head out of the clouds.”

He clicked off without saying good-bye. Jill held the receiver, the dial tone droning in her ear. Then she looked up to see Ben standing in the door.

“Bartlett’s gone,” he said.

Jill nodded.

“We don’t need him,” Ben added.

She nodded again.

“I told him to take the next ferry back to Atlanta.”

She broke into a smile. “What the hell are we going to do?”

He approached the bed and flopped down on it. “We’re going to be glad that we agree on something. It’s time to end the bullshit, honey. Tomorrow I’m going to find Mindy. And I’m going to talk to her.”

In the morning, Ben drove out to Menemsha with determination firing his gut. He had no intention of turning this into a confrontation; he only wanted to talk to her.
He only wanted to let her know that this had gotten out of hand. It was Sunday morning, so hopefully Mindy would be home. Unless, of course, Fern had taken up church-going.

He spotted the sign for the turnoff to the cliffs of Gay Head. Noepe would approve of what he was doing: taking charge, taking the risk to be right.

On the way, he’d stopped at Dippin’ Donuts for a coffee and a honey-dipped cruller. He’d also bought a dozen doughnut holes to take to Carol Ann’s—he might as well stop by there later and give them the resounding news that all hell was going to break loose, or was not. Either way, Ben thought as he drove along State Road, chewing on his cruller and realizing it had been months since food tasted so good, it didn’t matter anymore. He and Jill were on the same team now, and they’d get through this on their own.

Or so he thought until he rounded the corner, pulled up to the driveway, and saw the
FOR SALE
sign.

SurfSide Realty.

Rita Blair.

He stopped the Buick, took off his baseball cap, scratched what was left of his hair, and wondered what the hell was going on. Then he tossed the remnants of his cruller out the window for the gulls, backed up, and made a U-turn. Before he talked to Mindy, before he talked to anyone, he needed to find Rita. And find out why she hadn’t stayed the hell out of it, as they had agreed.

It was a leisurely Sunday brunch, with eggs Benedict and waffles with last season’s blueberries and fresh whipped cream. The whipped cream had been Hazel’s idea. Charlie pleaded for his waistline, but Hazel said it was too late for that, that he was over forty and had already broken one too many rules.

They laughed at that and were still laughing when the back doorbell rang. Rita waddled off to see who was interrupting their gourmet Sunday meal.

She wished it had been someone, anyone, other than Ben Niles.

“Rita,” he said. That was it, nothing more.

She stood in the doorway, half-shutting the door right in his face. “Now’s not a good time, Ben.”

He smiled. “No, I think it is.”

She closed the door behind her and stepped out onto the steps.

“Why did you put Ashenbach’s house on the market? I thought you were going to stay out of it.”

“Ben, please. I’m working on something. Charlie’s helping. Trust me, okay?”

He wanted to say something flippant like “the last guy who said that to me had me arrested,” but the look on Rita’s face said this was not the time or the place.

“I’ll call you later,” she added.

He began to leave, and Rita went inside. But just before she shut the door, and Ben turned around to ask her when she’d call, tonight or tomorrow or next fucking week, he saw Mindy right there at Rita’s kitchen table, and sitting next to her was none other than Fern herself.

“After all this, I can’t believe Rita has turned against us,” Jill said, trying to console Ben, who’d arrived home with anger in his eyes and desolation on his face.

“What’s she thinking?” he asked. “Doesn’t she know this isn’t a game?”

“She knows, honey, she knows.” Even while she was fixing tea, Jill wondered why she thought a cup of tea solved everything. “If they’re at Rita’s for breakfast, she has something on her mind.”

He muttered something incoherent about how they
hadn’t spoken since Rita and Jill had been back from England, because they’d wanted to give Rita and Charlie time alone, and wasn’t that a kick in the ass that they hadn’t been alone at all but in the company of the “other side.”

“Take off your jacket,” Jill said. “Sit down.”

He did as he was told, with no resistance.

“I phoned Rick Fitzpatrick,” Jill said. “I told him you fired Bartlett. He said he’d stop by later to talk about what we should do next.”

Ben dropped his face into his hands. “I feel like I’ve been betrayed.”

“Rita hasn’t betrayed us, Ben. We don’t know yet what’s going on.” She fumbled in the pantry, looking for those muffins they’d had yesterday, trying once again to feed that emptiness with calories and fat, wondering if it was beginning again—his isolation, her annoyance, a subsequent urge for her to run.

“I was going to go to Carol Ann’s. I was going to warn them that all hell might break loose. I wonder if it already has and someone forgot to tell me.”

She plunked a plate of muffins on the table and sat down across from him. “Nothing has broken loose, Ben.”

He shook his head. “I can’t take it anymore, Jill. I’m going to ask Rick if I should take the plea.”

“Plead guilty?” she asked.

“It will be easier. Cleaner. It will get it over with.”

She shot up from the stool as if fired from a cannon. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “You will not plead guilty! Not unless I’m dead and buried and not here to stop you from self-destruction. You didn’t do anything, Ben! Maybe you made a mistake in judgment, by spending time with her alone. Maybe you made a mistake years ago, when you slept with her unbalanced mother. Or maybe Mindy would have done
this anyway because she had a vindictive grandfather who hated everything about you. But as long as I’m alive, you will admit to no such thing, because you are
not guilty.”

She stood still, trying to catch her breath. Ben was staring at her. Then he smiled, stood up, and went to her. He slipped his arms around her. “You’re right,” he said, “I’m not guilty.”

Then he led her from the kitchen and up the stairs, where they, at last, made love.

They stayed in bed and were still there later in the day, when the doorbell rang. Knowing it might be Rick, but hoping it would be Rita with an explanation, Jill insisted on going down to greet their guest.

She might have put on something other than gray sweats and socks if she’d known the guest was Addie Becker.

The first thing Addie did was hold up the first two fingers of both hands. “I come in peace,” the agent said. Aside from the shock of seeing her at the door, Jill was startled by how tired the woman appeared: the hair under her angora hat was limp and uncoiffed, her pink cheeks were puffed with water weight, and worry lines streaked across her forehead. “Please, Jill,” she said. “It’s freezing out.”

“I talked to Christopher last night. I have nothing else to say.”

“Well, I do.”

Jill supposed it was futile, so she let the woman in. Addie swept off her long wool cape and hung it on a peg beside the door, as if she came here every day. She tugged at the high throat of her turtleneck trapeze dress. “Tea would be nice,” she said. “Herbal, if you have it.” She
eyed the wing chair, then the settee, then opted for the wing chair.

“I’ll get it,” Ben said from the doorway.

Jill sat down.

“Shall we wait for your husband?” Addie asked. “Or does he already know that you’re overreacting?”

Jill smiled. “I’m not overreacting, Addie. You don’t know the whole story.”

“Yes, I do. Christopher told me. Not that he had to. I knew all along that your little story about the teenage boy was crap.”

Jill folded her hands and tried not to grimace at the woman who seemed to always know it all. “How did you find out?”

“I have my ways. Besides, I’m smarter than you are. At least, about some things. For example, firing Herb Bartlett was a fairly stupid thing to do.”

“We didn’t have any choice. The child’s mother has threatened a civil suit, which will no doubt come out in the tabloids. She has threatened to use my celebrity to blackmail us. So you see, there would be no
Good Night, USA
, with or without Jill McPhearson. Without the show, we won’t have money to pay Herb. Not to mention that when Maurice Fischer got wind of this scandal, he’d cry ‘morals clause’ anyway.”

Ben arrived without the tea. He leaned against the doorway.

Addie picked a piece of lint from her large breast that strained against her dress. “Maurice already knows,” she said. “He wants you anyway. Besides, someone once said, ‘It doesn’t matter what they say about you, as long as they are talking.’ I don’t know who the hell said it, but they must have been in television.”