“Joel Tersigni doesn’t know what love is,” Dory said. “Do you know who he was sleeping with before you?”
“Excuse me?” Angie said.
“Karen, the hostess. And Winnie before that. You’re just one in a long line. Although I have to admit, I’m surprised. He prefers blonds, the paler the better.”
“Stop,” Angie whispered.
“You’re sleeping with my husband, and you want me to stop? I’ll tell you who’s going to stop. You are going to stop. If you call or text or email or smoke-signal Joel ever again, I will call the press and tell them about the disgusting shenanigans going on behind the scenes at Deacon Thorpe’s restaurant. You’re not just an anonymous citizen, Angie Thorpe. Your father was a celebrity, and your mother is an even bigger celebrity. I’m sure the tabloids would eat this up!”
“Please,” Angie said. “My father is dead.” With those words, Angie started to cry. Finally, she thought. It felt like rain after a drought; it felt so good, and yet Angie hated that it was Dory who had elicited the tears. “My father is dead!”
“I didn’t know Deacon well,” Dory said. “But it’s probably safe to say he would have been ashamed of you. Any parent would be.”
The conviction of Dory’s statement took Angie’s breath away. Deacon would have been ashamed. He would have been disappointed. Deacon, no doubt, had known about Joel’s affairs with Karen and Winnie, the two vapid blondes who had worked the front of the house with Joel. Eye candy, the guys in the kitchen called them. Winnie had been at the Board Room for only three or four months. Joel must have moved in on her right away, and possibly it was their breakup that had caused Winnie to quit without giving any notice.
“I’m sorry,” Angie whispered. “Dory, I’m sorry.”
She waited for a response, but there was none. Dory had hung up.
LAUREL
The first full day had been something of a roller coaster, and Laurel, for one, was relieved when she could pour herself a glass of wine.
“Another for me,” Belinda said. “Please, Laurel.”
“And one for me,” Hayes said. “Please, Mom.”
Laurel opened a new chilled bottle of the Cloudy Bay. She poured a glass for Belinda, who was wearing black jeans and a black silk blouse, as if she were about to see a foreign film at the Angelika. Hayes was in cargo shorts and a ripped Ramones T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved in a week, and his eyes were rimmed in red. He smelled god-awful. Would it be too mom-like of her to suggest he take a shower before dinner, the way she used to when he was a teenager? In recent years Laurel had grown used to Hayes being well-coiffed and beautifully dressed. He liked his suits cut close to the body; he wore Robert Graham shirts in colorful patterns and expensive silk ties and Italian shoes. He had experimented with facial hair—goatee, soul patch, sideburns—but he had never looked messy or disheveled the way he did today. He looked, Laurel thought, like one of her clients at Social Services. And he was scratching the hell out of his arm, which set off a distant bell.
She thought, Drugs?
He had smoked weed in high school, and she assumed he’d experimented with cocaine and LSD at some point in college. She wished he were still dating Whitney Jo. Whitney Jo had been from the prairies of Kansas. She wore trucker hats over her braids. She had a wholesome, pearly-white smile and was utterly without guile.
Laurel had an urge to ask about Whitney Jo, but that would really be an annoying mom thing to do.
She raised her glass. “Cheers, honey,” she said to Hayes. “I realize getting here was an epic poem.”
They touched glasses. Hayes drank deeply, then scratched his arm.
He said, “I don’t think I told you this, but the cabdriver who brought Angie and me here was the same guy who drove Dad from the ferry. He remembered the address.”
“Did he know what had happened?” Laurel asked.
“He knew,” Hayes said. “Safe to say, at this point, the whole world knows.” He scratched his arm. Laurel didn’t like the scratching. Narcotics, she thought. Opiates.
Laurel ground fresh pepper over the steaks. “Tonight is going to be simple,” she said. “Steaks and asparagus. Tomorrow night, Angie is cooking.”
“Monday, after we spread the ashes, we should have pizza,” Hayes said. “In honor of Dad.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, sweetheart,” Laurel said.
“I thought so, too!” Hayes said enthusiastically. Too enthusiastically? Now Laurel was hypersensitive. “I’m going up to my room for a hit.”
“What?” Laurel said.
“I’m going up to my room for a bit,” he said. He picked up his glass and disappeared from the kitchen.
Leaving Laurel with… Belinda.
“How is Angie doing?” Laurel asked.
“I have no idea,” Belinda said. “She tells me nothing. She let it slip that she has a boyfriend, but then she wouldn’t say who it was. I think… well, I think maybe she was making it up.”
“I used to ask Deacon periodically if she had anyone special in her life,” Laurel said. “He told me she was too busy to date.”
“Deacon and I talked about it when I saw him in New York last fall. I said I was worried; he told me to relax.” Belinda buried her face in her wine. “That was the last time I saw Deacon—in September. How about you?”
“I saw him all the time,” Laurel said. “Hayes and I went to the restaurant for dinner on Easter. Then I talked to him about two weeks before he died, right after he stopped drinking…”
“He stopped drinking?” Belinda said. “Deacon?”
Laurel nodded, but she wouldn’t elaborate. Belinda didn’t need to hear about the stripper and the Saab. “And then he sent me a birthday card May second.”
“He sent you a birthday card?’ Belinda said. “In seventeen years, I don’t think the man once remembered my birthday. September thirtieth. Forgettable, I guess.”
“Deacon and I were friends,” Laurel said.
“That’s because you never remarried,” Belinda said. “Bob wouldn’t have tolerated me being friends with Deacon.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I know so,” Belinda said. “Bob is a very jealous man.”
“I’m sure he is,” Laurel said. She looked toward the front door. “Buck has been gone for a while. Do you think he drowned?” She tried to keep her voice light and casual, but she was having some pretty overwhelming feelings about Buck since the almost-kiss on the deck. Every time Laurel thought about it, she felt light-headed and giddy.
“He’s probably just avoiding me,” Belinda said.
“Avoiding you why?”
“We had a little run-in this afternoon,” Belinda said. She waved a hand. “It was nothing. Already forgotten.”
“This afternoon?” Laurel said. “While I was in town?”
“Yes,” Belinda said. “But, like I said, it was nothing. I’m sure he’s embarrassed.”
Laurel’s stomach muscles tightened. She didn’t like the expression on Belinda’s face. “Why would he be embarrassed?”
“Well…,” Belinda said. She leaned forward, as if in confidence, but the screen door slammed shut, and two seconds later, Buck walked into the kitchen, dripping wet and trailing in sand.
“Hey, we were just talking about you,” Laurel said. She grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and opened it for him. “How was the swim?”
“Much needed,” Buck said. “Thank you.” He took a healthy chug of the beer. “Listen, I’m going to need to talk to you two at some point about some legal matters.”
“Belinda was just about to tell me about the run-in you two had this afternoon,” Laurel said.
Buck’s mouth dropped open. He looked at Belinda. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. He collapsed in one of the stools at the counter. “You’re both aware, I assume, that Deacon had financial troubles?”