The Things I Do For You (17 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: The Things I Do For You
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“Where did you grow up?” he asked casually.
“Fall River, Massachusetts,” Bailey said.
“Ah. And now you live by a river. Interesting.” She didn’t know how it happened. Suddenly he seemed so interested in her, and the next thing she knew, she was running off at the mouth like a leaky faucet. Spilling the beans about her obsession with Brad, her professor father, her flighty mother, the sibling rivalry she had with her sister Meg, her obsession with Brad, all of their failed businesses, her aching desire to have a baby, and to her horror, she even blurted out her fears of a ghost in the attic and her sexual attraction to Jake.
“My goodness,” he said when she was finished. She hated him again. “If you would like to make an appointment—”
“Me?”
“I’d be more than happy to have you as a client. I know you can’t afford me. We could work out some kind of exchange. Maybe a weekend free here every month.”
“God, no!”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean. That’s very—generous. It’s just. This isn’t about me. Brad’s the crazy one.”
“I don’t use the term ‘crazy.’ Unless of course, they really are.” He threw his head back and laughed. Bailey had to get him to see that Brad was the one who needed help.
“Brad is obsessed with death. He spent a half million dollars on this lighthouse!”
“A half a million. My goodness. I had no idea. I thought two, maybe two-fifty.” She hated that his assessment was right on. Bailey grabbed Martin’s arm.
“He thinks he’s seen the afterlife. And apparently, it’s so wonderful, and beautiful, and brilliant that he no longer wants to be here on earth!”
“Again, Mrs. Jordan, this is all so new. He’s still grieving. He faced mortality. That can do strange things to a man. I think you’re just going to have to be patient. Have you told him how worried you are?”
“I try,” Bailey said. “He assures me he’s better than he’s ever been.”
“Well, hang in there. And if you change your mind about therapy—for you—if you ever want to talk about how conflicted you feel in this marriage—”
“I do not feel conflicted.”
He abruptly left the table. “You have my number,” he said. She turned to watch him walk out of the room. Brad was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest, watching her. Oh, great. How much did he hear? Oh God, not the part about Jake, right? Brad returned to the Crow’s Nest, buried himself on the computer, went to bed early, and pretended to be asleep when she slipped into bed next to him.
The next morning she made sure Martin’s eggs were runny and his coffee tepid. As soon as breakfast was over, she showed him the door. She watched him walk down the pathway, duffel bag full of clothes she’d laundered herself, in hand. In the distance, Captain Jack, who was waiting to take him back to the mainland, waved. Bailey halfheartedly waved back. It was too far to know it for a fact, but she was pretty sure that Captain Jack winked at her. No doubt Martin would spend the ferry ride talking about how crazy
she
was. After all, she wasn’t really his patient, so he wouldn’t be bound by confidentiality. Their guests weren’t supposed to talk about them behind their backs. They were supposed to talk about their guests behind their backs. It wasn’t fair. And the worst bit about it was the little voice that now whispered to her every night before she fell asleep. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe she was the one who needed therapy.
Chapter 17
E
verything was as ready as it was going to be to take advantage of summer, which they predicted would be the busiest season of all. The last thing to click into place was the business license. When it finally arrived, they framed it and hung it above the fireplace next to the large mirror with ornate gold frame, one of their many purchases from the antique store in town. The owners, a nice middle-aged couple, gave them a great deal on everything. In return Brad and Bailey promised to plug the store. On their way out, Bailey invited them to come to the lighthouse sometime, maybe for dinner or a movie on the patio. To her surprise, the couple quickly dismissed the invitation. What was with everyone in town? It had to be the suicide. She prayed they wouldn’t say anything to their future guests. If they didn’t want to be friends with them, fine, but poisoning their guests would be crossing a line. Brad told her she was being paranoid and insisted they hadn’t brushed off the invitation—which he pointed out wasn’t for a specific date, it was just a general comment, one that didn’t require an affirmative response. He was probably right. Now she had “paranoid” to add to her growing list of neuroses.
Bailey soon got over it. The morning Brad turned over the V
ACANCY
sign and Bailey placed the guest book on the small table in the entryway was a landmark moment. They had worked hard, and the place looked magnificent. Bailey was surprised how proud she felt. She and Brad were beaming like new parents. They spread the word about town and among their friends, and placed ads in the local newspapers. They had a modest website created, with pictures of the renovations, and Brad started writing a keeper’s log that he posted on the site. And then, they waited.
Brad often waited in the kitchen with his K
ISS THE
C
OOK
apron and new set of bright red nonstick pans. Bailey sat through numerous practice omelets. One day, Brad told her he had a surprise for her. It arrived by mail, which meant rowing to shore and checking their post office box. This time, however, it was an easier ride. Brad had bought a new rowboat, which he also painted yellow. It was so much easier to row. A few hours later, Bailey stood in the kitchen next to the large box she’d picked up at the post office in town. The row back hadn’t been as smooth; the box nearly sank the boat.
“What say ye?” Brad bellowed like a medieval guard addressing a commoner. He gestured for her to open the box. She tore into it and pulled out a shiny, deluxe espresso machine.
“It’s a little small,” Brad said. “I thought it would be bigger.”
“I love it,” Bailey said. She threw her arms around Brad and held him. “Thank you.” She knew it wasn’t polite to ask, but she couldn’t help it. They really had to start tightening their purse strings. “How much did it cost?”
“Half a million,” Brad said.
 
They had dinner in town. A great little Italian restaurant with a back deck bordering the water. Bailey loved the little lights strung around the deck, and the red and white checkered tablecloths and the giant breadbasket with oversized bottles of oil and vinegar. She even liked the bug candles. They had a routine. Every morning Brad cooked breakfast and Bailey made cappuccinos. They fed the cat and walked along the river, trying to get to know the local boats, fishermen, and wildlife. Then together, they would do the dishes. After that Brad would go off to the tower and do whatever it was he was doing up there. Writing in the keeper’s log, taking photographs from the deck, and, Bailey suspected, keeping up with his NDE group online.
Bailey spent part of the morning sitting on their back deck, jotting down marketing and customer service ideas. Then she’d do a quick cleaning, so that when their guests did finally start arriving, they would be dust free. Sometimes she would read a book, or take a second walk, or join Brad in the tower. Tuesdays they would go into town. They’d hit the antique store, the bookstore, the ice cream shop, and the Italian restaurant. Thursdays Bailey did the shopping at Island Supplies. There was a larger grocery store farther out, but when she bought a substantial amount, Jack would always give her a free ferry ride home. At night, after dinner, they would take another walk and relish the lights on the boats, and from town across the river, and of course, their own tower, spreading its beam as far as the eye could see.
It was exactly nine-thirty on a Tuesday morning when Angelicka Heavens walked into the keeper’s house. The name sent Bailey’s alarm bells ringing. The woman Brad had been speaking with online. Petite, silky blond hair, twenties, roaring blue eyes, tan, straight white teeth, big lips, big breasts. So much for three hundred pounds and blue eye shadow. Wait until she told Jesse.
“Call me Angel,” she said. Her voice was loud, and too high-pitched for Bailey’s liking.
Really? Not Licka?
Bailey wanted to say. “Welcome,” Bailey forced herself to say. “Are you traveling alone?”
Please be with a husband. Or a boyfriend. Or a pimp
.
“I’m with the group,” Angel said. Bailey’s ears perked up. Group was good. It meant money. But she didn’t have a group reserved. Bailey glanced at her laptop on the little antique desk where she’d set up shop in the living room. There were no reservations on the calendar hanging on the wall behind her either, although in protest to Aunt Olivia, Bailey had covered each and every square of days gone by with little notes.
Walked by the water. Fed the ducks. Vacuumed and mopped main room. Chatted with Captain Jack. Sat with Brad in the tower and tried to throw a sheet over Olivia’s urn—
That didn’t go over well. Brad told her she wasn’t a bird cage or a piece of abandoned furniture. Bailey told him she wasn’t anything—she was ashes, she needed to be tossed in the sea. Brad retreated and didn’t speak to her the rest of the day. That was yesterday. This morning they’d exchanged pleasantries, painful given the fact that she could see Brad was forcing himself to speak to her. She was going to have to be careful when it came to Olivia.
“I don’t see a group reserved,” Bailey said.
“I’m the first one here, aren’t I?” Angel said. She smiled and rolled her eyes. “I’m never fashionably late. I hate that about myself. I even wait on purpose. I get all ready, then force myself to leave at least ten minutes after I actually want to leave. And I’m still the first one.” She smiled. She didn’t look as upset as she was claiming to be.
“How many are in your group?” Bailey asked. So this was it, the NDE “committee” was actually coming. Since the cancellation a while back, Bailey assumed they hadn’t yet been able to coordinate another date. Apparently, they had. So much for Brad keeping her in the loop.
Angel began to count on her fingers. Her nails were long and painted bright pink. “How many are on the board? I think seven?” Brad called it the committee, this woman was calling it the board. And nobody even bothered to tell her they were coming. Maybe Bailey should charge a little bit more for such late notice. And they were going to have to share rooms. Should she include the attic? Just last night, she’d once again heard noises coming from up there. This time, it sounded like someone pacing the floor. Brad, Mr. Near Death Experience, actually told Bailey she was paranoid. He even admitted to joking about it in his keeper’s log. Bailey didn’t mind. If any “ghost lovers” came in, she’d have stories to tell them. Then she’d refuse to let them sleep in the attic. If the ghost-hunting guests insisted, she’d make them sign a fake waiver and charge them fifty bucks a night extra. She didn’t feel bad about the plan—if her guests wanted a haunted experience, she would help create one. Nothing would get them going more than sleeping in a space so haunted that they had to sign a waiver and pay extra for it.
“You’re in luck,” Bailey said. “As long as you’re willing to share rooms?”
“Of course,” Angel said.
“But in the future you’d be safer making a reservation.”
Angel tilted her head and lifted her thinly sliced eyebrows. “We have a standing reservation,” she said. “We’re the board.”
“Right. The board.”
“It’s so amazing, isn’t it? Owning a lighthouse?!”
From the way she talked you’d think Angel owned part of the lighthouse. “Brad and I consider ourselves very lucky,” Bailey said.
At least we used to.
“Brad,” Angel said. Her smile was huge. So were her blue eyes. And her breasts. It was at that moment that Bailey started to hate Angel just a little. First Allissa, now Angel. Was she doomed to be jealous of women from A to Z, and she was only on the As?
“That’s my husband,” Bailey said, mostly because “Angel” looked as if she came to wed him.
“Oh, hello!” Angel said. “I didn’t know our Brad was married.” She laughed, a musical sound that also made her cleavage jiggle. Bailey’s hatred deepened. Regardless, she managed a pained smile.
“Childhood sweethearts and still going strong.” If she could call wanting to strangle him at that very moment with her bare hands “going strong.”
“How are you handling this?” Angel said. Her head was cocked and she was looking at her with a mix of pity and admiration.
“This?” Bailey said. “You mean running a B-and-B?” She pulled her hand away.
“I meant Brad’s transformation,” Angel said. “His journey into the light.”
“Transformation.” The word hovered around Bailey until she envisioned her husband wrapped in a giant cocoon, struggling to become a butterfly. She imagined ripping his wings off before breaking from the fantasy.
“What group did you say you’re with again?” Bailey asked although they both knew perfectly well she’d never said. “Are you all . . . transformers?”
Angel held up a finger and the grin was back. “We call ourselves Journeymen, but maybe I’ll suggest a change. Transformers. Although isn’t that the name of those robotic toys that morph from like a car into a raging cyborg or something like that?”
“So you met my husband online?” Bailey said. So that’s what he’d been doing with himself all day. So much for watching birds and ships, and writing down weather patterns.
“Intothelight-dot-com,” Angel said. “It’s such a miracle to have found each other. You don’t know how isolating it is to have this miraculous, life-altering experience and no one to share it with. We’re so lucky to live in the age of the Internet!”
“Yes,” Bailey said. “So lucky.”
Get back to basics,
Brad said.
Commune with nature,
Brad said.
What is the city doing to you?
Brad said. This was his solution? Picking up young busty girls just back from the dead and inviting them to spend the night? Had she been totally duped? Was he going to run some kind of midlife crisis right under her nose?
Now she was the one hearing ghosts, and he was picking up blondes on the Internet. She’d made a huge mistake, selling the condo. For the first time in a while she let in the prickles of regret she’d been keeping at bay. She shuttered the thought and forced herself to be businesslike.
“I’ll show you the choice of rooms. You’ll get first crack although we’ll still have to double up. How many men, how many women? Are there any couples?”
“Oh no, we’re here just for us. No spouses allowed. I guess we’ll let you stay!” Angel laughed and began counting on her fingers again. “Three men, four gals.”
“Well, we’ll figure out the room arrangements when you’re all here. How would you like to pay?”
“Oh, but you see, Brad invited us,” Angel said.
“Yes, he invited you to take your vacation here—”
Angel placed her annoying hand on top of Bailey’s. “Why don’t you speak with him. Of course we’ll be happy to make a small donation, and one woman is bringing coffee and cookies.” She clapped her hands and laughed.
“I will definitely have a word with my husband,” Bailey said. She wasn’t going to let Tinker Bell see how upset she was. Brad couldn’t have invited seven people to stay for free, could he? At this rate, they’d be broke within the year, and back in Manhattan, but this time living in boxes under a bridge.
Bailey mechanically gave Angel a tour. She watered it down, given the fact the girl was trying to sneak in for free. Why should she get the full treatment? Angel wanted to stay in the attic. Should Bailey tell her about the noises? The footsteps? The squeaks and groans? The keeper and his wife? Maybe “journeymen” liked ghosts. Or maybe they’d have a séance and get the poor lost souls back into the light.
Instead, Bailey tried to make a practical appeal. “It gets hot up here,” she said.
“I’ll open the window.”
“It’s haunted.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s a ghost who lives up here. I think it’s the ex-keeper’s wife. She went insane.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Angel said. “They’re just journeymen who can’t find the light.”
“Be that as it may—”
“I don’t mind sharing the attic with spirits. I don’t mind sparseness. I don’t mind the heat.”
“All righty then,” Bailey said.
Just don’t come running into our room in the middle of the night in your little nightie.
“Is Brad here?”
“He’s in the tower.”
Angel jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Take me to your leader,” she said.

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