Hello, It's Me Page 23

  “I’ve never heard of using toothpaste as a drawing salve,” Annie comments, rinsing her still swollen finger at the sink in the vast kitchen, which is vacant for the moment. “I’ve always used mud on bee stings.”

  “Yeah, well, that can be dangerous. I found out the hard way when I was a kid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were at our neighbor’s when a bee flew up my bathing suit and stung me where the sun don’t shine,” Carlos says with a grin. “My mother ran out to the yard and made mud to put on it, only it wasn’t mud.”

  “What was it?”

  “Let’s just say she happened to dig in a part of the yard where their Doberman liked to do his duty.”

  “You mean it was poop?” Annie bursts out laughing.

  Carlos joins in—for only a split second. The amusement is erased from his face like chalk from a blackboard, as he gapes at something behind Annie.

  She turns to see that the woman who was staring at her in the garden is now staring from the doorway of the kitchen.

  Guests rarely venture into the caterer’s staging area during a party. Why is she here? And why now, just as Annie was laughing about poop, of all things?

  She can feel her face growing hot as Carlos politely asks the woman, “Can I help you find something?”

  “No, thank you. I’d like to have a word with Annie alone, though.”

  Carlos’s dark brows rise in surprise, and he shoots Annie a look, silently asking her if everything’s okay.

  What is there for her to do but shrug and nod?

  What is there for Carlos to do but leave her alone with the oddly intense woman?

  “How is your hand?” she asks, crossing to stand beside Annie.

  All right. That makes sense. Maybe she saw the sting and she’s here out of the goodness of her heart, to make sure Annie’s okay.

  That would make sense if she struck Annie as a good-hearted, nurturing type. Which she doesn’t.

  “It’s fine, thank you.” Annie looks down at her hand, conscious that the woman is doing the same.

  “I see that you’re married.”

  Caught off-guard once again, realizing the woman is staring at her wedding band, Annie shakes her head, then manages to say, “No, I’m not. I mean . . . I was.”

  “You’re a widow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says. Her expression remains unchanged, but she sounds as though she means it. “And you have young children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two?”

  Increasingly uncomfortable with this strangely personal line of questioning, Annie merely nods.

  “We have quite a bit in common, then, Annie.”

  Doubting that, Annie echoes, “We do?”

  “I’m also a widow with two children. Although, mine are grown now, as they were when they lost their father. I’m grateful for that. Did you have a good marriage?”

  Torn between thinking this has gone too far and wondering if this woman is perhaps just a lonely widow like herself, Annie finds herself nodding again.

  “And that’s why you’re still wearing your wedding ring? Because you aren’t ready to let go?”

  “I . . . I guess so.”

  “I wore my ring, too,” the woman says. “For the first year after he died. And we, unfortunately, did not have a good marriage. But I wore it for all those months, because taking it off sooner seemed wrong. And, maybe, because I was afraid of attracting attention from men if I appeared to be available. I was beautiful when I was younger. Not as beautiful as you are, but quite attractive.”

  Her words are as oddly void of flattery as they are of narcissism. She’s simply stating the facts.

  “Did you ever remarry?” she asks, noticing that the woman’s ring finger is still bare.

  “No. I never did. But not because I was still in love with my husband. Because nobody ever fell in love with me. Has somebody fallen in love with you, Annie?”

  Annie’s breath catches in her throat. “No,” she says, heart pounding, thoughts racing wildly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I . . . I don’t think you mentioned your name,” Annie says quietly, steeling herself for the answer.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “I have a good idea.”

  The woman is silent. Waiting.

  “You’re Mrs. Brannock, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.

  “And you’re Thom’s Annie.” Neither is that.

  But she’s wrong. “Mrs. Brannock, I’m sorry, but you have the wrong idea. Your son and I aren’t seeing each other.”

  “But you were?”

  Annie nods reluctantly.

  “And why did it end?”

  Annie fights the urge to laugh. Talk about the million-dollar question.

  “It ended,” she informs Thom’s mother, “because neither of us was interested in a long-term relationship.”

  Mrs. Brannock seems to be digesting that information. “I see.”

  Again, her gaze shifts to Annie’s now-trembling left hand.

  Then the door opens.

  The waitstaff comes bustling in, and Mrs. Brannock slips out without another word or a backward glance.

  Like mother, like son, Annie can’t help thinking, shaken.

  Chapter 18

  Did you hear the news?”

  “What news?” Annie asks Merlin, swatting his hand as he plucks another raisin from the oatmeal cookie dough she’s mixing for one of his catered affairs.

  “There’s a tropical depression churning in the Caribbean that’s probably going to turn into a major hurricane and barrel up the coast this week.”

  The spoon in Annie’s hand stops moving. She used to let Merlin’s weather forecasts go in one ear and out the other, but not anymore.

  It’s been the driest summer on record for the Northeast. She glances out the window at her flowerbeds, neglected out of necessity because of the countywide bans on watering.

  The impatiens are wilting, the geraniums drooping; even the plentiful weeds look parched in the late August sun.

  But a looming storm doesn’t just mean a much-needed soaking for Annie’s deprived garden.

  It could present another long-awaited chance to communicate with Andre.

  She’s attempted countless calls to her late husband. She managed to get through only that one time last month, on a night when lightning crackled in the air before a rare midsummer storm.

  Summoning his official meteorological reporting face and jargon, Merlin informs her, “The storm could become a category four and make landfall here on Saturday, which is just in time to ruin that puppy shower I’m doing for Bitsy Worth. I was going to ask you if you could do twelve dozen sugar cookies in the shape of an Irish wolfhound as a tribute to the guest of honor, but now . . .”

  “An Irish wolfhound? Are you sure she’s not a Chihuahua or something?”

  “A Chihuahua?”

  “Well, don’t you think Bitsy’s an odd choice of name for a dog that big?”

  Merlin laughs. Hard. “Bitsy is the owner. The dog’s name is Dublin.”

  “Oh! Well, how was I supposed to know?” Annie layers a cookie sheet with parchment paper. “And anyway, Bitsy’s an even odder name for a woman.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of her? Her real name is Bettina Worth, but nobody calls her that.”

  “Worth? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Well, believe me, she’s worth billions.”

  Worth billions.

  Why, after two months, does everything anybody says still remind Annie of Thom Brannock?

  You’d think she might be over him by now.

  You’d think she’d be able to accept the fact that he’s gone for good.

  You’d think she’d be pleased that, in fact, he respected her wishes and gave her exactly what she wanted.

  If space is what you need, you’ve got it. I’m here if you ever need me.

  The ters
e words still rankle.

  Then again, what more was there to say? He had done what she asked him to do. She had no reason to call him, unless . . .

  If you ever need me . . .

  How many times in the past eight weeks has she been tempted to pick up the phone and dial, not just Andre’s cell phone, but Thom’s?

  The thing is . . . she doesn’t need him.

  Of course not.

  She just . . .

  Misses him.

  The children miss him, too. But not as much as they did at first. They used to ask about him every day, just as they once asked about their daddy.

  Not anymore.

  A week has gone by since the last time Milo wondered aloud when Thom was going to come and teach him to tie his shoes, and Trixie hasn’t brought up the promised kite-flying outing since July.

  It’s better this way, Annie tells herself, her mantra since she received the flowers back at the beginning of the summer. Better for the children, better for her, better for Thom . . .

  “Something tells me you’re not thinking about Bitsy Worth’s pregnant Irish wolfhound,” Merlin comments, eyeing her with concern as he reaches for another raisin.

  She slaps his hand away, harder than she intended.

  “Ow! That’s some arm you’ve got there, SweeTART.”

  “Sorry, Merlin. Just keep your paws out of my cookie dough.”

  “Technically, it’s my cookie dough.”

  “Technically, you’re quite the pain in the—”

  “Watch it, Annie. Slapping the hand that feeds you is one thing . . . insulting the fabulous human attached to the hand is quite another.”

  She laughs. “Listen, O Fabulous One . . . I’m grateful for all the work you’ve thrown my way this summer, but Labor Day is a week away, which means the bulk of your business is about to hightail it back to Fifth Avenue and Central Park South.”

  “Which is why it’s a good thing you’re doing so well with your shell art lately,” he points out. “Did you finish those fifty paperweights Devonne Cambridge asked you to deliver yesterday?”

  “Yes, but she needs a hundred more heart-shaped ones by next week for somebody who wants them as wedding favors.”

  “A hundred more? Annie, you’re going to run yourself ragged.”

  She shrugs, reluctant to explain that the busier she is, the less time she has to brood about Andre.

  Or Thom.

  The silver lining in her storm-free summer is that people all over the Hamptons are clamoring for her baked goods and her handicrafts.

  Her shell creations have been selling out all over the Hamptons, more popular than lemon Italian ice in blazing midday sun on Mulberry Street. And Merlin is still getting cookie requests for nearly every affair he caters. Not just any cookies: Annie’s homemade cookies.

  After all these years of struggling, she has somehow managed to make a name for herself among the island’s elite in a single summer season. She hasn’t even been forced to take a waitressing job with Merlin since the Fourth of July regatta.

  Thank goodness for that, because chances are that sooner or later, she’d run into Thom’s mother—or worse yet, Thom himself—at one of the local society events. It’s difficult enough to accept that he’s nearby every weekend, eating her homemade cookies; she simply can’t risk coming face to face with him again.

  Now that her unexpectedly profitable summer is waning, she’s not exactly rolling in cash, but at least she’ll be able to pay the pile of bills that has stacked up on the kitchen counter . . . just as soon as she has a spare moment to actually sit down with them and her checkbook. And she’ll also be able to afford long-delayed necessities for the household and the children . . . just as soon as she has a spare moment to actually get out and shop.

  First on the list is a new washing machine, along with back-to-school wardrobes for Trixie and Milo. Oh, and more film for the camera, so she can capture their first day. She finally developed the photos that were in there. They were tough to look at, but they brought back happy memories.

  Yes, everything has fallen into place for her, financially, at least.

  And in another week, the year-rounders will no longer have to share Montauk with city people, both kids will be riding away on a yellow bus every morning, and Annie will be left in solitude for the first time in . . .

  Well, ever.

  Funny that she, who craved a moment’s peace just weeks ago, now finds herself dreading the thought of having an empty house all to herself.

  Be careful what you wish for, she thinks ruefully, placing a scoop of cookie dough on the parchment paper and nudging Merlin’s raisin-seeking hand away again.

  “Hey!” he says suddenly, and grabs her fingers, raising them to examine her hand. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

  “Don’t get excited. I only took it off so that I can mix the dough. It’s on the counter.”

  “Why are you going to put it on again?”

  Not when.

  Why.

  Annie doesn’t answer, swallowing hard over a painful lump rising in her throat.

  Merlin puts an arm around her. “You’ll always have him, you know. Even if you’re not wearing his ring.”

  “I know,” she says, giving in to tears. “But it’s so damned hard . . .”

  “You’re surviving, Annie. Day by day. You’re really doing it all alone.”

  “Yes,” she says softly, sniffling. “I guess I really am. All alone.”

  “Well, you are planning on coming out next weekend, then, aren’t you?” Lillian Brannock asks her son over dinner at Le Cirque, on the heels of his announcement that he can’t possibly make it to Southampton this weekend.

  “I don’t think so,” Thom tells her, perusing the menu. “I’m really busy right now with the Saltwater Treasures acquisition.”

  “But it’s Labor Day weekend.”

  “I know, Mother, and I’m sorry. I just don’t have the time.”

  “But you haven’t been out all summer,” his mother protests. “You’ve missed every party, every luncheon, every golf tournament, even the July Fourth regatta. People are wondering about you.”

  “What are they wondering?” he asks, not sure whether he’s amused or annoyed.

  “Whether you’re ill, or carrying on an illicit affair.”

  “An illicit affair?”

  “I tell them you’re not involved with anyone at the moment. You aren’t . . . are you?” she asks anxiously.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  How many times is she going to ask him that today? She’s obviously been wondering whether he’s still involved with Annie, but can’t quite bring herself to come right out and ask. Instead, she makes vague inquiries into whether he’ll be bringing an escort to this affair or that affair, affairs he has no intention of attending.

  Now, apparently, she’s moved on to hinting at illicit affairs.

  “Oh, and Thom,” she says, after they’ve paused to place their order, “just yesterday Constance Worth asked if you’d be coming to the puppy shower her mother is hosting next weekend for Dublin.”

  “A puppy shower?” Just when you think you’ve heard everything . . .

  Thom shakes his head in decidedly amused annoyance.

  “Yes, Dublin is expecting a litter in September. In fact, I told Bitsy that I’ll take one of the puppies.”

  “You’re getting a dog, Mother?” Thom is shocked. Yes, he’s noticed that Lillian seems to be mellowing a bit in her old age . . . but he can’t imagine her tolerating dog hair on the upholstery of the davenport that once belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots, or paw prints on her new flagstone path imported from the ruins of a seventeenth-century French villa.

  “Oh, the puppy isn’t for me. It’s for the baby.”

  The baby. Of course. Susan’s bundle of joy has been the main topic of many a conversation with his mother this summer. Just last week, she asked Thom for a letter of recommendation on behalf of her unborn grandson, whom she was
taking the liberty of preenrolling at the finest private schools in Manhattan.

  Thom initially tried to protest that it was a ridiculous proposition, but she presented two pages’ worth of wait-listed unborns from Astors to Vanderbilts. He then insisted he was too busy, but Lillian is nothing if not persistent. The next thing he knew, he was putting pen to paper and wholeheartedly vouching for the impeccable character of a fetus.

  “Mother,” he says wearily now, “a puppy? Don’t you think Susan and Wade will have their hands full enough learning how to change diapers and cure colic?”

  “There is no cure for colic,” is his mother’s dark reply. “I should know. You had it yourself, and your night nurse tried everything. We finally had to move the nursery up to the top floor so that your fussing wouldn’t keep me awake all night. Naturally your father slept like a log,” she adds with a disgusted shake of her salon-styled head.

  Having heard that tale ad nauseum, Thom does his best to ignore the pang that invariably accompanies the affirmation that it was his night nurse, and not his mother, who attempted to soothe him back to sleep as an infant.

  He tells himself that it doesn’t mean his mother didn’t love him; that it’s simply the way things are done in the Brannocks’ social circle.

  In fact, Susan and Wade have already hired a nanny at Mother’s insistence. Nonetheless, Susan swears that she herself will be doing the night feedings, the diaper changing, the potty training—and now, apparently, the puppy training as well.

  “Every boy needs a dog,” Mother informs Thom, conveniently forgetting that he begged for a pet throughout his childhood and was denied.

  “But mother . . . a purebred Irish wolfhound?”

  “Absolutely. And getting back to Dublin’s shower, as I said, Constance was wondering whether you—”

  “I’m sorry, but I really can’t make it,” Thom cuts in, knowing that his mother would like nothing better than to be planning a baby shower for her only son and the likes of Constance Worth at this time next year.

  “It would be so nice if you took her to dinner some night, then.”

  “Mother—”