Hale's Point (19 page)

His unblinking eyes took her in, head to toe, and then he
smiled a smile of immense satisfaction. “That’s
my
line. You look… Wow, you look outrageous.”

Harley bit her lip, not wanting to look too pleased with
herself. “So do you,” she said. “You look so… different.”

“I didn’t want you to feel embarrassed to be seen with me.”

“I—I wouldn’t have.”

He grinned skeptically. “Ooh, you’re a
ba
-a-ad
liar.”

“I am not! I mean—”

“It’s good to be a bad liar. It means you have an honest
heart.” He held the ties up for her inspection. “Which one?”

She considered for a moment, then picked the brushstroke one.
He tossed the other one on the bed and, turning back to the mirror, threaded it
through his collar and swiftly tied it. When he was done, he loosened it and
unbuttoned the shirt’s top button, saying, “Mustn’t get too carried away.” He
paused and reached a hand out to stroke her cheek. “You really look incredible.”
Tucking her hair behind one ear, he said, “Those are nice earrings, but with
your coloring, you should really wear gold.”

She shrugged. “I like silver. Besides, I can’t afford gold.”

His hand trailed down to her mouth, and he patted her lower
lip gently with his index finger, then examined the little smudge of shell pink
on his fingertip. “Do you ever wear red lipstick?”

“Ugh, no.”

He took his jacket from the
chairback
and tunneled his long arms into it. “That’s probably for the best. If you did,
I think you’d send me
completely
over
the edge.”

Chapter 9

Harley spent the short trip
to the village holding her
hair in a knot at the nape of her neck to keep the wind from whipping it into a
rat’s nest. Most of the trip from the house to the village was along one-lane
roads that twisted up and plunged down. Whenever Harley had to make this drive,
she found the experience harrowing, especially in the dark, but Tucker seemed
completely unperturbed. With one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick
shift, he maneuvered the convertible smoothly up sharp inclines and around
hairpin curves as if he were a part of the machine itself.

Harley found the antiquated buildings of Hale’s Point very
charming in a peculiar, off-kilter kind of way. Once a haven for sailors and
smugglers, it was now peopled exclusively by the descendants of some of Long
Island’s oldest and wealthiest families.

Tucker drove up to a warmly lit ivory gingerbread Victorian
built into a cliff overgrown with flowering vines. From the lamppost dangled a
small wooden plaque with an infinity sign painted on it. He parked on the
narrow street at an acute downhill angle and raised the roof, then came around
and opened the car door for her. Another “absurd” souvenir from his Hale’s
Point upbringing? For a nonconformist wild card, Tucker Hale could be quite the
gentleman.

No sooner had they entered the club than a deep male voice
boomed, “Tucker Hale, you son of a bitch, where’s my Grateful Dead album?” A
bearded, red-haired giant threaded his way toward them through the milling
patrons.

“I don’t
have
your
Grateful Dead album, Doug, I told you that!” Tucker bellowed back.

“Then who does?” Doug demanded, looming over them.

“Ask Rob.”

Harley’s head spun. This man probably hadn’t set eyes on
Tucker for decades. As near as she could tell, the two men had just slid back
into a twenty-year-old argument.

“Let’s do that,” the giant thundered, turning and motioning
them to follow him to a large back room. She could tell it had once been a
formal dining room, since a crystal chandelier still hung from its ceiling.

In the corner, on a small stage set up with a piano, two men,
one blond, one dark, were testing microphones. “Rob,” Doug roared, and the
blond man looked up, grinning broadly when he saw Tucker. “Do you have my Dead
album?”

Rob blinked. “Yeah. I thought you knew that.”

Doug stopped in his tracks. “You’ve had my Dead album for
twenty years, and you thought I knew?”

“It’s a good album,” Rob said, as he and the dark-haired man
descended from the stage. “I was going to give it back.”

Tucker punched Doug in the shoulder. “Don’t you think you owe
me an apology?”

Doug reared up like a bear. “
Hell
no! You don’t call for twenty years, I don’t owe you
nothin
’!” He and Tucker faced off for a moment, presently
breaking into huge grins and wrapping their arms around each other. “I missed
you, you bastard!” Doug said.

Phil appeared as Tucker exchanged hugs and backslaps with the
other two men. When he saw Phil, Tucker drew Harley toward him with an arm
around her shoulder. “Harley Sayers, this is Doug, Rob, and Larry. Dr.
Zelin
, you already know.”

Now they think I’m his
girlfriend,
she
thought, and she tried the idea on for size. Tucker’s girlfriend… Her heart
started rattling in her chest.

Phil took in Tucker from head to toe. “Trying to
depunk
your image? That’s a military-school haircut if ever
I saw one.”

Tucker said, “I’m swimming again, and short hair helps to cut
down on the resistance. I want to get fast.” With a glance at Harley, he added,
“
Really
fast.”

Harley wondered if anyone noticed her blush as Rob and Larry
went back to their onstage preparations and Doug led them to a large table near
the stage. Harley ordered iced tea, Tucker beer, and Phil a Bloody Mary. The
club filled up quickly, and before long the chandelier dimmed and stage lights
snapped on, illuminating the little platform in the corner. Rob and Larry
performed a set of mellow folk tunes, Rob on guitar, Larry on piano. They were
pretty good, but she and Phil and Tucker seemed to be the only guests who had
actually stopped talking to listen. The drone of conversation never let up, and
it was fairly loud; the place was packed with people. Rob and Larry didn’t seem
to mind, and she figured that must be a drawback that club musicians just come
to accept.

When it was time for their break, the two musicians joined
the party at the table. Tucker sat on one side of Harley, a long arm draped
over the back of her chair, Phil on the other, ignoring his friend’s
proprietary gesture by leaning toward her and touching her arm frequently as he
talked.
Maybe Tucker was right,
Harley
thought.
Maybe Phil is interested, after
all.

Grinning, Tucker announced, “Look who’s here!” Mimi, Jamie,
Brenna, and a blond woman came up to the table. Abruptly, as if she were
suddenly hot to the touch, Phil’s hand recoiled from her arm. What was that
about?

Like Harley, Mimi and the blonde wore skirts and blouses;
Brenna had on a stretch lace
minidress
. Introductions
were begun, but no one seemed quite sure who knew whom, and the identity of the
blond woman remained a mystery to Harley. The men stood and pulled chairs out
for the women— another remnant of chivalry quite foreign to Harley—and Tucker
embraced the blonde, saying, “It’s so great to see you.”

“You, too,” said the woman. “I’m glad you asked Mimi to bring
me.”

He asked Mimi to bring her?
thought Harley, feeling a
hard squeeze of jealousy. The blonde looked to be around Tucker’s age, and was
nothing short of striking. She exchanged greetings with Rob and Larry, but
ignored Phil—rather pointedly, Harley thought.

Tucker said, “Harley Sayers, I’d like you to meet an old friend
of mine, Kitty
Zelin
—Phil’s wife.”

“Kitty Acton-Kemp,” the blonde corrected, holding her hand
out for Harley to shake, as Phil shot a murderous look toward Tucker. “I’ve
taken back my maiden name.”

That Phil was married surprised Harley until she put two and
two together—Kitty’s coolness toward him, her returning to her maiden name—and
realized that they must be separated, although probably not divorced yet, since
Tucker had introduced her as his wife.

Another man who got the cold shoulder that night was Jamie,
whose constant attentions toward Brenna were met with contemptuous disregard.
Instead she flirted openly with Rob and Paul, who seemed entranced. She turned
her Irish charm on Tucker and Phil, as well, but Tucker responded with distant
politeness, and Phil didn’t respond at all; he had withdrawn when Kitty showed
up, saying and doing little except to gaze dolefully at her from time to time.

Doug appeared and motioned toward the crowd. “The natives are
restless, boys,” he said to Rob and Larry. “How about another set?”

“How about Tucker joins us?” Rob asked, “Like old times.”

Tucker shook his head. “I’d need a guitar.”

“Got one in back,” Doug said.

“A twelve-string?”

“A twelve-string.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Something tells me I’ve been set up.”
With his chair in one hand and his cane in the other, he mounted the stage and
spent a few minutes conferring quietly with Rob and Larry while Doug went to
fetch the guitar.

Jamie picked up his own chair and circled the table to set it
down in the now-empty space next to Harley, with the back facing her.
Straddling it, he reached out and fingered the ruffled neckline of her blouse. “This
is nice. You look great tonight.”

Of course, Harley knew exactly what he was doing—trying to
make Brenna jealous. The au pair did glance in their direction briefly before
returning her attention to the stage, where the four men—Doug was back with the
guitar—huddled together intently. The only person who seemed bothered at all by
Jamie’s actions was Tucker, who frowned when he looked in her direction.

As Tucker demonstrated some piano business to Larry, Doug
twisted a mike from its stand to address the audience. “If you can be patient
for just a few more minutes, we’ve got a treat for you tonight, by the name of
Tucker Hale. Anyone who was
hangin
’ out in Greenwich
Village twenty years ago probably heard him and Chet Madison play. They opened
for major acts at The Bitter End and The Bottom Line. For the record, Tucker’s
the only guy I ever knew who actually
turned
down
a record contract.” There were murmurs from the audience. “He tells me
he’s got some new material he’s written,
seein
’ as
how he’s had a lot of time on his hands lately. In a minute,
well
see if it’s any good.”

Doug replaced the mike, descended from the stage, and came to
stand behind Harley. Turning to look up at him, she said, “Tucker turned down a
record deal? He told me things just didn’t work out. He never said he was
actually offered a contract.”

The bearish man squatted down next to her. “From what I hear,
the problem was Chet. Which wasn’t really a surprise. That guy was always bad
news.”

“Wasn’t he a good friend of Tucker’s?”

“Friend? Yes. Good?” He shook his head. “He only brought
Tucker down, and Tucker unfortunately let it happen.”

“I don’t understand,” Harley said. “What happened?”

“You know they dropped out of school and left home at the
same time.” Harley nodded. “Then they played in the Village together. Started
to get a following. One night this A-and-R man from Capitol caught their act.”

“A-and-R man?”

“Stands for ‘artists and repertoire.’ They go to the clubs
and scout new talent for the big record companies. Anyway, this one guy takes
Tucker aside and offers to finance a demo—the first step toward signing him on—
iƒ
he’ll jettison
Chet. Says Chet’s not in the same league as him, which is true, and he’d be
better off as a solo act.” He shrugged. “Tucker wouldn’t have it. Out of
loyalty to Chet, he turned the deal down,
thinkin
’
sooner or later someone would sign up the two of them. Course, he was just carrying
Chet, and the two of them were never offered anything more than the occasional
club gig. Eventually they quit the business and moved to Miami. Couple of years
later, Tucker bought his Piper Comanche, and then… Well, I guess you know
what happened after that.” He shook his head.

“No, I don’t.” Harley said. “I know something happened, but—”

On the other side of her, Phil cleared his throat, and she
turned to find him shaking his head at Doug. Avoiding eye contact with her,
Doug stood. “I’d better go see if the guys are ready—”

“Tell me,” Harley said.

He shrugged as he turned away. “Sorry.”

She turned to Phil, who was motioning for the waitress. He
said, “Harley, I’m ordering you a Bloody Mary. Best you ever had, guaranteed.”

“Phil, tell me about Miami.”

“
Shh
,” he whispered, as the
chandelier dimmed and the stage lit up. “Show time.”

The three men onstage took their seats, Larry at the piano
and Rob and Tucker on hard wooden chairs with their guitars. Doug’s voice
filled the room: “Ladies and gentlemen, Tucker Hale.” There was some polite
applause. Rob and Larry looked toward Tucker, whose right foot beat out a
rhythm that his guitar soon took up. When he nodded, the other two men joined
in, their improvised accompaniment lending depth and complexity to the soulful
melody. Then Tucker began to sing.