How to Marry a Ghost Page 3

Was I hearing him correctly? Could I translate what he was saying to mean I had grown up and he hadn’t? Now I was no longer as needy, it didn’t work for him anymore? Of course, in the beginning I had fallen in love with him because he was the only man I’d ever met who seemed to understand my insecurities, my fear of the world outside. He didn’t judge me, he didn’t question my need to be alone and to hide myself away. He just hung in there waiting for me to come to my senses. Except that now that I had, he didn’t seem to want to celebrate my newfound maturity. He didn’t seem to understand that now I needed him in a different way—as an equal partner and, more, as someone who could accept my help for a change.

  But that would prove to be something he just couldn’t bring himself to do. It turned out that there were problems at work, a reshuffling of his department and the possibility that he might lose his job. He’d been bottling everything up and now it all came tumbling out every night just as I was about to fall asleep. I lay beside him stiff as a board with tension because he would not allow me to comfort him, offer him the support he had always given me, and I wanted to scream It’s not fair! at him. He was just telling me his problems as a way of explaining why he couldn’t marry me. It wasn’t just a case of cold feet or last minute nerves; he genuinely didn’t think he was a worthy husband for me anymore, and no matter how much I tried to persuade him, he stuck to his guns. Which meant that I felt like a total failure because it was clearly insecurity about the future that was making him feel this way and I was unable to reassure him that I still wanted to marry him no matter what.

  So this was the state I found myself in when my mother called to tell me she was planning to affirm her partnership with the Phillionaire. I was the one who was supposed to be walking down the aisle but at the moment it looked like a strong case of always a bridesmaid . . .

  Now, in the early hours of the morning following my mother’s ceremony, I struggled to come to terms with the fact that I could no longer turn to Tommy for reassurance. As I slowly hung up the phone, I realized I was on my own, sitting up in bed in a far-flung wing of a house I had likened to a mausoleum.

  I didn’t dare to attempt sleep again in case I had another nightmare. I lay, rigid with tension, until seven o’clock when I forced myself to get up and go downstairs in search of a cup of coffee.

  To my surprise, I encountered Rufus padding about the kitchen in sweats and an old pair of sneakers, leaving a trail of sand wherever he went. A maid was anxiously monitoring his progress, poised to sweep up after him.

  “Lucia, chill. I’ll clear it up, I promise. Don’t I always clear up after me?”

  “No, Mr. Rufus. Never.”

  “Well, at least I try, which is more than Scott ever does. Hi Lee, how’d you sleep?”

  My face must have given me away because he pulled out a chair and took my arm, guiding me into it.

  “Not much, huh? I’m not surprised. What a night! I was down at the beach already and let me tell you, the rumors are starting to fly about the guy in the wedding dress. He was going to be married and his fiancée jilted him at the last minute so he took her dress and waded into the water in it. Or maybe he was a cross-dresser and he wandered down to the beach drunk after a party. You name it, they’re throwing it all out there.”

  Rufus grinned at me and I began to relax. I’d had the distinct impression that he was his father’s favorite and I could see why. “Rufus is the wild one,” the Phillionaire had told me. “He was an afterthought, came along fourteen years after Scott. Bit of a shock to the system for his mother, we were both in our forties. He dropped out of college and spent a year on the draggers—fishing,” he’d added when I’d looked bewildered. “Then he settled out here—although settled isn’t exactly how I’d describe him. He works all over the place, clamming, landscaping, chopping wood, carpentry, construction, I can’t keep up.”

  I was thinking how different he was from Scott, who his father had told me had been through an acrimonious divorce and now rattled around in solitary splendor in a palatial mansion on the ocean, when Lucia approached me with a coffeepot.

  “You want?” she asked me.

  “No, she doesn’t. I’m taking her out to breakfast. Lucia, can we put these in the washing machine?” Rufus was holding up a bag of laundry. “They left, by the way.”

  “Who did?” I asked.

  “Your mom and my dad. They took off last night when the party ended, went back to the city to start their committed life or whatever you call it. But don’t feel you have to rush off. You can stay as long as you like and I’ll be at your disposal.”

  I felt suddenly rather awkward. Now that my mother was no longer around I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stay without being in the way. I had spent the previous week in New York cooling my heels at the Phillionaire’s apartment while I waited to be summoned for my interview with Shotgun Marriott. But it hadn’t happened and now with the tragedy of his son’s death, who knew how long it would be before my fate was decided.

  Rufus saw my hesitation.

  “It’s okay, really.” He assured me. “You’re family now.”

  He smiled at me and I relaxed a little. He was right, I supposed. He and I were almost related in some way. I was an only child and all of a sudden I had a “little brother.”

  I smiled back at him. “Thanks,” I said. “As a matter of fact, if I could stay a couple days until I sort myself out, it would be great. Do you live here?”

  “I crash in the pool house when I don’t have anywhere else to go.” He nodded his head toward the window. I could see a pool and beyond it a small shingled building.

  “Does Shotgun Marriott have a house round here? I thought he lived in New York.” I wondered if my mother had mentioned that I had hoped to be working for him.

  “Oh sure, I think he’s got an apartment on Central Park West or someplace but he spends a lot of time out here, probably because he can keep a low profile. He transplanted a couple of giant barns into the woods along the bay—maybe they even came from England originally.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “Oh, no. No one gets invited there—socially, I mean. He keeps himself to himself. We only know he’s there because people had to go there to clean and maintain the house and the word got out it was his. You’ll see him around now and again—walking on the beach or grabbing a bit of late night sushi at Mount Fuji. They give him a table in back and leave him alone. But that’s it, pretty much. You won’t see him at any fancy parties or anything.”

  “Sounds like your dad,” I said without thinking.

  “Right. Sounds like my dad,” he echoed. “You’ve gotten to know him a bit then?”

  “I have,” I said, “just a little and I have to say I love what I know. He’s a sweetheart. I prejudged him before I even met him and I was totally wrong.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh, I suppose I was just being protective of my mother. I sort of freaked when I heard he was so rich, I thought he’d be odious and ostentatious and I wouldn’t have anything in common with him.” I suddenly realized what I was saying. “I mean, nothing personal about your family. I’m just weird.” I shrugged and grinned at him. “Don’t ask me why but being around too much money makes me uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t have to say another word. I get it. I’m here to tell you having money can cause as many problems as not having any sometimes. And you know what? I had the same doubts about your mom. I thought she might be like all the other women who tried to snare him. They never got the point of him, they just wanted his lifestyle. I think they just liked the idea of putting ‘wife of Philip Abernathy’ on their résumés. He and my mom had such a terrific marriage, he was devastated when she died. I never thought he’d find anyone to replace her but I can see he’s totally smitten by Vanessa.”

  “Has he told you why?” I was curious.

  “He loves how she’s so down to earth, he loves her energy, but he says she’s also got a vulnerable side. He figures she�
��s been repressed emotionally for years. Now I would never say my dad was one of those touchy-feely kind of people but he seems determined to help her—as he puts it—learn to love herself and express her love for others.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t feel comfortable admitting to Rufus—whom I had only just met—that I had always had a problem relating to my mother emotionally. But it seemed he knew without my telling him.

  “You don’t get on with your mother?”

  “We get along fine but we’re not close.” I decided to trust him. He was my “brother” after all. “We’re just so different. It’s like our roles are reversed and I’m her mother rather than the other way round. You mentioned her energy. She puts me to shame and I’m over twenty years younger. She has style, she keeps up with the world far more than I do—”

  “I’m sure you do all right,” he said gently. “Family members don’t have to be identical. Look at Scott and me.”

  “Tell me about Scott—” I began. He was my “brother” too, so I had better start getting to know him.

  “Maybe later,” said Rufus. “He’s not my favorite topic of conversation. C’mon, we have to go get breakfast. I need an egg sandwich bad. We’ll take Dad’s Jeep and go along the beach.

  “You’ll like Mickey’s,” he told me as we bounced along the dunes, “although I shouldn’t really be calling it that. Old Mrs. Mickey ran it as a little mom-and-pop convenience store. She died recently and left it to her niece, Frances Cook, and Franny’s renamed it the Old Stone Market because it’s situated right on the Old Stone Highway. She’s got big plans for it, wants to give the place a total makeover. She’s already overhauled the kitchen so she can cook food to go.”

  He swung the Jeep off the beach and onto a road and suddenly I was glimpsing houses dotted here and there in the woods.

  “And this little community we’re just coming into is called Stone Landing. I like to think it’s not really part of what people call the Hamptons. It prides itself on being a quiet, peaceful neighborhood—you got retirement couples here as well as people who want to raise a young family far away from urban chaos.”

  He rambled on about Stone Landing, telling me how it was hidden away and balanced, a touch precariously due to the erosion of the bluff, high above Gardiner’s Bay. It was comforting listening to him describe the area with such affection and I marveled that someone so young wasn’t tempted by the “urban chaos” he had mentioned, just a hundred miles away in Manhattan.

  We drew up to a parking area outside a sprawling wooden building with a white picket fence running off to the side. Pickup trucks were parked at random. Rufus whistled.

  “Never seen so many cars here on a Sunday morning. Franny must be doing well.”

  But then the screen door banged shut and a construction worker came out of the store shaking his head.

  “Wouldn’t go in if I were you. It’s bedlam in there. She don’t know what she’s doing.”

  When we stepped inside, I couldn’t see Franny Cook for the throng of men shouting orders at her. I caught glimpses of her frying eggs, flipping bacon, plucking toast from the toaster, and lining up the orders on the counter.

  “Hey Rufus,” she shouted above the crowd. Her voice was gravelly, as if she’d just smoked a pack of Camels. “Jesus didn’t show this morning. I’ve gotta take care of everything myself. Anything you can do to help would be appreciated. Hey, sir!” she yelled at a man who was pushing his way in front of the others. “Line forms on the right. Wait your turn like everyone else.”

  “Jesus is her breakfast cook,” said Rufus. He pronounced it “Hayzoos.” “I’d better get in there and help out. Franny, coming through! Hang in there. Listen everybody”—he turned to the construction workers milling about—“it’s a beautiful day. Go sit outside and I’ll bring you your orders.”

  I was impressed by how quickly they obeyed him. The store emptied as they streamed out to the picnic tables, and as she came around the counter bearing a plate of bagels with cream cheese high above her head, I had my first proper look at Franny Cook. She was about six feet and rangy with the longest and most shapely legs I had ever seen. In fact everything about her was long and shapely—her arms, her neck, her fingers. She had the kind of shoulders on which you could hang an old sack and it would look good and her head was tiny with a close cropped poodle cut that emphasized her large brown eyes. She was wearing a pair of skintight denim shorts and a cutoff tee that revealed her nut-brown abs.

  “It was bad enough when she took over her father’s caretaking, now she’s got to ruin Mickey’s as well.” An old lady had just come in and was waiting in line beside me. My eyes appealed to Rufus to rescue me and he beckoned me outside.

  “Here, have a muffin. Banana and oat bran, Franny bakes them herself. I’ll bring you a coffee.”

  He returned and sat down opposite me.

  “Franny’s poor old dad worked his fingers to the bone trying to pay his property taxes and then he dropped dead at fifty-two. He was the caretaker around here, watched people’s houses in the winter, mowed their lawns in the summer, and when he died Franny stepped in and carried on where he left off. You’ll see her splitting wood and blowing leaves in the fall yard cleanups later on but the old folks around here don’t like the idea of a woman caretaker any more than they like Mickey’s being turned into the Old Stone Market.”

  “She runs this place and takes care of people’s yards?” I was astounded.

  “Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it. She used to clean their houses too before she had the baby.”

  “The baby,” I repeated.

  “Six months old. And she’s got an eighteen-year-old from a disaster of a relationship with some guy in the city.”

  I stared at Franny as she went by, balancing plates of toast on her forearms. What was this woman’s secret? She’d had a baby six months ago and here she was walking around with a bare midriff and a stomach like a washboard.

  “Hey Roof, can you come give me a hand here?” Franny was distributing the toast to the various tables. “I’ve told the SLRA they can hold their monthly board meeting in the back room. I hate their guts but I figure it’ll be good for business if people see they’ve given me their stamp of approval. I need to set up a table in back.”

  “What’s the SLRA?” I whispered as Rufus prepared to follow her.

  “The Stone Landing Residents Association. Mostly New Yorkers with weekend homes around here. It’s the same story wherever you go. They’re some of Franny’s best customers but she resents the hell out of them. Most of them have barely been here ten years whereas Franny’s lived here her whole life. The Cooks have owned property in Stone Landing longer than any of us and Franny’s the eleventh generation. Her family was among the original settlers. They have nine fucking acres whereas most of the SLRA members only have quarter-acre lots.”

  When I walked back inside, Franny was coming toward me carrying a trestle table upturned and balanced on her head. As she lowered it to the ground, there was a demanding wail from behind the counter.

  “Damn!” Franny brushed past me. “Eliza’s awake. I’m going to have to feed her before the SLRA arrive.”

  “You keep the baby in the shop?” I blurted out.

  “Where else am I going to keep her?” Franny looked at me and shrugged. “We live above the store but I can’t keep running up the stairs to check on her. Hey Roof, you want to take her up and change the diaper?”

  “Can’t say I want to,” said Rufus amiably enough. “Eliza’s explosions are mega stinky. Franny, this is Lee Bartholomew. She’s over from England. She’s the daughter of a friend of my dad’s.”

  Well, that was one way of putting it.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Franny, giving me a quick smile and handing the baby to Rufus. “The diapers are beside the changing table in the bedroom. Bring her back down when you’re done and I’ll feed her at the till. I’m a real pro at working that cash register with one hand while I cra
dle her.”

  Which, to my amazement, was exactly what she did, perched high on a stool behind the counter while the baby suckled at her breast. I found myself waiting with bated breath to see what would happen when a customer came in and caught a glimpse of her bare breast. Was I a prude to expect her to breast-feed in private? And how often did you find guys in their twenties who were prepared to change diapers? But then as I was fast discovering, Rufus was quite an unusual young man.

  He was in love with Franny Cook. I’d known it the minute we walked in the store, maybe even before that from the slight catch in his voice when he mentioned her name. Now it was unmistakable as he stood watching her while she fed the baby. He had the same soft tender expression in his eyes as his father did when he looked at my mother. Franny might be a good ten years older than Rufus but he just couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  It was clear she took advantage of his devotion. When she finished feeding Eliza, she put her in her baby carriage and took her for a walk, taking it for granted that Rufus would mind the store in her absence.

  “Who’s the baby’s father?” I asked him.

  He looked at me hard for a second as if unsure whether to tell me. Then he said: “Scott. Eliza’s my niece. But my father doesn’t know so you have to keep it to yourself. Franny refuses to let me tell him.”

  “But Scott knows?”

  “Oh, Scott knows all right but he won’t do a damn thing about it. Says he’s not interested in being a father. And to be honest, Franny likes it that way, says she wants Eliza to be a Cook not an Abernathy.”

  “But how did it happen?”

  “Nobody ever told you how babies get made?” Rufus winked at me. “One-night stand after the Fourth of July picnic on the beach last year. Franny was drunk. Scott took her back to his place—I saw them leave together. But something wonderful came out of it. We have Eliza.”

  At that moment a customer demanded his attention and he left me to go to the cash register.

  The bell began to ping repeatedly as the screen door opened and shut several times and half a dozen people converged on the store, helped themselves to coffee, and crowded into the small space in front of the cash register to pay for it. I became aware of a man standing beside me, scanning the shelves. I saw his hand, large and ugly with fingers like sausages, reach out and pluck a packet of Oreos. I was annoyed because it was the last one and I had been planning to buy it myself. I turned to see who had thwarted me and I saw him open his jacket and place the Oreos inside against his ribs. I watched, stunned, as he zipped up the jacket and looked straight at me for several seconds before walking out the door.