by Nancy Thayer
Maggie’s cheerful chatter passes over Emily like smoke from incense. Her spirits lift, her heart lightens. They agreed that this weekend they would focus only on the positive. They would be young, forget about men and marriage and all that, and have fun, two girlfriends at the holiday season.
Friday night they party with friends, eating, talking, laughing, until they fall into bed at Clarice’s, thoroughly hoarse and exhausted. The next day at the craft fair, they buy each other matching cashmere scarves, Nantucket sister scarves, they say, only half-kidding. The weather is chilly, crisp enough to make them need their coats as they stroll the cobblestone streets, petting pooches decked out in antlers or wreaths, listening to the Victorian singers, lunching in the tent on hot dogs and cold beer. At the writer’s cocktail party, they flirt with everyone, munch on shrimp, scallops, and lobster, drink champagne, and signal each other with their eyes when they spot huge ruby necklaces, emerald rings, diamond Christmas tree pins. It really is a scene here, and when Emily meets people, she listens carefully and files their names into her mind for the future when she’ll work at the science museum and be involved in fund-raisers.
Ben doesn’t know Emily’s on the island. If she runs into him, she’ll act terribly casual, and Maggie will be her buffer. But Emily doesn’t run into him.
After the party, she and Maggie sit up in Clarice’s living room by the fire, in their flannel pajamas, drinking hot chocolate and eating sugar cookies, talking until three in the morning.
It almost kills Emily not to mention Cameron. She can’t help feeling like a weasel, keeping such an important secret from her oldest best friend, but they have agreed not to talk about men this weekend … And Emily hasn’t slept with Cameron. She has gone out with him several times, to events she totally enjoyed, which Ben would have no interest in. The Metropolitan Opera. An art opening. A couple of dinners at new fusion restaurants. It’s such a luxury to have these provocative hours out in the city, to steal away from her desk, her computer, her texts, notes, and schoolwork, to toss off her sweatshirt and jeans and slip into a little black dress and high heels. Cameron’s a charming date, attentive but never possessive. A gentleman. He hasn’t tried to seduce her into bed again. But he’s definitely biding his time.
Will there be a time? Emily doesn’t know. She knows Maggie has her own concerns. Maggie would like to be in love. She would like to be with someone. Maggie’s worried about the island, too, the way it’s changing in so many ways.
On Sunday morning, when Maggie drives Emily back to the airport, they’re both tired and sleep-deprived.
“At least we’re not hungover,” Maggie murmurs from behind the steering wheel.
“Right.” Emily nods. “A sure sign of adulthood.”
“Emily, I know I wasn’t going to bring Ben up, but … never mind. I’ll phrase it another way. Are you coming here for Christmas?”
Emily’s glad Maggie’s asked this now, when it’s almost time for her to leave the island. “I’m going to spend Christmas Day with my parents in New York. Plus, I’ve got so much work to do, Maggie.”
“I thought the semester was over.”
“It doesn’t work that way when you’re a graduate student with a long-term project. I’ve got tons of research to do on water quality, reports to compile—”
Maggie interrupts. “Poor you.”
“No, it’s fine. My parents will do the tree, the big dinner, the whole celebration bit and I’ll be free to work. It’s all for a good cause, remember? When I finally return here, I’ll have gained some expertise and some authority.”
“It’s only another year, right?”
“Right.”
Maggie pulls the Bronco into the parking lot they were in just two days before. Switching off the ignition, she turns to face Emily. “I miss you. Ben misses you.”
“I miss you and Ben.” Emily dips her face down as she adjusts her cashmere scarf around her neck.
“I wish you lived here,” Maggie says.
“I will.” Emily reaches out to hug Maggie, this spontaneous, ebullient, warm, loving friend, her Nantucket sister. “I promise.”
“How was your trip to Nantucket?” Cameron asks.
Emily runs her finger around her wineglass. They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of a noisy Italian restaurant on Fifty-fifth Street.
It’s Sunday evening. Emily phoned Cameron from the taxi coming in from JFK. He asked her to dinner, and she agreed to meet him. She feels guilty, of course, and slightly embarrassed to seem so keen to see him—but she also feels excited and wants to go.
Slow down, she advises herself. Be truthful. “Exactly what I needed,” Emily tells him. “I’ve tried to explain this to my parents, but they don’t appreciate it, the connection I feel to the island. It was wonderful seeing Maggie again, and the Stroll is always a blast, but it’s the island that lights me up. The way it’s always the same yet always different. The colors on the water in the harbor—more shades of blue than there are names. The sense of safety, of being home, the way the boats blow their horns when they leave or arrive, the lights flashing from the lighthouses … I can’t explain it.”
“I’m actually going to spend New Year’s Eve on Nantucket,” Cameron tells her.
“You are?” Emotions shower down through Emily: surprise, jealousy, anxiety—not good emotions, and she can’t decide whether she doesn’t want Cameron on her island or whether she’s worried that he’ll be with another woman.
“Mmm.” Cameron swallows a bit of his Bloody Mary. “Clementine Melrose invited me.”
“Clementine Melrose. I know Clementine.” Emily becomes terribly interested in her tilapia. Clementine is her age, spends half her year in Paris, is très petite and while she’s not beautiful, she’s chic and sexy.
“We’ve been friends for a long time,” Cameron says slowly. “Clementine’s broken up with her boyfriend and asked me to come so she won’t be alone.”
“Nice of you.” Emily can’t keep the wry tone from her voice.
Cameron leans forward. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Won’t you be on Nantucket yourself, with Ben?”
Emily puts down her fork. She smooths the linen napkin in her lap. “I don’t think so, Cameron … Ben and I haven’t been talking much recently. I think it’s possible that Ben and I are over. We are so different …” As always, guilt flushes through her when she speaks about Ben to Cameron. “I’ll be here for Christmas with my parents. I’ve been invited to a bunch of parties on New Year’s Eve, so I’ll stay in Manhattan.” Looking up, she meets Cameron’s eyes. He’s watching her carefully, intent on her words.
“Do you mind if I go to Nantucket?” Cameron asks.
She clears her throat, then, in a low voice, she admits, “You know, I think I do.”
Cameron leans back in his chair with a huge grin on his face. “Good.” He lifts his water glass as if making a triumphant toast. “I would change my plans, but Clementine’s father is one of my clients, and I try to keep everyone who invests with me happy.”
“I understand,” Emily says, and she does.
After dinner, without discussing it, they slowly wander over to his apartment on East Sixty-third. The doorman’s face remains stony with dignity as he bids them good evening, as if Emily isn’t yet another of Cameron’s conquests being led to the kill.
Emily’s nervous. As they enter Cameron’s apartment, she focuses on the décor, a masculine mixture of old and new: fat leather sofa, chrome lamp, enormous wide screen television, antique Persian rug on the living room floor.
“Would you like some wine?”
“Sorry, what?” Emily blushes, knowing she’s been caught off guard.
Cameron slides her cashmere coat off her shoulders and tosses it casually onto the sofa. “I don’t think I want any more wine,” she says. “I want to be totally present.” Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her. His kiss is slow and gentle. She wraps her arms around him. He slides his hands down her back, pressing her bo
dy against his. His kiss becomes more passionate, and he breaks away from her only long enough to capture her wrist and tug her after him into his bedroom. One sweep of his arm, and his down comforter falls away from the bed. They fall onto it, still clothed, too excited to stop.
She wants him as much as she’s wanted anything, with an urgency she can’t repress. She tugs up her skirt, kicks off her shoes, wrestles with her underwear. When he enters her, it’s so fiercely good, Emily bites her lip.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Two days after Christmas, Greta White phones Maggie.
“Honey, I’m cooking a zillion-course fancy meal on New Year’s Eve for a party out at Clementine Melrose’s in ’Sconset and my assistant, Diane, had a death in the family and had to leave for a week and I’m in desperate need of help. Can you work for me?”
“Clementine Melrose.” Maggie hesitates. She knows who Clementine is, stinking rich, pencil thin, and haughty. “Is it going to be terribly formal?”
“Probably. I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour, plus they should tip us nicely, seeing as it’s New Year’s Eve.”
“I’ll do it,” Maggie decides.
“God bless you,” Greta says.
At six-thirty on New Year’s Eve, Maggie drives her clunking old Bronco out to Baxter Road. The big blue van with “Greta’s Gourmet” painted on the side is parked about four houses away from the Melrose house, because in the Melrose driveway are parked two Range Rovers and a Mercedes four-wheel drive.
Maggie parks behind Greta’s van and steps out into the crisp night. As she walks toward the house, she hears the great black ocean rolling and turning in its winter sleep.
Maggie finds the side entrance to the garage and the door leading into the kitchen. Greta and Artie are already there, having arrived earlier to set up the bar, arrange the table, and organize the kitchen.
“Let me look at you,” Greta tells Maggie after she’s hung her coat in the back hall.
Greta’s completely in white, white shirt and slacks, white apron, white sneakers, and her short, practical white hair’s tucked under a white chef’s cloche. She runs a critical eye up and down Maggie and pronounces, “Perfect. I hope you wore comfortable shoes.”
Maggie’s glad Greta approves. She spent some of her hard-earned money on this ensemble, a plain black skirt with a discreet slit up one side, and a simple white shirt of cotton and Lycra, which fits her like a glove and looks as expensive as it was, one hundred dollars, half price at Murray’s Toggery. Her mother’s pearls lie cool against her neck and chest, they’ll show only when she bends forward. Her curly black hair is tamed tonight, caught up in a French twist with a few strands spiraling down each side of her face.
She’s not wearing comfortable shoes at all—let Greta, who’s old and married, wear comfortable shoes. Maggie’s wearing strappy black evening sandals that make her legs look long and her figure sleek. Well, as sleek as someone with her curves can look.
It’s only a little after seven. Everyone’s upstairs dressing for the evening.
Greta shows Maggie where she’ll be serving.
It’s a wonderful house. The living room and dining room stretch along the ocean side, with great expanses of plate-glass windows framing the view. Both rooms have fireplaces with flames flickering, casting a golden glow into the air, and on the mantels and windowsills and tables and along the mahogany sideboard, tall tapers wait to be lighted to cast their soft illumination over the guests. Sofas, armchairs, windows, all are upholstered in flowery summer pastels, the material slightly faded and worn, subtly announcing: You can relax here, settle back, put your feet up, enjoy life. Multicolored banners reading: HAPPY NEW YEAR! are draped over mirrors and paintings. Streamers and helium-filled balloons hang in the air like enchanted trees.
Artie has set up the bar by the living room window overlooking the front yard. Glasses and bottles glitter there, and dishes of cashews and olives.
Maggie helps Greta set the dining room table. The heavy white cloth has already been spread down the length of the table, and cut glass bowls of spring flowers—irises, roses, daffodils, tulips, a fortune of flowers—decorate the table, alternating with white- and rose-colored candles. The women lay out the heavy silver, fold the thick white napkins, place the water glasses and wineglasses in perfect alignment with the rest of the table setting.
“We won’t light the candles until they’re coming in for dinner,” Greta tells Maggie.
Back in the kitchen, Maggie washes lettuce, spins it dry, tosses it into a large wooden bowl to wait for the dressing, and covers it with a damp paper towel. She’s intent on her task—she doesn’t want to disappoint Greta—so she doesn’t hear the door from the dining room open.
“Hi, Greta,” a woman says, and Maggie turns to see Clementine Melrose standing there.
Clementine comes by her sophistication naturally. Her father, Dr. Melrose, is a dapper, almost antique little man, a devout Francophile who speaks with a French accent because he and his family spend half of their year in France. Mrs. Melrose has the tendonstrung scrawniness of a chicken’s foot, but Clementine looks drop-dead chic. Clementine’s only five feet tall, and tonight she looks like she weighs less than the gold jewelry hanging around her neck. Her dark hair, sliced in an asymmetrical cut, is set off by a jagged long-sleeved crimson crinkle of sheer chiffon that screams Paris.
Clementine’s dark eyes whip over Maggie with the same frank assessing stare she gives the canapés waiting on their silver tray. “Maggie, right?” She says the name as a challenge. They’ve run into each other briefly over the years, and Maggie’s got a suspicion from the way Clementine’s eyes narrow that she remembers the night at the art gallery four years ago when Clementine flirted with Shane only to have Maggie sidle up and steal him away.
“Right. Hello, Clementine.”
Clementine sniffs. She addresses her remarks to Greta. “Everyone will be down in a few minutes. Wait until, oh, let’s say eight-fifteen before sending Maggie around with the caviar and oysters, okay? And be sure, Maggie”—Clementine flicks a look her way—“to carry napkins with you. No one wants sauce or oil on her dress.”
Maggie considers curtsying and saying “Yes, Your Highness,” but restrains herself to a simple “Of course,” which Clementine doesn’t notice, because she’s already on her way out of the kitchen.
From the front hall, a grandfather clock strikes eight mellow notes, and soon after that footsteps sound on the front stairs.
Maggie and Greta hurry. Greta broils the marinated oysters, Maggie puts the doilies on the silver platters, and places the cocktail napkins close to hand.
At eight-fifteen, Maggie slides through the door to the dining room, carrying a platter of succulent oysters.
The living room is crowded with people. Artie, wearing a tux, stands behind the bar looking blank-faced, an automaton waiting for his orders. Maggie composes her face into a similar pleasant mask that signals: I am here only to serve. I cannot hear. I cannot see. I cannot judge. Maggie passes through the room, offering the platter and a napkin to each guest, saying nothing—those were her instructions, not to speak, unless a guest asks a question.
Six women and six men, just her age, laugh and chatter and collect their drinks at the bar. The men are all in formal wear, their shoulders are broad beneath their jackets’ black fabric. The women wear dresses in splendid colors: crimson, daffodil, azure, apricot. They look like goddesses.
Maggie presents her tray to a man whose blond hair flops charmingly into his hazel eyes.
“Thank you,” he says to Maggie.
She nods politely without speaking and starts to move on, but he lightly touches her arm. “Excuse me, but have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” she tells him, thinking she would definitely remember.
“Well, then, hello. I’m Cameron Chadwick.”
She’s not sure what to do. At other island parties she’s worked, lines blur, but here at Clementine’s, she’s uncomfortable ta
lking to a guest. “I’m Maggie McIntyre.”
He’s holding her with his eyes. “Do you live on the island?”
“I do. My family has a house on the Polpis Harbor—”
“Maggie,” Clementine snaps, wrenching Maggie’s attention away from the man. “I’ll take one.”
Maggie turns to offer Clementine a canapé.
Clementine takes Cameron’s arm with a possessive grasp. “Let me introduce you to the other guests so you have someone to talk to.” She steers Cameron away.
Maggie makes the rounds with her tray. As she does, she feels Cameron’s eyes on her. When she pushes the door into the kitchen, she looks over her shoulder. He’s still watching her. And smiling.
In the kitchen, Greta says, “Honey! You’re as red as a lobster. Is it too hot in there? Should we turn down the thermostat?”
“I’m fine,” Maggie says.
“Yes, well, but we don’t want the guests dropping dead from heat exhaustion!”
“No, it’s fine,” Maggie insists. But her hands are shaking.
Dinner is served at nine. By now the guests are well lubricated with champagne, everyone talks and laughs, everyone is having a wonderful time.
Maggie moves around the table like a ghost, setting the first course, sliced duck breast in Grand Marnier and hot brown peasant bread and fresh unsalted butter before them. She retreats to the kitchen to help Greta lift the broiled swordfish steaks and beef filets onto a platter, peeks through the door—they’ve finished the duck—and hurries out to remove the plates. She removes, as she was taught, from the left, and when she carries the platter of meat around, she serves from the right. She sets the platter of meat on the sideboard, covers it with a silver lid, steps into the kitchen to take the bowl of roast vegetables from Greta while Artie follows her with a dish of mashed potatoes—Greta and Clementine agreed that men love mashed potatoes. Artie glides around the room filling the glasses with red and white wine, while Maggie uses silver tongs to distribute piping hot rolls to the bread plate above the forks.
