embarrassing for both of us. But do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I had some friends over,” Jen replied, her eyes fastened on the carpet. “We had some beers and stuff. Nothing major. But then my heart started beating really fast and I remembered I’m not supposed to drink because of these pills I’m taking so I-”
“Going to stick with that story, are you?”
“It’s not a story,” Jen insisted, raising her sharp chin at her.
“Okay, fine. But tell me something-was this your first?”
“My first what?”
“Rainbow Party.”
Jen reddened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Girl, do you honestly think I don’t know what was going on here? These things started in the inner city at least eighteen months ago.”
“Look, I don’t want to talk to about it, okay?”
“Then do you want to wipe that dumb-ass lipstick off your mouth? You look like you just chugalugged a whole bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”
Jen heaved a suffering sigh, then reluctantly got up and fetched a tissue from the kitchen.
“Okay, here’s what I’m guessing happened,” Des said as the girl sat back down, wiping her mouth clean. “Tonight was your very first one. Maybe you weren’t even totally up for it. It was more like something of a dare. And when things started moving right along, well, you realized you really weren’t happy.”
“I didn’t punk out,” Jen objected heatedly.
“Didn’t say you did. I’m saying you showed a healthy dose of respect for yourself. Trouble was, you couldn’t exactly take off because this is your own house-so you dialed nine-one-one and pulled the plug. Smart move, Jen. Give yourself a high five. Only, now here comes the bad news: I have to contact your mother. And take you to Shoreline Clinic for a blood sample to determine your drug and alcohol level.”
“But I didn’t do anything!”
“Your call was logged, Jen. I have to follow the rules. If I don’t, I lose my job.”
“My mom’s on Block Island. I’m not even sure of the phone number.”
“Then I have to call your grandmother.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “You mean right now?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Have you ever met my grandmother?”
“No, I’ve never had that pleasure.”
“Oh, this is going to be just great…”
“Do you have to tell her everything?”
“She already knows about the drinking,” Des pointed out as she steered her cruiser back toward Dorset. It had been quiet at the clinic tonight. They’d whisked Jen in and out. Now the two of them were headed for her grandmother’s house.
Patricia Beckwith was waiting up for them. When Des had phoned her the old lady hadn’t tried to talk her out of the blood test. Or demanded to accompany them, as was her legal right. She’d simply intoned: “Our society’s laws apply to everyone. Do what you must. My porch light will be on.”
“And I’m afraid I do have to tell her what else you were up to,” Des added.
“But that is everything,” Jen pointed out.
“Then I guess I have to tell her everything,” acknowledged Des, who was not entirely happy about it. Because if she landed too hard on a kid like Jen then Jen would never reach out to her if something truly awful was going down. Kids got high. Kids got busy. It wasn’t Des’s business to tell their parents how to raise them. But it was her business to make sure nobody got stupid. Some of those kids who Marge Jewett had seen hightailing it from Jen’s may have been over the legal limit. And that was the very definition of stupid. She glanced over at Jen, who’d thrown on a Dorset High hoody and was hugging a book bag in her lap, looking all of thirteen. “How about you? Do you have someone who you can talk to about this?”
Jen let out a hollow laugh. “I have my shrink. She’s the one who put me on Zoloft.”
“What happens when you’re not on it?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just asking.”
“I obsess, okay?”
“About…?”
“My flaws. Like if I screw up a single answer on a test. Or miss one free throw in a game. Trust me, I can turn myself into a real nut job.”
“Not everyone gets sixteen hundred on their SATs and scores a hundred points a game. It’s okay to fail.”
“Now you sound just like my shrink.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No way. I mean, there’s a guy I used to like but they’re all such immature assholes.”
“Most of them.” Des turned in at Patricia Beckwith’s mailbox now. As she started up the steep, twisting driveway she could feel the girl shrink into the seat, both knees jiggling. “Was he one of the boys at your party tonight?”
Jen nodded her head, swallowing.
The driveway crested at the top of the hill and circled around in front of the big house, which was one of the oldest center chimney colonials in Dorset, dating back to the early 1700s. The porch light was on, as promised. Des pulled up out front and parked. From where they sat she could see the lights of Old Saybrook across the river.
“Jen, I wear a lot of other hats besides this big one. If you ever want to sit down over a cup of coffee, call me, okay?”
Jen didn’t respond. Just took the card Des offered her and stuffed it into her book bag.
Patricia Beckwith stood out on the front porch waiting for them in a blue silk robe and red and white striped pajamas, her feet in a pair of sheepskin slippers. She was a tall, straight, silver-haired woman of rigid dignity. About seventy-five, with a long, seamed face and wide-set blue eyes. It was a face unaccustomed to spontaneous laughter and smiles. It was the face that Jen had inherited.
“Real sorry about this, Nana,” the girl murmured as she slipped past her into the house.
“As well you should be, young lady.” Patricia didn’t sound angry. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.
The entry hall had an umbrella stand with a mirror. A grandfather clock that wasn’t running. A steep, L- shaped staircase that led up to the second floor.
“I’ve made up the room next to mine,” she called to Jen, who was already halfway up the stairs. “We shall have a proper talk in the morning.”
“Whatever you say.” Jen paused on the stairs and added, “Nice meeting you, trooper.”
“Make it Des. And I meant that about the coffee, you hear?”
Jen nodded her blond head. “I hear you. Thanks.” Then she went up to her room and shut the door.
“Why was she thanking you?” Patricia demanded to know.
“For listening, I suppose.”
“To what, her feverish adolescent rants? Did you know that a psychiatrist has put that girl on happy-happy pills? What rubbish. Jen’s a bright, healthy young woman who excels at anything she sets her mind to. She’s a born achiever. Has a wonderful life ahead of her. And instead of enjoying it she pops pills and sits in a room three times a week whining to a total stranger. We all have problems in this life. When you have a problem, you solve it. And if you’re unhappy, well, get used to it. Life isn’t for sissies.”
“Mrs. Beckwith, you and I need to have a talk.”
“Certainly.”
She led Des into a small, paneled parlor that was stuffy and smelled of old books and mold. The ceiling was very low in there, the beams exposed. There was a walk-in stone fireplace. One entire wall of built-in bookcases crammed with hardcover books. There was a chintz loveseat and matching wingback chair. Next to the chair was an end table that had a collection of Edith Wharton stories on it along with an open box of chocolate-covered cherries, a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and a half-empty wine goblet.
