Born To Be Wild

ELEVEN

Late Thursday afternoon Mary Lisa Beverly left the terminal of the Goddard Bay Regional Airport outside the small town of Inverness. It was only a fifteen-minute boat ride to Goddard Bay, or an hour’s drive on the coast road that wove south, then skimmed the southern end of the bay to downtown Goddard Bay.

Mary Lisa felt good to be home, and a state away from the person who’d tried to run her down. Before she’d left Los Angeles, Detective Vasquez had brought her a list of 111 names of people who owned a 2000 LeSabre but she hadn’t recognized any of them.

Only Lou Lou and Elizabeth and her agent at Trident Media knew where she’d gone. It was a relief to leave L.A., what with the National Enquirer and the Star carrying the photos Puker had snapped of her laid out on a gurney looking pathetic and dazed. The captions beneath the photos ranged from “Drunk Soap Star Hit by Passing Car” to “Mary Lisa Beverly Run Down by Angry Lover.” If she’d seen Puker she would have tried to rip his throat out. At least the photos were inside and not staring at the world from the cover.

At least her hip no longer looked like Australia. The massive bruise had retreated to the size of Mississippi, and all the vivid shades had muted. She’d taken off the last Band-Aid this morning and found she’d not needed any more makeup to cover the healing cuts and scrapes.

She drove her rented red Cadillac convertible down the narrow two-lane coast road, crossed a small bridge over a bay inlet, and headed down to the tiny hamlet of Berrytown, the beginning of her favorite part of the trip, the southern stretch of the coastline toward Goddard Bay.

She hadn’t been home in three years and had to admit she was worried about how it would go. Still, some primal part of her recognized the air, the way it smelled, the way it settled on her skin. She breathed in deeply, enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face, and knew that from one minute to the next, the rain could pour down, not at all like Southern California.

She drove slowly, even stopping once to take in the sand dunes that glowed golden beneath the afternoon sun.

When she turned onto Central Boulevard and stopped for her first red light, the first person she saw was Chief of Police Jack Wolf, a big man with a hard face and intense blue eyes that were too smart and seemed to see too much. He was walking purposefully, dressed in dark gray slacks, white shirt, no tie, and a dark brown leather jacket. He appeared deep in thought. And then, for no good reason, he looked up at the convertible, and saw her. He did a little double take, as if he couldn’t believe who it was. His hard face seemed to turn to stone. He did not look like a happy man, definitely not ready to do handsprings at the sight of her. Well, big surprise there, not after he’d tossed her in jail before she’d left three years before. She gave him a sweet smile and a jaunty little wave, but she wasn’t about to stop and have a nice little tête-à-tête with him.

Some things never changed, she thought, as she continued down Central Boulevard, past a good dozen downtown stores she’d known since she was a child, having arrived in Goddard Bay with her family at the age of five. She breathed in the clear, sharp bay air, glad she’d rented a convertible, and made a note to check out the new boutiques. The town seemed to be thriving with the growing tourist trade.

She waved at Peter Perlman, owner of Pete’s Paint Store, who yelled a greeting at her and grinned his head off. His place was gossip central in town, so by nightfall everyone in Goddard Bay would know Mary Lisa Beverly was back.

She wondered as she drove toward her parents’ house on Riverview Drive how her mother and sisters would greet her.

MARY Lisa walked the neat flagstone path to the front door, looking around her as she walked, as if checking out a set for a shoot. Nothing had changed. Her mother had always loved flowers, and they were still everywhere, bursting with wild color in the late spring, the scents of the roses mixing with the scent of the jasmine on the light breeze. At the entry, beside the beautifully stenciled glass doors, Mary Lisa touched her finger to the doorbell and wondered what role she would be called upon to play in this upcoming scene with her mother. The return of the prodigal daughter? No, that would require her mother to show a bit of joy at the sight of her. Well, who knew? It had been three years. Her father had visited her perhaps a dozen times in L.A., even helped her through the experience of buying her first house, in Malibu. But her mother had never come, not that she’d wanted her to. And she hadn’t asked her father. She hadn’t wanted him to have to make excuses.

So why did I come back here? Fact is, New York’s lovely this time of year. So is London. So is Grapevine, Texas. People don’t change, they simply become more so. And the problem with being gone for three years is that you forget the bone-deep hurt waiting for you until it’s too late.

It was too late. She rang the doorbell again, and heard soft footfalls approaching.

The door opened. Her mother saw her daughter standing there, her hair windblown, big sunglasses covering half her face, the handle of the wheeled carry-on in her hand. There was a moment of silence, of bland scrutiny, and then, “Well, it’s nice that you’ve come back, dear.”

Not promising. Mary Lisa made no move to embrace the elegant woman who stood in front of her, the woman who was her mother. She wasn’t stupid. She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into the bulging side of her hobo bag, which weighed five pounds on a light day, and gave her mother a big smile. “Would you be interested in some Tupperware, ma’am?”

“Sorry, dear,” her mother said without pause, “all our storage containers are glass.”

“That was a good line, Mother.”

“Where do you think you got that mouth of yours?”

Hey, maybe we’ve got some softening here. At least some recognition. “How are you doing?”

Her mother looked at Mary Lisa’s single carry-on and stepped back. “Do come in, dear, we can’t have you standing there.” Her mother turned away from her and walked toward the living room. She called out from the doorway, “Betty, would you please bring some tea and two cups? We have an unexpected visitor with a carry-on.”

Unexpected visitor? Well, that was better than an unwelcome visitor, or maybe it was a euphemism. The living room looked the same as it had three years ago, with one new addition, a side chair with dark green satin upholstery that looked vaguely Regency, another jewel set in her mother’s beautiful living room with the rest of her nineteenth-century English antiques. Mary Lisa sat down in it across from her mother. For the first time she saw faint lines of dissatisfaction around her mouth. What did her mother have to be unhappy about?

In that moment, looking around at the magnificent, light-filled living room with its precious old furniture, Mary Lisa saw herself as a girl, carefully polishing all those chairs, the two sofas, the precious marquetry table. She remembered stained fingers and criticism.

Mary Lisa said, “It’s been a long time, Mom, too long. I don’t have to go back until Sunday. I thought I’d come for a visit, see how everyone was doing.”

“Everyone is fine. But of course you saw your father two months ago.” Her mother frowned when Betty walked into the living room, carrying a tray holding more than the tea and two cups she’d ordered.

Betty Harmon said, “Oh, Mary Lisa, hello! It is so good to see you again. Mrs. Abrams heard your voice, said you loved her spice cake, and she was so happy that she had a bit left, just for you.”

Betty stood beaming at Mary Lisa in the face of her mother’s silence.

Mary Lisa was on her feet in an instant. She hugged Betty and leaned back to look down at all five feet two inches of her. “How wonderful to see you. Those dimples, how I always envied you those dimples.” Her mother was waiting to lambaste her; Mary Lisa knew the signs. Even after three years of not having an occasion to even think about it, she threw herself into the breach as if she’d never been gone. She continued talking, nonsense really, while Betty poured tea, smiling and laughing, never took a breath while Betty sliced her a piece of spice cake, and finally turned to ask her mother if she’d like a slice. Her mother said, “That’s quite enough, Mary Lisa. Betty, no cake for me. Now, Mary Lisa will be staying until Sunday, so if you would make certain her room is ready…” She raised a brow to her daughter. “This means three nights?”

Mary Lisa nodded, wishing she could simply get up, grab her suitcase and her slice of spice cake, and march back out the front door.

“Yes, ma’am.” Betty turned and left the living room, seemingly oblivious of the displeasure in Mrs. Beverly’s voice, but Mary Lisa knew she wasn’t. Deaf or blind, you could still feel the freeze.

“Mrs. Abrams insists on making the spice cake for your father. No one else eats it. No one else likes it.”

“Good, that means I get to finish it off before Dad gets home.”

Kathleen Beverly was as tall as her daughter, and her black hair was cut in a bob and untouched by gray due to her hairdresser’s diligence. She looked her daughter up and down. “I’m surprised you’re eating that. I understand the camera adds ten pounds.”

“That’s true. Aren’t I lucky I have Dad’s genes?” She knew that even with a good dose of his genes, she still had to watch what she ate, and exercise like mad, but she didn’t feel like conceding the point. “He’s eaten everything in sight for as long as I can remember and never gains an ounce.”

Her mother nodded, not looking all that happy about it. Mary Lisa didn’t blame her.

She gave her mother a sunny smile. “He told me once that he and I were aliens and that I’d surely bless him when I grew up. He was right, I do. Is Kelly engaged yet to her Prince Charming? She e-mailed me about him.”