The Summer House (19 page)

He clicked on his Buddy List. Phaedra was there. He created an Instant Message and typed:
I’ve just learned that my best friend is queer. What should I do?

Beside him, Clay snorted. “I’m going to get even with you, Danny. I’m going to forget to empty your bag tonight and let you sleep in your piss.”

Ding went the computer.
Come on over to my house, big boy
, Phaedra’s reply read.
I can take care of you and your friend, too. Once he gets a look at me naked, he’ll never think about boys again
.

Danny laughed.
Where do you live?
he typed.

Under a bridge. In Arizona
.

There are no bridges in Arizona. There’s no damn water
.

London Bridge
, she replied.
London Bridge is in Arizona. I’ll meet you there tomorrow. I’ll fuck your brains out
.

“Assuming, that is, that he has any left,” Clay said, standing up. “I don’t know why you torture yourself like this, mon,” he said. “I don’t know why you play with these people with no real names and no faces. Your ‘Phaedra’ is most likely a twelve-year-old boy getting his rocks off.” He started to leave, then stopped. “You should quit thinking about all the things you can’t have and start thinking about the things you
do
have.”

Like a fully equipped van, Danny thought. Whoopee.

“And by the way,” Clay said. “Not that it matters, but I am not gay. My brother was, though. He had AIDS. Which was why I decided to become a nurse. So I could
help people like him. Like you. The difference is, he wasn’t an asshole. He wanted to live. Too bad he didn’t.”

Danny stared at the screen. “Okay, mon,” he said, clearing his throat. “I get the point.”

The door slammed as Clay left the room. Danny sat for a moment, feeling like a juvenile, an infernal jerk. He turned off the computer, not caring what Phaedra or even rogerdodger had to say. Maybe he’d watch a little TV, then later he’d have some more pie.

Liz sat at the long trestle table that had been in the Vineyard kitchen ever since she could remember, listening to the music of being on hold, the telephone pressed tightly to her ear. She looked around the darkening room and wondered why her life had been reduced to making pies for one son, his nurse, and two military-like men. In this room that had once been filled with family she now sat alone—testimony to the passage of time and the emptiness it can bring.

Even the ghosts were unsettling. She could see Mother standing at the sink soaking clams for a chowder; she could see Father thundering in, asking what time was dinner as if it wasn’t at six-thirty every night of their married life, even out on the Vineyard; and she could see Daniel. He was at the stove, tasting whatever was in the pot; at the refrigerator, holding the door open way too long but not being scolded; and he was sitting beside her, calling her Lizzie-girl, making her laugh.

And she could see Danny. At just a year old, his then-sturdy little legs taking one, two tentative steps, learning to walk.

She shuddered at the ghosts, the pieces of her family, now Jell-O-like bubbles, visible only to her.

“Mom?”

Her daughter’s voice on the phone shattered the bubbles. “Mags?”

“Yeah, Mom. What’s up?”

What’s up?
Why didn’t kids realize that sometimes nothing had to be “up”?

“Nothing,” Liz replied. “I made Danny peach pie.” How could she tell Mags that she was just lonely? That she missed the other parts of her family picture, the only parts that were left for her to hold on to?

“Danny’s going to get fat, Mom. He doesn’t exactly exercise.”

Liz did not mention that neither she nor Michael had been raised on a treadmill and had managed to stay slim; that her entire generation had not dropped dead in the pre-gym era, even without proper nutrition. She would have mentioned these things, but she was too tired. “I’ll be careful, honey.” She stared at the empty pie tin in front of her. “I didn’t get to talk to Daddy when he called yesterday.” It was not completely true. Michael had been on the phone when she’d walked in from the store, but she could not have spoken with him then: she was too stiff with shock that Josh Miller was coming back to the island. She swallowed and asked Mags, “How was the trip to San Antonio? Is Daddy there now?”

“The trip was boring,” Mags said. “And Dad’s giving a speech now—what else? I bailed out for a change.”

“Is Greg with him?”

“And Uncle Roger.”

“And Evelyn?”

Mags paused. Liz could almost see her daughter’s noncommittal shrug. “I guess.”

Liz changed the subject. “So how’s it going? Do you miss me?”

“Yes, silly Mother. Are you coming soon?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Oh. When they said you were on the phone I was hoping …”

“I need a little more time, honey.”

Mags did not say anything, at least not for a moment, as if she were trying to find the right words. Liz knew that there were no “right” words, but realized that her daughter might not know that, for until now, thank God, she’d not had to experience a death in the family.

“So,” Mags said at last, “how was the pie?”

Liz closed her eyes to the now-dark room. “It was fine, honey,” she said. “It was just fine.” She wondered if the ghosts would have agreed.

BeBe supposed she should not be surprised. She stood there on the hand-painted, Italian-tiled floor of the foyer of her grand home in Palm Beach and felt the familiar ache of disappointment that came at the end of every love affair, of which there had been many.

Claire was long gone, having left BeBe holding the envelope with the “proof” of Ruiz’s lies: photos, perhaps, of a smiling Cuban wife and four dark-skinned, black curly haired kids, well fed and happy, thanks to her money.

She wondered how long he’d been married, and how he’d explained the nights he’d spent with BeBe or at the condo she’d bought him for the sake of appearances. She wondered if his wife’s name was Carmen or Lucia or Marlena. She wondered if he massaged her toes with thick lotion from Paris, or if he drizzled honey on her sweet, eager places. She wondered if he loved her.

BeBe sucked in a deep breath and held it a moment, then let it out slowly, wishing the pain would be released with it, the pain of, once again, having given herself to a man who did not love her. She had started with Tuna, way back when on the Vineyard, who had,
at least, neither lied nor taken her money. It had been more than thirty years since then, and in that time she’d “progressed” to a gigolo whose greatest attribute was his ass.

And Claire was right. There were a thousand designers more talented than him.

Still, she thought, as she moved from the foyer and dropped the envelope into a wastebasket, it would have been nice if things had been different. It would have been nice if he really had loved her … if someday someone would love her … the way Michael loved Liz, the way Josh had, too. It would be nice, but … well, “nice” had not happened in her forty-seven years, and chances were, it would not happen now.

The quivers in BeBe’s aching body won out, and slowly, ever so slowly, she dropped her head, sat down on the floor, and started to cry.

Fifteen hundred miles up the Atlantic coast, Liz stared out the window, off toward the shoreline, out into the night. She pressed her cheek to the cool, Vineyard-damp glass, closed her eyes, and silently wept.

Down the hall from his mother, Danny lay in his bed, his gaze shifting from the ceiling to the silhouette of his wheelchair, wishing he was someone—anyone—else, and wanting more than anything to have someone hold him and just let him cry.

Chapter 18

Josh Miller was wrapping up a three-day stint in Albuquerque and Michael Barton was in San Antonio for two days, or at least that’s what the white-haired, thin-lipped reporter was saying as he spoke from the small box that sat on BeBe’s kitchen counter. She poured another cup of coffee—her third of the morning. What was she doing watching the news when the damn sun hadn’t even come up yet?

It wasn’t as if she’d had any sleep.

At two o’clock she’d finally stopped crying. At three-fifteen she’d become incensed—she tore through the house, pulled out, ripped up, and shredded everything that belonged to Ruiz, reminded her of Ruiz, or even looked as if it might have.

She heaved everything from the balcony onto the beach below. Then, once again, she cried.

It had been all she could do to stop herself from calling Paris and grabbing the Loudets’ offer, not because of the money, but because she did not want to look at one more of Ruiz’s prissy yellow and blue designs. Common sense, what little she had of it, had stopped her from acting in haste.

It was that same common sense that had also stopped her from finding the son of a bitch and cutting off his balls. But BeBe decided there was time for that later this morning, when she had his office keys away from him and she was sure he could not hurt her or French Country.

“It’s essential that Barton capture more of the South if he intends to hold on to his lead,” the thin lips were saying now.

“That’s right, Jack,” said a blond-bouffant woman who had appeared beside him. “Barton’s opponent has an increasingly strong foothold in the big states of Texas and Florida. It will be interesting to see what strategy Josh Miller develops in order to sustain that.”

Barton two, Miller one, BeBe thought, wondering when the presidential election had begun to sound more like football than politics. Then again, maybe most people preferred it that way—as a high-stakes game where you were either a winner or a loser.

A winner like Liz who had the charming, successful husband and the three kids. A loser like BeBe, who had … no one.

She stared at the screen and thought about Liz. Maybe she should give her a call. It would not be that difficult to track her down. After all, Will Adams had always insisted they stay at Kensington Hotels: he had known the founder—hell, maybe he’d even kept the founder’s kid out of Vietnam. Or seen to it that he’d had orders to go.

She wondered if there was a Kensington Hotel in San Antonio. Maybe the best thing she could do for herself right now was talk to Liz and remind herself of all those trappings of her sister’s life that BeBe would never want to endure. It might make Ruiz’s demise more survivable.

http://www.rogerdodger.com
.

Danny logged on to Roger’s Web site, went to the
mailbox, and stared at the blank screen. He was beginning to wonder if he should tell Uncle Roger what was really going on … that his mother would not discuss the campaign at all, that the day before yesterday, when his father had called, Danny had lied and said his mother was out, that she had gone to the store. She had, in fact, already returned, and was standing beside Danny holding a bag of peaches when he’d answered the phone. She’d shaken her head and retreated to the kitchen, and Danny had not known what else to say.

Did Mom and Dad have a fight or something?
he wanted to ask Uncle Roger now, figuring Roger would know because it was Uncle Roger’s business to know everything and Aunt Evelyn’s pleasure to find out.

Besides, CNN reported that Dad was now only five points ahead. He wondered if the Secret Service agents really were spies, and if they were filtering word of infighting among the Bartons out to the pollsters. He’d like to ask Clay’s opinion, but the Clayman still seemed fairly pissed at him and would most likely not care if the next president and his wife were at odds.

The truth was, though, Danny could not remember his parents arguing very often. There was one argument, sort of, after the accident when Dad wanted Danny to go to the rehab center in Switzerland. Mom had wanted him to stay home, had said she could take care of him better than strangers in a foreign country. Danny had been in the next room, alone in his bed, but he had heard their voices through the thin walls of the old Beacon Street house.

“He belongs here, Michael,” Liz had pleaded. “With his family, with us.”

“More treatment might help,” Michael retorted. “You heard what the doctors said.”

“I heard the doctors say he has about a two percent
chance of regaining normal function. Two percent is not worth having him gone for a year or more.”

“But they’re making breakthroughs in surgery.”

His mother had made a scoffing noise. “It could be a decade before that is perfected, if at all. In the meantime, I want him home.”

There had been a long pause. Then his father had said, “He needs to go, Liz.”

If Danny had been in the room, he might have heard his mother sigh. What he did hear were her words: “Then I’m going with him.”

There was silence for a heartbeat, or maybe for two. Then Governor Michael Barton spoke in the clear, direct, political-speak that always let one know exactly where one stood. “This is an election year, Liz,” he said. “I need you here. Your father wants it that way.”

There had been no further discussion. Danny had gone to Lucerne, his mother had stayed home, and Will Adams had, as usual, gotten his way. Michael had won a landslide victory in that November election and secured the party’s good graces for the road to the White House nomination.