by Nancy Thayer
“Shane Anderson.” Maggie sighs.
Emily makes a hurry-up sign.
“He’s eighteen. He’s tall, played football in high school. Nice, too.”
“Handsome?” Emily asks.
Maggie blushes red.
“Wow. So does he like you?”
Maggie nods. “He’s part of the group I hang out with. He’s really sweet to me … but, Emily, I don’t want to start all that dating stuff. I want to be a writer. I can’t do that if I get pregnant.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Emily scolds. “You’re only asking him to a party with you, not having his babies. Sometimes you are absolutely unbelievable.”
“Not everyone’s as sophisticated as you,” Maggie swipes back.
Emily hands her the phone. “Call him. Ask him to the gala.”
Maggie chews her lip. “What if he says no?”
Emily gives her the eye. “Do you think he’ll say no?”
Maggie blushes again and calls Shane.
CHAPTER NINE
Wednesday evening Ben drives Emily over the rutted sand to a beach on Coskata at the head of Nantucket Harbor. No one else is there. The light is diffuse with moisture, like an Impressionist painting.
Ben sits cross-legged on a blanket, eating the cold chicken, potato salad, and lemon meringue pie Emily bought at Petticoat Row Bakery. While they eat, they talk about the men Ben works with, and Emily tells him about the kids she showed around the aquarium.
When they finish eating, Emily tidies things into the picnic hamper. Then Ben walks down to the water and stands staring out. Emily stands next to him.
The tide is low, exposing all the sandbars. Channels of water ripple like clear silk over the pebbles. The sun sinks downward in the sky, casting long shadows. For a few moments they don’t speak. They walk around the white branches of a fallen tree, stripped smooth and polished to marble by the wind. Fiddler crabs scuttle to their holes. On a distant sandbar, a pair of dark cormorants stand, two capital letter T’s, their wings extended to dry. It’s very still. The lights of town are far away.
He picks up a flat rock and skims it over the water. “Okay. I’ll say it. What are we doing here?”
Emily’s confused, and at the same time, she’s suddenly, ecstatically, aware. “Having a picnic?” she answers, her voice light.
“Slumming it?” Ben suggests, not looking at her.
“What?”
“Come on, Emily. You’re rich. You’re a city girl. You’ve been everywhere. You’re out of my league.”
Emily studies Ben’s face. In the fading light, his expression is almost impossible to read, but she feels an urgency and a gathering-up in him, like a swimmer about to dive.
“That’s ridiculous, Ben.” She touches his hand. “Come on.”
He doesn’t move away, but he seems to contract, somehow, to withdraw tighter in an invisible shell. She sees the pulse beating in his neck. His skin is hot, he’s like a crystal figure in a kiln. With a lightning bolt through her heart, she understands that her words could liberate him or break him.
The magic of the night gives her courage. Breathing the air, she fills herself with its clarity. She knows exactly what she wants—and what it is that she can give.
“Ben, don’t you know? I love you.”
He stands as still as stone.
“I’ve never said that before to anyone except my parents,” she confesses. “I’ve never felt this way before. It’s not just that I think you’re handsome, although of course I do think that. It’s that—I’m so full of admiration for you. I think you’ve become—wonderful. I always sensed that you were powerful, but now—well, now you’re powerful and good. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you. I would never hurt you, never. I feel privileged that you showed me this island. That you shared your love for it with me. I love you for that.”
At last Ben turns to her. His blue jay eyes are solemn.
“Are you going to say anything?” Emily asks.
He smiles. He says, “Emily.” He pulls her to him, he puts his mouth on hers.
She’s wealthy. He’s not. She gives him all she has—she gives him her mouth, her body, her praise. She kisses him. They help one another take off their clothes, making a nest in the sand. When they’re both naked, Emily presses her lips against his chest, his belly, his groin, his eyes. She has heard about what girls can do to boys—it’s always seemed ludicrous—but caresses now come to her as if they’re all her own idea, the first time on this earth. Ben’s breathing hard, shuddering, beautiful in the moonlight, and his hands are on her breasts. He rolls her on her back and rises above her. The sand shifts beneath her as she opens her legs. He says her name.
Like a diver on the cliff, he holds back. She moves her hips and then, to her surprise, she sees the flash of his teeth—she sees him smile.
She feels him stay. He’s waiting. He’s taking his time. He’s in control as he looks at her face, her neck, her breasts.
He is taking possession.
He moves inside her. He’s a diver, she’s a rising wave. She wraps her arms and legs around him. He is hers now, he is really hers.
When Shane Anderson agrees to accompany Maggie to the gala, she’s pleased. Most island girls would be delirious to have a date with Shane. He’s drop-dead handsome, a stocky guy, strong, muscular, athletic, and a serious fisherman when he’s not working for his father’s contracting firm.
He likes Maggie. A lot. She’s aware of that, although she’s never much cared. She’s too busy thinking of the world beyond high school.
Tonight she tucks her tiny Canon digital camera and a small notebook and pen into the evening bag Thaddeus’s mother, Clarice, once used, a shiver of excitement zapping through her as she does. She slips her feet into the high stilettos she found at the Seconds Shop, and studies herself in her bedroom mirror. Emily’s silver dress is form-fitting on Maggie, but not vulgar. She’s wearing just a touch of makeup—this gala is outside, and the sun stays out late into the evening. She doesn’t want to overdo it.
Frances leans into the open doorway. “You look stunning, darling.”
“Really?” Maggie peers over her shoulder. No, her bum doesn’t look big in this dress.
“Really. You’re a knockout. Now stop admiring yourself. Shane’s RAV4 just pulled into the driveway.”
“I hope the seat belt doesn’t wrinkle my dress,” Maggie worries as Shane drives his SUV along Madaket Road. “I know I’m babbling, Shane, and I apologize. It’s just that I’ve always been on the fringe of these summer galas. Last year I helped bus plates from the tables in the tent for the Boys and Girls Club. Have you ever been to one of these events?”
“Oh, yeah,” Shane says casually, casting a lazy smile at Maggie. “Let’s see, I’ve helped set up the tents for lots of parties, and I’ve opened oysters for Spanky’s Raw Bar at some of the events, and—”
“I don’t mean that!” Maggie interrupts. “I mean as a guest. All snazzed up.” She pauses to take in Shane in all his glory, wide shoulders bulking out a navy blazer, white shirt setting off his gleaming brown hair and eyes, confidence simply steaming from his pores. “You look good.”
“You look kinda nice yourself,” Shane replies. He’s a man of few words.
But he’s got a sensible head on his wide shoulders. When he sees all the cars parked in front of Beverly Hall’s house, he insists on dropping Maggie by the front gate rather than making her walk the dirt road in her high heels.
“Oh, thanks, Shane,” Maggie gushes. “I’m already nervous about walking on the grass in these shoes, I’m afraid I’ll sink right into the sod.”
Shane smiles in a way that would make most women her age faint. “I’ll support you.”
When he returns from parking the car, Shane takes Maggie’s arm and escorts her through a gate along paving stones into a magical world. Separate paths lined by fragrant greenery wind in various directions, toward the seductive musical song of the water garden, to the labyrinth, to the des
ert garden with its bell and stones. In the forefront the house spreads like no house Maggie has ever seen, long and brilliant with sliding glass doors, statuary, porches, and decks. At one end of the garden a bar is set up. Shane settles Maggie on a stone bench where she snaps photos while he fetches her a drink. They stroll toward the other end of the garden, where a stage is set beneath a pergola hanging with lush ripe grapes. Colorful shawls from India are draped over chairs set out for the audience to the play.
Dazzling people are everywhere.
“I’m a little nervous about interviewing this artistic bunch,” Maggie whispers.
Shane bends close to her ear. “Our coach tells us to do twenty-five jumping jacks before running out to the field. That pumps up our adrenaline and chases off the jitters.”
“Well, thanks for that advice, but pardon me if I don’t take it,” says Maggie, but she’s grateful he’s made her laugh. Seeing a couple she vaguely recognizes, she decides to dive right in.
“Hello, I’m Maggie McIntyre, I’m here for Nantucket Glossy, and I’ve been admiring your dress. I wonder whether you’d allow me to photograph you and your … husband?”
“Of course,” the woman says, quickly smoothing her hair. She leans into her companion while Maggie snaps shots. The woman quite happily provides their names. Maggie introduces Shane, and the two couples chat briefly about the weather, the summer, this party, before Maggie waggles her fingers and takes her leave to photograph others.
Here, at her first assignment, Maggie learns that most people love the thought of being in the magazine. The women adjust their dresses, their hair, and sidle sideways, exposing their best profile. Shane is the perfect date, keeping Maggie supplied with ice water—everyone else is drinking wine, but she wants to keep her wits about her—and holding her elbow when they cross the grass. Waiters, many of whom Maggie knows personally, glide past with trays of bacon-wrapped scallops, miniature quiches, fresh shrimp, and curried mussels, then disappear into the house when the gong is rung and the play begins.
The actors step out from behind the tapestries draped on screens. Their robes are sumptuous, velvet and satin set with opulent jewels. On this mid-August evening, this passage from Shakespeare’s comedy, wonderfully acted and articulated by island actors, easily draws laughter and applause from the crowd.
Afterward, Maggie finally summons up the courage to take a picture of the renowned photographer, their hostess, Beverly Hall, and as the setting sun draws the crowd to the water side of the house, Maggie whispers to Shane that she’s ready to leave.
“My notebook is full and my feet are killing me,” she confesses.
Shane brings the SUV around and actually steps out to open the door for her and hand her in. Maggie sighs as she leans her head back against the seat.
“Poor you,” Shane says. “Talking to the beautiful people, eating gourmet food, and receiving pay for it. What a job.”
“I know.” Maggie sighs. “It’s hard, but someone’s got to do it.”
“I’m ready anytime you need me,” Shane tells Maggie.
Glancing over at him she reads his expression in the gathering twilight. She knows his words have at least two meanings.
Sorry not called. Busy being glamorous. Shane v. helpful. ☺ xoM
Emily scans the most recent text from Maggie on her cell phone. She’s glad Maggie’s so busy with her Nantucket Glossy evening work plus her day jobs. At some point, Emily knows she’s got to tell Maggie about what’s been happening between her and Ben. It will be difficult, because she knows the moment she says Ben’s name, Maggie will hear in Emily’s voice the dense heat of love Emily lives in now.
It’s as if they’re created anew. As if the whole world is created anew.
During the day, while Ben paints houses, Emily reads books about oceanography, keeping diligent notes. She’s headed to Smith, where she’s decided to major in environmental studies. They have a field station on Nantucket, and courses that apply to the island. After college, she’ll take a job at Maria Mitchell, until she and Ben marry and have their first baby. Emily and Ben discuss their dreams endlessly, as they walk on beaches, or make love in his barn loft, or in the back of his Jeep, or on a blanket in the dark moors. It’s all so rich, extreme, sensual … they’re not ready to discuss it with other people yet. Not yet. It is still their private treasure trove.
Marilyn O’Brien congratulates Maggie on her excellent photos and accompanying tidbits from the Shakespeare in the Garden party. She hires Maggie full time, for the next two weeks, to cover every possible event Maggie can attend. Thrilled, Maggie accepts.
One morning as she stumbles into the kitchen in her boxer shorts and tee shirt, hair mussed, last night’s mascara smeared under her eyes, she catches Ben just before he leaves for work. He’s clean-shaven and smells like soap. He seems to be in a good mood, so Maggie takes a chance. “Hey, Ben, would you ever go with me to one of the events I have to cover for Nantucket Glossy?”
“Too busy,” Ben says, snatching one of their mother’s cheese muffins to take out the door with him.
“But listen,” Maggie protests, “these events are at houses like palaces! The nibbles are gourmet, the crowd is full of fabulous people—”
Ben laughs, an unusual sound for him in the morning. “Thanks for inviting me, Mags, but I don’t think gourmet nibbles are quite what I’m up for this summer.” He goes out the door, whistling.
Maggie follows him to the door, wildly curious. “What’s turned you into Mister Merry Sunshine?” she yells.
Ben doesn’t answer, but he’s still smiling as he drives away.
Frances is at the table, finishing her second cup of coffee. “What about Shane?”
Maggie slumps in a chair across from her mother. “I don’t want to keep asking him. He’s acting kind of romantic, and I don’t feel that way about him.”
Frances lifts an eyebrow. “You’re the only girl on the island who doesn’t.”
“I know. But I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.”
“Do you have to bring a date?”
“I guess not …” Maggie pours herself a cup of coffee, adds sugar and milk, and leans against the kitchen counter, thinking. “It’s more fun with a friend.”
“Then have a talk with Shane,” Frances suggests. “Tell him how you feel.”
Maggie wrinkles her nose. “Maybe.” After a moment, she adds, “I think there’s something wrong with me. I’m missing the sex gene.”
Frances grins. “I doubt that very much. You just haven’t met the right fella.”
That night Shane accompanies Maggie to a round of art gallery openings. In Kathleen Knight’s Gallery on India Street, she takes her time chatting with people—by now she’s recognizing faces and remembering names. An older woman clad in several paisley shawls and a velvet turban catches Maggie’s eye, so Maggie searches her out, snaps a photo—she’s so colorful, she’ll make a sensational shot—and interviews her. She’s an artist, she tells Maggie, flashing bracelets and rings as she speaks about her glory days. Maggie takes notes, but she’s beginning to wonder if the woman’s tales are all true, when she notices that Shane has gotten himself trapped over by the food table.
Although trapped might not be Shane’s word, because his eyelids are drooping in a sexy look and he’s got a crooked grin on his face.
“Thank you,” Maggie says abruptly, leaving the flamboyant artist. She strolls across the large gallery, watching Shane. Yeah, she’s right, she thought she recognized the woman talking to him and she does. Woman, Maggie thinks, her mind caught on the word. Clementine Melrose is exactly Maggie’s age, eighteen, yet she gives off the aura of a sophisticated, elegant adult. A summer person whose parents have a house in ’Sconset near Emily’s, Clementine is tiny, part French, a ballet dancer who no longer studies ballet but still carries herself with the beautifully erect posture of a ballerina. Clementine’s not really pretty, but she’s sexy, each movement suggestively erotic.
Maggie
chews on a carrot stick, pretending to eye the rest of the food, watching Shane with her peripheral vision. He’s responding to Clementine, and why wouldn’t he? In all these weeks of accompanying her, Shane has never seen Maggie tilt her hips toward him as Clementine’s doing now. Maggie has never put her hand on his arm, drawing her fingers down into the palm of his big hand.
Jealousy spurts through Maggie. She doesn’t know if she wants Shane, but now she knows she doesn’t want anyone else to have him.
Maggie understands it’s time for her to grow up.
Tonight Maggie’s wearing a simple black dress she’s had for years. Her mother has cut the sleeves off so it’s cooler in the summer air, and as usual, Maggie has her long black hair pulled up and back into a high ponytail. She’s got on dramatic black eyeliner and heavy mascara, and she knows that even if she’s a lot bigger than petite Clementine Melrose, she’s bigger in all the right places.
Sauntering up to Shane, she slides next to him, leaning against the wall, her hip nudging his. “Hey, honey.”
Shane draws a deep breath. Maggie knows there are so many answers he could give. She’s never called him “honey” before. She’s never rubbed her hip against his. He looks down at her, his dark eyes serious, almost threatening. She can read the message. Quite clearly, he’s telegraphing her: Don’t toy with me.
With a cunningly innocent smile, Maggie reaches over to extend her hand to Clementine, at the same time managing to press her bosom into Shane’s arm. “Hi. I’m Maggie McIntyre. I’m taking photos for Nantucket Glossy and I’d love to take your photo if you don’t mind. You’re so gorgeous in that red dress.”
Clementine’s eyes narrow. She’s not certain what just happened, but she doesn’t like it. Shane’s attention now is completely focused on Maggie.
“I don’t think so,” Clementine replies, flustered. “I’m so tired. I only this minute arrived from France.”
“Oh, were you on a hiking trip?” Maggie inquires, subtly implying knapsacks full of unwashed socks.
“I live in Paris,” Clementine snaps, her eyes flashing. “Paris, and Nantucket in the summer.”
