by Nancy Thayer
“So are you seeing other people?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like going to the movies with Brenda. Or joining a bridge club.”
“Now, Keely,” Eloise said, and her voice was as firm as it had been when she’d told Keely as a child to wash her hands before dinner. “You know I have never been the joiner type. I see my friends, of course. I promise you I am not isolated and babbling like some old hag.”
“Mom, you could never be a hag!”
“I agree. And I’m not. So stop fussing.”
Still, Keely called her mother almost every day. Still, she worried. The hospital had been her mother’s life for over forty years. Her family and her work had been her world. Now she was on her own.
* * *
—
As the days grew longer, Keely and Gray had dinner several times a week, often at her apartment or his. They took turns making dinner and watching movies about writers and doctors. MASH one night, Julie and Julia the next week. Night Nurse, and a week later, The Ghost Writer. Maybe, Keely thought, this was the way Gray could spend time with her without having to talk about himself.
Or to make love.
Gray was such a puzzle to Keely! He was attentive and often affectionate. He phoned or texted her every day. He often treated her to restaurants she never knew existed, many of them in private clubs she’d never heard of. He took her to fabulous parties and he also took her to meet other couples for dinner. He began to say, “You remember Keely,” as if it was understood that she was a permanent part of his life.
Keely had had sex with a guy in college, but she’d made love only with Tommy. So she didn’t have a wide experience to judge from. But one April evening, she couldn’t stand it any longer. They were at his apartment. He’d prepared a complicated beef Wellington, which involved fillets of beef and wild mushrooms and a flaky puff pastry.
“Beef Wellington! Gray, how fabulous. I’ve never had the courage to make one. It’s magnificent. I almost don’t want to eat it.”
“And I have an excellent wine to go with it,” Gray said.
He’d set his small table with a snowy white cloth, silver candlesticks, and sterling silver utensils. Side plates held green salads. Keely cut through the pastry into the tender beef and groaned with pleasure. They barely spoke during dinner, except for appreciative moans.
When they’d finished, they carried their dishes to the dishwasher. Gray liked things to be tidy.
Keely said, “If you weren’t here, I’d lick this plate.”
Gray smiled. “For dessert, we’ll have fresh raspberries—the parents of a patient of mine brought me some they had specially flown in from Mexico. We’ll have champagne with the berries.”
Keely stood next to him, eyeing him with pretend suspicion. “I think you’re trying to seduce me.” She decided to be brazen and leaned in close, sliding her breasts against him.
He didn’t look her in the eye, but a blush colored his cheeks. “And beef Wellington is the magic charm in seduction?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.” She stepped closer.
Finally he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him back. He took her hand and led her into his bedroom, and they lay together for a long time, kissing, slowly removing their clothes, gently touching one another.
Afterward, they lay spooning in the dark bedroom.
“Now are you ready for raspberries?”
Keely was glad he couldn’t see her face. It gave her the courage to say, “Not just yet, Gray. I’d like to talk…really talk.”
Gray hesitated. “All right.”
“Gray, I often feel that you’re…isolated, even when you’re with me.”
After a long moment, Gray said, “I’m an only child.”
“I’m an only child, too,” she told him. “I know it can be lonely.”
“Yes. Also…” Gray hesitated. “My family wasn’t all that happy. I don’t mean abusive. Nothing like that. My father was a physician. We had a nice house. I had friends. I did well in school. I took piano and played in recitals.”
“Gray, I’m not trying to be mean, but it’s almost as if you are filling out a form. I can get the surface stuff from you, but nothing…deep. Nothing important.”
“You haven’t told me anything deep,” Gray responded.
“Maybe not. But I’ve always been myself. Open to you. And I’m willing to tell you about my childhood. But first, I want to hear you talk.”
Gray took his arm from around Keely and turned on his back, arms behind his head, facing the ceiling.
“My mother had three miscarriages after I was born. Second-trimester miscarriages. Very painful physically and emotionally. Traumatic. Her heart was broken.”
“Gray. I’m so sorry. How sad for her. For all of you.”
“I felt like it was my fault. I know now it wasn’t, but when I was little, three and five and seven…I wanted to make it right for her. She wanted another baby so much. She was happy when she was pregnant, and then so sad when she lost the baby. She grieved so much…she lay in her bed and wept all the time. She couldn’t find the energy to cook or do laundry. My father helped her. And he cooked dinner for us, although if Mother came to the table, she couldn’t really eat. He was a good dad. He told me Mother loved me, and Mother loved him, too, but she was going through a grieving process and it would take time. I heard his words, but I felt—unnecessary to my mother. My presence could not bring her joy. I worked hard to get good grades. I learned to play the piano. I was good, I could have entered competitions, but when I did perform at recitals…my mother never came. I wasn’t…relevant to her life. I wasn’t anything that could make her smile.”
“Oh, Gray.” Keely turned over so she could gently touch his shoulder. “That must have been so hard for you.”
“She never really recovered. She and Dad live in Connecticut. He was a general practitioner, an M.D., and he couldn’t fix her. So we both felt like we failed her. I felt guilty when I started dating, I mean guilty for being happy and having fun, when she was still so sad. She would seem normal to you. She cooks dinner for her and Dad now, and she belongs to a book club and she watches television and shops for clothes, and she smiles. I’ve seen her smile. She did see a therapist. She is trying to live her life in a positive way. But…losing those three babies changed her forever.”
Keely waited, wanting to honor his sadness.
“What I’m trying to say is that I find it hard to be close to someone. I have been told by other women…” Gray stopped speaking. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been told by other women that I’m not spontaneous enough. That I’m guarded. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am guarded.”
“I can understand that.” Keely was touched by his confession. She wanted to kiss him, to heal him.
“Or maybe I just haven’t met the right woman,” Gray continued. “Maybe when I’m with the right woman, I’ll be able to…open up.”
Keely tensed. Here it was again, a kind of challenge, an invitation to some bizarre contest. Could she be the right woman, could she heal him, open him up? Was this a real question for Gray, or was this some kind of game?
“I’m glad you told me about your mother,” Keely said. “It’s all so sad. But she must be proud of you now. A pediatric surgeon—you’ve saved so many lives.”
Gray sniffed. “I don’t need a psychologist to tell me why I became a pediatric surgeon.” After a moment, he said, “I wish so many things in my life were different.”
“I suppose we all have things in our lives we wish we could change.”
“Really?” Gray searched Keely’s face. “What would you want to change? You have everything.”
“Remember, we’re talking about our pasts,” Keely said.
“Then tell me a
bout your past,” Gray responded, and he sounded truly interested, and also maybe a little challenging—can your past be worse than my past?
“I think we have to drink the champagne if I’m going to tell you everything.”
“Ah. I’ll get the bottle and the glasses.”
Keely talked about her life on the island. Her lovely, quiet parents. Her best friend, Isabelle, her first serious boyfriend, Tommy.
And somehow as she spoke, leaning back against the headboard with the sheets pulled up over her breasts, the old emotions perked up like flowers under sunshine.
“Isabelle and I were so close.” Keely held up two fingers pressed together. “I was always jealous of her, and even though I told her, she didn’t really get it. We were both going to be writers, novelists, when we grew up, but her family traveled all over the world in the summer, and I had to stay home and work. I knew she was going to have much more interesting subjects to write about.”
“Yet you are the published author,” Gray reminded her.
Keely smiled. “True.”
She told him about Tommy, how she’d refused to go to homecoming with him in high school because she didn’t want Isabelle to be sad. How Isabelle got accepted to a writers’ colony and Keely didn’t.
“I loved her and I envied her at the same time,” Keely said. “Does that sound strange?”
“Research shows that people consider themselves rich if they have more money than their next-door neighbor,” Gray said. “We compare ourselves to those we know.”
Keely laughed. “How did you get to be so wise?” She snuggled against him, yawning. “Gosh, I’m so sleepy.”
“Then we should go to sleep,” Gray said.
“Wiser and wiser,” Keely murmured, slipping down until her head was on the pillow.
Gray spooned himself against her. Keely felt warm and safe and content.
* * *
—
In the morning, Keely woke first. Gray’s eyes were closed. He snored quietly, deeply sleeping. This was Gray’s day off from the hospital, and she wanted to let him rest. She also wanted somehow to acknowledge how sweet he’d been during their talk last night.
But she really wanted to work on her book. It was her habit to make a cup of coffee and sit down at her computer. She needed to write, and her third manuscript needed to be resuscitated.
She decided that if Gray woke while she was dressing, she would stay. If he didn’t, she’d let him sleep.
She dressed, found her purse, and brushed her hair. He didn’t wake. She stood a moment in the bedroom, looking down at the sleeping man. He was so handsome, and in sleep he looked vulnerable and innocent. Maybe we all look that way when we’re asleep, Keely thought. The blanket didn’t cover his feet. Quietly, she adjusted the blanket. Gray didn’t wake. She hurried down to catch a cab to take her home to her computer.
The early draft of her third novel, Sun Music, turned in this past October, had disappointed her editor. Somehow, the plot had gotten all tangled up on her, and the passion wasn’t there. Poor Girl would come out this July. Her third novel was under contract and slated for next summer, so she had to get it to her editor by September.
Worried and frustrated, she let herself into her apartment. She stayed under a hot shower, letting her mind wander free, but once she was wrapped in a towel with another towel for a turban, inspiration wasn’t there.
She glanced at her phone. A missed call from Gray. A voicemail from Fiona, reminding her they were meeting for lunch. Good. She needed to talk with someone, and Fiona had become a good friend as well as an agent, and she knew just how much to tell Keely about her editor’s opinions.
Outside, the spring day was gray, with rain clouds darkening the sky. At home, she would wear a crimson sweater or a turquoise shirt, something to brighten her world. But here in New York most people, the chic and savvy, wore black, with shades of gray. Keely was used to fresh salty air sweeping over the island from all the way across the Atlantic or up from the Caribbean. But she was a New Yorker now, and she had no plans to return to Nantucket, no matter how much her heart yearned.
She pulled a dark tunic off her clothing rack, added black tights and knee-high black boots and brushed her long brown hair. Dangling silver earrings, mascara on her eyelashes to accentuate her topaz eyes, a touch of lipstick, and she was good to go. She looked sleek and slim and when she slipped on her sunglasses, she looked almost fabulous.
She slung her Hermès knockoff bag over her shoulder, checked her image in the mirror—she’d fit right in with the crowd—and headed out, being sure to lock the three thousand locks in her door before clattering down the four flights of stairs.
It took her a moment to break into the mass of pedestrians rushing up and down the street. She’d been certain that by now, after living in New York as long as she had, she’d be used to the pace and the noise and the crowds, but still, every time she walked, her mind flashed with memories of the brick sidewalks of Nantucket, humped and crooked from the roots of the grand shade trees, forcing people to slow down, pay attention, be there now. Now the window boxes would be spilling with flowers and the sidewalks crowded as friends met up after the long winter.
Keely missed her mother and her home and the golden beaches and the damn warped sidewalks of Nantucket, but she was here now, and why was she thinking about Nantucket so much this morning? She was a published author in the greatest city in the world on her way to meet her friend/agent!
She glanced in the storefront windows as she passed. Wow. She looked really good. She looked like she belonged in this amazing city. She even kind of looked like Kate Middleton if she cocked her head so that her long hair fell over her shoulder.
She admired herself so much she walked right into a man who was absorbed in his cellphone. They both muttered “excuse me” and Keely laughed out loud as she hurried along the sidewalk toward her lunch date.
It felt so good to laugh! She had to admit she was kind of worried, actually massively terrified, about her third novel. Rich Girl had made her a nice chunk of money. The pre-orders for Poor Girl were exciting. She hoped this glitch with Sun Music wouldn’t put an end to her writing career.
Fiona was waiting in the foyer of Balthazar. They air-kissed hello and followed the maître d’ to their booth. They both loved this place for its booths—they could talk in privacy.
“So,” Fiona said. “Tell me everything.”
Keely preened ostentatiously. “That might take a long time…”
Fiona squinted her eyes at Keely. After a moment she said, “You did not.”
Keely laughed. “I did.”
“You had sex with Gray Anderpohl?”
“I did,” Keely repeated, grinning.
“Waiter,” Fiona called, and the handsome dark man turned toward her. “Strike the order for wine. We want a bottle of champagne.” She rested her arm on the table and tucked her chin into her hand. “Go.”
“It was last night. At his house. He made beef Wellington—”
“I don’t really want the details of your dinner. Get to the good stuff.”
“Hang on, that’s the way we got to the good stuff. I mean I was impressed that he made such a complicated dish, and I asked him if he was trying to seduce me…and he was. After dinner, we went to bed together.”
“How was it? On a scale from one to ten.”
“Don’t be gross.” Keely busied herself with her napkin, and the waiter arrived with their flutes and the bucket of ice. He made a small performance of popping the cork of the champagne bottle, and when he was done and had gone away, Keely said, “I stayed all night with him.”
“Wow. He must be serious about you. I’ve heard stories about him. He’s kind of an odd duck, Keely.”
“So am I.”
“From what I’ve heard from other women, he puts his work first,
always, completely. Relationships come next.”
“That’s fine with me. I have my work, too. And I have fun with him, Fiona. I’ve seen so much of this fabulous city because of him. I’ve learned so much. I’ve been to operas and ballets at Lincoln Center. He’s taken me to dinner at Buvette and Saint Ambroeus in the West Village. Jennifer Aniston goes there—”
“Do you have any idea how superficial you sound?”
Keely recoiled as if she’d been slapped. “What?”
“And it shows in your new book. The chapters you sent to Sally. I read them. The magic is gone, and now I know why.”
“Oh,” Keely said. “Wow.” She took a sip of champagne. “I don’t know where to start, Fiona. I mean, I welcome any suggestions about my book. You are one of my agents, after all. But somehow you’ve gotten Gray all mixed up with my novel.”
“No, you’ve gotten Gray all mixed up with your novel. You’ve lost the magic in your novels.”
“Okay. I get that. But I don’t think it has anything to do with Gray.”
“Really? I think that if Gray were the best man for you, you would be happy, and your writing would soar, instead of crashing.”
“Crashing. That’s a little harsh.” Keely shook her head. “And I am happy.”
“I think you miss your island.”
Keely sat back, surprised.
“Look. Your first two novels were set on Nantucket. They emanated a kind of light and spaciousness and pleasure that made readers want to be in the book. What you’ve done with this new novel is missing that.”
“Okay,” Keely said slowly, thinking it through. “I can see that.”
“So I think you need to go back to Nantucket.”
Keely smiled at the thought. “Just like that?”
“Why not? It wouldn’t be permanent. You could live with your mother. Walk on the beaches. Bike out to the Sankaty Head lighthouse. Watch the ferries arrive.”
“But Sun Music is set in New York.”
“Maybe it shouldn’t be.”
“It would mean major changes to set it in Nantucket.”
