Tainted Page 5

  “You know I can. I always do.”

  “Love you, Mommy.”

  “Love you too. Sleep well.”

  “Can we get clams again tomorrow? And make chowder again?”

  “We’ll see. Henry might want to teach you how to play Ping-Pong.”

  “That’s good.” Katy turned over on her stomach, her arms stretched over her head. “I like Ping-Pong. I think.”

  Holly pulled up the covers and kissed her on the head.

  When she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d looked at the line on the stick she’d peed on and felt a rush of pure fear travel through her. What was she going to do? How was she going to tell her parents? What would people at school think? What would Billy think? Billy, who, for the past six weeks, had been acting as if that walk on the beach had never happened. Curling up in bed, she began to weep, burying her face in the pillow.

  Anna thought Holly had gone ahead and had Katy because Holly believed in some romantic dream—that Billy would accept the baby and they’d live happily ever after. Anna was wrong, though. She kept Katy because in the middle of her crying fit she’d suddenly seen her. Pictures of a girl came running across her brain, one after another: a little baby dressed in pink asleep in a cot, a toddler running on the beach, a scared little first-grader on her first day at school. The images were so vivid, so real, Holly knew this child already existed as a person, waiting to be born, that there was no way she could ever not have her.

  Holly looked at Katy now, as she lay in bed. She resembled uncannily those images she’d had that afternoon. Bending over, she whispered, “Thank you,” in her sleeping ear. “Thanks for coming to me early and showing me how unbelievably special you are.”

  The memory of Jack Dane whispering to her in the bus came back and Holly straightened, left Katy’s room and went downstairs into the living room, to the answering machine. She listened to his message again and took down the number he’d left. Looking down on the pad of paper, she hesitated before taking the phone from its cradle. What was the point of having dinner with him? Was he calling her because he didn’t know anyone else in town?

  Care factor? He’s asked you out, Holl. He’s Faintworthy and he’s asked you out. Go for it, she heard Anna’s voice. What’s the worst that could happen?

  Holly picked up the receiver and dialed. On the third ring Jack Dane answered with, “Hello.”

  “Hi. It’s Holly Barrett.”

  “Hello, Holly Barrett. Thank you for calling me back.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “So—are you going to tell me to get lost or are you going to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

  “I’m going to go out to dinner with you tomorrow night. There’s a place called the Lobster Pot on the road to Buzzards Bay. The seafood is great.”

  “Excellent—should I meet you there, then? At eight?”

  “Can you get there on your own?”

  “I hope so. I have to get to know my way around. This will be good practice.”

  “OK.”

  “Does this place have exotic cocktails?”

  “It has cheap wine and beer. Do you mind?”

  “Not one bit. I’m looking forward to it. It will be, like, really, like cool.”

  Holly laughed.

  “So goodnight, Holly Barrett. I’m glad I have the chance to see you again.”

  “Goodnight, Jack Dane. And I’m glad too.” She hung up the phone, but kept looking at it, smiling, remembering a line from a Fred Astaire movie her parents used to love: Chance is the fool’s name for fate.

  Chapter 4

  The Lobster Pot was anything but a fancy-schmancy restaurant. Midway between Shoreham and Buzzards Bay, it was squeezed in between an abandoned cranberry factory and a Waterslide Park on a road that had once been the only way to get over the Bourne Bridge to Hyannis and beyond. In Holly’s youth, this road had been full of knick-knack shops, cheap motels, a mini golf course, and a variety of restaurants with names like Mamma Mia’s Pizza and Surf ’n’ Turf Delight. Amazingly enough, it still was full of them: Holly couldn’t work out how these little businesses could survive now that a highway bypassed them, avoiding all the traffic lights and stores and delivering all those potential customers straight onto the bridge.

  The planned mega-mall that Henry so loathed was half an hour’s drive away. Gap, Starbucks and their ilk were waiting to descend, but at least they wouldn’t be wiping out the Windmill Mini Golf Course or the old faded, falling-apart yellow house next to it, the one with a cardboard sign saying “Nancy’s Fortune Telling” in the window. Only recently, Holly had told Henry she’d always wanted to have her fortune read at Nancy’s but was too afraid. “I’m scared of it for some reason, I don’t know why.”

  “Possibly because it is scary,” Henry said. “I’ve been told Nancy has a wart on her face the size of a cauliflower. I’ve also heard that if you’re a man and fold a twenty-dollar bill the right way, you’ll get a lot more than your fortune told.”

  How old was Nancy now? Holly wondered. And would she be visiting the new mall, checking out Victoria’s Secret, maybe?

  She pulled into the Lobster Pot parking lot, took a brush out of her bag and tried to tease her curly, dark, shoulder-length hair into some form of cohesion. Rain had arrived in the morning after a mass of clouds had moved in overnight. It hadn’t stayed long, but had left behind a misty, wet air—the kind that made hair go wild. When Anna was visiting in weather like this, she’d spend most of her time with a ceramic hair tongs, ironing her long hair back into its perfectly straight shape.

  Holly had put on a little lipstick and a little eyeliner, a white blouse Anna had once said really flattered her and a nice pair of black jeans. There was no point in dressing up too much for the Lobster Pot, which was part of the reason she’d chosen it. This was the first “date” she’d ever been on. She tried not to think of the novelty of it and decided it wasn’t really a date, anyway. Just two people having dinner together.

  No big deal, Holly. Stop worrying, just get out of the car and try to act like a normal person who isn’t scared out of her mind at the prospect of spending a few hours with a man. Go. Open the door and walk to the restaurant. Now.

  Five past eight. Would he be there or would she have to wait?

  “Hey.”

  She heard the voice and felt a hand on her shoulder simultaneously.

  “Hey.” She turned. Yet again his good looks hit her, so hard she stepped back a pace. “Did you just get here? I didn’t see you in the parking lot.”

  “I should tell you I smoke the occasional cigarette. Very occasional, I promise. I was smoking over there at that picnic table when you drove in.” As he pointed, she thought of how she had brushed her hair in the car. At least she hadn’t put on any make-up using the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m sorry if smoking bothers you.”

  “It’s not a problem. My grandfather smokes pipes.”

  “The one who shakes hands with his left hand because it’s closer to the heart?”

  “Good memory.” She smiled and he opened the restaurant door for her, waving his hand in a signal for her to go in first.

  The Lobster Pot was like a large shack, harshly lit, with long wooden tables and a few booths. Soft rock music played loudly, nets and lobster pots hung on the walls, people wearing shorts and flip-flops drank beer from plastic cups. Another reason Holly had picked it: there was no way Jack would think she was expecting a romantic evening. The food was delicious, but the atmosphere was only a few steps up from McDonald’s.

  “Wow—great place. Puts Figs to shame, but promise you won’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “I’m calling Charlie Thurlow tomorrow.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  Flirt, you idiot. At least try to flirt.

  “Of course not.”

  OK, don’t flirt. But at least try to relax.

  “Look, there’s a table free.” She led him to a fortu
itously empty booth in the middle of the room and they sat down across from each other.

  “OK—this is how it works. Over there, in the back on your left, is where you order lobsters and steamed clams if you want them—see where they have all those Lobster Pot T-shirts hanging up? Over the tank full of live lobsters? Right behind the tank, there’s a counter.”

  “I see.” He pointed to a counter at the other end of the room. “But people are queuing up at that counter too—why?”

  “That’s for other types of food like scallops, haddock, fried clams, coleslaw and stuff. If you want wine or beer, you get it in the back room with the lobsters. Soft drinks are at the scallop and other stuff counter.”

  “Very complicated; I’m not sure I could work here.”

  A voice on a microphone said, “Number 128, your order is ready,” and a large woman in pink polyester pants with a “Wild Women Are Necessary” T-shirt rose from the neighboring table, made her way to the counter and collected a red plastic tray heaped with food.

  “If you want a lobster, they can take it out of the shell for you. They call it a Lazy Man’s lobster—no work. Otherwise you have to crack it open yourself.”

  “I don’t want to be typecast as a Lazy Man straight off the bat here.” He put his elbow on the table, his chin on his hand, and narrowed his eyes. “So I’ll go the Alpha Male route and get a lobster and crack it open myself. How about you?”

  “I’ll do the same. They drown the Lazy Man lobster with so much butter it’s hard to walk to the car afterward.”

  “Right, then.” He stood up, took off the blue windbreaker he was wearing and placed it on the tabletop. “This will save our place. Let’s go foodwards.”

  They ordered two boiled lobsters and two glasses of white wine. When he said what he wanted, the young girl behind the counter couldn’t take her eyes off him to write it down.

  “Jeez. Are you English or something?” she asked.

  “No. I just pretend to be.”

  “You sure sound English.”

  “Thank you. It’s taken years of practice.”

  She stared for another thirty seconds then managed to put pen to pad. When she then handed over the bill, Holly opened her bag.

  “No—this is on me,” he said. “No arguments.”

  After picking up their numbered ticket and their glasses of wine, they headed back to their table. Jack stopped at the tank with the lobsters in it and peered in.

  “You have to wonder when they know,” he said.

  “Know what? That they’re about to be taken out of the tank to be eaten?”

  “No. I mean before. When they’re in the sea. How long before they know the bait they’ve just headed for has trapped them?”

  “Somehow I don’t think they have brains.”

  “Somehow I think you’re right.”

  “Which makes it fine to eat them.”

  “Completely fine,” he nodded.

  She was back on track with him now, finding it easy to talk again. How did he manage to put her at ease? She didn’t know; what she did know, though, was that other women always looked at him. When he passed by, females inevitably stared. She could see with peripheral vision that many even turned their heads to keep looking at him. Yet he didn’t respond at all. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice. Because he was so used to it or because he didn’t see it happening or because he didn’t care?

  They settled back down in the booth. Jack was wearing a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. This was all beginning to seem so normal, so relaxed, Holly felt giddy.

  “So, how was the interview? Good, I guess, seeing as how you got the job.”

  “Great, actually. It’s a nice restaurant. I start tomorrow so I have to get a move on. I’ve rented a little flat—apartment—just by the boatyard, so it’s an easy walk.”

  “Pretty much anything is an easy walk in Shoreham.”

  “I’ve noticed. You described it perfectly on the bus: a street like a street in old movies. It looks like it hasn’t changed much in decades.”

  “It’s changing now, though. More people are moving here year round; they’re figuring out that the commute to Boston isn’t that bad except in the summer and that it’s a good place for families. Pretty soon there’ll be a lot more than that one street. And there’ll be more upmarket places like Figs to cater for everyone. Plus there’s a new mall going up just half an hour away down Route 495.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “My grandfather would agree.”

  “And you?”

  Holly recognized her chance and took it.

  “I’m not hopelessly old-fashioned.”

  “That’s a shame too.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not a big fan of modern, that’s all.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s out of control. You should see the young people in Britain now. They go binge drinking as often as possible, make as much noise as possible, get sick on the pavement, get into fights and end up in hospital. And that’s supposed to be fun.” He shook his head. “No one has any self-control, but that’s fine because they’re all modern and that’s the way of the modern world. I don’t understand it.”

  “Number 157, your order is ready.”

  “That’s us.”

  They both got up and went back to collect their food.

  So I misunderstood that comment on the bus. It was a compliment, not derogatory. I was so worried about it and I didn’t need to be. He actually likes old-fashioned. But how old-fashioned is it to be a single mother with a five-year-old? What will he think when I tell him about Katy? Why haven’t I told him yet? Because I’m waiting for the right time. It will come. I just want him to get to know me as Holly before he knows me as a mother.

  When they sat back down, their trays were laden with red lobsters, plastic cups of butter, forks, knives, water to dip their hands in and implements to crack the lobsters open.

  “A feast.” Jack picked up his glass of wine. “Here’s to brainless lobsters and a perfect choice of restaurant.”

  Holly clicked her plastic glass against his.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She took a sip, watched as he began to work on pulling his lobster apart. “Do you miss England?”

  “Sometimes.” He was looking befuddled as he picked up the shears, put them down, picked up a claw and tried to wrench it off with his hands.

  “You must miss your family—hold on—you’re doing it the hard way—let me show you.”

  She took the lobster, used the shears to cut it down the middle of the tail, pulled the chunky white meat out. “This is the best part, in my opinion. I’ll show you how to do the claws later.”

  “Guess I’m not a real Alpha Male.” Cutting off a piece, he dipped it in the butter and ate it. “Mmmmm, delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She did the same with her own lobster and had a huge, buttery mouthful. “Are your parents upset that you moved over here?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  She was wiping the butter off her mouth with a napkin when he said it.

  “I’m so sorry. Oh, God.” She put the napkin down, her stomach turning. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Jack.”

  “They died in a car crash when I was eighteen. It’s a conversation stopper, I know.” He pulled off one of the little side legs, stared at it. “I’ve never worked out whether you eat these things or not. What’s the idea? Are you supposed to suck them?”

  “My parents both died too—when I was twenty.”

  He looked up at her then, held her brown eyes with his blue ones, his gaze so compassionate she felt they were trading worlds of unspoken emotion.

  “I’m sorry too,” he said softly.

  “Thanks. You must miss them horribly.”

  “There’s something you should learn about Englishmen, Holly Barrett. We don’t talk if talking involves any emotion. We change the subject or we make a joke
or we order another drink.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. But we can talk about books or movies or sports. Who’s your team in the Premier League?”

  “What?”

  “A bad joke. OK, what’s your favorite movie?”

  “Notorious—it’s an old Hitchcock movie with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman.”

  “I know it. Great choice. Mine’s A Beautiful Mind. Have you seen it?”

  “No, I always wanted to, though.”

  “Russell Crowe’s brilliant. He was once on an Australian soap that has a kind of cult following in England—called Neighbors. Anyway, what about books? I know it’s an obvious topic of conversation, but films and books are a shortcut to getting to know someone, aren’t they?”

  Bryan Adams was belting out “Summer of ’69” in the background, numbers kept being shouted out, but Holly and Jack managed to have an intense conversation about books and movies. She was surprised by how much he’d read, embarrassed that she hadn’t heard of some of the authors he mentioned.

  “Did you major in English at college?”

  “Didn’t go to college—university. I had to work. But listen, you know what I’d like to do?” He was leaning back against the booth. One hand was resting on the top edge of the seat. “Do you know somewhere we could take a walk by the water? I’d really like to get out by the sea. Oh, I’m sorry—that’s rude—I haven’t asked you if you’d like dessert.”

  “No, I don’t want dessert, thanks. And yes, I know a place we could walk by the water. There’s a beach right next to my house.”

  “Excellent. Can you drive me? I caught a lift here.”

  “Absolutely—we can go together in my car. I’ve only had one glass of wine, so I’m fine to drive.”

  “We’ve already paid so we can go now, can’t we? That’s one of the advantages of a place like this—you don’t have to wait around for some recalcitrant waiter like me to bring you the bill.”

  “Recalcitrant?” Holly slid across the booth and got out. “I guess with all the reading you do, it’s natural to use a word like recalcitrant.”

  “I’m just trying to impress you.” He grabbed her hand and held it as they walked out.