Some Like Them Rich Page 3

  “I’m not a scholar, but I have friends who have been here before. Since I was staying for the summer, they said the house was a much better choice.”

  He relaxed a bit.

  “With three of us, we needed more room than a hotel suite could provide, not to mention our own bathrooms. It’s no reflection on your hotel,” I said.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Have you been solely responsible for the turnaround?”

  “I’d like to think so, but it takes an army of people to run this place.”

  “But only one man to manage it all.”

  “I have two assistants. Both female, in case your mention of the word man was more than the generic use.”

  “It wasn’t.” I smiled, letting him know that I really hadn’t branded him as a chauvinist. “I’m afraid I have to go now. It’s a good walk back to the house.”

  I stood up and gathered the brochures. He stood, too.

  “You’re walking?”

  I nodded.

  “If you want, I can have a car take you back.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m walking for the exercise.”

  He looked at me, and although the glance was quick and cursory, it took in my entire frame. I knew he was determining whether or not I needed the exercise.

  “I’ve ordered a rental car. I’ll be picking it up later today,” I said. “But thank you for the offer and for all the information.” I glanced at the brochures in my hand.

  “You’re welcome. There is one more thing,” he said.

  I waited for him to go on.

  “Tonight, here in the hotel, there’s live entertainment and dancing. If you’d like to come, you could be my guest.”

  I weighed this for a moment. “Are you asking me for a date?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Suppose? Don’t you know?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m busy tonight.”

  “Don’t tell me. You have to wash your hair?”

  I almost laughed at the absurdity of the question. I had nothing planned for the evening. The whole day stretched before me and once the car arrived, I could begin touring the Vineyard or do one of the many activities he’d outlined. But what I wasn’t about to do was go out with the hotel manager.

  “I will not be washing my hair.”

  “Well, if it doesn’t work out, the offer stands.”

  He glanced behind him as if someone might need his attention.

  “Thank you, Mr. Randall.” Again I held up the brochures.

  “Don, please.”

  “Don,” I said, but didn’t offer my first name. I didn’t want him to feel any familiarity with me.

  We shook hands again. For some reason I looked at his left hand. It was clear of a wedding band, the brown skin even over his fingers, indicating that there hadn’t been a recent change in his marital status.

  Why I looked, and looked twice, I don’t know. He’d been coming on to me, and I wondered if I’d have a reason to refuse him outright.

  The excuse I would give him was practiced and designed to brush off any man who challenged my goal, but I had the feeling this one wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  And I wasn’t sure I wanted the word in my personal dictionary.

  Chapter 3

  This was a mistake, I told myself. I know I’d agreed to Amber’s plan. It sounded good in my tiny apartment back in Manhattan, especially since I’d just broken up with Orlando Robinson, the latest man who couldn’t see beyond my breast size. He loved my body but never made an attempt to see if I had a mind.

  But now we were on the Vineyard, and all I wanted to do was get back on the ferry and return home, call Orlando and tell him we should try again. In time he would figure out I was more than big tits, long hair, and legs.

  I knew that wouldn’t be the case. It wasn’t rational. Orlando was never going to change, but neither could I change the way I felt.

  Standing up, I went to the window. I was alone in the house. Amber left early this morning and Jack went for a walk, something that was usually last on her list of things to do. “But this is a new place and I want to see the sites up close and personal,” she said, when my lifting eyebrows questioned her.

  Jack was stepping outside of her comfort zone. It was time I did the same. But where would I go? Being solo wasn’t my usual method of cruising. I was often with a friend, make that a man. Chance meetings happened to me all the time. Meeting men had never been my problem. They flocked to me because of my face. But I knew that looks could be a blessing and a curse.

  In my job as a pharmaceutical rep, I wasn’t stupid to the fact that some of the males I dealt with gave me orders because of my bra size and not because of the product’s efficacy. Yet I had no issues with the efficacy. They were superior products and I stood behind them. And orders were the name of the game here.

  The curse was that many men tended to see me as all looks and very little brain. They assumed I was a good lay, and that was their primary goal with me.

  I’m sure that was what was on Orlando’s mind when I met him. I needed a new sweater. He was in the department store looking for a present. When we reached for the same item, I apologized, but the chemistry between us was immediate. His eyes covered my entire body in a matter of seconds. I immediately saw the expression and dismissed him as another male on the make.

  But when he spoke, my heart melted. He bought the sweater and I found myself having lunch with him in the store restaurant. I was completely floored a couple of days later when the sweater arrived by special messenger with a card that had his phone number on it. Of course I dialed the number and started down a well-worn path. Unfortunately, I had blinders on and couldn’t see around the bends in the road. I knew there were pitfalls, but together I was sure we could avoid them. What I couldn’t see was that Orlando wasn’t on the same path I was walking. And the rest is history. Ancient history at this point. We went out for months, or I should say we were together for months. We didn’t go out much. Mostly we spent our days and nights in bed. Who would ever think that would get old? But after a solid six months of it, I wanted to do something else.

  He didn’t.

  Then Amber and Jack showed up. I, Lila Easton, who always threw men over, was in the third stage of grief, bargaining with myself on how to get Orlando back. I was ripe for their plan. I needed a diversion, a safe haven to keep me from wallowing in grief and calling the bastard.

  And now that I was here—I straightened my shoulders—I had to do my part. No use coming all this way and spending this much money to sit around a beautifully appointed room and stare out the windows.

  The car I’d rented sat in the driveway. It was a red sports car and I’d had to have it delivered by ferry. It was costing a fortune, but Amber said it was worth it. And I loved it. In the city I didn’t drive a car. The congestion and the cost of parking, not to mention parking tickets, was prohibitive.

  As I’d already been to the beach, I slipped behind the wheel of the BMW and headed away from the center of activity. I wasn’t likely to find a date going this way, but I wanted to see more of the land than where the tourists hung out. It was the real Vineyard, the neighborhoods where the residents lived, places where no tourist shops or souvenir kiosks appeared, just ordinary people living their lives.

  Driving up one street and down another, I saw homes like any other in New England. At the end of a broad street, well, broad for the Vineyard, were several official-looking buildings: post office, court house, city hall, and a museum. In Manhattan, this would be the center of town. Here it was quiet and residential—almost postcard perfect.

  After parking on the street, I went into the museum. It was nothing like the Met in New York. It was probably one-tenth the size. A combination art gallery and artifact museum. I enjoyed looking at the paintings, although there was no name I recognized. The artifacts were all about the sea.

  Then I found t
he room with photos of African Americans on the walls. There were several other people in the room. Most appeared to be tourists, from what I could hear of their conversation. Steering away from them, I went to a wall that had only a few people at it. Sepia photos of people of color adorned the frames. They showed scenes of the Vineyard, the beach, the houses, all from an era of the thirties and forties, according to the small cards pinned next to them.

  I smiled at one of five bathing beauties in old-style one-piece bathing suits. They had their arms linked and a leg thrust forward in the tradition of the Rockettes. Wide smiles split their happy faces. Each had curls that the wind had played with at the moment the shot was captured. I felt somehow connected to them, as if I had once been a happy, carefree girl whose only concern was which bathing suit to wear to the beach.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” someone said.

  I jumped at the unexpectedness of the voice so near to me.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I suppose I was concentrating on the photo,” I said, covering my sudden nervousness. I hadn’t expected to speak with anyone. Museums and art galleries could be solitary places, as quiet as libraries, often attracting more women patrons than men. That might be why I’d subconsciously gone inside.

  However, I’d noticed him when I first came into the gallery. He was very tall and very thin. I wondered if he was an artist. He didn’t look like the type I usually saw in galleries—uninterested in the artwork and looking bored, continually checking their watches as if they couldn’t wait to get out of there. This man had the appearance of comfort, as if he frequented these places often.

  I looked up from the photo. “Why odd?” I asked.

  “We don’t often see that pose by a line of African American women.”

  “That’s true, but the Vineyard had a large African American population. I don’t remember when it changed, but it must have been after the forties, according to the card.” I gestured toward the miniature wall plaque.

  “The community has shrunk in the last thirty years or so, but there is a substantial population still living here. Politicians, artists, writers have homes here. In the summer the population swells more with summer residents.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the Vineyard.”

  He smiled. His teeth were even and very white. I thought of the whitening products they were advertising on television these days and wondered if my teeth were as clean. He’d make a perfect model for the product.

  “I’m going to be teaching art at the local high school this fall. I just moved here and thought I’d learn about the island.”

  A high school teacher, I thought. Low income. Even the highest-paid teacher’s salary in the country was too low for my purposes. But he was a nice enough person. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him for a while.

  “Have you been a teacher for long?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “You must like it.”

  “I do.”

  We moved on to another photo, falling in step together. It was as if our few comments had joined us. We moved together like friends instead of strangers who’d only met an instant earlier. The photo before us was of a neighborhood with many blacks relaxing on porches and wearing long, colorful gowns.

  “I thought about being a teacher once,” I said. “But I got over it.”

  We laughed. Yet for me it wasn’t altogether that funny. I still thought of getting a teaching certificate and going into the classroom. It wouldn’t pay as much as my job as a pharmaceutical rep, but it felt like something I wanted to do.

  After a moment I noticed him looking me up and down. I’d seen that look of appraisal all my life. From the time I became aware of boys, they’d given me the sexual look. Either they were undressing me or they were trying to get next to me. And I mean get next to me in the physical sense—close enough to rub their bodies against mine. He wasn’t being quite so bold and I appreciated that, but his eyes were just as interested.

  “Kids are kids,” he said. “Every year they try to test you, but I’ve been around the block a few times and I know all of the tricks.”

  “You must be very good.”

  He looked a little embarrassed and said nothing.

  “Kids need a firm hand,” I said.

  “Do you have children?”

  I shook my head. “I’m one of the ones you talked about. When I was in school I would test the teacher to see what I could get away with, although at the time I never thought of it as testing.”

  “Neither do they,” he said.

  We continued moving about the room, reading the photo notes and talking. He was easy to talk to and didn’t act like the normal Lothario I was used to meeting.

  By the time we’d circled the floor, I recognized the signs. Men were so transparent. He’d begun the dance, the perfect steps that would lead to him asking me out. This was the prelude to sex. I was in no mood for it. And gravely disappointed in him. I’d begun thinking there was one man who wouldn’t follow the pattern. Why I’d expected to meet that one man in an art gallery on Martha’s Vineyard was the real question.

  Checking my watch, I looked at the art teacher. “It was good meeting you,” I said. “I have to leave now. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.” I knew he’d probably think that was a man. I didn’t bother to correct the silent thought.

  “Nice talking to you, too,” he said. “By the way, my name’s Jason Michaels. I hope we meet again.”

  “Lila Easton.” I smiled, doubting that we would.

  * * *

  Of course I had no plans to meet anyone for lunch. In the car, the rest of the day stretched before me like an endless universe. What was I going to do now? Jack and Amber were out. I was the only one who felt footloose, with nothing to do but mope.

  Jason Michaels had been pleasant, but he was forgettable. Orlando still filled my thoughts. Pulling my cell phone from my purse, I hit the Address button and Orlando’s name popped up on my speed dial. I stared at it, my finger hovering over the Send button. It was so easy to make the call. And I wanted to. I wanted to push that green key and send a signal up through the heavens to be bounced back to earth and find the one man I wanted to talk to wherever he was on the planet.

  But I didn’t. Slowly I moved my finger and flipped the phone closed. That part of my life was over. Orlando had made it clear that he was no longer interested in me. If he wanted to resume our life together, he had to take the next step.

  And if he didn’t, I had to go on.

  Dropping the cell phone back in my purse, I heard the rumbles of my stomach. I was hungry. This morning’s breakfast wasn’t as large as the previous one. My hips couldn’t take a summer’s diet that rich, but I needed something to eat.

  I hated eating alone. Going back to the house didn’t guarantee me company, but it would save me from having to enter a restaurant without a partner.

  Not that I would be alone for long. That had been true my entire life. But today I wasn’t in the mood for the usual banter of getting to know you, getting next to you, getting in your pants. Jack and Amber had embraced our common goal and gone off to begin the hunt. While the three of us had agreed not to move as a group, but to each act independently, I didn’t think we’d go in separate directions our second day here.

  I looked at the sea and sky. Thank goodness I had the foresight to order a car before leaving Manhattan. This was a small island, and if I’d waited there might not be any left. Amber was renting one today. It was the one thing she had not thought of in her perfect plan.

  I drove along until I came to a small shopping area. Inside was a grocery store. I decided on a salad.

  Going through the single glass door, I found the aisles about the size of those in the city. The carts were nonexistent. A few people carried canvas bags and put their food inside as they went.

  Not having one, I found a wire basket that would have hung over my arm if both handles had worked. As it was, I
carried it lopsided. Heading toward where I assumed the salad bar would be, I found nothing even resembling it. I turned around several times, visiting each aisle before it dawned on me there was no salad bar.

  It’s amazing what you come to expect when you live in New York. The larger subway stations had everything from sushi to doughnuts. Every tiny grocer had a salad bar, either pre-made or made-to-order. And how quickly I forgot that the world outside of Manhattan was different.

  Produce, I thought. I could make a salad. Finding this section of the store, I discovered it well stocked. The fruit and veggies looked great. I started filling up my broken basket. It was the cantaloupe that did it. I placed the small melon on top of my lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, onions, and cucumbers, and the whole thing toppled down my arm and spilled onto the floor. Tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers rolled away in a rainbow of streaming color.

  I dropped down and started retrieving the sprinting produce.

  “Here, let me help you,” a voice said above my head. I looked up. He was practically at face level and holding the cantaloupe and two tomatoes.

  Dark brown eyes looked into mine. I stared, unable to turn away. Inside me something jerked. Not a huge jerk, just a small one, like when the car behind you gently taps yours in a line of traffic. You look up in the mirror, then immediately forget it. Somehow his eyes said you’ll remember me. And I knew I would. I’d just left one man whose features were already fading in the glow of the dark brown-skinned man holding my tomatoes.

  “You need a better basket,” he said.

  “It was the only one I could find,” I said, wondering why I couldn’t think of anything more appropriate to say.

  “You’re not from the Vineyard.” He made it a statement, as if he knew I didn’t live here.

  “No, I’m renting a house for the summer.”

  “And stocking up on food?”

  I nodded. Letting him believe the lie was easier than explaining that I didn’t want to eat alone. Retrieving the rest of the loose produce, the two of us put it back in the broken basket. He lifted it as we stood up. He placed it on top of an amphitheater display of Idaho potatoes.