The Summer House (24 page)

“I’m sorry, Ms. Adams,” the clerk said in monotone, “but the last flight for Boston tonight has left. And I’m not certain about tomorrow. There’s a hurricane off the coast of North Carolina.”

BeBe restrained herself from leaping over the counter and grabbing the neat-as-a-pin clerk by the lapels. “I don’t care if there’s a snowstorm that’s the blizzard of the century. Get me on a freaking airplane, lady, or I’ll charter one myself.”

He took her hands. He took her hands there in the darkness of the moonless night. They stood quietly a moment. She wished she could see his face, every detail of his face, every timeworn line and dark beard stubble, every crease of the dimple in his right, not left, cheek, every long black eyelash that framed those deep, sincere eyes—eyes that had captivated so many American voters.

But this was not Election Day and Liz was no ordinary American.

Without words, he led her to the path that led down to the cove. It was different now, made narrow by undergrowth that sprawled along the sides. But it did not matter—this was the path that led to their cove.

When they got there, Josh locked his arms around her, buried his face into her neck, and cried.

“Josh,” she whispered. “Oh, Josh.”

He caressed her shoulders, her back, that little hollow in her spine just below her waist.

She felt the tears running down her face, too.

“I love you, Liz,” he breathed. “I have loved you forever, I love you now.”

She knew this was wrong. If nothing else, Liz Adams-Barton did know right from wrong. Her father had made sure of that, as he’d made sure of everything.

But she didn’t care. She pressed against him, her breasts tingling through the T-shirt she had thrown on. She felt his hands move lower, cupping the still-round curves of her now-arching butt.

He kissed her mouth, full and open and moist with longing. His lips trailed down to her throat, making little sucking sounds that were incredibly erotic.

“Make love to me, Josh,” she whispered. “Right here. Right now.”

She slid out of her jeans, pulled the T-shirt over her head. She stood there, naked, before the one man in her life whom she had fully loved.

And then they were on the ground, a bed of pine needles and sea grass soft and smooth beneath her, the contour of the dunes sculpting against her back, cradling her. When he entered her, it was with a bold, desperate fever. She gasped, having forgotten how large Josh was, the way he filled her to the limit, the friction he created against the inside walls of her. She moistened to his touch in instinctive, wondrous knowing, knowing that he belonged there, that the joining of their bodies was the only right thing in her world.

“Michael Barton has picked up a couple of points again, and is now leading Josh Miller by about six and a half,” the anchor said.

“That’s right, Wendell. This race is getting more and more interesting. It could be that the decline for Miller is because he has stepped out of the limelight for a few
days. The race is just too close for either candidate to take a break from the campaign trail.”

“There’s no word on how long Mr. Miller will be in seclusion,” Wendell the anchor said. “We know he’s gone to Martha’s Vineyard. Interestingly, it has also been reported that is where Mrs. Barton is recuperating from her father’s recent death.” Wendell smiled.

Danny pressed the off button on the remote. He took a slow drink of coffee and wondered if he should check in with Uncle Roger. He still hadn’t heard back about his offer to help: Danny knew Roger must be busy but still … well, it was now Sunday morning, the day his mother usually got up early and made breakfast of eggs and bacon. But so far, she was still sleeping.

He, of course, would not be up so early if it weren’t for the Clayman’s rigorous running schedule, which he did not indulge in until Danny’s morning PT was complete. But after the gruesomely time-wasting leg-lift routine, unlike his nurse, Danny had nowhere to run to. There was simply a wheel to the remote or to the computer, depending on his mood.

God
, he thought, closing his eyes,
how much longer can life be this dull?

The telephone rang, as if in answer to his question.

“Danny?” The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it for a second. “It’s your Aunt BeBe.”

His spirits immediately lifted. “Hey, Aunt Beebs. How’s the orange hair?”

“Still orange. Listen. I’m coming to the Vineyard. I want to surprise your mother, so please don’t tell her. Also, I’ll need you to pick me up at the airport.”

He took another drink of coffee. “You’re coming here? When?”

“Today. I tried to get there last night but the closest I could get was New York and I didn’t feel like walking from La Guardia.”

“You’re coming today?” Danny asked, even though that was what she had said.

“One forty-five by way of Boston. Meet me at the sorry excuse for an airport, okay? And remember, don’t tell your mother. Don’t tell anyone.” Quickly, BeBe hung up.

Danny was left holding the receiver. How was he going to pick up Aunt BeBe when he’d yet to summon the courage to drive the van? She’d said not to tell anyone, which, he supposed, included Clay. God, was this a plot between his mother and his aunt?

The two hours and fifty minutes from West Palm Beach to Boston seemed to take two days. The turbulence of “unsettled air” all around them made her queasy, the first-class flight attendants drove her crazy trying to compensate for the bumps, and the in-flight movie was stupid.

BeBe almost wished she hadn’t thrown Ruiz out for good. She hated to admit it, but sometimes life was simply easier with someone at your side, anyone, no matter how disreputable.

Still, every time she closed her eyes, she could feel again the little knife that twisted in her heart when Claire had said “a wife and four kids,” that same little knife she always felt when she realized she was not quite good enough, that no man, not even a tuna fisherman, would ever want her, that she was the bad sister, and Liz was the good one.

But now it was time for the bad sister to come to the aid of the good, before she proved herself as bad as her sister.

She looked out the window at the bank of white puff clouds and thought about Liz. As different as they were, they had always been—always would be—blood sisters.
BeBe was counting on that to help Liz come to her senses, if, in fact, her senses had lapsed, or if she’d ever had any when it came to Josh Miller—the man who could ruin Michael’s election chances once and for all, and make them all look like a bunch of fools.

A break came in the clouds and BeBe saw land, sculpted as it was along the coastline of the blue-gray Atlantic, the ocean she’d come to know so well, north and south.

She had not been to the Vineyard house since their mother had died. BeBe had not had the courage to go to the funeral in Boston. She’d told Liz she had a bad case of the flu … she could not tell her the truth, that she could not bear to look at Father and wonder if he was responsible for her death, the way he’d been responsible for his son’s.

It had been late in October, when Will Adams’s clan (or rather, what was left of them) had gathered at the house on Beacon Hill. BeBe had chosen, instead, to go to the Vineyard to say good-bye to her mother in her own way.

She had broken into the house, built a fire in the huge stone fireplace to lessen the damp island chill. She had curled up in an old comforter and sipped hot chocolate that she pretended Daniel had made, and wept for her mother.

In the morning she put on a soft flannel shirt and went out into the morning mist. She plucked a milkweed pod and walked to the top of a dune where, her eyes toward the sea and a gray, crying sky, she gently blew the angel-like wisps into the air. “Godspeed, Mother,” she whispered. “I love you.”

She had not returned to the Vineyard until now, that place where, she supposed, there had once been some happy moments, mostly with Daniel, sometimes with Liz and Roger. Some happy moments, but no great joy.

Only Liz could have brought her back. Liz and the first love she’d apparently never quite forgotten. But how could she have forgotten with a living, breathing reminder staring her in the face every day? The living, breathing reminder, Danny—the boy who was Liz and Josh’s son, not Liz and Michael’s. Danny—whose real father was Josh Miller, not the man he called “Dad.”

Liz knew and BeBe knew, and she’d always feared that Josh knew, had known all along. But it was a truth that—for the sake of all those she loved, especially her sister, especially Danny—BeBe could not let come out. Not now. Not ever.

The big plane tipped its wing and began its descent into Logan. Hopefully, the twin-engine prop to the Vineyard would be on time.

Chapter 22

“Where is my son?” Liz shouted into Clay’s face. She had awakened late today, after ten o’clock, which was not surprising, for she’d not fallen asleep until almost dawn. She’d sneaked past Keith and Joe, and walked for a long time on the beach, thinking about Josh, about Michael, about her life.

She’d reached no conclusions.

When she’d returned to the house, the van was not in the driveway. Clay was on the back porch. Danny was missing.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Mrs. Barton,” he said. “Danny’s handicapped, but he’s not stupid.”

“The van is gone.”

“He must have decided to try and drive it.”

At the base of her neck, veins tightened. “Without telling anyone? When you two took off in New Jersey he left me a note.”

Clay did not answer.

Her blood pressure elevated. “What if he needs medical attention? What’s wrong with you? His health is your responsibility. That’s what we pay you for.” She spun
around to Keith and Joe, who had looked up from their chess game as if she were an intrusion. “And what about you two? You follow us around like pulp fiction private eyes. But Danny went out alone, and neither of you saw him leave?” She swept her arms in the air. “Is this what you all get paid for?” She was aware of the heat rising in her face, and of the fact she was creating what Father would call a scene and Michael, a waste of energy. But Liz could not stop herself. Her emotions, her anger, and her guilt balled up like a fist ready to strike.

From the other end of the porch, Keith cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Barton, but I’m sure Danny will be fine. Maybe he needed a little freedom. You know, like this morning. You wanted freedom. You went down to the beach. Alone.”

Her anger flared to think her private time had not been so private; that they had known all along where she was. Then she quickly wondered if they somehow knew about last night …

“Sometimes,” Keith continued, “freedom is the best thing you can give a person. Any person.”

She threw her hands up into the air. “You are impossible,” she spewed. “You are all impossible.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “All I can say is that nothing had better have happened to Danny or you’ll all be sorry.”

With that, she stormed into the house, went to the kitchen, snapped on the faucet, and waited for the teapot to fill, all the while tap-tapping her foot against the hardwood floor, drumming her fingers on the countertop.

Freedom
, she thought. How long had it been since she’d even known the word? Danny wanted freedom, who could blame him? So did she. She wanted the freedom to lie beside the man she wanted, the man she had never once stopped loving. She wanted the freedom—just once in her life—to be who she was, not someone she was
supposed to be for her father or her husband or her children.

The water poured over the top of the pot.

“Damn,” she said. “Shit, hell, damn.” Then the teapot slipped from her hand and clattered into the sink. Liz stared into the stainless steel and began to sob.

“Well, look at you, all duded-up with a shiny new van.” BeBe tipped her hat against the glare that flashed off the dark green, shining metal—the glare of the bright Vineyard sun.

“I even stopped at the car wash just for you, Aunt Beebs.” Danny wheeled around toward the special sliding door that held the wheelchair lift. “It’s my maiden voyage. My solo flight, in case you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know,” she replied, bowing to him. “And I am thus honored.” She moved toward the door, painfully aware that Danny had endured enough problems for life. He did not deserve to learn that his father was not who he thought … assuming, of course, he did not already know. She looked back to his wheelchair. “Tell me what to do.”

“Nothing,” he said as a big side door slid open. “Just get in. I need to learn how to do this for myself. That’s why I even left my nurse back at the house.”

She climbed into the passenger side of the van, remembering that Liz had told her at Father’s funeral that Danny would not drive, that he would do nothing by himself except sit and sulk. BeBe had told her it would take time. It would please her if her impulsive need to get here had helped him break through. It would please her, because Danny was such a good kid. With so much to lose, even after having lost so much.

She heard the slide of metal, the whir of a motor, then a clank, clank.

“You all right back there?” She turned to find Danny at her shoulder.