Off Season by Jean Stone Page B

had been conceived in the secret room, or when Amy and Kyle had been caught there in a similar private act. “Do you want me to list the apartment?” she asked, putting her hands in her pockets, mimicking Charlie’s action but unable to stop.
    “Sure,” he said. Then he looked at her sort of queerly, at her cheeks, then her nose, then her mouth. “Rita,” he began, and she felt herself back away.
    “Don’t forget to at least let Ben know where you’re at,” Rita said, “in case we need help with Sea Grove this winter.”
    He laughed again, this time, with a small edge. “Whywould you need me? We’re still short two building permits, and we can’t break ground until spring.”
    Also in spring the baby would be born. But of course, he didn’t know that.
    Rita shrugged again. “Money,” she said with a light-hearted tone she did not feel. “We might need more of your money.”
    Then she turned and walked, not toward where Jill was but back to the parking lot. Because all Rita wanted now was to get in her car, drive down to the beach, and have herself one hell of a much-needed cry.
    “Why can’t the guys come for dinner tomorrow? Jimmy and—what’s his name?—Devon from Albany?” Amy asked her mother when Jill finally came home just after midnight.
    It had been a long day of shooting, made longer by selecting the scenes she thought they might use. Amy had stopped by the studio with sandwiches and chowder—an act that might have been mistaken for benevolence had she not lingered in the edit suite, watching every move made by the editor and the audio man until Jill could not think straight and asked her to leave. Nice as the guys were, they were employees and, worse, roadies.
    She slipped off her shoes, sat down on the tall kitchen stool, and rubbed her foot, knowing that no matter what she thought, her daughter would do as she pleased. She supposed she should be glad that Amy was showing an interest in men, though she was not sure which had caught her eye—Jimmy with the ponytail or Devon with the shaved head.
    “They can’t come because Carol Ann and John are coming,” Jill said wearily. “It’s a family dinner.”
    “Oh, Mother, that’s absurd. We’re hardly the Cleavers. Besides, no one does family dinners anymore.”
    Jill stood up, went to the cabinet, removed a large mug, and dropped in a tea bag. “Maybe it’s time to reinvent that.”
    “But Mom, it’s rude. You drag this guy to the island. You can’t just ignore him.”
    Oh. So it was Devon, the bald one, the one she’d
dragged
from Albany.
    “Jimmy is perfectly capable of entertaining Devon,” she said. “Besides, they have work to do.”
    “Well, I still think it’s rude.”
    Jill pressed a hand to her temple. “Amy, please. I’m tired. Tell me how your day was. How’s the Halloween party coming?”
    Amy averted her eyes the way she did whenever she was exasperated with her mother. “I decided to do the whole place in black light and decorate only in Gothic and glow. I hope you can manage to get there and not be out of town.”
    Black light, Gothic, and glow. Her daughter definitely had creativity. Not without guilt, Jill wondered if Amy’s talents would go undeveloped on the island and subsequently be lost.
    Ignoring the hint of sarcasm that had crept into Amy’s voice, Jill said, “Ben and I will be at the party. It sounds really great.”
    “It’s not great, Mom. But it’s the best I can do here on the Vineyard.”
    She didn’t sound as if she were complaining, but still, Jill could relate.
    “You’re not trapped here, Amy. You know that.” She wasn’t sure she was saying that to reassure herself or her daughter.
    “I know, Mother. I’m here because I want to be. I don’t need that other stupid world. Why won’t you believe that?” She turned on her platform sneakers and clomped from the room.
    Staring after her daughter, Jill wondered how it was that Amy knew herself so well, when Jill, twenty-eight