Off Season by Jean Stone

pronounced
suite
like “suit” and not “sweet,” which, under other circumstances, would have bugged Rita. But she was too stunned by the content of her mother’s words to be bothered by the syntax.
    “What do you mean?” she asked, her eyes turning halfway back to the brochure to help mask her shock.
    Even with her head half-turned, Rita could see Hazel’s lips curl up and her false teeth gleam a wide plastic smile. “Well, you may find this hard to believe,” Hazel said, “but I’m not getting any younger. It’s time for me to settle down, and I’m not talking about getting married again.”
    Rita suddenly felt nauseous. “You are settled, Mother,” she said, without looking up. “You have a nice mobile home in Coral Gables, remember?”
    “Ah!” Hazel exclaimed, flopping onto the daybed where Kyle had once slept. “Everyone in Coral Gables isan old fart. I saw more action in the dead of any winter on the Vineyard than any of them dreamed about seeing in their combined lifetimes.”
    “Mother,” Rita said, closing the brochure, “you are too old to be getting any action. And too old to think about moving back to the island. You’ve always hated the snow.”
    “I’ve been thinking about it ever since Kyle died. My grandson. And I only saw him six times after he turned eighteen.”
    Hazel had been busy chasing—and unbelievably, catching—a husband, her first, at age sixty-eight. “Well, it’s too late now, Mother. Coming back to the Vineyard isn’t going to change that.” She had not meant to sound sarcastic, really she hadn’t. But the tight lines that set around the corners of her mother’s Love That Red mouth told her she had been.
    “It’s not too late for me to spend time with my daughter, Rita Mae. I only gave you this house so you could pass it on to Kyle. Now that he’s gone, well, I don’t want to take it back, but I was hoping you’d at least let me live here.”
    At this stage of her life, Rita had not planned on a roommate of the maternal persuasion, especially Hazel. Then again, she also hadn’t needed to consider the advantages of a built-in baby-sitter.
    Hazel nodded vigorously. “Year round,” she confirmed. “I want to come home, Rita Mae. I want to live with you again. We’ll have a blast. Just like old times.”
    Thankfully, old times would not include having to rent out the house during the summer and bunk in with various neighbors for a week here and there. Hopefully, they would not include hearing her mother’s lovemaking noises echo through the century-old walls. But there would be companionship, and there would be a baby. Just like old times.
    •   •   •
    Jill would give anything to go back in time, to last summer, to their wonderful wedding on the walkway that encircled the top of the Gay Head lighthouse, to the way the ribbons in her hair drifted in the breeze off the cliffs as she professed her love publicly to Ben Niles, as if anyone in attendance hadn’t known about it already.
    But as she looked out the widow’s walk on the rooftop of her house, at the half-naked treetops and the slate-colored sky, she was quickly reminded that this was not Gay Head and this was not summer.
    She leaned back in the Jacuzzi and tried to decide what to do.
    She could get out of the tub, get dressed, and go find her husband.
    She could stay here until she became prunelike and limp, dwelling on what might have or should have or could have been.
    Or she could pick up the cell phone and dial the number she knew so well, the one that belonged to Addie Becker.
    She eyed that phone, which in and of itself was a haunting reminder of Addie-the-agent: chaotic and crazy and always on.
    With a deep, lonely sigh, Jill rested her head against the vinyl pillow and tried to concentrate on the warm water seeping into her pores. She loved this tub: she missed it when she was on the road. It was one more of the lovely things Ben had brought into her life.
    “This would make a