career.”
Her career. As if that mattered.
• • •
Jill made damn sure she was busy most of the day. She drove to the studio in Oak Bluffs, got the video feed from the freelancer in Boston, cut her audio with the help of Jimmy O’Neill, audio master and island transplant from the road tours of rock stars, and arranged for interviews at Cranberry Day next week. All she needed now was to find someone to shoot and edit, because the freelancer from Boston had said no.
Juggling her production nearly single-handedly was often just short of impossible, but today it seemed easier than returning Addie’s call.
At three-fifteen she was sitting at the old Shaker desk that Ben had restored for her when the telephone rang. She hesitated, then decided not to answer it. It was probably Addie.
After four rings, the answering machine kicked on.
“Vineyard Productions,”
she heard her voice say.
“Leave a message. Thanks.”
Beep
.
“What the hell time do you eat lunch, anyway?” The voice was not Addie’s but Rita’s.
Jill grabbed the receiver. “Rita,” she said quickly. “It’s me. I’m here.”
“And I’m here,” Rita replied, “starving to death.”
“Oh, Rita, I’m so sorry. I got busy—” She could not confess that she’d not given their lunch a second thought because of … no, she could not tell Rita that. Ben would not let her place the “burden” on others. “Is it too late?” she asked. “I can be at the tavern by three-thirty.”
“Forget lunch,” Rita said. “But it’s a beautiful day. Can you meet me at the lighthouse? I’ve got one whopper of a problem, and you’re the only one who can help.”
Jill hung up the phone and wondered how Rita couldhave a problem bigger than her own, and what in God’s name was going to happen next.
“I’m pregnant,” Rita said as she plunked down beside Jill on the rocks by the pier—the special place they’d come since they’d been kids to share their innermost secrets and fears. She took a deep swig of water and handed the bottle to Jill, who at first was too stunned to absorb what Rita had said.
Then it sank in.
“You’re kidding.”
“No joke,” Rita said. “I’m preggo, knocked up, in the single family way.” She picked up a small stone and skipped it across the water. “Again.”
“Oh, my God, Rita,” Jill said, taking her own swig from the bottle with the kind of untamed gusto she’d had at seventeen when the illicit bottle had held rum and Coke. She looked out at a few sailboats that lazed in the autumn afternoon, as if the sunshine would not soon turn to dark, as if the water would not soon become winter-icy and snow-coated. It was not always comforting to know that change happened, even when some things in life remained exactly the same, like Rita and the harbor and the sunshine and the tides. “Well,” she repeated, “this certainly is news.”
Could she say this was wonderful, great news? That at least Rita wasn’t being held emotional hostage by an imaginative ten-year-old with a vengeful grandfather? That compared to Jill’s life right now, Rita was blessed?
No, she couldn’t say that. Besides, Rita did not look blessed, not even close: her fingernails were bitten ragged and low.
“I thought it was the big, scary change,” Rita said. “I thought menopause was making me fat.”
“You’re not fat, Rita,” Jill said, because that was what best friends did for each other.
Rita laughed. “I’m only a couple of months now. But I’m so short that soon I’ll pop out like the Pillsbury doughboy at Thanksgiving dinner.” She paused, picked up another shell, and skipped it across the water. “At least, that’s how I was with Kyle.”
Her son’s name hung in the air, then drifted on the salt breeze, a memory gone by.
“Rita.” Jill rested a hand on her friend’s arm, which was covered by the long sleeve of an oversized red-and-black-flannel shirt. “What are you going to
Her career. As if that mattered.
• • •
Jill made damn sure she was busy most of the day. She drove to the studio in Oak Bluffs, got the video feed from the freelancer in Boston, cut her audio with the help of Jimmy O’Neill, audio master and island transplant from the road tours of rock stars, and arranged for interviews at Cranberry Day next week. All she needed now was to find someone to shoot and edit, because the freelancer from Boston had said no.
Juggling her production nearly single-handedly was often just short of impossible, but today it seemed easier than returning Addie’s call.
At three-fifteen she was sitting at the old Shaker desk that Ben had restored for her when the telephone rang. She hesitated, then decided not to answer it. It was probably Addie.
After four rings, the answering machine kicked on.
“Vineyard Productions,”
she heard her voice say.
“Leave a message. Thanks.”
Beep
.
“What the hell time do you eat lunch, anyway?” The voice was not Addie’s but Rita’s.
Jill grabbed the receiver. “Rita,” she said quickly. “It’s me. I’m here.”
“And I’m here,” Rita replied, “starving to death.”
“Oh, Rita, I’m so sorry. I got busy—” She could not confess that she’d not given their lunch a second thought because of … no, she could not tell Rita that. Ben would not let her place the “burden” on others. “Is it too late?” she asked. “I can be at the tavern by three-thirty.”
“Forget lunch,” Rita said. “But it’s a beautiful day. Can you meet me at the lighthouse? I’ve got one whopper of a problem, and you’re the only one who can help.”
Jill hung up the phone and wondered how Rita couldhave a problem bigger than her own, and what in God’s name was going to happen next.
“I’m pregnant,” Rita said as she plunked down beside Jill on the rocks by the pier—the special place they’d come since they’d been kids to share their innermost secrets and fears. She took a deep swig of water and handed the bottle to Jill, who at first was too stunned to absorb what Rita had said.
Then it sank in.
“You’re kidding.”
“No joke,” Rita said. “I’m preggo, knocked up, in the single family way.” She picked up a small stone and skipped it across the water. “Again.”
“Oh, my God, Rita,” Jill said, taking her own swig from the bottle with the kind of untamed gusto she’d had at seventeen when the illicit bottle had held rum and Coke. She looked out at a few sailboats that lazed in the autumn afternoon, as if the sunshine would not soon turn to dark, as if the water would not soon become winter-icy and snow-coated. It was not always comforting to know that change happened, even when some things in life remained exactly the same, like Rita and the harbor and the sunshine and the tides. “Well,” she repeated, “this certainly is news.”
Could she say this was wonderful, great news? That at least Rita wasn’t being held emotional hostage by an imaginative ten-year-old with a vengeful grandfather? That compared to Jill’s life right now, Rita was blessed?
No, she couldn’t say that. Besides, Rita did not look blessed, not even close: her fingernails were bitten ragged and low.
“I thought it was the big, scary change,” Rita said. “I thought menopause was making me fat.”
“You’re not fat, Rita,” Jill said, because that was what best friends did for each other.
Rita laughed. “I’m only a couple of months now. But I’m so short that soon I’ll pop out like the Pillsbury doughboy at Thanksgiving dinner.” She paused, picked up another shell, and skipped it across the water. “At least, that’s how I was with Kyle.”
Her son’s name hung in the air, then drifted on the salt breeze, a memory gone by.
“Rita.” Jill rested a hand on her friend’s arm, which was covered by the long sleeve of an oversized red-and-black-flannel shirt. “What are you going to
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