Surfside Sisters

by Nancy Thayer

  But when Keely stepped out of the library into the warm, bright summer evening, she found Isabelle waiting by the sidewalk. She held her notebook to her chest like a shield.

  “Hi, Isabelle,” Keely said. Behind her notebook, her heart thudded fast. She knew more than anyone else in the world how much Isabelle wanted to write books. She knew more than anyone else in the world how painful it was for Isabelle that Keely had become a successful author. Why someone wanted to write books was a mystery. It was a lonely, crazy-making profession in which a human being could spend hours deciding on the arrangement of ten words in one single sentence. It was mystical, because where did those fictional people come from, so individual and resolutely themselves? Why one book was chosen to be published over hundreds of other equally fine books was a mystery, too. It was a kind of literary roulette. To the author, it often felt like a literary Russian roulette.

  Keely had spent time hating Isabelle for marrying Tommy—but not much time. She was more hurt that Isabelle didn’t call Keely right away with the news. Isabelle had conspired with Tommy. He was Isabelle’s special person now. Isabelle had cut the cord to Keely like a line from an anchor, letting Keely drift away into the world on her own. But she didn’t hate Isabelle any longer. She couldn’t even feel angry. More than anything, she missed Isabelle’s friendship.

  Isabelle cleared her throat. “Could we talk about writing, Keely?” Her cheeks were flaming. “Just writing, not personal stuff?”

  Keely studied her friend carefully. “I think we can. Certainly we can try.”

  “I mean, it sounds like what you’re writing isn’t personal. And doesn’t seem based on anyone I know.”

  “Yes, well, that may be a problem,” Keely admitted. “When I write about anything here—I don’t mean you and me or Tommy—I mean the town, and the experiences I’ve had here, well, then it flows. What I’m trying to do now keeps hitting speed bumps.”

  Isabelle laughed. “Speed bumps? I just keep driving off cliffs into the ocean.”

  “But you’re writing,” Keely said.

  “Sort of. It’s hard, because of your success. I mean, what are the odds that I could have a book published, too?”

  “What are the odds that I’ll marry someone I love and have children?” Keely countered. She remembered Grace Atwater’s advice. “Come on. Let’s walk down to the harbor.”

  After a long silence, Isabelle said, “You didn’t really ever love Tommy. Not like I did. Do.”

  “How can you say that? I was with Tommy for two years. I had sex with Tommy. We were talking about marriage when my book sold.”

  “Tommy was talking about marriage, right? He told me you weren’t so keen. I don’t think you wanted to marry him.”

  Keely chewed her lip and didn’t reply.

  Isabelle continued, “I’m not saying you didn’t feel affection or even love for Tommy, but never like I did. I think he was a distraction for you because you always loved Sebastian and he was so out of your league.”

  Keely’s breath caught in her throat. “Out of my league? Thanks a lot.”

  “Stop it. I mean he’s two years older, and in your teens that means a lot. Then he went to college, and then off to Sweden. He was a lost cause.”

  “When I was in fifth grade,” Keely said softly, with laughter in her voice, “I made a vow by drinking cooking sherry and placing my hands on seashells, that I’d never tell you that I was in love with Sebastian.”

  Isabelle chuckled. “The thing is, Keely, you never had to tell me. It was obvious.”

  They passed the Dreamland and came to Easy Street, with benches on the brick sidewalk facing the harbor where the Steamship Authority boats docked. Mallards swam in the water. It was low tide, so gulls were striding up and down the exposed bit of beach as if patrolling. The women sat side by side on a bench, facing out. It was easier, Keely thought, to talk this way.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Keely admitted. “I thought I’d never be with Sebastian. But I did care for Tommy. And you did grab Tommy the moment I went to New York.”

  “I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” Isabelle said defiantly. “Keely, Tommy and I are right together. I know you think my dad kind of bought Tommy with the apartment and the boat, but Tommy and I fell in love before that. Tommy came when I called him. I was broken, devastated. He rescued me.”

  Keely sniffed. “How romantic.”

  “We never meant to hurt you.”

  “You could have told me, though. You could have emailed me, or phoned, but instead you kept it all secret and then boom, just dropped it on me.”

  “I know. That was wrong, probably. But you were in New York. Seeing your editor! You were miles ahead of me. You won!”

  “What? Come on! You’ve always had so much more than I have, Isabelle! Your big house, your wealthy family, your brother, your fabulous mother who is never tired or stressed, your adorable dog and cats, your fabulous travels, and then the writers’ colony? And then Tommy? You had to have Tommy, too?”

  In a small voice, Isabelle said, “I didn’t know you were jealous of my family. I thought you liked my family. Loved us.”

  “Of course I did. But you can love someone and envy them, too. Damn, Isabelle, I didn’t even have a pet, because my parents were allergic!”

  “Okay, I get all that. But, Keely, look at you now. You’re the one who has everything now.”

  “Right. I have a husband who adores me and a darling little daughter and parents who dote on me and have all the money in the world.”

  “Okay, no. You don’t have that. But you do have one published novel and one to come out this summer! You have a life in New York, a publisher, an editor, an agent, and I’ve seen your website and Facebook page, I know you have lots of readers. I’ll bet you get picked up in limos when you tour. I’ll bet you have plenty of money.” Isabelle paused. “I’ll bet you have a New York boyfriend you’re not telling me about.”

  Keely hesitated. “You said you wanted to talk about writing.”

  “Yeah. Okay, then.” Isabelle took a deep breath. “Keely, would you read my manuscript? But, not poking along like we do in the workshop—I mean, sit down and read it straight through, and then tell me exactly what you think.” When Keely didn’t answer right away, Isabelle continued in a rush, “I think it might be really good. And frankly, the workshop is good in many ways, but it’s going so slow. And you’ve been published, you’re out in that world, you would be by far the best judge of what I’ve written. And maybe, just maybe, if you liked it enough, you could show it to your agent?”

  Staring straight ahead at the harbor, Keely said, “But what if I didn’t like it that much? It seems like you’re willing to be my friend, with the condition that I take your novel to my agent.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Isabelle, writing isn’t this dream profession where they take our precious words and worship every comma. They rip a novel apart and ask you to rewrite the whole thing and change the ending…it’s not like we thought it was when we were kids.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Keely. I know that.”

  “So if I read it, does that mean we’re friends again? Even if my agent doesn’t take it?”

  “Keely, when you walked into the room tonight, my heart actually leapt. Before any conscious thought, I was glad, I was delighted to see you. I know our lives are so different now, so I guess we can’t be friends like we used to be…I mean, I don’t see you wandering into my parents’ house and throwing yourself on the sofa and talking with Mom or Dad the way you used to do, and I really don’t think we’re ready for you to come up to the apartment I share with Tommy and Brittany. We broke something. Well, okay, I broke something when I married Tommy and nothing can ever be the same again. But it can be new. We can go carefully. We can start over.”

  Keely nodded. “I’d like
that, Isabelle.”

  “Good!”

  Isabelle made a quick rustling move. For a moment Keely hoped and feared that Isabelle was going to hug her. But Isabelle stood up, adjusting her books and bag.

  “I’ve got to get home to put Brittany to bed. I’ll drop my manuscript off to you tomorrow, okay?”

  Keely rose. “Okay. Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”

  They strolled for a while, occupied with their thoughts.

  “Sebastian told me you two are together now.”

  Keely couldn’t help smiling. “He said we’re together? Those exact words?”

  “Those exact words. And I’m happy for him, and for you, Keely.”

  Keely wanted to say so many things, how now they’d see more of each other, be in each other’s lives, talk about clothes and movies and books like they used to…but she held back. Their renewed friendship felt fragile and this was a difficult time for Isabelle.

  “I’m happy, too,” Keely said.

  They turned down Oak Street and crossed Federal to Isabelle’s waiting car.

  “You still have the Jeep,” Keely said, reaching out to caress the curved door, remembering all the times she’d ridden with Isabelle to parties and games and the beach.

  “I want to keep it forever.” Isabelle dumped her books in the passenger seat. “But I have to admit, it’s different now.” She gestured to the child’s car seat in the back.

  “How do you like being a mom?” Keely asked.

  Isabelle clasped her hands together and smiled like an angel. “Brittany is the sun in my universe.”

  “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

  “Sure. Come over—wait. Scratch that. Don’t come over. Let’s make a date to meet somewhere for lunch or on the beach.”

  “Fine. And you’ll bring me your book tomorrow.”

  Isabelle squealed, “Fingers crossed!”

  Keely looked up just then to see Janine walking down the street, looking at her and Isabelle with wide eyes. By tomorrow, everyone Keely had gone to high school with would know that she and Isabelle were friends again.

  Keely woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. She padded into the kitchen in her boxer shorts and T-shirt.

  “Mom! What are you doing up so early?”

  Eloise smiled. She was already dressed in a loose sundress, and she had put on lipstick and blush. “I’m going over to the Maxwells’ today.” She checked her watch. “I said I’d be there at eight-thirty. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I thought you might enjoy a nice breakfast for a change.”

  Keely munched on a piece of bacon while she poured herself a mug of coffee.

  “Also,” Eloise continued, “I’d be grateful if I could run these pages off on your printer.”

  “Good grief, Mom, have you taken up writing, too?”

  “Not novel-writing, no. I’ve made a list of helpful hints for the Maxwells. I know the hospital gave them literature, but that can be overwhelming, and they’ve probably already misplaced half.”

  “Let me see the list,” Keely asked.

  “It’s on the table. Next to your plate.”

  Keely munched bacon and eggs as she read the list.

  Stick to a schedule. Routine is comforting.

  Encourage Al to respond. Be gentle and patient.

  Don’t expect Al’s responses to be what you want.

  Smile. Speak softly. Hold his hand.

  If he falls asleep when you’re speaking to him, don’t take it as an insult. Sleep is a great healer.

  Believe that Al will recover completely. Let Al know you believe that.

  Don’t be afraid to repeat what you say. We don’t know what Al’s brain is capable of comprehending.

  We’re only at step one. We have a long way to go. Don’t despair.

  Keely looked at her mother. “I don’t think the Maxwells have a schedule.”

  “They don’t,” Eloise said. “We’ll make one this morning. Al needs as much routine and gentle stimulation as he can get. The first few weeks after a stroke are a time of significant improvement.”

  “Put me down for an hour or two in the afternoon.”

  “Mmm, no, sweetie, I’m not adding you to the list.”

  “Why not? Al knows me.”

  “You need to write, and when you’re not writing, you need to have a normal life. Al has a family and plenty of friends, his staff at his office, for example, who are closer to him than you are. Don’t be insulted. I’m trying to protect you. The Maxwell family is going to suck up everyone’s energy for quite a while.” Eloise smiled. “You can help the most by keeping Sebastian happy.”

  “Mom, how can you do this? How can you be so kind to Mr. Maxwell when he was so mean to you? When he sat behind his rich man desk and refused to help us find money for my college tuition? And the way he acted? As if he didn’t know you and me. As if we were nothing at all!”

  Eloise sank down onto a kitchen chair. Reaching over, she took Keely’s hand. “I’m a nurse, Keely. What Al Maxwell said or did or was or is doesn’t matter. He’s ill. I know how to help him. It’s that simple.”

  “So you’d help a criminal?”

  Eloise laughed. “There you go, being dramatic again. Yes, I probably would help a criminal, but Al Maxwell is hardly a criminal. He’s an ordinary human being, with more money than most, but I’m sure right now he’s as confused and frightened as anyone who’s had a stroke. Anyway, Keely, it’s not about who he is. It’s about who I am.”

  Eloise kissed Keely’s cheek and rose. “Must go. Good luck writing.”

  * * *

  —

  Keely dove into her own routine. A long, exhilarating run. Quick shower. Yoga pants, T-shirt, and flip-flops on, and with a fresh cup of coffee, she closed herself in her room, opened her computer, and wrote.

  As always when she wrote, time disappeared. When she heard a knock on the front door, it took her a moment to remember where she was.

  She checked her watch. Almost noon. Jumping up, she flew from her room down the hall to the front door.

  “Isabelle! Hi. Sorry to be so long answering. I was working. Come in.”

  “I can’t stay long, I left Brittany with Mom.”

  Isabelle held out the cardboard box. “Here it is. It’s a copy, so you can write all over it. If you want to, I mean. I mean, I’d love any and all comments.”

  Keely took the box. “I can’t promise anything, Isabelle. I can’t promise I’ll like it, but more than that, I can’t promise that my agent will take it or even read it.” She grinned. “I feel like I’ve got a ticking bomb in my hands.”

  Isabelle grinned back. “Then you’d better like it.”

  “Look, I want to establish something. I’m in the middle of my own novel now. I want you to know I will not use anything from this.” She patted the lid of the box. “Except maybe ‘the’ and ‘and.’ ”

  Isabelle made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Keely, I’m not worried about that. What I’ve written is so different from what you would write.” With a flick of her wrist, Isabelle checked her watch. “I’ve got to go. I’m taking Brittany to play time at the library. So, um…how long do you think it will take you to read this?”

  “Probably weeks and weeks and weeks,” Keely teased.

  “Keely!”

  Keely broke into a smile. “I’ll read it as fast as I can,” she promised. And that was true. Keely couldn’t wait to read Isabelle’s book.

  * * *

  —

  For the first time since she’d returned to the island, Keely didn’t focus on her mother. She didn’t coax her into getting dressed or prepare a healthy salad for lunch or even take the time to make a hair appointment for Eloise.

  She sat on the patio, with the umbrella slanted to
keep her in the shade, and read. She got up once to make iced coffee and another time to take a banana from the fruit bowl, but other than that, she read.

  By early afternoon, she’d finished three-fourths of the book, and she’d had to force herself to go that far. Mike Reynolds had been right. What Isabelle had written wasn’t a book but a series of scenes. Some of the scenes were vivid and engaging, but many fell flat, and some were absolutely embarrassing. Several times Keely blushed at the obviously autobiographical content, especially when Annette—Isabelle’s fictional persona—interacted with Archie—Tommy’s fictional persona.

  What was Keely going to say to Isabelle? Their newly mended friendship was so delicate, so fragile. Anything negative, even couched in the most constructive terms, could endanger their truce.

  The next day, Keely phoned her agent.

  “My book is coming along nicely,” Keely told Sally. “You and Fiona were right. I needed to be here on the island to write it. Although I do have a problem.”

  “And?”

  “It’s Isabelle. My old best friend. She’s written a novel and she wants me to read it and tell her what I think, and what I think is that it’s not very good.”

  “Okay, have her send it to me. I’ll give it a quick read. I’ll call her and be the bad guy. I’ve done that enough times, heaven knows.”

  “Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe I can’t get into it because of all the history Isabelle and I have together.”

  “We’ll see. The point is, I’ll deal with it. You work on your own book.”

  “Will do.”

  * * *

  —

  Keely knew the special torture of waiting to hear a reaction to a manuscript. Each minute waiting was a stab to the heart. So she picked up her phone and pressed Isabelle’s number.

  “Hi, Keely!”

  “Hi, Isabelle. Listen, I read your novel—”

  “You did? What do you think? Do you like it?”