Surfside Sisters

by Nancy Thayer

  Keely enjoyed the colorful autumn, walking through Central Park, kicking the flame-colored leaves. This was a pleasure she didn’t have on Nantucket, where the gales and the salt air prevented maples from growing tall. In New York, the autumn air snapped with crispness, turning her cheeks red, filling her with expectation.

  During the gorgeous fall, Keely spent hours proofreading the manuscript of Poor Girl, even though the publisher’s proofreaders were carefully checking it. If one typographical error or misplaced question mark got through, Keely would get emails and comments on Facebook. She often met Fiona or one of that gang for drinks or a party or a concert or a reading at a bookstore. She still strolled the city streets like a kid in a candy shop.

  But a strange kind of loneliness was seeping into her heart, like a tide finding a crack in a dam and slowly and inevitably breaking a barricade apart. She realized she’d been on a wild emotional high for a long time, exhilarated by her dream coming true. Now she was descending into reality. She couldn’t understand what was going on with her. She was living the dream…and she was happy, but also sad.

  Work was the antidote to too much navel-gazing.

  With her second novel ready for the printer, and buoyed up by the wonderful reaction of readers to Rich Girl, Keely spent the dark November days focused on writing her third book, Sun Music. It was different from her first two books, more melancholy in a way, but she managed to have two women reconcile after a long embittered period of enmity, and that gave the book a rising finale. It might help her readers, and Keely as well, believe that forgiveness could happen, that jealousy could dissolve, that old friendships, old loves, could be rekindled.

  She knew she was writing this book because she missed the island. She missed Isabelle’s friendship. Her new friends were brilliant, screamingly funny, and amazingly ambitious. Outside of her apartment, Keely felt she lived her life at a different speed, but that might have been because so many sights, sounds, events, opportunities, and aromas seemed to zoom toward her with roller-coaster velocity. Would she change from island girl to city woman? Could she? Did she want to?

  She enticed her mother to come for the week before Christmas. They took in the latest plays and ate at the most fashionable restaurants. Keely heard all the latest Nantucket news, especially about the doctors and nurses and hospital renovations.

  “I have to retire in January,” Eloise told Keely over steak frites in a chic new restaurant called La Boheme. “I’m sixty-five now.”

  “Wow, really?” Keely studied her mother. “How do you feel about that?”

  Eloise shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. What will I do with myself?”

  “Mom, don’t be silly. You have a thousand friends. You’ve been wanting to read about a hundred books. You’ll be able to sleep late, have lunch with Brenda…”

  “I suppose…I’m just not that kind of person.”

  “You can change. You can relax and enjoy life. Maybe spend more time with me here in the city.”

  “Maybe.” Suddenly Eloise broke down, bringing her hands up to cover her face and her tears.

  “You’re so sweet to bring me here,” she told Keely. “And I’m so very proud of you, darling. I can’t imagine why you—why anyone—would want to spend time with me. I’m just a worthless old woman. You should just drag me out on an iceberg and let me float away to die in the ocean.”

  Keely burst out laughing. “Could you be any more dramatic? Come on, Mom. You’re sixty-five, and lots of people retire at that age. You own your house clear and free, and that’s amazing. You’ve got savings and your pension to pay your insurance and taxes and to buy a few luxuries if you’d ever think of yourself. You have friends, you can join a book club, a lunch group, a knitting group.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” her mother reluctantly agreed.

  “I know you miss Dad. I know you miss me. But you’ve got so many talents of your own. I mean, have you thought about volunteering? There are only about three thousand nonprofits on the island that need help.”

  “How can I help? I’ve got a bad back. I know it doesn’t show, Keely, and I wish it did, I wish it were some kind of rash breaking out all over my face, or a broken leg so I’d need a cane, something to show people I’m not just a lazy old lady.”

  “Mom! No one who knows you would ever think that!” She reached across the table to take her mother’s hand. “I think you should try antidepressants.”

  “You know I don’t like pills.”

  “You’re a nurse. You are Pills R Us. You just think you’re better than pills, and that’s ridiculous. Everyone needs help at some point in their life. Mom, I really wish you’d see a doctor. At least a counselor.”

  Eloise sagged. “All right, darling. I’ll try.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  When Eloise flew home to work on Christmas Day, Keely felt glad but guilty. Really, her mother had been hard work. Keely spent Christmas Day watching British mysteries and eating ice cream right from the Ben & Jerry’s carton.

  After Christmas, she forced herself to write. She felt as if she were trudging through molasses. When Juan texted her to remind her he was taking her to a New Year’s Eve party, she almost cried with relief. She was so glad to think of something other than her plot and her own lonely inner world.

  * * *

  —

  When Juan had texted Keely about the party, he’d added: I’m not merely inviting you. I’m ordering you. You will meet everyone there. So go out and buy something fabulous.

  At nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve, Keely met Juan at the foyer of a penthouse on Park Avenue. She wore an expensive white T-shirt hanging almost to the hem of her ripped gold sequined short shorts, topped with a gauzy orange cardigan. And five-inch Manolo Blahnik stilettos that killed her feet. At Juan’s insistence, Keely’s glossy brown hair had been professionally piled high on her head with strands painstakingly teased to hang carelessly down. Her nails and lipstick were a deep burgundy and the eye shadow over her topaz eyes was noir. Her only jewelry was a heavy necklace of geometric metal links. Juan assured she looked rad, but secretly, Keely thought she looked like a bit of an idiot.

  “Darling,” Juan exclaimed. “Such a party!” Taking her arm, he escorted her up the elevator and into the room, already a crush of people and laughter.

  “You must meet Keely Green,” Juan said to a Botoxed woman weighted down with jewels. “She’s a rising star in the bright young writers’ scene. I’m sure you read Rich Girl. Poor Girl will be out this summer.”

  The other woman nodded to Keely, looking overwhelmed by Juan’s rush of information.

  Keely said, “Hello.”

  Juan said, “I’m off to get us champagne.”

  Keely knew by now that Juan was off to get himself a glass of champagne and then to find his friends. She made polite talk with the other woman, then excused herself and slid away through the crowd to the bar.

  She wandered aimlessly here and there, holding her glass of Dom Perignon so it wouldn’t spill, feeling desperately lonely. She talked with—yelled at—the few people she knew: another writer, a minor TV personality who had interviewed her, a reviewer for a popular blog.

  Right now on Nantucket, there were parties and dances and dinners with friends, but at any moment of the evening, you could drive out to one of the beaches where the sea shushed and seethed into the sand and it seemed as if you were at the secret heart of the universe.

  Here in this room, the laughter and chatter was getting to her. It was so loud it came at her like a solid thing, buffeting her and making hearing impossible. For sanity’s sake, she gave herself a break from networking and wandered into another, quieter room. It was obviously a library, with walls of books on shelves and more books towering from coffee tables.

 
; The silence was a relief. It would be nice if she were with a man right now, because it was twenty minutes until the stroke of midnight, and she had no one to kiss. She told herself that really, that was fine. She was a big girl now. She knew how to be alone. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t happy at a fabulous party and she wasn’t happy alone.

  She stationed herself at the corner of the wide wall of windows in the quiet empty room, casually leaning against the adjoining wall. Regarding the world from this height always gave her vertigo, one of the prices she paid for growing up on an island with no buildings higher than three stories. The view here was spectacular. Far below, lights from the cars on the avenues glowed like rivers of gold. Stars of light shone from hundreds—thousands?—of buildings, so many lights, so many stars, it seemed as if she were in a separate sky. Well, she supposed she was.

  A man entered the room. He almost ran into the room, glanced at Keely, and said, “I’m not here.”

  Then he threw himself behind one of the large burgundy sofas.

  Keely glanced at the windows. They did not reach floor level, so they did not mirror the hiding man.

  A few minutes later, a tall redhead stalked into the room. She was blazing with diamonds and her face was pinched.

  “Did a man come in here?” she demanded. “Tall guy, brown hair, tux.”

  If the woman had been even a little less imperious, Keely might have sided with her. Instead, she looked the redhead right in the eyes. “No.”

  “What a shit,” the woman said. “I thought he was going to propose to me tonight. But he just disappears? If you see him, do me a favor and kick him in the balls.”

  “Will do.”

  The redhead stormed from the room. Keely went to the door leading into the hall. She saw the redhead take her fur coat and slam out of the apartment. Keely returned to the library.

  “She’s gone. Left the party,” Keely announced.

  The man who rose from behind the sofa didn’t look like the cowardly type. He was tall, dark-haired, and slender. His tux fit him perfectly, a slide of black elegance. His eyes were a pure green.

  He was really handsome.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You just saved my life—and I know what I’m talking about because I’m a pediatric surgeon and save lives almost daily.” He held out his hand. “Gray Anderpohl.”

  “Keely Green,” Keely replied. In her mind she made gagging noises at the way he introduced himself. She threw his attitude right back at him. “I’m a novelist and I write books that make thousands of women happy almost daily.”

  Gray slapped himself on the forehead. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? I didn’t mean to sound like a pompous ass. The sorry fact is that I’m socially challenged. Please let me start over.”

  Charmed, Keely laughed. “Of course. I’ll start over, too.”

  From the other room, people began counting down. Ten…nine…eight…

  “But first…It’s almost midnight.” Gray stepped toward Keely. He said, “This won’t hurt a bit,” and took her in his arms and kissed her soundly when they heard the crowd yelling “Four…three…two…ONE! Happy New Year!”

  His breath smelled of mint, and his kiss was firm and knowing. She felt sheltered in his arms, and if that was simply because no one had held her for months, she didn’t care. In the other room, someone was playing a piano and people were singing “Auld Lang Syne,” not always in tune. The song touched Keely’s heart and tears sprang to her eyes, which was ridiculous, because she was only twenty-seven. None of her days were long long ago.

  Gray slowly released her, studying her face. “That was a good way to start a new year, don’t you think?”

  “An excellent way,” Keely agreed.

  “Let’s not go back to the party,” Gray suggested. “Let’s begin this new year by making a new friend.”

  That was corny, Keely thought, and he was kind of formal, maybe pretentious, but he was an attractive, interesting man, and not someone she was likely to meet in her normal social circles.

  Plus, she was curious.

  “Sure, let’s talk.” Keely settled herself on a burgundy sofa. “You can start by telling me why the redhead wanted me to kick you in the balls.”

  Gray chuckled. He sat on the sofa, but not too close. “Candace.” He shook his head. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while, but I swear I have no idea why she expected me to propose to her tonight.” He sighed—rather theatrically, Keely thought. “I realize that I’m going to sound like a complete narcissist, but as a single, straight, well-to-do fellow in this city, I’m considered a catch. I’m divorced, no children. I have a housekeeper and a satisfying social life. I’m devoted to my work, which is enormously rewarding. So, frankly, it would take someone amazing to make me want to marry again.”

  Keely grinned. She understood the challenge implicit in his words—see if you can be the special one to catch me. And he was handsome. Even so, she felt no instantaneous rush of desire to be the amazing woman who would win his heart.

  “You’re safe with me,” Keely told him. “I have no desire to marry.” And those words threw the challenge back at him—could he make her want to be his wife?

  Really, they were playing a kind of game. It was fun, and it woke up Keely’s mind. Tucking her legs under her, she turned toward him on the sofa. “So tell me about the man who doesn’t want to marry again.”

  As the noise level in the main room rose to a crescendo and the thump of music reverberated through the apartment, Gray spoke about himself: his training at Yale School of Medicine. The trips he’d taken with a group called Freedom Aid to countries that had few medical services. He’d just returned from Haiti, which was why he had such a good tan. And there was his position on the board of the Metropolitan Opera, and his art collection.

  “Impressive,” Keely said

  Gray shrugged. “Fortunate, really. And you?”

  The question threw her. “Fortunate? Oh, yes. Small-town girl gets novel published, makes the bestseller list, moves to the most exciting city on the planet.” She tapped her lip, thinking. “I haven’t been to Haiti or anywhere south of Florida, and I haven’t attended an opera yet—I’m not sure I’d enjoy it.”

  “I’ll have to take you to one,” Gray said. “If you’d like to go…”

  She knew the question was about more than one evening at Lincoln Center.

  “I’d like to go,” she answered.

  At one-thirty, they left the party. Gray called an Uber and stayed with Keely until she was at her doorstep, which she thought was courteous. They made a date for the next night. And that led to another date, and another.

  Gray was a serious man, always beautifully clad in Ermenegildo Zegna or Paul Stuart, his skillful hands clean and knowing, his mind quick and demanding. He was like no one else Keely had ever met, and she enjoyed his company. He was a surgical magician with rocket fuel energy, and he was also smart and charismatic and wealthy.

  For their first date, he took her to the opera to see a thrilling production of Carmen. Afterward, they dined in a small, quiet restaurant that served them meltingly tender prime rib and rich red wine. They talked about easy things first. The opera reminded Keely of one of her favorite movies, Moonstruck, with Cher. It was a favorite of Gray’s, too, and for a long time they entertained themselves talking about movies.

  Late at night, they walked along brightly lit avenues with laughing crowds going in and out of bars and restaurants. They talked. Keely told him about her childhood on Nantucket, about her dream of becoming a writer. Gray told her about his childhood in bucolic Connecticut, his dream of becoming a doctor. At some point, they stopped in an all-night diner to warm up, and over hot chocolate, they kept talking. It seemed to Keely that they were circling in increasingly smaller protective rings, sharing the easy stuff, saving the hard stuff, the inner core of their
lives and loves, for the last. She didn’t mind moving slowly this way. She liked talking about her life to a stranger. It gave her a new perspective. And Gray’s green eyes were full of intelligence and understanding. If nothing else, he would give her material for a new character in one of her books—and she knew that thought was mostly a matter of self-protection.

  * * *

  —

  As the new year unfolded, Keely saw Gray so often she believed, even though they didn’t say the words, that they were becoming a couple. Certainly she had no other man in her life. Most of her time she spent in happy isolation, writing. She knew Gray’s schedule. Most days he was busy at the hospital. Most nights he went right to his apartment to sleep. When he had a free evening, he took Keely to the opera, the newest plays, the best restaurants. On cold winter nights, he came to her apartment and they watched old movies.

  Her writing was going along in fits and starts. She couldn’t get settled in her own skin, and she thought it was all because of Gray. How did she feel about him? She didn’t experience that instantaneous, breathtaking sense of yearning that had made her want to drop to her knees whenever she had set eyes on Sebastian. She didn’t have the rush of warm affection and admiration and even a touch of maternal love she’d felt for Tommy. She never experienced any shock when she heard Gray’s voice, her heart never leapt when she saw him. And yet, she liked him. She did like him.

  Also, she was worried about her mother. Eloise turned sixty-five this month, and retired from the hospital. The doctors and nurses and staff gave Eloise a marvelous party, with cake and champagne and piles of gifts, both humorous and real. Keely called her mother often over the next few days, and Eloise sounded fine, maybe a little down, but normal.

  “Why, yes, darling, I’m keeping busy,” Eloise had assured Keely. “It’s going to take me a century to clean out the basement and the guest room—all those things I’ve been promising myself I’d get to when I have time. And now I have time!”