Surfside Sisters

by Nancy Thayer

  “You’re right. So. Let’s talk about you.” Keely twisted in her chair. “Look what I found in the paper.” She folded the town newspaper so that a certain article showed and handed it to her mother.

  NANTUCKET VOLUNTEER OPPORTUNITIES.

  “Over two dozen organizations need help. Why not choose one or two that interest you the most? You could be really helpful, with all your experience as a nurse.”

  Eloise nodded. “You’re right. I’d like to volunteer. I’ll check these out. Oh, and Keely, look! Here’s something you might like.” She handed the newspaper back to Keely.

  Are you a writer? Come join the Nantucket Writers’ Club at the Nantucket Atheneum Wednesday nights at seven to talk about your fiction and non-fiction work. No age limit.

  “It doesn’t say who’s involved,” Keely murmured. “Or where they’ve published or if they’ve published.”

  “Does it matter?” Eloise reached over to take Keely’s hand. “When you were a child, you loved talking with people about words. How ‘set’ can be a subject and a verb, the difference between ‘gloomy’ and ‘grim.’ You might have fun being around people who love words.”

  “Mmm. Maybe.”

  “My point is,” Eloise said, pointing at the newspaper, “the people in this group are writers. My life has changed, Keely, and I’ll admit I’m having trouble adjusting to it. It helps to have you here. And I’m glad you’re seeing Sebastian. But you spend so much time isolated in your room, working…I think you should try this group. I think it would be good for you.”

  Keely laughed. “Okay, you know what? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go to the writers’ group if you’ll volunteer.”

  “Deal.” Eloise extended her hand and Keely shook it.

  Wednesday evening Keely entered the town library, just as she’d promised her mother she would. Nantucket had become a celebrity and intellectual paradise. Writers of all genres and levels of success came for the summer or a year to soak up the atmosphere. Some of the writers were well-known and enjoyed their celebrity, drinking at the island bars, picking up a man or a woman for the night and often making some kind of scene that the island would feast on for days. Other writers preferred their privacy. Maybe Keely’s high school English teacher would be there; Mrs. Atwater had always talked about a book she was going to write.

  The young woman at the circulation desk directed Keely to a small conference room on the handsome ground floor. Keely went down the stairs, through the hall, pulled open the door, and entered.

  First, Keely spotted Grace Atwater, her former teacher. It had been only a few years since Keely had seen her, but Grace had stopped dyeing her hair. Now she’d taken on the appearance of someone who wrote by candlelight with incense curling up around her halo of frizz.

  “Hi, Mrs. Atwater!” Keely said happily. She entered the room and glanced to see who else was in the group.

  Isabelle.

  Isabelle was seated at the table, across from Grace Atwater.

  She was more beautiful than ever, with her thick blond hair sheared short, accentuating her blue eyes. Keely’s heart was like Niagara Falls, thundering as emotions cascaded through her. Keely wanted to race toward Isabelle and embrace her. But of course she couldn’t. Sharing one’s writing was a brave and intimate deed, done only when the writer felt some degree of safety, some sense that no one would laugh or sneer at the work. Isabelle might feel anxious with Keely in the group. Keely would definitely feel anxious with Isabelle here. Keely felt Isabelle studying her, and wanted to run from the room. She had spoken to audiences of four hundred people and felt less nervous than she did now.

  “Keely.” Isabelle’s voice was cool, but she looked strained, almost fearful. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “I only decided today.” Keely gripped her notebook tightly, hoping to conceal how her hands were trembling. “How is your father?”

  “He’s getting better, thank you,” Isabelle replied, her voice formal.

  “What are you doing here?” a man asked, his tone belligerent. He looked to be in his sixties, with thick white hair. He wore horn-rimmed glasses over his bright blue eyes. His face was flushed almost burgundy. “You’re a published author,” he continued. “Why would someone successful like you deign to hang out with a bunch of amateurs like us?”

  Keely hesitated. She could leave. Maybe she should leave. But she answered honestly. “My mother suggested I come. She reminded me that when I was a young girl, I had a best friend. My best friend and I dreamed of being authors. Novelists. We read the same books and discussed them. We were passionate about words. We couldn’t get enough of words, the way they sound, the way they look, what they can do when they’re arranged one way or the other. We were like a very intense, determined fan club of two. We sat in our bedrooms or on a porch, and shared the stories we wrote with our words.” Her chin trembled when she admitted, “I’ve never been happier in my life.”

  Isabelle ducked her head, took a tissue from her bag, and blew her nose.

  The man growled, “I see.”

  A confident, almost aggressive voice spoke up. “Hi, Keely. Cool that you’re here,” a young woman said.

  “Thank you.” Keely’s legs were shaking.

  “Yes, welcome, Keely,” Mrs. Atwater said. “Why don’t you take the chair over there?”

  Keely obediently sat. Five people stared at Keely appraisingly.

  “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves,” Mrs. Atwater directed. “Also, say something about what you’re working on.”

  Keely’s champion spoke up. “I’m Violet Lefebre. I’m writing a novel about Dorothy Wordsworth, you know, the poet’s sister?”

  Keely nodded. Violet looked to be about twenty-three years old, with long, glossy black hair, blue eyes framed by thick black glasses, black fingernail polish, a black tank showing off her tattoos, and a short black skirt. If Dorothy Wordsworth knew that this young woman was writing a novel about her, she would faint.

  Keely peered closely at Violet. “You grew up here, Violet, right? Did you play Annie one year for the Theatre Workshop school production?”

  A beautiful smile spread over Violet’s face and she looked prettier and much less terrifying.

  “I did!” Violet agreed.

  “I saw you. You were amazing. Are you still acting?”

  “No, but I’m singing. And…writing.”

  A plump, pretty woman in her fifties, with curly hair and pink cheeks and a shirt embroidered with flowers introduced herself as Bonnie Watts. “I’m writing a mystery about a woman who cooks for a rich summer family. It’s going to have lots of recipes in it.”

  “Bonnie. I remember you, too. You did a lot of baking for the Wicked Island Bakery.”

  Bonnie laughed. “It’s a good place to get material,” she said. “Everyone talks about everything when they’re waiting for a morning bun.”

  “The Wicked Island Bakery is a good title for a book,” Keely said.

  “Why thank you. That’s what I’m calling it.”

  Someone cleared his throat, gruffly. The angry man was the fourth member of the group. “Mike Reynolds. I’m writing a thriller about an unfaithful wife.”

  Well, that explains a lot, Keely thought. “Hello,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Isabelle?” Mrs. Atwater prompted.

  Isabelle’s face went red. “I’m writing a comic novel about motherhood. At least I hope it’s comic.”

  Mrs. Atwater announced, “Okay. Here’s how we arrange our time. First hour, we take turns reading aloud from something we’re working on. It helps to take notes. We break after an hour, and when we return, we take turns giving feedback. We talk about a general topic, something that might have come up during our reading, for example, how important setting is, or how to pace a scene.”

  “Okay,” Keely
said. She was aware that when she smiled, her mouth quivered nervously. Her heart was tossing out bombshells of adrenaline and her body was in full fight-or-flight state, but she would not run from this room where Isabelle sat, head high, cheeks flushed.

  “Violet, let’s start with you,” said Mrs. Atwater.

  The young woman was happy to oblige. Her selection raced along as Dorothy Wordsworth and the poet Coleridge and the writer De Quincey indulged in drugs. Violet obviously had done research on the effects.

  “We’ll keep notes on our thoughts,” Mrs. Atwater reminded the group. “We’ll discuss after we’ve all read.”

  Mike was next. In a low, gruff voice, he read a section about his hero’s reaction to finding his wife in bed with his best friend. His writing was terse, acidic, fast, and as he read, Keely became sure that he was writing from experience. Her heart swelled with pity, but her mind was making notes about what he could improve and how.

  Isabelle read next. She was nervous, but her voice grew stronger as she read. She had them all laughing by the end of her reading. Keely felt oddly proud.

  Bonnie’s few pages of mystery were more about how to prepare pan-roasted lobster than the people who would eat it. Keely made a few notes on her pad.

  “Now, Keely,” Grace Atwater asked, “what do you have for us?”

  Keely took a deep breath. It was one thing to read from a published book, quite another to read from new, raw material. “Listen,” she said with quiet honesty. “I’m stuck on the book I’m writing. I did really well with my first book, but I missed the island, so I came home. I could really use this group.”

  “Good to know,” Bonnie said.

  “I’m revising a book set on Nantucket,” Keely continued slowly. She was superstitious and wary of telling anyone here her real title, Sun Music. She improvised. “The working title is Learning to Tack—”

  Mike interrupted. “That’s a terrible title! People will think it’s about laying carpet.”

  “Mike,” Grace admonished calmly, “remember we’re going to save our reactions to discuss later. Please write your thoughts on your pad.”

  “Mike’s right,” Keely said. “It’s a terrible title, that’s why it’s a working title. I’ll, um, read a scene I’ve been working on…” She felt her face grow hot as she read aloud. This new book, Learning to Tack or Sun Music or whatever it would be titled, was not about her or her and Isabelle, but parts of it came directly from Keely’s childhood. Could it seem to the others that everything she wrote was based on her life? And was that right?

  When she finished reading, she forced herself to smile briefly and sat back in her chair with relief.

  “And finally, I’ll read from my magnum opus.” With a nod to Keely, Grace said, “I’m writing a novel set in the Roman Empire during the days before Caesar was emperor.”

  Keely almost laughed aloud as she listened to her beloved but slightly daffy former teacher read about gladiators, swords, togas, and green grapes. Her work was romantic and certainly not true to facts, but much more fun than what she’d have expected from her.

  “All right,” Grace said when she’d finished her reading. “Time for a ten-minute break. Use the restrooms, stretch your legs, drink some water.” She rose and left the room.

  “I’m going outside for a smoke,” Mike announced. “Want to join me, Keely?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  Bonnie rose. “I’ll join you, Mike. I don’t smoke, but I could use some fresh air.”

  Keely glanced at Bonnie and quickly lowered her eyes. Was Bonnie hoping to link up with Mike romantically? Passion in the Writers’ Workshop, Keely thought, smiling to herself. She rose and stretched her arms, trying to decide what to do. She wanted to speak with Isabelle, but she was afraid of being rebuffed. How strange life was, how strange people were, how strange Keely was, that as a child she could throw herself into the cold, uncaring ocean, yet now was timid about walking six feet across a room to speak to an old friend.

  She gathered her courage and pushed her chair back from the table. At that moment, Isabelle walked up to Violet, murmured something obviously humorous, and the two women walked out of the room, grinning like a pair of mean girls from high school.

  “Let’s walk,” Grace said.

  “Oh, what?” Keely’s thoughts were so tangled, she almost jumped when Grace spoke to her.

  “Walk. Up and down the hall. It’s good for the body, good for the brain.” Grace held the door open and Keely joined her as they left the room.

  “I never had the chance to congratulate you,” Grace said, comfortably linking her arm through Keely’s. “A novel published and a new one coming out this summer? Phenomenal. How do you like living in New York?”

  “I like it a lot,” Keely said. “It’s…stimulating. Electric with energy.”

  “Mmm. I go in once a year to see theater. I always find myself dazed and exhausted.”

  “Oh, me, too. But when I lived here, the Cape Cod Mall dazed and exhausted me.”

  They laughed together.

  “Are you retired from teaching?” Keely asked Grace.

  “I am. I took early retirement. I do miss it. But I want to do so many other things while I’m still reasonably young, and my husband died last year, you know—”

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes. Well. He was a good deal older than I am, so it wasn’t an enormous surprise, but it was a breathtaking loss. I’m glad I live in this small town where I have so many friends to help me keep from falling into despair. I don’t know that I would be sane without them. Certainly I wouldn’t be happy.”

  “My mother retired about six months ago,” Keely confided. “She’s finding it difficult. She doesn’t really know what to do with herself.”

  “I’ve been there. You think, when you’re working, that you can’t wait to retire so you can do all the projects you’re longing to do. Knitting that sweater. Learning to play piano. Writing a book. But woman is a social animal. We’re not meant to cower in our caves, painting the walls. Studies have shown that people live longer if they have an active social life.” Before Keely could respond, Grace said, “Don’t tell your mother I said that. She’ll figure it out for herself. She’s a smart cookie.”

  They’d reached the end of the hall and did an about-face.

  “So,” Grace said. “I remember when you and Isabelle were best friends in high school. You were inseparable.”

  Keely smiled. “Well, things change.”

  “People change,” Grace said. “And they can keep changing.”

  “Her life is so different from mine.” Keely wasn’t thinking about Tommy and their daughter as much as she was thinking about Isabelle’s large, loving, close-knit family. The Maxwells’ wonderful spacious house, their sprawling yard. The garage was a three-car unit, so the apartment above was large and airy, and in the backyard was a playground set complete with turrets, slides, and swings the Maxwells had built for Sebastian and his friends, and then Isabelle and her friends, and now Brittany.

  “True.” Grace’s voice broke into Keely’s thoughts. “And yet here you both are, writing, just as you did when you were young.”

  With that, Grace clapped her hands, summoning her group back to the room. When they were all seated, she said, “All right. Time for discussion. And may I remind you that even though we’ve got a published writer in the room, I’m the boss here. Okay, let’s talk about Violet’s scene.”

  Violet started the discussion and remarks looped back and forth like a Frisbee. People laughed, people scribbled notes. People were kind to each other. When it was Mike’s turn to be discussed, he groaned and covered his head playfully, as if waiting for an assault of rotten tomatoes.

  When Isabelle’s scenes came up for discussion, Keely felt her mind click on to super vigilance.


  “I adored your scene,” Bonnie crowed. “So sweet and funny!”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t have a plot,” Mike said. “We’ve talked about this before. Just lots of vignettes, no plot.”

  “It is kind of more like a memoir than a novel,” Violet agreed. “I mean, I suppose if you have children, you’d find this appealing, but I don’t have kids, so this is kind of useless to me.”

  “Well, I don’t have kids,” Keely said, speaking before she realized she was going to speak. “And I find it fascinating…maybe because I’ve been a kid. We’ve all been kids.” She couldn’t look at Isabelle as she spoke, and she didn’t know why she so quickly sprang to her former friend’s defense. How odd it was, to feel protective of someone who’d hurt her. But then, she’d heard other people talk about how they disliked their brother or sister and did all manner of torture to them, but aggressively defended that same sibling from any possible insults or injuries from others.

  And that was something else Isabelle had, Keely thought, her heart plummeting. Isabelle had Sebastian. Could Keely become Sebastian’s partner if she and Isabelle were estranged? Christmas dinners would sure be fun.

  “Bonnie,” Grace said. “Let’s talk about your work.”

  Violet pounced. “Too much action too fast!”

  “Bonnie and Isabelle should critique each other,” Mike suggested.

  “Keely? Earth to Keely.”

  She glanced over at Grace. “Oh, yes?”

  “Mike thinks the action is overwhelmed by descriptions of food. What do you think?”

  “I love descriptions of food,” Keely said earnestly.

  The discussion continued, heated but brightened with laughter. No one had anything insightful to say about Keely’s scene but promised they would when they’d heard more.

  In what seemed like minutes, the workshop was over. They gathered up their pages, folders, pens, and notebooks and wandered from the room, some of them talking, others rushing off. Keely hoped she might have a chance to speak with Isabelle, but she didn’t chase after her, and Isabelle ascended the stairs quickly, almost running, as if she were afraid to speak with Keely.