Читать книгу Hot Summer Nights - Joan Elizabeth Lloyd - Страница 7

In the hot parking lot, Leslie put her grocery bags into the trunk of her rental car and reflexively checked the directions. About five hundred yards down the main street she took the turn onto Atlantic Beach Road and headed toward the ocean She drove carefully since she so seldom got behind the wheel. Taxis and limousines were her usual method of transportation but she quickly found that she enjoyed the freedom of being in control of her own car.

The road wound southward, toward the water, between small, older homes with large yards and hundred-year-old trees. The sounds of children playing were everywhere. Wading pools and swing sets dotted the lawns and gravel driveways led up to flower-covered front porches. Dogs of all sizes and colors roamed at will. Families obviously flourished here.

As she headed toward the water, Leslie wondered what she was going to do all day, every day for a month. She hadn’t had this much time for herself in many years. Time for herself. Amazing. She’d probably spend some time in the sun and the rest of her days as she usually did. A confirmed couch potato, she could certainly be content with cable TV, video rentals, and her computer, linked to the Internet. She also had a number of novels she’d wanted to read and a few relatives and friends to whom she would send e-mails. Friends. She had a few, women she’d become close to through her business. Certainly Jenna and Marcy, the twin owners of Club Fantasy, both now involved with their new babies. And Rock and Chloe, of course, “entertaining” and loving it. But real friends?

She thought back over the past few years. She’d had no time to make friends and no place. Where could she meet people who wanted to become friends with a thousand-dollar-an-hour prostitute? Well here no one would know who she was or what she did for a living.

She followed Atlantic Beach Road as it traveled south, then turned east paralleling the water. She’d been told that her cottage was the last one between the water and the roadway. She spotted it, similar to the houses around it, with well-weathered, grey shakes covering the two-story wood building, geraniums in flower boxes along the edge of the front porch and beneath the windows on the ground floor. Curtains fluttered in open windows, stirred by the ocean breeze. She pulled into the short sandy driveway and just sat and stared.

Hers was the last house on the ocean side of the road, but there were five more, almost identical houses facing the beach on the other side of the road before it dead-ended in a stretch of sand and low shrubs. She’d learned on the Net that each beach area had its own name, Middle Beach the next one east with Sea Grape to the west. Atlantic Beach Road had once connected to Middle Beach, an article explained, but a hurricane had washed it out twenty years earlier and it had never been rebuilt. Now you had to either walk along the sand or go back out to Route 1 and follow the signs.

Leslie turned and gazed at the ocean. The water was glass calm with tiny waves lapping at the flat, wet sand. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming to each other and occasionally diving after fish. A pair of swans cruised low over the water, looking somehow out of place.

The Rogers Cottage bordered a small parking area that ended in a seawall that paralleled the ocean and beyond lay several yards of flat beach where water had obviously been only hours before. She’d learned that the lack of full-time beach made this section of the Connecticut shore less desirable than others. Of course, Leslie thought. That’s why the nice man in the market told her she’d need a tide chart. There was more beach area the lower the tide.

It was just after four o’clock and several women in bathing suits sat on the damp sand under a beach umbrella, supervising two young children who were paddling around in the shallow water. Colorful plastic toys littered the beach. Sandbars, interspersed with areas of flowing water, extended almost to the small rocky island about half a mile offshore. She’d read that it was called Short Island as a sort of joke, since the islet was opposite the eastern end of Long Island.

Finally, when the urge to put on a pair of shorts and wade in the water became overwhelming, Leslie got out of the car and walked past what she assumed were more rental cottages, toward the rambling, two-story building that sported the sign ATLANTIC BEACH HOTEL—ENTRANCE.

The lobby was uninspiring, but she’d been warned not to judge. Filled with white wicker and ferns, with sandy floors and whitewashed walls, it looked like something out of a photograph taken fifty years earlier. A tall, slender man in his early twenties with dark brown hair that he wore almost as long as hers and deep brown eyes stood behind a small desk. When she told him her name he tapped a few computer keys and found her reservation. As he handed her a card to sign and took an imprint of her credit card, he cast a few admiring looks her way. She ignored his appreciation. She was used to it and marveled that even a ponytail, baggy clothes over a sports bra that flattened her large breasts, and a complete lack of makeup couldn’t conceal her natural sensuality. She knew it and had grown accustomed to it. She was pretty sure he’d watch her walk out and maybe find some reason to check with her later to make sure everything was “okay in the cottage.” It was flattering of course, but it got old really quickly. She’d been dealing with it since junior high.

He explained the hotel’s policies, described the location of the air conditioner’s controls, and urged her to make full use of the kitchen or eat any or all her meals in the hotel’s dining room. He also invited her to attend the cookout the following evening. “If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please feel free to ask, either in person or by phone. Anything at all.”

Several minutes later, key in hand, she walked back to her new “home,” unlocked the front door, and carried her suitcases and groceries into the house. A light breeze wafted in through open windows and, although she could put on the air conditioner, she loved the smell and decided that she’d leave it off as much as possible. Resolved that she’d delay poking around the house that would be her home for the next month, she stuffed her perishables into the refrigerator then dug in a suitcase and found a pair of denim shorts and a loose-fitting, light blue T-shirt, slipped her feet into a pair of flip flops, and headed outside.

The strip of dark sand was slightly wider than it had been when she drove up and she saw that the seawall was about four feet high with sets of wooden steps at intervals leading up to the parking area. On the water side of her house and all the others to the west along the ocean was a concrete area with an outdoor table and chairs, then a long flower box to prevent you from accidentally falling off the edge of the seawall that bordered the beach.

The tide was obviously on its way out, and she wandered down to the water’s edge, slipped off her flip flops, and waded in the surprisingly warm water. She remembered a trip she’d taken to Maine with a client one summer. The water was almost unswimmably frigid so she was delighted to realize that she’d be able to paddle around in the ocean without freezing her parts off.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice called as she waded slowly through the tiny waves. Leslie turned toward the sound and a woman waved, her smile wide beneath a pair of dark sunglasses. “Come over and sit with us when you’re tired of the water.”

Leslie saw the three women she’d noticed earlier sitting in the shadow of a large beach umbrella. She wasn’t sure she wanted to visit and she didn’t quite know how she was going to answer their inevitable questions but she walked over and crouched beside a forty-something woman with piercing blue eyes and neatly cut auburn hair. “Hi. I’m Suze Murdock.” She indicated the two other women and listed their names too quickly for even Leslie, who prided herself on her ability to remember names, to catch. She leaned forward with a forced intimacy when she spoke.

“I’m Leslie. Leslie Morgan,” she said. “You must be the mayor,” she said, remembering Joe’s comments in the market. Suze. What a weird name for a mature woman, she thought.

Slightly surprised, the woman said, “How did you know that?”

“I stopped at the market in town and the guy there mentioned that we’d be neighbors.”

“Oh,” a matronly, black-haired woman said, suddenly beaming, “you must have met my husband.”

“I guess I did,” Leslie answered, settling herself on the corner of Suze’s blanket. “You must be Marie.”

The woman extended her hand and Leslie shook it. “I am, and it’s nice to meet you. We noticed you come out of the Rogers Cottage. Are you staying there?”

“I took it for the month of August.” She had resolved to answer questions as briefly as she could. She certainly didn’t want to get into what she did for a living.

“It’s a wonderful place to get away,” Suze said. “The greatest. And you summer folks are so good for our economy.” She pulled a camera from the pocket of her shorts and snapped a picture of Leslie. “That’s for my scrapbook. I keep pictures of most of the things that go on around town.” The whole idea of having her picture in Suze’s album made her a little uncomfortable, but, after all, she’d been photographed many times before in more interesting settings.

“Mark and Tammy, you’re getting too far away!” a tiny, slightly frowsy woman called. Leslie glanced down the beach and saw two young children running back up the beach. “Sorry to attempt to deafen you,” the woman said, looking apologetic. “I’m Abby Croft and those two wild animals are Tammy and Mark.” She brightened and her chin lifted when she talked about her children.

“Nice to meet you. Are you all visiting for the summer, too?”

“No, indeed,” Suze said. “Marie and I are permanent.” She said it with a bit of pride, like summer visitors weren’t quite as good. “Abby is here for the summer like you, though. Her husband, Damian, commutes here on weekends from Hartford. You married, Leslie?”

There was obviously no block in front of Suze’s mouth. “Nope. Never have been.”

“From the city?”

“Manhattan born and bred.”

Marie chuckled. “We think of the city as Hartford, since it’s so much closer. Manhattan. Joe and I used to get to the Big Apple a few times a year, for shows and such, but we haven’t had a chance to in many years. Too much to do here, and too many kids.”

“Oh?” Leslie said, glad to detour the interrogation for a few moments. “How many do you have?”

Marie’s eyes twinkled. “Six. Joe’s very”—she paused as if searching for the right word—“active.”

“Bravo,” Leslie said with a chuckle. “I’ll vote for active over disinterested any day.” She saw Abby duck her head, then stare at her children.

“This just vacation for you?” Suze said.

“Stop the third degree,” Marie said, “and let the woman catch her breath.” She turned to Leslie. “She’s the mayor of Sound’s End and feels that gives her the right to pry into everyone’s life.” Her light tone took most of the sting out of the rebuke.

“Not right, but responsibility,” Suze said. “This is a nice little town and I just want to keep it that way.”

This isn’t a woman to think kindly of a prostitute on a summer holiday, Leslie thought. A car drove slowly into the driveway diagonally across from the Rogers Cottage, and a collective sigh went up from the three women. As a tall, nicely built man climbed out, leaned into the backseat, and pulled out a plastic bag, Suze said, “That’s Brad DeVane. Isn’t that a wonderful name? Sounds like a western hero. We don’t know much about him except that he’s a New York City cop who’s here for a few weeks. I think he’s getting over some kind of trauma and he’s pretty evasive about it. He’s been here since Monday. He works out, I understand, and spends most of the rest of the day closeted in that cottage, coming out in the late afternoon to swim. I think he’s really sad about something. Maybe he lost his wife or his partner was shot in a gang war.”

“Suze, cut it out. You’ve romanticized him into something bigger than life—the stereotypical brooding hero,” Marie said. “To me he just looks sad all the time.”

Tongue in cheek, Leslie said, “You haven’t been able to check out his résumé, Suze?”

Suze looked a bit embarrassed. “Okay, I guess I do pry a bit, but I’m just being protective. What if he shot some big-time gangster and someone’s after him?”

“Oh Lord, Suze,” Marie said. “Get real.”

Leslie watched Brad go into the house. He really was well built, with great shoulders and a nice looking butt. She couldn’t see his face, however, and great bodies didn’t mean much. She’d certainly seen enough of them. “Is that his house?”

“That’s part of the same hotel you’re in. The Whitsons moved out about two years ago and the hotel bought it. He’s only here for a few weeks I gather.”

Leslie pointed to the house next to Brad’s, the second of the five that faced the ocean. “And that one?”

“That’s me,” Suze said, “and Marie and Joe are two houses down. The one in the middle belongs to Vicki Farrar and her daughter Trish, who just graduated from high school.” Suze sighed. “They’re a strange pair.” Leslie glanced at the grey-shingled house with the little silver sports car in the driveway. Cute car.

Marie chimed in. “Vicki is a predatory female if I ever saw one. She hits on every man between the ages of eighteen and fifty. Actually we don’t get many men over fifty but I think she’d hit on them, too. She’s been trying with Brad but getting nowhere.” She grinned. “It must frustrate the hell out of her. She’s in her thirties; tall, gorgeous, and stacked; and loves to show off her figure in tight shorts and bikini tops.”

Leslie quickly calculated. If Vicki’s in her thirties with a daughter already graduated, she must have had her really young.

“We’re all just a little jealous I think,” Abby added.

Marie continued, “Trish, on the other hand, is just ordinary looking. She’s eighteen but still gangly like a young teenager, all knees and elbows.”

“And flat chested, which makes Vicki furious,” Suze said. “Like it’s her fault. They make quite a pair. The lion and the mouse.”

The women chuckled. “I’m on the end,” Abby said. “The house belongs to one of my husband Damian’s friends and we’ve come here for the last three summers. The kids love it.” Leslie noted something almost defensive about the way Abby spoke.

“So, let’s get back to you, Leslie,” Suze said. “What do you do in the big city?”

Leslie had thought about how she’d answer that inevitable question. “I’m part of a small business. We deal in remodeling.” She did, in a way. They remodeled the rooms in Club Fantasy frequently, to suit the wishes of their clients.

“You mean interior decoration?” Suze said. “I could use some help with my living room.”

“Enough,” Marie said. “Leslie’s on vacation. Stop trying to get free advice.”

“Actually,” Leslie said, “we deal more with professional space.” She groaned inwardly, worried she’d forget what story she’d told.

“Oh, of course. Like doctors’ offices.”

Leslie said nothing. She didn’t want to lie, but she’d let these women jump to their own conclusions.

Abby glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. It’s getting time for me to make dinner. Mark and Tammy! Come on over and get ready to go inside for dinner!” she called as she stood, shook out, and folded the towel she had been sitting on and began to put sand toys into a large, yellow plastic pail. When the two children ran up, she introduced Tammy, aged seven and Mark, eight.

With perfect manners, Mark thrust out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Morgan.”

She shook. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“Do you have any kids here?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she said.

“I’m sure the Martinellis will be home soon,” Abby said to the slightly lonely looking little boy.

Maria glanced at her watch. “Absolutely. Phillip and Stacy should be getting home from their friend’s house within the next half hour. I’m sure they’ll be out and about a little while later.”

“Can we go out after dinner?” Mark whined. “Please, Mom.”

“You can go back outside after you finish eating,” Abby said. “I’ll sit on the porch and you can go only as far as you can see me clearly.” Mark’s face brightened.

“Me too?” Tammy said, putting her shovel and strainer into the bucket.

“You, too.”

Marie turned to Leslie. “Phillip’s ten and Stacy’s nine but they all seem to play together despite their different ages.”

“And your other children?” Leslie asked.

“Joey and Paul are gone now, both working upstate. Actually Joey’s engaged. Melissa’s seventeen and since she got her own car I only see her when she comes home to sleep. She does hair at the salon in the mall and works about a zillion hours a week. You’ll have to give her a try. She’s very talented. Tony’s fifteen. He’s working in construction with a friend in Rhode Island for the summer.”

“I’ll never keep them straight,” Leslie said, smiling ruefully.

“That’s okay, Joe and I sometimes get them tangled.”

“Kevin and I just have two,” Suze said. “Kevin Jr., he wants to be called KJ right now, is seventeen and a bit of a handful as you can imagine, and Eliza is fifteen and a typical teenaged girl.” Motherly pride filled her voice as she talked about her children. “They’re both around town somewhere. They’ll be working soon enough so my husband, Kevin, and I agreed that they could enjoy this summer without having to work.”

“Okay, kids, let’s get going,” Abby said and she, Mark, and Tammy plodded across the sand toward one of the wooden staircases that led up to the top of the seawall.

“She’s quite a case,” Suze said, checking to see that Abby was out of earshot. “Her husband parks her here so he can be free to do whatever he pleases during the week.”

“You don’t know that,” Marie said, shaking her head.

“Come on,” Suze responded. “It’s obvious if you know Damian.”

Leslie looked up at the sound of a door slamming, precluding Marie’s answer. “Here he comes,” Suze said. “Mr. Jock.”

Indeed, Brad DeVane had reappeared, dressed in a pair of knee-length swimming trunks with a towel around his neck. Not bad, Leslie thought. Not bad at all. He crossed the seawall a few houses down the beach, dropped his towel on the sand, and headed into the water. He waded out into deeper water and began to swim parallel to the beach. As the women watched he swam smoothly and efficiently until he was almost out of sight then reversed course and swam back. “He does that at least once a day. I would guess,” Marie said as he turned and retraced his previous course, “that he swims several miles every time. It exhausts me to watch.”

“It’s really good exercise,” Leslie said, wishing she were a better swimmer so she could work out that way, too. It looked so invigorating.

“I’ve got to get going,” Marie said, getting to her feet. “Joe will be home soon and it’s time for me to get dinner started.”

“Me too,” Suze said. “Kevin won’t be home until later—he teaches high school in town, and he’s doing some tutoring for the summer—but I’ve got a few things to do and some phone calls I have to make, then I’ve got a council meeting tonight.”

“I think I’ll just sit here for a little while longer,” Leslie said, shifting onto the hard packed sand so Suze could pick up her blanket. “It’s so peaceful.” She gazed at the water and the sun, still high in the painfully blue sky.

“I don’t know whether Joe told you but we have a cookout the first Friday evening of each month during the summer and there’s one tomorrow night,” Marie said as she picked up her beach tote and stuffed her towel inside. “You can either bring something or contribute to the kitty. I’d love it if you’d join us.”

“Joe did tell me, and I’ll be there. I’m afraid I’m hopeless in the kitchen so I’ll just feed the kitty.”

“Great. We’ll probably see you before that,” Suze said. “We who live in these houses are sort of a family and, since you’re our nearest neighbor, you’re adopted.”

Leslie viewed this as a mixed blessing but she smiled and watched the two women make their way toward the stairs. Normal people. While not friends yet, certainly comfortable acquaintances. How wonderful.