Off Season

Chapter 3: Gillian Miller-Baskow-Hillshire-Shank

Chapter 3: Gillian Miller-Baskow-Hillshire-Shank

5:37 P.M.

There isn’t enough time take a nap, although I crave one. Gillian Miller-Baskow-Hillshire-Shank arrives at Holly Kill Cottage with Brett’s assistance. She looks like Cleopatra in the fishing boat, splayed over her seven Doonie and Bourke bags. The thirty-eight-year-old woman is overly dressed in a white evening gown that was probably purchased in Milan, four-inch high heels, and diamonds on her fingers, wrists, neck, earlobes, and one ankle. She reeks of glamour and foolishness all at the same time, and is quite the sight to see, which causes me to shake my head on the small pier, watching her absurd and rather comical arrival.

“I’ve arrived at last, Jay!” she calls—because a woman like Gillian never hollers—from the boat, sounding like an A-list actress from the forties. “How are you, darling?”

“Fine, Gillian. Just fine.” I see that she has her platinum blond hair pulled up in a bun, a yellow sunhat on her lap, and a pair of sunglasses in her left hand. Then I say, “You may have overdressed for the occasion, Gillian. You do know there are acres of mud on this island, right?”

She laughs, being trite. “No worries, young man. You’ll pay for my clothes. Thad always did. Now I bequeath it as your job.”

Brett helps her out of the boat. The two wobble to the left, then the right. Gillian barks at the bare-chested man, “You animal! Be careful with me!”

“Gillian, be nice,” I say down to her, reach for her right hand, and help her make the single step up and on the pier.

“He’s nudging me like a dog in heat, Jay,” she proclaims, huffing with anger, obviously irritated with Brett’s help.

The crook of my right arm leashes around her left arm and I walk with her thin frame over the pier and up to Holly Kill Cottage. Half of me hopes one of her heels accidentally gets caught between two of the pier’s boards, just so I can have a good laugh. Such bedlam doesn’t occur, though, and she navigates her footpath with skill.

* * * *

Gillian Miller was Thad’s high school friend, or hag as he sometimes called her. The two went to prom together in 1994 at Restenchild High School outside of Pittsburgh, then attended four years at Pinehurst College in West Virginia. Both were inseparable before Thad passed away, staying best friends through the good and bad times in their lives. Following college with a degree in Business Management, Gillian married Sasha Baskow, a wealthy vodka maker who was twice her age. The marriage lasted fourteen months. When Sasha divorced her he had given her two things: three million dollars and a venereal disease. Her second marriage also lasted fourteen months. The husband’s name was Blake Hillshire, a banker from Miami who enjoyed the company of little girls instead of a Marilyn Monroe look-alike. Gillian knew she couldn’t compete with children and divorced the man. She walked out of the marriage with a Mercedes, a chalet in Aspen, and almost two million dollars, some of which she banked in Switzerland. Her third husband was Hubert Shank, a Hollywood producer whom she claimed she loved, marrying the man for his heart because she had plenty of her own money. Hubert died in a car accident five years ago in San Francisco after leaving a film set. His head was decapitated and rolled down Lombard Street. Gillian was left with a hefty life insurance policy, a Porsche, and almost fifteen million dollars.

One can believe that money causes Gillian to be bitchy, but this isn’t the truth. Thad knew the woman well and always reminded me that she was fat ass broke while growing up and was still a b***h then. He had often said to me, “Don’t let her fool you, Jay. She’s all talk. The bottom line is simple: the woman is just like you and me.”

No matter what kind of attitude the woman shares at Holly Kill Cottage she is here to stay until Tuesday morning, suffering from quality time with me and the other guests, no longer a princess of cash, and having men at her beck and call. She may just try and use Brett as her personal butler, but I will tamp such actions if they evolve. Frankly, I think Gillian will have a miserable weekend and will often roll her eyes and cuss at me, but only time will tell, of course. All of us will see and learn, won’t we?