by Nancy Thayer
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
EPIGRAPH
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
PART TWO
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
PART THREE
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PART FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
PART FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY NANCY THAYER
COPYRIGHT
For My Beloved
Charles Walters
Joshua Thayer
David Raymond Gillum
Sam Wilde Forbes
and
Ellias Samuel Steep Forbes
One morning when I was six years old, my father said to me, “Son, today Charles Lindbergh is going to try to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. Let’s hope he makes it.” My father left for work. I wanted to do as he said, but I realized my father hadn’t told me how to hope. So all day long, I thought, over and over again, “I hope he makes it. I hope he makes it. I hope he makes it.”
—U.S. AMBASSADOR WILLIAM BUTTS MACOMBER, speaking at the Nantucket Atheneum, 1990
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to John West, brilliant chocolatier of Sweet Inspirations, and beautiful Cheryl Fudge of Cheryl Fudge Designs. Thanks to the glamorous Anastassia Izioumova and the gorgeous Viktoriya Krivonosova. I’m so glad you’re on Nantucket. Thank you, Josh Thayer, for your swift, precise information about business matters. Thanks to Libby McGuire for her insight. Thanks to the very cool Dan Mallory. Enormous gratitude to my virtuoso agent and friend, Meg Ruley.
And to my editor Linda Marrow, genuine on-my-knees idolatry for her genius, inspiration, and editing.
1987
Clare and Lexi discovered the beach when they were ten. Hidden away off a country road, it was a small crescent of sand at the creek end of the harbor, so concealed by a tangle of beach grass, cattails, and wild rosebushes that no one would ever find it unless they were young and supple and small, creeping low to the ground, pretending to be Wampanoag Indian scouts.
Spider crabs scuttled along the sand, which was speckled with scallop shells and mussels and coiled moon shells, each shell spotted or banded, the far ends peaked like a woman’s breasts. Gulls cruised low over the beach and elegant white herons occasionally stalked in the gleaming waters. They could see the long town pier and, in the distance, the arrival and departure of stately ferries and sailboat races and regattas, but no boats, not even rustic wooden rowboats, came close to their beach. It was far too shallow.
They never saw signs of other people—no footprints in the sand, no discarded bits of paper. On the hottest days they swam far out in the cool, translucent water, looking for mermaids, sometimes pretending they were mermaids themselves, as their long hair waved around their faces like fronds and their skin took on a greenish underwater hue. They collected shells to make jewelry, carved designs in driftwood as secret codes, sent messages off in bottles, hid treasures in the woods around the marsh.
It was their own fairy-tale thicket, their fantasy world. Best friends since they were five, they told no one else about the place, not other girls, not Lexi’s brother, Adam, nor their parents. It was not just a place to them, it was a kind of reality, and a possession of a bond deeper than words could say.
They met at the beach almost every day, biking out from their homes, hiding their bikes behind trees. They wore bathing suits and flip-flops and T-shirts, their skin grew brown as nuts, and their noses were always sunburned red. During the school year, they met at Moon Shell Beach in the late afternoon or weekend mornings, to tell each other the important things.
When it rained, and during the worst of the winter months, they had to play inside. The inside games were never quite as satisfactory—they were too close to the real world. When they were at Clare’s house, they played her choice—elaborate games of house, transforming Clare’s bedroom into a home complete with sometimes as many as twelve children made from Clare’s stuffed animals and dolls. In later years, they spent entire weekends experimenting with elaborate meals that Clare would store for her own real family—her literary, artistic, and absentminded parents and only child Clare—to eat over the course of the next week. Clare loved the coziness of baking on a rainy day, filling the kitchen with smells of cinnamon and butter. She even took pleasure in the way the windows steamed over when she did the dishes.
Lexi always grew bored with such domesticity. She wanted to see outside. She wanted to travel to faraway lands, she wanted adventure, so when Clare came to her house, they turned the backs of sofas into camels and elephants and dressed up like belly dancers or gypsies.
They respected their differences and even envied each other a bit. Lexi wished her mother were an artist like Clare’s mother, who spent most of her time in her studio at the back of the yard and forgot to shop for groceries or clean the house but sometimes sat with the girls, leafing through her art books, explaining in intricate and entrancing detail the works of Monet or Sargent or Childe Hassam. Every now and then Ellen Hart took the girls to a lecture on the island about Nantucket artists—Anne Ramsdell Congdon, Maginel Wright Barney, Frank Swift Chase—and Lexi’s passions stirred. When she compared her own family, she was ashamed of how cranky she felt about her own parents, so exhausted from running their shop that they never went out in the evenings but collapsed at home, watching anything and everything on television.
In turn, Clare envied Lexi her slightly larger and much more present family. Lexi had an older brother, Adam, who filled the house with noise and movement and slamming doors and bouncing basketballs and hoarse squawking laughter. Sometimes on winter Saturday nights the four Laneys gathered around the kitchen table to play Monopoly or Scrabble or Clue, and if Clare was invited to stay over, she grabbed the opportunity, loving the teasing and tumble of family life. Clare would bake brownies or cookies or even a pie to bring over with her for a Saturday night at the Laneys.
The summer of their thirteenth year, they were filled with an unexpected restlessness, like air before a storm, charged, tense, and irritable. They started their periods, and Lexi shot up to almost six feet, and both girls suddenl
y found themselves with the unmistakable mixed blessing of breasts. Oh, they tried to stave off the transformations of adolescence. They gave each other lighthearted pet names—shorter, dark-eyed Clare was “Doe,” and Clare called tall, lean Lexi “Stork.” They wore loose clothing to cover their changing bodies, but they soon discovered they were helpless before the force that swept them up like driftwood in the sea.
Clare developed a passionate crush on Lexi’s older brother, Adam. He was fifteen, tall, broad-shouldered, with hair and eyebrows bleached white by the sun and Lexi’s aquamarine eyes. He had a deep voice and an easy laugh that made Clare feel shivery.
Lexi was infatuated with Adam’s best friend, Tris, who had broad shoulders, flaming red hair, and a deep rumbling voice.
Sometimes Adam went over to Tris’s house, or played soccer or baseball with friends. Some days Tris came over to hang out with Adam. Then the girls would leave Lexi’s bedroom to creep around the house, spying on the guys, peeking around doorways, ducking behind furniture, pinching each other’s arms so hard they left marks.
One Saturday afternoon, Adam and Tris and three other guys sat at the kitchen table playing poker. Clare and Lexi pretended to watch TV in the family room, but they went into the kitchen as many times as their dignity would allow, on the pretense of getting some chips, or some Coke, and then apples. When the game broke up, the five guys rose and clomped out of the kitchen on their huge hairy male legs, laughing in their deep male voices. Lexi and Clare stormed the room like a pair of spies, then raced outside and jumped on their bikes and pedaled to Moon Shell Beach.
They tucked their bikes down in the brush and made their way through bushes of rosa rugosa, tupelo trees, and tall, razor-edged grasses. Beneath their feet, the ground made squelching noises. Small twigs from the beach plum bushes scratched their skin, but they pushed on through the undergrowth until they suddenly arrived at the hidden cove. Before them spread the blue waters of the harbor. Behind them, the marsh curved like a green curtain, shielding them from the real world.
They sank on their knees in the sand and took out their stolen treasures.
Wrapped in a paper napkin lay the leftover part of a sandwich, the bread curved in a half circle where Tris’s mouth had bitten.
Clare had an apple, partially eaten by Adam.
“His mouth was here,” Lexi whispered. She held the sandwich to her lips and closed her eyes, thinking of Tris’s breath.
Clare ran her fingers over the moist white flesh of the apple and thought of Adam’s straight white teeth.
After a while, Lexi giggled, trying to lighten the intensity of the moment. “We’re kind of insane, aren’t we?”
But Clare remained serious. Across the water, by the town pier, islanders were painting the bottoms of their rowboats turquoise or scarlet. The sun dazzled like fireworks on the water and the air smelled of salt and spring. All around them in trees and shrubs, small buds unfolded like thousands of tiny hands opening slowly, releasing secrets. And something urgent was unfolding in Clare, something was waking.
“Lexi, let’s make a pact. Let’s promise never to bring a guy out here unless he’s the man we’re going to marry.”
“Marriage!” Lexi shouted. “Ugh. Marriage is about a million years away, Clare.”
“I know. But still…” Clare spread out her arms, including the beach, the water, the moment, so private, so rich. “This is really our place, Lexi. And things are changing. We’re changing, don’t you feel it?”
Lexi squirmed and shrugged her shoulders.
Clare ran her fingertip over the red skin of the apple. “We’re playing now, kind of. You know? But someday it will all be serious. And I don’t want to, oh, I don’t know, spoil this place.”
Lexi shifted on the sand. “I know what you mean. And you’re right.”
Clare continued, “This is our beach, and we won’t bring just any guy out here—”
“—cuz you know,” Lexi teased, “babes like us are going to be dating so many guys!”
Clare’s face remained solemn. “So I swear I won’t bring a man out here unless he’s the man I’m going to marry.”
Lexi settled down. “I swear, too.”
Both girls dipped their hands into the clear waters of Nantucket Harbor, then with wet palms, solemnly shook.
Lexi giggled again. “Clare. You said man.”
They looked at each other, awed, and frightened, and eager.
ONE
1994
Hi, Mrs. Laney, where’s Lexi?” Clare ambled into Laney’s Dry Goods Emporium, bringing a gust of crisp October air with her. Her curly brown hair was held back with a tartan headband and she was glowing from the morning’s game. Her sophomore year in high school, she was throwing herself wholeheartedly into team sports.
Myrna Laney was ringing up a sale. “Did we win?”
Clare pumped her fist. “Whalers four, Wareham a big fat egg!”
“Good for you girls!” Mrs. Moody, who led the community chorus, looked up from signing the charge card. “Only one more game before the tournament, right?”
“Right.” Clare held up crossed fingers.
Myrna slipped Patricia Moody’s purchase into a bag. “Lexi’s just cleaning up the dressing rooms,” she told Clare. “Go on back.”
At the far end of the store were four dressing rooms. Lexi was there, scooping up discarded clothing and fastening them back onto the hangers. “Hey, Doe.” Seeing Clare’s face, she said, “Well, I can tell you guys won.”
“Victory is sweet!” Clare did a little dance, then picked up a sweater and folded it, helping Lexi. “I really wish you’d try out for the field hockey team.”
“Right. Because I’m such a jock.”
“I think you could be if you tried.”
Gangly Lexi gave her a stare.
“Well,” Clare amended, “I think you could be better than you think you are.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lexi said. “I’ve got to work here after school and on Saturdays. I don’t even have time to watch field hockey. The only time my parents let me off is for the homecoming football game.”
“I know.” Clare ran her hands down a pair of wool slacks, smoothing them. “It’s not fair.”
“Oh, Clare, it’s fine,” Lexi argued amiably. “I’m such a spaz, I don’t enjoy sports. Besides, I’m saving money for the class trip to New York.”
“New York? I thought you were going with the French class to Paris in the spring.”
Lexi slumped against the wall. “Didn’t I tell you? That’s out. No way can I make enough money for that.”
“But I thought the school was paying for part of the trip. What have we been holding the car washes and lotteries for?”
“Mom and Dad got a letter from the school. We still have to come up with a thousand dollars. No way can we raise that.”
“That sucks.” Clare chewed her lip, thinking. “Well, if you don’t go, I won’t go.”
“You have a chance to go to Paris and you won’t take it! That’s crazy.”
“I won’t have any fun if you’re not there,” Clare said loyally. With a pile of clothing over her arms, she followed Lexi out of the dressing room area back into the store. “Anyway, I don’t care about Paris. What I really want is for you to come cheer for us at the Division II tournament in November.”
“If the Whalers win next weekend.”
“We will. So you have to come to the tournament, okay?” She tugged on Lexi’s shirt, doing her best annoying child imitation. “Please, pretty please?”
Lexi laughed. “Go harass my mother. She makes the scheduling decisions.”
The bell over the door chimed as Mrs. Moody left. Now that no customers were around, Clare approached Lexi’s mother. “Mrs. Laney, can Lexi have Saturday off in two weeks to come to our tournament?”
“I’m already letting Lexi off on Thursday afternoon so she can go to the Cape while you get your braces tightened,” Myrna reminded Clare.
�
�But if we play the Vineyard?” Martha’s Vineyard, “the other island,” was Nantucket’s fiercest rival for all sports.
Myrna gave in. “All right. If you play the Vineyard.”
“Yes!” Clare leaned over the counter and hugged Lexi’s mother. “You’re the best.”
“We’re having chili tonight,” Myrna told her. “And Fred and I were thinking it was time for you two girls to learn to play bridge.”
“Because we can’t play board games because Adam never stays home on Saturdays now that he’s a big fat senior,” Lexi called from the other side of the store.
“I’d love to learn bridge!” Clare said. “And I love your chili. I’ll bring dessert.”
“Something chocolate?” Lexi called.
“You got it. A cake…or maybe brownies…” Clare waved and headed out into the brilliant autumn day.
TWO
1996
Clare ran her tongue over the smooth surface of her teeth as she stood in line to board the Hy-Line fast ferry. She was a senior in high school, and finally, her heinous braces were off! She felt teary and celebratory and kind of shaky. And weirdly lonely.
When she’d first had the braces put on, two years ago, the orthodontist had been on Nantucket, but he moved to the Cape, so she had to make trips off-island for her appointments. Sometimes it was fun. Sometimes Lexi came with her and they went shopping at the Cape Cod Mall. But today was a Saturday, early in October, and Lexi had to help her parents in their store.
Clare looked around the cabin. The wind had risen during the day and the seas were choppy, so she didn’t want to sit on the upper deck. Her favorite seat up front was already taken. She dumped her backpack on one of the small round tables and dropped into a chair. It was just beginning to rain, long drops streaking down the ferry windows. The line of passengers coming up the ramp and into the boat moved faster as the rain increased from spatters to a heavy downpour.
At the end of the line shuffled a tiny old woman, so uncoordinated it seemed she took two steps back for every step she took forward. Old Mrs. Gill, one of the island’s more eccentric characters. A cranky, suspicious old hermit, she lived by herself in a spooky old falling-apart house just outside town, the same house she’d grown up in and never left. Clare remembered when she was in seventh grade, when she went with a church group singing Christmas carols. At Mrs. Gill’s house, instead of offering them hot chocolate or cookies, the old nutcase had switched on the porch light and yelled at them to leave before she called the cops. Clare had seen her around town occasionally since then and felt sorry for her, the way age was bending the old woman’s back and curving her hands into claws. Elementary school kids made up songs about her—she really was the island’s hag. She had even begun to grow a mustache and a bit of a beard. And she was getting meaner and meaner. If you said hello to her on the street, she’d just snarl.
