Maidenstone Lighthouse (6 page)

I was also curious to know more about him.

When I was a teenager, Danny Freedman had been the older guy that all the younger girls whispered about and had secret crushes on. He drove a trashed red Mustang with illegal mufflers and dated flashy blonde Debbie Carver, who waited tables at Krabb's and was rumored to have had her first abortion at fifteen.

A small incident from my own woefully inexperienced fifteenth year flashed into my mind. I felt my neck growing hot as I recalled the way I had regarded Danny Freedman then: It was a warm night in July and I had been sitting out on the front porch when Danny's Mustang had rolled slowly down our street. There were two figures in the car and sensual music from the stereo pulsed in time to the deep throbbing of the Mustang's exhausts.

Of course, I knew why Danny and Debbie Carver were taking the long, narrow causeway to the deserted island. Because Maidenstone was the one place teen lovers could be sure that Harvey Peabody couldn't sneak up on them.

So I had watched them go. And whether it was the sultry air, the sensual music or only a sudden, painful awareness of my own awakening sexuality, I was intrigued.

Running upstairs to my room, I had watched the taillights on Danny Freedman's Mustang dwindle to glittering ruby specks, then vanish in the velvety darkness.

I sat by my window, staring at the spot where the lights had been. After a long while, I locked my door and stepped out of my denim shorts and cotton panties and pulled off my halter top. Then, lying naked on my bed with a soft breeze through the open windows caressing my feverish skin, I shut my eyes and fantasized that I was the one out there on Maidenstone Island with Danny Freedman.

Though the details are lost in time, I remember how desperately I had wanted to share the velvet darkness with him that night. To hear his voice whispering in my ear and feel his hands touching me.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately, considering the dire consequences that might have ensued—by the time I was old enough to pursue my fantasy, Danny Freedman had left town. Someone said he had joined the marines, which had sounded about right at the time.

“You haven't told me what you're doing these days,” I said, pushing away the embarrassing memory and finally releasing my grip on Dan.

“Oh, I do some work…painting, exteriors mostly,” he replied, still looking down at my hand.

“Ah,” I replied brightly. “Well, I guess this is the season for painting around here. You must be very busy right now.”

Dan raised his eyes and gave me an odd look as we began walking toward the old Toyota. “Well, I find that one time's generally as good as another,” he answered, “unless it rains.”

I nodded vigorously to show that I was really interested. “I can just imagine what a problem that could be,” I said. “What do you do if it starts raining when you only have a house partially finished?”

He opened the creaky door of the truck and climbed in. “Oh, I usually just go have a few beers and then come back again when it stops.” He laughed as he started the engine. “Well, so long now, Sue. And welcome back to Freedman's Cove.”

“So long, Dan. It was great seeing you.” I stepped away from the truck and waved as he drove off. He tooted the horn and waved back at me.

I watched as his battered truck got farther and farther away, from the lighthouse and me. The guilt that had surfaced earlier returned with the realization that I hadn't wanted him to leave at all.

How was that possible? How could I be this attracted to someone else when I was madly in love with Bobby and was here only to come to grips with the grief and reality of his loss?

An unsettling thought caused me to shiver as I got on my moped. Damon had once said that I was only in love with the idea of being in love and not with Bobby at all. Of course I'd screamed that he was insane, that Bobby was my life. And for the first time Damon didn't argue with me about it, he just patted my cheek and said, “Yes, dear,” never mentioning it again.

As I pumped vigorously to push the little bike into action I had to wonder if he hadn't been right.

T
he sun was nearly touching the horizon by the time I got back to the house. The summery breeze had turned positively cold on my return ride and I was shivering uncontrollably as I rolled the moped into the carriage house and shut the door.

Running into the house I stopped just long enough to turn up the thermostat before heading to the bathroom. Steaming water cascaded into the glorious new tub as I stripped off my filthy clothes and glimpsed myself in the long mirror by the door. My wind-burnt features gazed back at me in surprise. There was a long smudge of motorcycle grease across my nose and my dusty, knotted hair was beyond description.

I let out a groan, realizing that was exactly how I must have looked to Dan Freedman. And I wondered how he had managed to keep a straight face during our conversation. Not, I quickly assured myself, that it made any real difference what Dan had thought. After all, he barely even qualified as an old friend. Nor was I likely to run into him again.

On the other hand, I don't usually go around with black grease on my nose. So I made a face at the mirror, imagining how Aunt Ellen would have used my unsightly condition as an excuse to deliver one of her little lessons on feminine decorum.

“Really, Susan,” I could almost hear her chiding me in the prim, disapproving voice she reserved for times like this, “no
proper
young lady ever goes out in public with cobwebs in her hair. You must take more care with your appearance.”

“Tomorrow, Auntie,” I murmured, gratefully lowering my body into the tub and punching the bubbler controls to
HIGH
with my foot. “Today was sort of like the first day of school,” I added, just in case she really was listening. “It doesn't really count. Tomorrow I'll get my act together.”

Then the soothing bubbles surged up around me and I lay there like a lobster in a cauldron, sorting lazily through my jumbled thoughts.

My first day back in Freedman's Cove had not gone at all as planned.

 

An hour later, bathed, combed and with most of the alien substances removed from my fingers—except for the sticky stuff from the Fix-A-Flat can, which refused to come off—I went down to the kitchen in my robe and slippers to see about dinner. For though it was still early I was absolutely famished.

The meager store of groceries I'd purchased at the minimart the night before formed a tiny, unappetizing island in the vastness of the nearly empty fridge. I contemplated the alternative choices of scrambled eggs with toast or poached eggs without toast, then considered driving to the Food Mart, a chore I'd originally had scheduled for the afternoon.

But going shopping and then returning home to fix something would take hours.

“Dammit!” I complained to no one in particular, “I'm hungry now.”

Grumbling angrily at myself for having let the entire day slip away, I trudged back upstairs and changed into fresh jeans and my warmest sweater. First, I decided, I would drive down to Krabb's for one of their famous lobster dinners. Afterward I would hit the Food Mart with my grocery list.

 

I was pulling into the parking lot at Krabb's when it struck me that I couldn't remember the last time I had given any serious thought to food of any kind.

I parked the car beneath the restaurant's flashing neon crab sign and sat there in the garish pink light examining my feelings. The familiar ache in the pit of my stomach was still present. But it was not the same as it had been just yesterday.

Yesterday the ache had seemed to define only the vast emptiness I felt inside.

This evening, I realized, the pain had eased ever so slightly. And at least part of my empty feeling could be attributed to hunger. In fact, I was actually looking forward to eating dinner.

And as my encounter with the eggs in the fridge had demonstrated, not just any food would do.

Yesterday the bland eggs would have sufficed.

Tonight I wanted something delicious.

But that wasn't all. Today I had enjoyed myself, tinkering with the moped and riding out to the island. Today I had held a normal conversation with an old acquaintance. And though my thoughts had never strayed far from Bobby, not once had I burst into tears. In fact several times thoughts of Dan had displaced those of Bobby.

Perhaps, I reflected, Laura had been right for a change. But then I remembered that getting away from Manhattan had been Damon's idea first. So Laura was still batting zero.

The important thing, I decided, was that I seemed to be doing far better in Freedman's Cove than I had back in the city.

And that was progress enough for one day.

Reminding myself to call Damon with the good news when I returned to the house, I got out of the car and went into Krabb's for dinner.

Krabb's Seafood House is a sprawling 50s-style restaurant with chrome-edged Formica tables. Pierced metal light fixtures shaped like missile nose cones shine down on comfortable booths padded in vinyl the exact shade of a cooked lobster. Whether the color of the booths was accidental or deliberate nobody can say for sure, because Mr. Krabb, the original founder of the place, died long ago without ever revealing the truth.

Fortunately, the restaurant's shockingly bad décor is canceled out by the spectacular harbor view from its huge plate glass windows. And the food is uniformly excellent, if generally American-diner plain.

Krabb's jumbo-sized, plastic-coated dinner menus contain, in addition to the obligatory crab, fish and lobster, deep-fried, baked, broiled or simmered in rich chowders, a standard array of steaks, chops and pastas. The fifty-item salad bar is pretty good, too.

And, if you're so inclined, you can order a mixed drink, draft beer or wine from the adjoining sports bar, from which the sounds of customers cheering a televised football game was blaring as I entered the restaurant.

So, when the chunky teenage hostess had escorted me to my table in the nearly empty dining room I said I'd like to start with a glass of wine.

She left me a menu, promising to send a cocktail waitress right out. Meanwhile, a busboy appeared with a large basket of crusty French bread and a tub of savory garlic butter. I was busily attacking the bread when the cocktail waitress emerged from the sports bar. She was wearing tight black pants and a sheer blouse that accentuated her large bust. And she looked familiar.

“What can I get for you?” she asked pleasantly.

“Just a glass of Chablis,” I replied, covertly examining her features in the subdued light that is Krabb's only concession to those in search of a romantic dining experience. Though she had on an excess of cheap makeup and her shoulder-length hair was still a little too blonde, Debbie Carver was actually a lot prettier than I had remembered.

“One Chablis. No problem!” She scribbled the order on a pad, then took a closer look at me. “Hey, didn't you used to live around here?” she asked.

I smiled. “A long time ago.”

She nodded and smiled back. “I thought I recognized you. You used to spend summers up in one of the Victorians with your grandmother…”

“Actually, she was my great-aunt,” I said.

“Sure! You used to ride around on that cute little red motorbike.” She stuck out her hand. “You probably don't remember me. I'm Debbie Olson. Used to be Debbie Carver.”

I smiled. “Debbie, I'm Sue Marks. Of course I remember you. You went with Danny…Dan Freedman.”

She gave me a rueful little grin. “The curse of living in a small town. Nobody ever forgets anything. Wow, Danny Freedman! Now that's really ancient history. Gosh, I had such a thing for Danny…” She gazed wistfully at the harbor lights beyond the plate glass, obviously reliving some cherished old memory. “Isn't it crazy about Danny?” she asked. “I mean, of all people, who would have ever thought he'd end up like he did.”

I returned a blank stare.

“Making it so big, I mean,” she explained.

I shook my head helplessly. “As a house painter?”

“A house painter!” Debbie's round breasts jiggled merrily beneath the sheer fabric of her blouse and she howled with laughter. “I guess you're right, though,” she said when she had gotten herself under control again. “Danny Freedman
is
a house painter!”

She rubbed the corner of her eye with a knuckle, wiping away a mirthful tear that threatened to ruin her mascara. “Wait 'til the guys in the bar hear that one.” She gurgled. “It'll crack them up for sure.”

I sat there with my mouth hanging open as she flounced away and disappeared back into the bar. Within seconds a burst of explosive male laughter rocked the room. A few moments later, Debbie returned with my wine.

“Compliments of an old friend,” she said, placing the glass before me. Seeing my look of puzzlement, Debbie leaned close and jerked her chin toward the entrance to the sports bar. “A real nice guy,” she whispered. I looked up to see Tom Barnwell coming toward me. He was wearing a yellow golf sweater and there was a lopsided grin on his face and a glass in his hand.

“Watch that one in the clinches,” Debbie advised, giving me a just-between-us-girls wink. “He's newly divorced and horny as a billy goat.”

Then she was gone and Tom was standing over me. “Sue, why didn't you tell me you were coming up? I would have had the house aired and the linens changed. The place has been empty since last month.”

Before I could answer Tom leaned over to peck me on the cheek and slipped into the booth across from me.

“It was a last-minute decision,” I replied, disgusted by the reek of scotch on his breath.

“Well, it's damn good to see you, anyway,” he said. “Damn good!” His eyes were glittering with alcohol-induced fervor and he captured both my hands in his.

“Y'know, Sue, I really made an ass of myself the last time you were up here,” he confessed, breathing hard. “I don't know what got into me that day, bringing up our night together on the boat…”

I could see where this was going and I wasn't really in the mood to fend him off politely. Freeing my hands, I picked up my menu, hoping he would take the hint and shut up. I'd been doing just fine so far today and I didn't want it spoiled.

“I just wanted to apologize,” he muttered, managing to look hurt. “Hell, I was still married to Becky back then…I didn't have any right at all.”

“There's nothing to apologize for, Tom. No harm done,” I said with as much civility as I could muster. “The house looks wonderful,” I added, smoothly switching subjects. “You've done a really great job with it.”

“Aw, do you really think so?” he asked, slurring his words slightly. “That makes me real happy, Sue. Y'know, I always give that old place my extra personal attention because, well…Because you and me go back so far,” he said meaningfully.

I looked closely at him over the top of my menu, taking in his puffy eyes and the slightly drooping line of his jaw, which was going quickly to fat. Was that the reason for his divorce, or the result of it? I wondered. He looked like he was getting ready to say something even more personal, so I cut him off.

“I'm starving,” I loudly announced, looking around for a waiter. Tom half-stood and gallantly snapped his fingers like a Latin playboy in an old Fred Astaire movie. In response to his summons, a middle-aged waitress sauntered resentfully over to the table and glared at us. I quickly gave her my order—broiled lobster and a green salad—and she went away.

Tom finally seemed to take the hint that I might possibly not be interested in having him watch me eat, because he started to get clumsily to his feet. “Well, I guess I'd better let you have your dinner,” he said, waiting for me to insist that he stay.

“It's been nice seeing you, Tom.” I reluctantly gave him my hand again.

“Call me when you get settled in,” he said, giving it an overly familiar squeeze. “I'll take you somewhere really nice for dinner.”

I forced myself to smile. “Maybe lunch would be better,” I replied.

The surly waitress arrived with my salad, forcing him to move. I felt like giving her a big hug as he lumbered back toward the raucous sounds of the sports bar. My heart sank as he stopped halfway there and retraced his steps back to the table.

“I almost forgot,” he said with a grin. “That was a good one you told Debbie.”

My mouth was already full of salad and Krabb's delicious blue cheese dressing, so I raised my eyebrows theatrically, like a street mime.

“About Dan Freedman being a house painter,” Tom reminded me.

I chewed faster, then swallowed and washed down the salad with a gulp of wine. “I don't get the joke,” I said with a note of unconcealed annoyance creeping into my voice. “What is so funny about that?”

Now it was Tom's turn to look puzzled. “Christ! You really don't know, do you?”

“No, Tom, I really don't know. But I'm sure that you're just about to enlighten me.” If I had fangs they would have been dribbling poison.

Tom took another step toward me, then looked around, as if he feared someone might be listening in on the secret he was about to reveal. “Freedan!” he said in a low voice. “Danny Freedman is Freedan. That's why your remark about him being a house painter was so damned funny. Debbie thought you were making a joke.”

“Oh!” I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Don't forget now, call me!” Tom gave me a little wave and walked away.

I absently speared another Roquefort-drenched chunk of salad and watched him go back into the sports bar.

“Idiot!” I mumbled to myself, popping the dripping forkful of lettuce into my mouth. How could I have been such an idiot? Dan Freedman—Freedan to his adoring public—was perhaps the most successful commercial illustrator in the United States. His poster work appeared in magazines, movie promotions and national ad campaigns. His company, Freedan Studios, had a lock on a sizable percentage of the huge greeting card market. Limited-edition prints of his paintings sold for outrageous prices through a nationwide chain of Freedan Gallery stores.