Trolls in the Hamptons (12 page)

And they said things were quiet in the country.

“So you're going to Florida, Aunt Jasmine's going to Stony Brook, Cousin Lily is going to New Jersey, Susan is going to cook, and you want me to watch some over-bred, neurotic animals?” Suddenly my life was sounding like an Abbott and Costello routine.

I reached for a different script. “I don't cook. Or clean.”

“The owner's hardly there, and we're hiring a service for the rest.”

“Then hire a dog-walker, too.”

“They need more companionship. And I need you to look in on the shelter dogs and your grandmother, none of which are getting any younger.”

“Grandma hasn't brewed an herbal potion to cure old age yet?”

“Do not be sarcastic, darling. It is not becoming.” She sniffed and went on: “And Nipper needs care, too, to make him feel more secure. He'll be fine at home if you go over there a few times a day. He has pee-pee pads.”

Ugh. “If the movie guy is so rich why can't he get his own temporary serf?” I never liked the class system at a summer resort and never would.

My mother sniffed again, and not from allergies. “Because he is a movie guy, Willy. And because he just might take an interest in one of your books if you happen to leave them lying around.”

Hmm. “But what about my work?”

“It's not like you go to an office or answer to a boss. I'm sure you can think just as well here as in the city. Better, without all those mishaps going on in Manhattan. And we do have a library.”

One room, two computers, and an ancient librarian.

“The family needs you.”

I sighed. What could I say, other than to ask how soon?

 

Grant found me outside the hospital's covered entry-way. He was the fittest looking man in sight, including doctors, orderlies, and taxi drivers. Women headed toward hospice stared at him. So did I.

Today he was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, with a navy blazer. I'd figured out he did not remove his jacket over dinner that other night because he had a weapon under it. Which meant he thought the situation was scarier than bedpans and babies. Maybe I'd be safer out of the city, after all.

He took one look at my face and asked, “Bad news?”

I shook my head, but said, “Yeah. Paranoid poodles and a three-legged attack Pomeranian.”

“Notes for your new book?”

“No, messages from my mother.” I tried to explain some of the twisted strands of fate that had me swinging in the breeze. “Maybe there is a conspiracy theory, after all.”

“You do live an interesting life, Miss Tate.”

My life was getting more interesting by the moment when he broke into a smile, a real smile. Strangely enough, I felt better about everything, seeing the humor in the situation because he did. He wasn't laughing at me, either, but for me.

“I am going to Paumanok Harbor.”

He leaned over and kissed my cheek, then he stepped back and looked around. “I am terribly sorry,” he said in his most formal Brit. “That was unprofessional. But I am delighted you see things my way.”

I was seeing stars. Wow. If a friendly brush to my cheek could start fireworks, I wondered what a full lip lock would do. Then a horn honked, and I was back in the middle of the covered walkway.

“I'm sorry, but it's not your way; it's my mother's.” This time I made better sense of explaining about my father, Cousin Connie, and the rich guy's pets. “Oh, and Susan got a good report.”

“Wonderful. How about if I take both of you out to dinner tonight to celebrate? I need it. I've been in and out of special needs schools all day. I never knew there were that many handicapped kids out there.”

I could hear the sorrow in his voice. Here was a problem he couldn't fix, and that bothered a take-charge guy like Grant, not because of pride but because of caring. His remarkable blue eyes were shadowed by concern.

I asked about the one boy we maybe could help. “Any trace of Nicky?”

“No, nor from the real psi-pros in the field. We called in everyone we could, with no results so far. We're checking on the home-school kids tomorrow. I won't be able to follow you to the Island for a couple of days. But we'll have people there, and I'll be in touch. It should take the perp a day or so to realize you've gone, before he follows. Hopefully, with the boy. Whatever his plan, he needs both of you. He cannot accomplish much beside local havoc with one troll. So . . . dinner?”

I accepted for both Susan and myself, but when she appeared she had a young man in tow. She'd met Toby Kellerer in radiation, then had the appointment after him five days a week for a month, long enough to become friends. He had good news, too, so they wanted to celebrate together, but quietly at the apartment over pizza, if it was okay with me, so she could keep checking on her father. She saw no reason to rush home when her parents weren't even at the Harbor, so she'd go east with me tomorrow.

I wasn't sure how wise it was for me to have dinner with Grant on my own. Did it count as a date? Or was it just more brainwashing business? More likely he just wanted to stick close to me in case Fafhrd came out to play. But Grant did kiss me.

I ought to say no, what with having to get myself ready to leave town for who knew how long. I'd need to ask Mrs. Abbottini to bring up my mail, and call Don at DCP so he didn't send any page proofs or copy-edits while I was gone. I ought to stay in with Susan, but she and Toby did not seem to need company, not with all they had in common. And Grant did kiss me. So again I asked how soon.

Seven. If I tried hard, I might have my hair and my clothes and my makeup passable in the five hours I had until then. Maybe I could lose those five extra pounds if I jogged the fifteen or so blocks home. Nah, Grant wouldn't notice, not when he was looking for Fafhrd.

 

Toby was on his cell phone, calling his family in Connecticut, when Susan asked if it was all right if he spent the night.

I checked the timer for my hot-oil hair conditioner, then looked at my old couch. “It's not real comfortable.”

Susan gave me a look she must have learned from Grandma, the one that said, “I wonder how an idiot like you grew on our family tree.”

Oh. “But what about Van? I know he is on duty tonight, but I thought you two . . . ?”

“Van likes you. And baseball. Yuck.”

“But are you sure?” I mean, she never mentioned Toby before.

“I can't get pregnant, from the chemo. He can't father a kid. Testicular cancer. Both of us have had so many blood tests, we couldn't have any STDs, but we'll use protection anyway. So why the hell not?”

I thought of Grant. Why not, indeed?

G
RANT BROUGHT THREE BOOKS about trolls. I think they were about trolls, but I had a hard time taking my eyes off him. Tonight he wore a black cashmere turtleneck and gray trousers. His black hair and black-rimmed blue eyes were that much more distinctive against the dark colors, not that he needed anything to make him more distinctive. Looks, power, money, intelligence—what was a poor girl to do but drool?

He smiled in appreciation of my own looks, and took a deep breath that said something better than “You clean up nice.” So now maybe I could stop holding in my stomach.

I'd finally decided on a red silk blouse and a short but not indecent black skirt with a slit up the back. I had good legs, I thought, especially in the Gian Todaro strappy high heels. I had to hope he didn't suggest we walk any farther than the corner or I'd trip and show off my red satin thong. But it would be worth it, for that azure-eyed gaze that started at my shining hair and ended at my red-polished toenails.

While he politely asked Susan about her father, and engaged Toby in conversation about his job at Chase, I glanced at my gifts. The man has class, knowing how I love books, while not giving any secrets away to Susan and her friend.

The trolls pictured were hairy, stooped, mean-looking. That isn't how I saw trolls. Mine were clean-cut and athletic, looking more like marble sculptures than moss-covered rock dwellers. “Fafhrd isn't ugly,” I said, without meaning to interrupt Toby's narrative about the banking industry and his future there. “Or mean. He's just young.”

Toby was confused, but Susan laughed and told him: “My cousin really throws herself into her books. She's working on one with monsters now.”

“Fafhrd isn't a monster, not in a bad sense, anyway.” I was more resolved than ever to make him a hero. I knew from Toby's confusion that I was going to have a hard time rehabilitating the reputation of his species. Why, those computer malware makers were called trolls now, and so were the blog bullies who relish ruining people's lives and stealing their privacy, if not their identities. “I am going to change the opinion of trolls, I swear.”

Susan laughed again. “Willy is such a good writer, her characters come alive.”

Grant cleared his throat. I decided it was time to leave. I'd spoken to both my mother and my father in the Florida hospital, and everyone had my cell number. “You'll call if there's any news?”

“Of course. Go have a good time. And don't get into any more trouble,” she warned, as if I could help myself.

A silver Beemer was waiting at the curb, and the driver got out to open the door. Lou whistled at me.

Lou? He had a suit?

“Good evening, Miss Tate. You look very fine, if his lordship hasn't mentioned it.”

I turned to Grant. “Are you a real lord?”

He helped me into the front seat. “Lou is a joker.”

Lou had a sense of humor? He grinned and started the car as soon as Grant was seated in the back. We drove uptown and to the west side, a neighborhood I did not know well, and pulled into an alley next to a sign that proclaimed “Skip's Fine Dining.” Lou handed the keys over to a valet and we went in through a frosted glass door.

For all I was worried about dinner with Grant, I lost my appetite when I realized Lou was eating with us. Me and Lou, on the same side of the table. I never even walked on the same side of the street as him before. This wasn't quite the strangest thing to happen this week, but it was right up there with trolls and telepaths.

We waited at the bar for our table to be cleared. Lou ordered a beer on tap; Grant went for some micro-brewed English style ale. I had ginger ale.

After ensuring that no one was close enough to overhear the conversation, they started discussing the logistics of keeping watch out in the Hamptons. That's why Grant invited me to dinner, I finally realized, so they could pick my brains about Paumanok Harbor. And I'd plucked my eyebrows for that?

I tried to explain that they ought to set up operations in Montauk if they wanted to remain unnoticed. Called The End because you couldn't go any farther east, Montauk had all the motels and crowds, while much smaller Paumanok Harbor had two inns, a bunch of bed and breakfasts, and a couple of cabin colonies like my family used to own. This early in the season, with school not yet out, the summer people hadn't even arrived. Right now the Harbor would be filled with year-rounders, returning snowbirds, second-home owners on weekends, and fishermen. Nice, ordinary, hard-working folk. The Harbor also had its share of drunks, dopers, and frontiers-men types. Either way, strangers were easily spotted, especially during the week.

“Good. I don't need to stay undercover. I'll be in plain sight,” Grant said, “as a friend of the family if you still won't let me play your significant other.”

I sipped my soda without comment.

“I know a couple of others there from university,” he added, “so no one will question my presence.”

Then they wanted to know more about Rosehill, but I hadn't been to the estate in years, so I couldn't tell them much about it, except that it was on a hill with a view of Gardiners Bay and Block Island Sound. And it was fenced in.

My mother's cottage, I told them, was a few blocks from the beach, down a dirt road. It was part of a summer resort my grandparents used to own, with a dozen family cabins and a big communal clubhouse. When Grandpa passed on, my grandmother decided she'd rather be an herbalist than an hotelier. She razed half the cottages, then joined the rest into houses for her two daughters and their families, and a combination potting shed, drying room, and garden center. She kept the clubhouse for her own home. We spent every summer there and long weekends when I was a kid, so I used to know a lot of the locals and some of the other summer people.

“No, I never met the man whose house I'll be watching.” And with luck, I never would. As soon as he arrived to coddle his own pets, I'd be back in the city, even if I had to take the cranky Pomeranian with me.