by Nancy Thayer
“Cocktail party,” he explains.
Cocktail party, Emily thinks. He’s so grown-up. Following his lead, Emily slips out of her shoes. The gritty sand against her bare soles is rough, real. She is alone with Ben, at night. She wants to pinch herself.
Side by side they walk down the long path of the sloping dune to the long, golden expanse of shoreline. In the distance, a cluster of four-wheel-drive vehicles circle a bonfire. They catch drifts of music. The people dancing and drinking are black shadows against the silver air.
“Let’s go this way.” Ben takes her hand, steering her in the opposite direction from the party.
His hand is firm and warm as they walk at the edge of the waves, their feet sinking in the wet sand.
Ben is holding her hand. She can’t believe it’s happening.
He stops walking and turns to her. The way he’s looking at her now—right at her, his face studying hers, his eyes so serious, shining in the moonlight—she has never felt so grown-up. She has never been so afraid.
“Do you know I had a crush on you when I was younger?” He grins, but in spite of that, he looks almost sad.
“You did?” Something lights within her as if a match has been struck.
“You bet. I used to keep a photo of you under my pillow.”
“You didn’t.” Heat rises within her.
“I did. I still have it.”
She can’t keep the smile off her face. She tries to be teasing. “Under your pillow?”
“Not anymore. It’s in a drawer somewhere.” He turns away, scuffing his foot in the sand.
“Where did you get a photo of me?” They walk again and her heart slows to normal.
“Oh, Mom took one of you and Maggie when you were on your bikes. You wore braces on your teeth. And the goofiest smile.”
Emily groans. “I remember that photo. I can’t believe you had a crush on me.” She wants to hear more. When he doesn’t elaborate, she says, “I was a little dink. I was a kid. I was afraid of you.”
“You certainly weren’t afraid of Mr. Pendergast.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten all about him.”
“I haven’t. I never will. You were like Joan of Arc or something, a real little warrior princess. You backed him right down.”
She’s amazed. He thought she was a warrior princess.
He leads her up the beach, away from the water. They sit against a dune, legs stuck out in front of them toward the white surf rolling up to shore.
“Why did you guys do it? Vandalize stuff, and steal?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She shrugs.
“Emily. I was poor in a place where everyone else had money. I was angry. I was trying to get some revenge.”
“Are you still—angry?”
Ben scoops up a handful of sand and lets it trickle through his fingers, making a sound like whispers. “Somewhere deep inside, I suppose I am. But Thaddeus changed my life. He’s taught me so much about the island, and my place on it. He taught me how amazing this island is, how fragile. He’s taught me it doesn’t matter where I started from. I can matter. I can really make a difference in the world. Now I know what I want to do with my life.”
Never has a guy spoken like this to Emily. She’s covered in goose bumps, from being so near him, from the sight of his large, flexible hands lifting and sifting the sand, his watch catching the moonlight, his hairy ankles, his enormous, bony feet.
“What do you want to do?” she asks quietly.
“I want to learn everything about this island. I’m majoring in American history, and eventually I want to work for a historical society, even run it someday. I want to be part of the future of the island, and I want to make a strong stand for conservation. This is where I want to make my life matter.”
“You’re so lucky,” Emily tells him. “I mean, knowing what you want to do with your life.”
“Well, you’re only eighteen, right? I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself then, except get drunk and get laid.”
Those words—she shivers.
“On the other hand,” he continues, “Maggie knows what she wants to do.”
Emily doesn’t want to talk about Maggie, she wants to keep talking about Ben. But she laughs. “Maggie would.”
“She wants to be a writer.”
“How perfect for Maggie. She always loved reading so much.”
“You write, too.”
Her little blue dress was short to begin with. Now that they’re sitting like this in the sand, the hem of the skirt has slipped up her thighs almost to her panty line. She’s glad her legs are tanned, not that you can tell in the moonlight. She wriggles around, adjusting her skirt. “Not really. I’m more into science, actually. I think I’ll major in environmental biology in college.”
“Excellent, Emily. Then you could come work on the island.”
“Oh.” She’s stunned that he would think of her, that he would envision her working on this island he loves so much. With a kind of timid hope, she looks into his eyes. She can only barely speak. “Ben?”
He pulls her against him, and with his other hand he tilts her chin up so he can kiss her. Her head falls back against his arm. His hand is on her cheek. His kiss is soft, his breath smells like wine. She doesn’t feel desire as much as astonishment, so she’s surprised when he holds her tighter, and his lips press more urgently, and a groan sounds in his chest.
He releases her. “I’ve wanted to do that all my life.”
“You have?” She’s trembling.
“And this,” he says, putting the flat of his palm over her belly. “I’ve wanted to do this.”
Through the thin blue cloth of her dress, her slightly rounded belly feels small beneath his large hand, and the side of his hand is almost touching the top of her thighs. If he slid his hand down—Abruptly he pulls away. He stands, brushing sand off his slacks. “It’s late. I’ve got to work tomorrow.” He extends a hand and helps her up.
He’s silent as they climb up the dune to the parking lot. He’s gone into himself.
They step up into the old Jeep. He starts the engine. The headlights flare across the darkness, over the concession stand, the beach grass, the bike racks, the other four-wheel-drive vehicles in the lot. Ben turns on the radio. He hums to an old Beatles tune, but he still seems tense.
“Did I do something to make you mad?” Emily asks.
“No. I did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.” He looks over at her, and his face softens. “I’m sorry, Emily. I’m just tired. I’ve been up since five, and I’ll have to be up at five tomorrow.”
Emily crinkles her forehead, she looks at him so hard. He stares at the road, his profile proud. For a long time they ride in silence down the straight, seemingly endless Milestone Road.
“Ben,” she begins, not sure what to say. “Ben … I liked that. Being with you like that.”
Ben takes a deep breath, as if she’s wounded him. After a moment, he says, “You’re going to college in a couple of weeks. I’m going back to Tufts.” He shakes his head. “This was a mistake.”
“No.” She reaches over to put her hand on his arm. “No mistake. I’ve been wishing for that for a long time.”
Ben remains silent. He pulls up in front of her house, her parents’ big house on the bluff where she has never yet, in all these years, invited Maggie. He knows that. There is more than age between them, but age does matter.
Turning to face her, he carefully reminds her: “Emily, you just turned eighteen.”
This means so much. She wants to do it right. “I know that. And I’ve never … but I want this, Ben.” Summoning up all her courage, she says, “I want anything I can have with you.”
He frowns. He takes a deep breath. He touches the side of her face, stroking a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”
She restrains herself from throwing herself across the seat o
n top of him. “Yes.”
“Six o’clock,” he says.
“Six o’clock,” she promises.
“The light will be good out on Coskata,” he tells her.
“I’ll bring a picnic,” she tells him. “We can eat on the beach, watch the sunset.”
“Nice.” Gently, he kisses her cheek. “Tomorrow, then.”
Emily lets herself into the house. It’s quiet and dark. She takes off her heels again and pads across the floor to the living room window facing the ocean. It’s calm tonight, and the moon stripes the water with a trembling light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
During her senior year at Nantucket High, Maggie had bucked up her courage and submitted some writing to the school newspaper, which was not such a stretch since one of her close friends, Kerrie, was the editor. People liked her articles, short witty pieces about “Backstage at the School Play,” “How to Buy a Posh Prom Dress Here in Sleepy Hollow,” or “The Accidentals and the Naturals Do New York,” so she wrote one every month. It wasn’t fiction, but it was still fun.
And in August it leads to the most amazing job.
Late one afternoon, the phone rings. “Maggie, it’s Marilyn O’Brien.”
“Mrs. O’Brien. Hello.” Maggie has half-turned to call her mother when Mrs. O’Brien says, “I’d like to talk with you about writing an article for Nantucket Glossy.”
Maggie almost falls over. “Really?” she says, then hits herself in the thigh with her fist for sounding like such a simpleton.
“Really. I’ve enjoyed your pieces in the school paper. You have a gift for seeing things that others miss. I’d like to hire you to write about some of the public fund-raisers taking place this month. You’ll know most of the students who’ll be working at them, and many of the guests, and I think it would be fun to have a young person’s view of it all.”
Maggie forces herself to say, “Um, I’d love to, Mrs. O’Brien, but what about Kerrie Smith? She was the editor of the paper.”
“I know, dear, and I’m impressed with her editorials. She’s more confrontational than you are. Your style is more suited for my magazine. Your writing has flair.” Mrs. O’Brien adds the fee she’d pay Maggie for each article, continuing smoothly with other details: how long she’d like the pieces to be, the slant she’d like Maggie to take on her first piece, to stress the fun and glamour of the upcoming party.
“The Theatre Workshop is having its summer fund-raiser in Beverly Hall’s garden,” Marilyn says, and Maggie gasps. Beverly Hall is a famous photographer with a house overlooking the water out on the western part of the island. Maggie’s heard it rumored that Beverly has seven different gardens on her land, each landscaped in a different style. Maggie’s yearned to see them—and now she’s being paid to do it?
“The evening’s theme is Shakespeare in the Garden,” Marilyn continues. “For entertainment, some of Nantucket’s actors will put on a scene from Midsummer Night’s Dream. David Lazarus will be in it, I’ve heard.”
Maggie listens, eyes wide, thrilled.
“We’ll want a full account of the guests, their clothes, the food, the decorations … this is an extremely special evening, Maggie, and it will provide you the opportunity to show us at Nantucket Glossy what you can do. If you want to do it, that is.”
“I’ll do it.” Maggie gulps, trying not to sound like she’s just swallowed helium.
As soon as she puts down the phone, she clicks in Kerrie’s number and talks to her about the article. Kerrie, to her vast relief, has no interest in something so frivolous and is surprised Maggie would consider it.
“But the galas are to raise money for Nantucket charities,” Maggie stresses. And for me, she adds silently.
“Please,” Kerrie says. “I’m happy for you. It is so not my cup of tea.”
“Well, honey, it’s my cup of mead,” Maggie jokes. Next, she calls Tyler, who’s somewhere on the road to the West Coast. “You’ll never guess what just happened!”
Tyler listens to her babble, tossing in the appropriate “Wow” or “Amazing,” but after a few minutes Maggie can tell he’s not enjoying this conversation.
“Hey,” she says, “what’s up? Even if you are leaving the island, you’re still my best island friend and I want to share this with you.”
“Sorry,” Tyler apologizes. “It’s a huge deal. Congratulations. I wish I could see you at the party.”
Maggie grimaces—glad they’re not on Skype. Marilyn O’Brien told her she could bring a date, but would she want to ask Tyler?
Before she can speak, Tyler continues, “It’s great, Maggie. Absolutely. It’s like you’re on your way.”
“I know,” Maggie agrees, twirling in place. “It’s like Fate’s giving me a go-ahead sign.”
The very next day, another astonishing thing happens.
After breakfast, Emily arrives on her bike, wearing a bathing suit covered with a long tee shirt.
“We’re not going to write today,” Maggie tells her. “You’ve got to help me organize myself for my first real writing job!”
“What? Tell me!” Emily demands.
When Maggie tells her, Emily screams, hugs her, and then shouts ten thousand questions in one minute.
“It’s this Friday,” Maggie tells her. “It’s a gala for the Theatre Workshop. Everyone will look so fabulous, and I don’t have anything to wear. I don’t even know what kind of thing to try to find, and I’ll probably have to go to the thrift shop to look for something. Clothes are so expensive here. Would you go shopping with me?”
“I’ll do better than that,” Emily says. “Come to my house. We’ll find something in my closet for you to wear.”
Maggie nearly falls over flat on her face. This is the first time Emily has ever invited Maggie to her home. Why would Emily ask her now? Perhaps this gala gig will make Maggie more acceptable to Emily’s snobby parents.
Before Maggie can speak, Emily rolls her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I’m ten feet tall, but I’m sure we’ll find something that will work on you.” Without waiting, Emily climbs back on her bike. “Come on.”
Maggie grabs her ten-speed and follows Emily along the bike path to ’Sconset and Emily’s house on the bluff. When she was younger, during long boring winters, Maggie used to sneak around outside the Porters’ house, standing on tiptoes to peek through a crack in the drapes into the rooms inside. Most of the furniture was covered with dust cloths. It was spacious, a symphony of seaside blues and sands. Now she’ll finally get to see Emily’s bedroom. What if Emily’s mother is there? Will she look down her nose at Maggie as she always does?
When they reach her house, Emily carelessly tosses her bike against the front porch, so Maggie does the same thing.
“No one’s home,” Emily announces over her shoulder. “Let’s get a Diet Coke before we go up.”
Maggie trails behind her friend, trying not to be too obvious about scanning the rooms. Thaddeus’s house is as big as this, but it’s messy, cluttered with the paraphernalia of active lives. This house is like a stage set.
Emily’s bedroom faces the ocean, its wide windows raised to let the sea breeze float the sheer white curtains like sails into the room. Emily’s got a canopy bed and, by the window, a white chaise next to the windowsill covered with books.
“Okay,” Emily says, throwing open her closet doors. “Let’s see. You don’t want to be too glitzy, you need something sophisticated, which makes me think, what shall we do with your hair?”
Maggie’s heart is thumping. She’s somehow passed through into an alternate universe, and while she’s trying to process it all, Emily starts yanking dresses off their padded hangers. Black crepe. Lime satin. A sleek crimson slip dress. A long coil of silver.
“Emily!” Maggie can’t help exclaiming at such abundance.
“Oh, shut up,” Emily says. “You know I have to go to all the yacht club dances. Try these on. All of them.”
For an hour Maggie and Emily concentrate
on slipping the garments off hangers and onto Maggie’s voluptuous body. They settle on the silver dress, which has a lot of give in the material and a boat neckline so Maggie won’t be seeming to flaunt her bosom.
“If you think it’s too tight around the hips,” Emily says, cocking her head, “have your mother take it out a bit. The seams are generous, and your mother will know what to do.”
“But then it won’t fit you,” Maggie protests.
“That dress looks awful on me,” Emily says. “I’m so flat I look like a drainpipe in it. Now sit down here and let’s think about your hair.”
Maggie’s thick black hair falls past her shoulders in waves. “A chignon?” she suggests, twisting her hair up.
Emily squints. “No. No. Just”—sweeping Maggie’s hair up with both hands, she pulls it back from her face—“a high ponytail, I think. We’ll straighten it. I’ve got a silver clip to hold it back.”
“And maybe my mom’s rhinestone earrings?” Maggie wonders. She’s always wanted to wear those earrings, long dramatic falls of sparkle.
“No. No, that’s too much. This dress is already enough shine, and then the clip … and a touch of makeup.”
Both girls stare at Maggie’s reflection in the mirror, the shape of her face, the slant of her cheekbones, the thick black eyelashes over arctic ice blue eyes, the fullness of her lips.
“You’re so pretty,” Emily declares. Not giving Maggie a chance to object, she says, “Now. You’ll need a date.”
“I know …” Maggie’s still turning her head this way and that, studying herself in the mirror.
“I’m hungry.” Emily tugs Maggie’s hair. “Take off the dress, come downstairs, let’s find a snack. We need energy to think about this. Come on, you must have a crush on some guy. Or are you weirder than I thought?”
Yanked back to reality, Maggie slowly admits, “Well, there is Shane.”
“Shane? You know a guy named Shane?”
Maggie pulls the dress off over her head to hide her blushing face.
“Out with it!” Emily commands.
