nice to me since I moved here. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious.”
“And does Trooper Mitry know you’re just… curious?”
“Not that kind of curious.”
“Yeah, right.”
Donna headed farther out now, so that the water was up over her head and she had to paddle a little. Back on the veranda, Dodge wasbusy working the grill. Will was busy staring out at the two of them-so intently that Mitch couldn’t help wondering if he was jealous. Jeff was still seated by himself at the umbrella table, shoulders slumped.
“What’s up with our Mr. Wachtell tonight?” Donna wondered, squinting back at the shore. “He seems somewhat bummed.”
“He’s got money worries.”
“Hey, who doesn’t?”
“Come on, The Works is an incredible success story.”
“Incredible,” she agreed. “Just as long as you don’t look too close.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Mitch, let me put it to you this way-what am I doing right now?”
“You’re, well, you’re at the beach club. You’re in the water. You’re…”
“Work with me here, Mitch,” she said impatiently.
“Okay, I’ve got it-you’re treading water.”
“And what happens if I stop paddling?”
“You sink to the bottom and drown,” he replied, nodding. “But how can that be? Your place is mobbed morning, noon and night.”
“Overhead,” Donna answered simply. “We owe the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. Our payroll is huge. Our debt load is huge. Everything we hold near and dear is tied up in The Works, including the note on our house. Long term, Dodge is convinced we’ve got a winning idea. He thinks we can even franchise it all around New England-anywhere there’s an abandoned mill. But short term, we are just total kitchen slaves. This is the first time I’ve had fun in I don’t know how long.”
Martine started back in toward shore now, waving at them as she swam past, her smile dazzling and white.
“I wasn’t kidding this afternoon, Mitch,” Donna said, coloring slightly.
“About what?”
“Sailing off to Bermuda with you.” Her eyes were locked on to his now.
Mitch swallowed. “What about you and Will?”
“Don’t look too close at that either.”
“You’re having problems?”
“I don’t know what we’re having,” she confessed. “Things just haven’t been the same since we went into business together. But, hey, enough with the Oprah-babble. I’m trying to seduce you, handsome. Do you want to sail away with me or not?”
“This is the margaritas talking,” Mitch said lightly.
“No, it’s all me. I’m dead serious.”
“I don’t have a sailboat, Donna. I don’t even know how to sail.”
“Do you know how to swim?”
“Why do you-?”
She dunked him hard, pushing him underwater with both hands. He surfaced, sputtering, and paid her back. And the fight was on, the two of them frolicking and shrieking like a pair of twelve-year-olds. When they’d laughed themselves out Mitch noticed that Will was waving at them to come in. Dinner was ready.
As they waded in Dodge got busy lighting a dozen or so citronella candles to ward off the mosquitoes. Donna wrapped a towel around herself and made straight for the grill to see how everything was doing.
Mitch rinsed off under one of the open-air shower heads and padded back to his changing stall, where he stripped off his wet trunks and toweled himself dry, feeling tingly and invigorated. As he dressed he heard someone’s footsteps clomp past him on the decking toward a neighboring stall. He heard a stall door slap shut. Then he heard something else.
He heard a man whisper, “Not here-someone will catch us!”
And a woman whisper, “I don’t give a damn! He does what he wants. Why can’t I?”
Mitch froze, drawing his breath in.
“You’re insane!” the man whispered, groaning softly. “We can’t just…”
“I want you,” she gasped. “Hurry! Give it to me now.”
Mitch could not recognize them by their furtive whispers. Butthere was no mistaking what he heard next-the quick, heavy breathing, the slapping of bare flesh against bare flesh, the steady, rhythmic creaking of the wooden floorboards. The two of them were having it off in there together like a pair of sex-starved high school kids.
And then there was silence.
Mitch immediately tiptoed to the back of his stall and climbed up onto the built-in bench. From this vantage point he’d be able to see over his cropped stall door when they headed back out to the veranda. He was being a snoop and he knew it. But there was no way he was not going to find out who these lovers were.
A few moments later he heard their stall door swing open on rusty hinges. And footsteps, leather sandals clacking against the decking. Martine Crockett walked past, calmly straightening herself. She’d changed into a polo shirt and shorts, and she was striding a bit unsteadily, but she looked as cool, collected, and fresh as she always did.
Mitch waited, breathless with anticipation. After a moment a man emerged, looking flushed and shamefaced.
It wasn’t Will Durslag.
It was Jeff. Martine’s lover was Jeff Wachtell.
Ab-so-tootly.
The party was still going strong at ten o’clock when Mitch decided to say good night.
A dense fog had settled in, signaling that the rain wasn’t far off. His jaw ached and his head was spinning. All he wanted to do was go home, take three Advils, and crawl right under his bed. He could not look at either Jeff or Martine throughout dinner. And yet he was also unable to stop picturing the two of them together, groping each other’s naked, tumid flesh in that changing stall. Nor could he turn off the quiz show that was broadcasting nonstop inside of his mind.
Question: Could this GET any weirder?
Answer: Please, God, no.
Mitch felt so whipped by the time he’d steered his way across thefog-shrouded causeway for home that he didn’t even bother to turn on the living room lights. Just made straight for the kitchen, where he replenished the cats’ kibble bowl, fished an ice pack out of the freezer, and swallowed his Advils, hearing the mournful call of the foghorn on the Old Saybrook Lighthouse across the river. He was halfway up the steep, narrow stairs to his sleeping loft when something undeniable and truly frightening suddenly occurred to him.
He was not alone in his house.
Noises. He distinctly heard noises. The clinking of a glass. A cough.
His heart racing, Mitch flicked on a light and discovered Tito Molina sitting there in his one good chair, drinking up his scotch. Clemmie dozed contentedly in the actor’s lap.
“Geez, Tito, scare people much?” he demanded.
“I like sitting in the dark,” Tito answered, his blue eyes blazing at Mitch defiantly.
Mitch stood there in guarded silence, wondering what the combustible young star wanted. And whether he should be afraid for his life. Should he try to call Des? Should he arm himself? What with, the fireplace poker? He ended up just standing there, his eyes falling on Clemmie. “She hasn’t sat in my lap all summer.”
“Animals take to me. I’m one of them.” Tito took a gulp of Mitch’s scotch, the glass trembling so violently in his hand that it clinked off of his teeth. The man was wrapped beyond tight.
Clemmie awoke with a yawn, jumped out of Tito’s lap, and wandered off toward the kitchen. Mitch watched
