by Grace Palmer
“What on earth is it?” She examines the glass. It looks carbonated, with an inviting golden foam across the top.
“Fernet con coca,” Nicolas answers, pronouncing the words reverently like they’re a national treasure.
“Come again?”
“Fernet branca and Coca Cola. I would explain it, but you really need to experience it for yourself.”
She’s hesitant. “When in Rome, right?” Before she can lose her nerve, she lifts the fizzing glass to her lips and takes a sip. Nicolas watches her carefully.
She starts coughing immediately. “Oh goodness, that is atrocious,” she scowls. She sets the glass down and dabs at her lips with one of the white cloth napkins from the tabletop. “That tastes like someone dumped sugar into cough syrup.”
Nicolas bursts out laughing. It’s strange to see, like watching a dog suddenly start walking on its back legs. But it’s not an unpleasant sight. He looks calmer when he laughs.
“You ought to do that more,” she says when he has quieted down again.
“Do what?”
“Laugh.”
He starts to say one thing, then changes tack halfway through. “You are an interesting woman, Toni.”
“Not half as much as you seem to think,” she fires back. “An interesting woman would probably like this drink.”
“You are all the more interesting for not liking it,” he insists. “Or at least, for telling me that you don’t.”
Toni feels a pang of guilt. Surely her parents raised her with better manners than that, didn’t they? But there is something about Nicolas that tugs the truth out of her before she even has the chance to consider demurring politely. It’s a bolder, more aggressive Toni who has come to get drinks with this man tonight. She’s still not sure what to make of that.
“So, shall we play our game?” she answers. Anything to relieve the pressure that seems to be growing with each silent passing second.
“You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?” Nicolas says instead of replying to her directly.
“Is that your first question?”
He grins. “I suppose it can be.”
She weighs the question for a moment. “No,” she says after thinking about it. “I guess I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Ah, ah, ah,” she tuts. “That’s two questions. You can’t take my turn so easily.”
He raises his hands in surrender. “Fair is fair. I cede the floor.”
She doesn’t know quite where to start with this enigma of a man, so she picks a simple question to begin. “Where did you learn to speak such good English?”
“I travel a lot for work,” he explains. “I run a shipping company, so my job takes me all around the world. I have spent a fair amount of time in your United States. Quite a country.”
“How so?”
This time, he waggles his finger and smiles. “Now look who is trying to take two turns in one!”
“All right, all right,” she chuckles. “You go on, then.”
“Why don’t you like talking about yourself, Toni?”
She feels equal parts defiant and embarrassed at the question. Why, in fact, doesn’t she? It’s easy enough to concede that it’s true; she’s always been more comfortable out of the spotlight. But why is that?
“I guess…” she starts, then stops. “Maybe it’s…I just have always taken care of others, I think. I have a younger brother. Had, I should say.” She winces and keeps going, hoping that Nicolas didn’t notice the tense change and realizing that of course he noticed it. “And a husband, now ex. And an inn, with guests coming and going all the time. It’s just what I’ve done, I think, for as long as I can remember. I’d rather hear about other people.”
Nicolas nods. She wonders if he’s going to say something, try to psychoanalyze her or whatever. But, mercifully, he says nothing. He just regards her with those gray eyes. They don’t feel as cold as they once did, though the sharpness of their perception hasn’t diminished.
The silence compounds on itself until it feels too heavy to bear. Toni stammers and fumbles for a question. “What is your daughter’s name?”
“Isabella,” Nicolas answers smoothly. “She will be twenty-four at the end of the year.”
“Isabella,” repeats Toni. “That is a lovely name.”
“Thank you. She is a lovely woman.” Again, just like with the laughter, it is somewhat bizarre to see a father’s pride beaming in the face of this man. Maybe it’s because Toni can’t shake the memory of the condescension that Nicolas regarded her with when they first encountered each other at the airport. Or maybe it’s because all of this—this bar, this man, this dynamic—feels like unfamiliar territory, though she can’t say whether it feels like that because she’s never been here before or simply because it’s been so long since she has.
“My turn again?”
Toni nods, not quite trusting her voice.
“What is your home like?”
She tilts her head to the side. “That’s an odd question.”
“There is much to learn about a person from learning of their home.”
“Right. Um, let’s see. It’s beautiful. I’m from Nantucket, a little island off the coast of Maine, in the northeast United States.”
“I know of it,” Nicolas says with a don’t-mistake-me-for-stupid kind of grin.
“Ah. Well, anyway, it’s gorgeous.”
“You have to give me more than that, surely.”
Toni racks her brain. Home feels so very far away all of a sudden. Mae’s description of the sun rising over the inn’s porch during their call this morning comes to mind. She closes her eyes for a moment and tries to picture it. Standing on the front porch of the Sweet Island Inn and looking outward…now, it begins to unfold in her mind’s eye like a picture book. She can see it, sense it, smell it.
She opens her eyes. “It’s like…There’s…well, let’s see. Where to begin? There’s Winter Stroll, and when the snow falls, it’s like living in a snow globe, this perfect little Hallmark town with hot chocolate and the most beautiful art on display, and Christmas trees lit up like constellations. And in the summer, the breeze is just about the freshest thing a man or woman could ever hope to smell, and the sun is so lovely that a nap on the porch feels darn close to heaven. And the, the…Oh dear, I am rambling like a fool.”
She’s taken note of Nicolas’s smile, which has softened into something affectionate and cautious, like a husband watching his wife sleep and being careful not to disturb her.
“What?” she snaps self-consciously.
“You love your home.”
“Yes,” Toni replies softly. “I do.”
“I can see it in you.”
“What else can you see in me, Dr. Freud?” she teases. Again, she’ll say anything to lighten the pressure of Nicolas’s stare. It’s making her feel—well, hot and bothered is what a person of her generation might say.
“You shouldn’t joke about that. We Argentines take psychotherapy very seriously.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Some people say there is one doctor of the mind per civilian.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because our home is crazy, and so we learn to become crazy to match it. Just as your home is beautiful, and you are beautiful to match it.”
Toni chuckles. “Enough. You are the interesting one, sir. Not me.”
He mimes opening the pages of a novel and says with a wicked gleam in his eye, “Open book, Toni. As advertised.”
Shaking her head, she takes a tentative sip of her drink and finds that it isn’t quite as revolting as it was the first time around. In fact, it’s kind of grown on her. There’s a sort of pleasing interplay between the mellow sweetness of the soda and the spicy bitterness of the liquor. And when she holds it up to the light, she sees that the drink isn’t as ugly and brown as she thought originally. In fact, it turns a lovely emerald—but only if she gets the angle just right,
like it’s hiding that secret inner beauty from her.
“Whose turn is it now?” Nicolas asks.
“I don’t know,” Toni answers, “but all this back-and-forth is making my head spin. Let’s do ten questions at a time, lighting-round style.”
“Lightning round?” he says, confused.
She can’t help but poke at him. “I thought you were Mr. World Traveler?” Then, taking pity, she adds, “It just means that we go fast.”
He runs a hand over his chin thoughtfully. “You Americans are always trying to get things done quickly.”
“Is that so?”
“Very much.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now, get ready, because here we go.” She leans forward, arms folded on the table in front of her, grinning playfully.
“Dios mío. Nothing hard, okay?”
“No promises. Let’s start. What’s your middle name?”
“Benjamin.”
“Really? Who were you named after?”
“Benjamin Franklin, claro. The man who caught lightning in a bottle.”
“You’re joking.”
“I would never.”
Toni makes a mental note to circle back around on that hilarious tidbit. For now, though, she presses on. “What is your favorite color?”
“Pink. It reminds me of my daughter.”
“Can you sing?”
“Not even to save my life.”
“Why were you rude to me at the airport?”
“I thought you were drunk, to be honest.”
Toni yelps, almost offended. “I had just gotten off a sixteen-hour flight!”
“Is that a question?”
“No, no, you’re right. Umm…what’s your earliest memory?”
“Sitting in my mother’s lap while she knitted.”
“Favorite season?”
“Summer.”
“Favorite English word?”
“Serendipity.”
She nods. “That’s a good word. Last question: are you a good man, Nicolas?”
He must notice the shift in her voice because his face grows somber, and he leans in just a fraction closer. There is a long, pregnant pause before he parts his lips to speak.
“I think I am,” he says carefully. “But do any of us ever know for sure?”
Toni considers for a second. “I think that’s the kind of thing a good man would say,” she decides.
He nods, and they each retreat to their drinks for a minute to chew over whatever the heck just happened between them. The bar patrons chatter on all sides, but in their flowery little bubble, it feels as though she and he are the only two people present.
Nicolas sets his drink down on the table again with a gentle clink. “You didn’t ask me about my wife.”
Toni’s face flushes. “That’s not my business.”
“It’s okay,” Nicolas reassures her. “You could have. You should have.”
“I just didn’t want to…you know. Upset anyone.”
“I see. Well, I should tell you that I lied.”
She balks. “What? When?”
“Just now. You asked why I was rude to you at the airport. I lied. I was rude to you because my wife had just told me that she wanted a divorce. That is why I was rude.”
“Oh.” Toni falls back in her seat. “Oh,” she says again, then feels dumb for repeating herself with such a nonsense reply. “I’m sorry.”
“It is hardly your fault, bella.”
“I can be sorry for things that aren’t my fault, you know.”
The corner of his mouth twitches up in a quick grin. “I suppose you can. But you don’t need to waste your sympathy on me. It is as much my fault as it is hers.”
“I see.”
“We were separated for a long time. Young and in love are not lasting attributes unless you work to make them so. I learned that the hard way. So the relationship, it was dead already, long dead. But the divorce… it is difficult to see your failures written down on official letterhead, you know?”
“Yeah,” Toni whispers. She glances down at her hands. “Yeah, I know what that’s like.”
“You said you had a husband, yes?”
“Once upon a time. That feels like lifetimes ago, though.”
“These things always do.”
“Did your love fade?”
“He was unfaithful.”
“A fool, then.”
“In more ways than one, yes.”
Nicolas reaches out hesitantly and touches his hand to the back of hers, light as a feather. “Something I heard that helped me recently: we are not defined by what we have lost, Toni.”
She looks at him and wonders how he can sequester so much in those eyes of his. There’s fire and arrogance and sorrow swirling in there, all mixed together, and there’s no telling which might boil to the surface at any given moment.
She looks down to her hands then, with Nicolas’s callused fingertips resting on top, and surprises herself with what she says next. “I don’t know about that. Sometimes I think that’s all I’m defined by.”
She feels a tear welling up at the corner of her eye and screams inwardly at herself to make it go away. He is going to think that she is an absolute lunatic. It’s bizarre how she feels her gut being yanked in a million different directions all at once as if someone had secretly snagged her with dozens of fishhooks and started pulling her insides out.
Nicolas’s hand rises from the table to lift her chin—gently, slowly—so that her eyes are forced to meet his. She lets him, for reasons she’s not entirely sure of.
His eyes are alive, and his head is framed by the bouquet of flowers resting on the ledge behind him. He looks like a painting, too perfect for words. And when he speaks, he enunciates his words carefully, though they’re still flecked with that beautiful silvery edge of his accent.
“I think that’s the kind of thing a good woman would say, Toni.”
The fishhooks in her ribs ease up. And for the first time since Henry died, she thinks to herself, Maybe.
Maybe there is more.
Maybe there is hope.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
9
Nantucket, Maine —July 2, 2000
Toni made a promise to herself as she boarded the plane the next morning: no more tears. The whole length of the flight to Nantucket, she repeated that oath in her head again and again until the words lost their meaning and got all mushed together into gibberish.
No more tears. Nom ore tears. Nom ort ears.
Gibberish or not, it got her through takeoff and landing. Toni didn’t realize how hard she was working to keep that string of syllables at the forefront of her brain. At least, not until—almost simultaneously with the wheels of the plane hitting the ground—she felt a huge wave of exhaustion crash over her.
Now, the rest of her thoughts were running to gibberish, too, enough so that she accidentally stared at the flight attendant for far too long when the kindly older woman wished her a good day and asked if she’d enjoyed the flight.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the uniformed woman asked, her eyebrows wrinkling in concern. When she reached out and laid a caring hand on Toni’s elbow, Toni flinched.
Being touched right now felt like far too much to deal with. She felt like her whole body had turned into one exposed nerve ending. The merest brush of a stranger, no matter how well-meaning, sent frightened jitters coursing through her.
“Fine, thanks,” she mumbled. She shouldered her bag and took off down the aisle in a hurry, head down and cheeks burning with—with what? Shame? Fear? The beginnings of a breakdown? She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t have any interest in delving further. Instead, she tried to stave it all off, whatever it was, until she had a glass or three of wine and a friendly shoulder to cry on.
For now, though, the mantra was the same: nomoretears nomoretears nomoretears.
She bustled into the terminal, keeping her head down as best as she could without bumping into the o
ther folks disembarking. Toni had always thought that the Nantucket airport was far cuter than any airport had the right to be. It looked as if a charming gray house had sprouted antennas and an air traffic control station from its top floor.
If she looked out the window, she knew she’d be able to see row after row of little prop engine planes lined up like the toys in Brent’s bedroom. They usually belonged to the rich folks who kept a second or third home up in Siasconset and liked to jet away to the island whenever they could take a break from their busy lives in the city. It never failed to astound her that such rickety, phony-looking contraptions could take to the sky like birds.
Beyond the planes was a bright blue sky, and not much else she could see from here. She’d forced herself not to look out the window of the plane as they’d approached the runway. She wanted her first look at Nantucket to come with all the sensations it deserved: toes in the sand, wine in the system, laughter on her lips. And if she had to fake that last one—well, then she was prepared to do just that.
Mae was waiting in the lobby for her when she rounded the corner. “Hi, Toni!” she exclaimed.
Walking up, Toni enveloped her in a hug. “It’s so good to see you,” she murmured into Mae’s hair. “You smell nice.”
“Oh thank you! Henry bought me a bottle of perfume as an apology after the whole cast iron pan debacle. I don’t know who picked it out for him because the good Lord knows my husband doesn’t know the first thing about women’s perfume, but whoever it was, she did a good job. Almost made me forgive him for the pan.” She winked.
Toni wanted to sag into Mae’s arms and fall asleep then and there. There was something so beautifully simple and encouraging about Mae in that moment. To think of a life filled with petty bickering over silly household things that never truly mattered in the end, of sheepish apologies from a husband to his wife…the thought of a kiss and an “I’m sorry,” of a dining table with smiling children’s faces in every seat…it seemed like too much. Like Mae’s home was Eden.
It wasn’t Eden, of course. It was just Nantucket. But sometimes, the line between the two seemed wonderfully thin.
“How was your flight?” Mae asked. “Here, give me that.” She reached down and plucked the bag from Toni’s hands over her protests.
