Secrets in Summer

by Nancy Thayer

  The sound of a crying child made them all turn.

  “Kiks,” Jordan said. “She often cries when she wakes up from a nap. I think she thinks we did something marvelously exciting while she slept, like eating her favorite mashed banana.”

  The women laughed and made their way back to the group. The sun slanted lower. Clouds were wandering across the sky, as they often seemed to do in the late afternoon, which was nice, because they caused more color as the sun set. The men had to work the next day—and some of the women, too. All around them the beach was emptying as people made their way across the sand to the parking lot. Nash and Darcy said their goodbyes and headed to Nash’s truck.

  “Want to stay over?” Darcy asked when they reached her house.

  She was warm and lazy limbed, resting her head against the back of the seat.

  “Better not. I need a shower and my clean clothes are at my place. Besides”—he glanced over at Darcy—“you know you want to watch Outlander.”

  “No, it’s over for the season.” Darcy grinned wickedly. “But I can get Grantchester on my Roku. You’d like it, it’s a mystery with a vicar and a detective.”

  Nash shot Darcy a knowing look. “You mean that red-haired vicar who makes you drool.”

  “I don’t drool!” Darcy protested. But she did, in her mind.

  “Maybe tomorrow night,” Nash said.

  He helped her carry the cooler and beach towels into her house. In the front hall, Nash turned her toward him. “So see you this week?”

  Their eyes met and suddenly even tomorrow was too far away. Darcy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, pressing herself against him. He slid her shirt over her head and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the sweet spot between her breasts. His hands moved over her body. Sand made light clicking noises on the floor as they stripped off their bathing suits.

  “Darcy.” Nash knelt, pulling her down with him.

  The rug in the front hall scarcely softened the hard floor, but Darcy was so caught up in her passion she didn’t know, didn’t care. Her need for him was intense, and her pleasure with him was overpowering. Afterward, Nash smoothed back her hair, all tangled and moist with sweat.

  “Good grief,” Darcy said breathlessly.

  “Yeah, I know.” Nash was smiling.

  They lay together for a while facing each other, Darcy’s head nestled against Nash’s chest. His breath was deep and regular. She could hear his heartbeat. His arm was over her waist, his hand lying lightly in her back. She felt safe, content, and drowsy.

  “You know we can’t fall asleep like this,” Nash murmured. “I have to work tomorrow.”

  Darcy stirred in his arms. “Don’t go.”

  “Have to.”

  He pulled on his board shorts and T-shirt. They rose, kissed lightly, and Nash went out the door. Darcy showered and creamed her face and limbs with lotion. Her skin glowed from the sun, her mouth was tender from kissing.

  In the T-shirt she wore to sleep in, she watched Grantchester.

  James Norton was gorgeous, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Nash. Darcy’s thoughts veered over to Nash, who had the same kind of restrained, gentle manner the television vicar had.

  The episode ended. She went through the house turning off lights and locking doors, finally climbing the stairs and entering her bedroom. She slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, stretching out with a sigh.

  It would be nice to have Nash in bed with her now. Just to talk with about their days, their plans for this week, and then to drift off, feeling his warm male body next to hers. She rolled on her side, placing her hand on the spot where he had slept several times before, and fell asleep.

  —

  Mondays were Darcy’s day for accomplishing all the chores she was too busy the rest of the week to do. Cleaning the house. Shopping for groceries—always a hellish task because their main grocery store, Stop & Shop, went from supplying sixteen thousand people in the winter to sixty thousand summer shoppers. Putting away the groceries and tidying the kitchen. Stripping her bed, putting on clean sheets, tossing sheets and towels in the washer. Vacuuming the sand she’d trekked in from the beach yesterday.

  After all that, she sat down at her computer and answered emails from friends, cruised Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. She ironed some cotton shirts and a few gauzy scarves to wear during the week. She made a casserole that would last the week or serve Nash if he came for dinner. She talked to him on the phone—he couldn’t come, it was a day of long light, perfect for finishing the widow’s walk his crew was working on. He might not see her until the weekend. Darcy called Missy Linsley, the other single woman in their crowd. They walked to Cru, the restaurant at the end of Straight Wharf, for French pilgrim cocktails and roasted Nantucket oysters. They enjoyed an intimate gossip fest about their crowd that left them weak from laughter as they watched the sailors come in and the sun slant over the harbor.

  —

  The next day Darcy worked. Her desk was piled with seven thousand matters needing to be taken care of right now. She answered the phone seventeen times; she opened and organized the mail. At one, the director of the children’s library closed the door to the office and they ate their abbreviated lunch of yogurt while they went over the schedule for the week. When Beverly rushed off to a meeting, Darcy stationed herself at the computer and began ordering the new books from a list they’d compiled.

  At the end of the day, Darcy changed into her Speedo, pulled on her street clothes, and went out into the day, heading for Jetties Beach. It was after five, so it wouldn’t be crowded. She needed a calm, cooling swim before heading home. The tide was in, so she didn’t have to wade far before arriving at water deep enough for swimming. She did the breaststroke for a long time, loving the surge of her body, the way the water’s swells washed her mind clean. When she tired, she flipped over and floated as the sun warmed her face. This was the perfect relaxation therapy. All thoughts dissipated into the salt air.

  Back on shore, she dried herself as well as she could, pulled her clothes over her damp bathing suit, and took a moment to comb her hair. Not far from her, a boy and girl lay together on a blanket, kissing and whispering and giggling. She thought of Willow. She had to remember that was not her business.

  She ambled home, smiling at the people she passed, swinging her book bag, humming a children’s song. Inside, she poured a glass of wine and zapped leftovers from the picnic in the microwave, put it all on a tray, and carried it out to her garden. It was six thirty and the sun was still high in the sky. Birds sang from high in the trees. Over at the Brueckners’, the three boys were playing in the sprinkler, screaming with glee.

  Nash called. She curled up on her sofa and they talked about their day. It was so comforting to hear his voice, to make him laugh, to soften her own voice and flirt over the phone.

  —

  Gradually the island filled with people rushing to escape the heat of the mainland, walk the golden beaches, swim in the ocean, and shop in the marvelous boutiques. Darcy did two story times a day, answered emails, attended staff meetings, and cataloged the new books. Most books were cataloged on the mainland by CLAMS, aka the appropriately named Cape Libraries Automated Materials Sharing, and arrived on the island ready to shelve, but there were always exceptions, especially with self-published children’s books. When a staff member had an emergency, Darcy took over the circulation desk upstairs, and she dutifully and happily attended the necessary posh gala fundraisers. It was good to wear a gorgeous dress and lots of bling and mingle with the beautiful people while waiters offered her champagne and scallops wrapped in bacon. She saw people she hadn’t seen for nine months and caught up on their news—who was pregnant, who had broken a leg skiing, who had bought a villa in Tuscany.

  Sunday, she and Nash met friends at the beach. That evening Darcy and Nash showered and glammed up for an art opening at the Artists Association of Nantucket. The place was packed, both downstairs and upstairs. The art was wond
erful, landscapes and seascapes and abstracts and sculpture and jewelry, a sumptuous display of what the talented islanders had done over the winter. Small red dots indicating “sold” were everywhere.

  Nash stopped to talk to a friend. Darcy slipped upstairs, wineglass in hand, to look at the new pieces; but as always, she met friends, and spent more time talking than looking at the art.

  She was in the corner, studying a landscape, when a man behind her said hello.

  She turned. It was Clive Rush. Handsome Clive Rush, in a navy blazer that set off his tan and made his fabulous smile flash.

  Well, hello, sailor, Darcy thought in her best Mae West inner self. She was glad she was wearing her long turquoise skirt with its thigh-high split and her nearly sheer white sleeveless blouse. “Hi, Clive. Where’s Mimi?”

  He laughed, as if he had been confronted with this defense mechanism before. “She’s downstairs, surrounded by admirers, and drinking far too much wine.”

  “At her age, I don’t think there is such a thing as too much wine.”

  “I like this landscape,” Clive said, gesturing toward a painting of a salt marsh with a small wooden bridge over water. “But I can’t place it.”

  “It’s Madaket Harbor, near the marina. On the western end of the island. Mr. Rogers had a house out there.”

  “Mr. Rogers? There’s someone I haven’t thought of for a long time. My mother made me watch him when I was a child. She thought it would calm me down.”

  “And did it?” She smiled, looking up at him. He certainly was pleasant to look at.

  “I believe it did. Before I forget, next Tuesday night the Musical Arts Society is hosting a pianist who’s performing an interesting mix of classical and contemporary. I’m going to take Mimi and we wonder if you’d like to go with us.”

  Darcy paused. There was that “we wonder,” so would this be considered a date? Or could she tell Nash she was accompanying a darling older woman and her grandson? Should she even worry about what Nash thought? They hadn’t talked about dating each other exclusively. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good. I’ll tell Mimi. She’ll be thrilled.”

  “Why don’t you both come for dinner before,” Darcy offered on the spur of the moment. “I’ll make something light so we can get to the concert on time.”

  “Great. How’s six o’clock?”

  “Perfect.”

  They smiled at each other, and the temperature in the room seemed to shoot up about a hundred degrees.

  Clive said, “I’d better check on Mimi. It was nice bumping into you tonight.”

  “Me, too,” Darcy said. That makes no sense, but at least she spoke in English. Fireworks were exploding in her mind, not to mention her body. Probably Mimi told Clive to invite her. Or he wanted to have someone help maneuver his grandmother up the hill and into the Congregational Church with all its steps.

  Or maybe he liked her. She wasn’t making all that electricity by herself.

  She walked on to gaze at a seascape for fifteen minutes, trying to sort out her thoughts, which weren’t thoughts so much as feelings—lust, mostly. A large male hand slid around her waist, tugging her out of her daze.

  “Oh!” Darcy cried, startled.

  “You must like that seascape, you’ve been staring at it so long.” Nash kept his hand on her waist as he checked out the upstairs for more friends.

  “I do like it,” Darcy said. “Do you?”

  He took the time to study it. “Yeah, I do. It’s a good depiction of the ocean during a nor’easter. I wouldn’t mind having that in my house, looking at it every day.”

  “I know. It’s complicated, with lots of movement.”

  “Well, don’t like it too much,” Nash told her. He pointed to the round red dot next to the painting that indicated it was sold.

  “Ah, well…” Darcy pretended to pout.

  Nash pulled her closer to him. “Don’t worry. Whenever we get a good storm, I’ll drive you out to the beach to watch. We’ll take off our shoes and run in the waves.”

  “Well, there’s proof you belong on the island. Everyone I know goes crazy when a storm hits.”

  “I go crazy when I look at you,” Nash said.

  Darcy gazed up at Nash for a few moments, speechless with pleasure at his words. Did he mean what he said? If he did, what did that tell her?

  “Time for dinner?” Nash asked.

  “It would be time for something else if we weren’t in public,” Darcy told him.

  “Be good. We’ve got reservations.”

  Nash took her hand so he wouldn’t lose her as they threaded their way through the crowd. He held her hand as they stepped outside, turned right, and walked to Fifty-Six Union, one of their favorite restaurants. His hand was big and warm and callused from carpentry work, and she liked that roughness against her own smooth skin. She shivered to recall the feel of those hands on her naked body.

  Obviously, she was a nymphomaniac.

  The restaurant was packed with gorgeous summer people relishing their newly tanned skin and sunburned noses, their sense of sensual freedom here on this island that had not one single traffic light, and no skyscrapers or polluted air or subways, expressways, or toll booths. The hostess led them to a small table against the wall. From here, Darcy and Nash could have a conversation—if they shouted—but they’d expected it would be like this and it was exhilarating after months of isolation. Darcy ordered her favorite appetizer: mussels from P.E.I., with hunks of thick bread to soak up the broth. She had salmon for an entrée. Nash had the swordfish, and they split their food in half and shared. They talked about the paintings they’d seen; the artists and their always attention-grabbing personal lives; the problem finding parking in town, which never seemed to be solved; the new blockbuster movie.

  And all the time, under the table, Darcy stroked his leg with her foot.

  When they left the restaurant, it was twilight, the long lazy twilight of summer.

  “Let’s walk down to the creeks,” Nash suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  They ambled along companionably down the street toward the harbor, where boats and yachts and dinghies bobbed gently in the evening breeze. They strolled past the Great Harbor Yacht Club and Sayle’s fish market, and came to the beach at the harbor’s end. You could wade here, where the water scrolled in to the salt marsh grasses, but it was too shallow for swimming. In the mornings, people practiced yoga on this beach. In the day, families kayaked into the inlets, spotting egrets and osprey and dozens of gulls. Now, at twilight, the beach was empty.

  They sat side by side on the sand.

  “It’s still warm from the sun,” Darcy said, scooping up a palmful of sand and letting it trickle through her fingers.

  “Peaceful,” Nash murmured.

  It was just plain nice, Darcy thought, sitting here with Nash.

  Nash said quietly, “In March, when it was cold and the crew didn’t start work until eight or nine, I got up at six and came out here to walk. Or I went to Surfside. Sometimes the Jetties. I had the beach to myself. Okay, I shared it with the gulls and the herons and the cormorants.” He paused before saying, “It fills me up somehow. Just plain being there.”

  His words took her breath away, not only because she did that, too, in winter, but because he had shared something private with her.

  “Wow. You’re a nature geek like me.” Darcy gave him a sideways glance. He didn’t balk at “geek,” so she continued. “I do the same thing. Sometimes I drive out to the moors and walk on the dirt roads. No one else is around and you’re right, it fills me up.”

  “What are the moors like in winter?” Nash asked. “I imagine it’s bleak.”

  “True…” Darcy paused to collect her thoughts. “Everything’s gray and brittle, except for the occasional cluster of pine trees. When the sky is cloudy, the entire world is gray. It’s like walking on the moon. Usually the wind is up, whistling over the island. It makes the branches of the beach plum bushes
rattle. I get kind of scared, or not scared exactly, but all shivery, not just from the cold. Then I spot a break in the brush, usually near one of the ponds, and, if I look closer, I’ll see a track into the bushes and a flattened area where the deer shelter. I think of the deer, foraging for berries, then curling up together, their warmth filling their space….”

  “Will you take me there this winter? I’ve never walked on the moors.”

  “Yeah,” Darcy said. “Yeah, sure, I’ll take you there.”

  So he was assuming they’d still be together in the winter, she thought. She leaned against his sturdy, strong torso.

  Nash put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. Together they gazed out at the lights twinkling from homes in Monomoy, the lights blazing from the wide windows of the yacht club, the boats rocking in the dark blue water, the flash of light from the Brant Point Lighthouse. Except for the cry of the gulls, it was quiet. As the sky darkened, Nash’s profile blended into the shadows, and then she could scarcely see him. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to turn her face up toward his, for his mouth to come down, warm and gentle, against hers.

  “We should go,” Darcy said after a while.

  They held hands as they walked over the sand toward town. Along Washington Street, the harbor deepened and dozens of boats bobbed on buoys or rested in slips on the town pier. The silence of the creeks slipped away from them. Music and laughter floated over the water toward them and more and more lights lit up the street. Her house was only a few blocks from the artists’ gallery, so they walked up Main Street toward Darcy’s, listening to the street musicians, gazing at the gorgeous shop windows, until they left the noise and the lights behind and turned onto her quiet lane. At the door, Nash pulled her against him and rested his forehead on hers.

  “Want to come in?” Darcy asked.

  “Better not. Early day tomorrow.” He gave her a crooked grin. “I mean it this time. Stand back, woman.”

  Darcy laughed. “Call me?”

  “Absolutely.” He kissed her, watched her turn her key in the lock and step inside her house, then headed down her walk toward his truck.