by Nancy Thayer
He’s from another world, Maggie tells herself. She walks faster. They reach the top of the hill and find their way along the unlighted lane between the cottages.
“I was available for this party because I’m not attached to anyone presently,” Cameron clarifies. “I work on Wall Street, for a brokerage firm. I shout into phones and squint at computers all day, have too many scotches with the guys after work, and collapse with Chinese takeout at night. I was more than ready to come to the island for some fresh air.”
“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Maggie says formally.
Cameron catches her hand. “I’m enjoying myself right now.”
Maggie starts to pull away.
“Stop. Please.”
She stops. They stand on the cliff, facing each other, the winter wind buffeting them, their eyes catching moonlight.
Cameron says, “May I ask you a personal question?”
Warily, she answers, “Sure.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
She can hardly breathe. “No.”
He gazes at her face. “How is that possible?”
Proudly, Maggie lifts her chin. “I work very hard. When I don’t work, I read. I don’t have time for men.”
His eyes meet hers. His breath puffs into the air between them, so near she can smell liquor. “I wonder whether you could ever make time for me?”
This can’t be real, Maggie tells herself. Carelessly, she says, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Leaning down, he brings his mouth to hers. Their lips are cold from the night air, and then warm. They press against one another, but their coats are bulky and cumbersome between them.
Maggie draws away. “I have to go back to the house.” She walks so quickly she’s almost running.
Cameron follows without speaking. All along the bluff path the dark mansions loom up like mountains, until they see the Melrose house shining like a ship in the night.
Stillness waits in the kitchen. The Whites and all their pans and bowls have left, and all the appliances and counters gleam. From the door into the rest of the house come noises of an increasingly raucous New Year’s Eve celebration. Someone has turned on the television, and music is blasting away, and while they listen, laughter explodes from the living room.
Maggie says, “You should get back to the party.”
“Yes, all right.” Cameron starts to take her hand, then stops. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
He has no idea how brave Maggie feels when she says, “I—I would like that. I’d like that a lot.”
“Okay, then. I’m staying here at Clementine’s—” Hurriedly, he adds, “Not in her room. I’ll catch some sleep, call you tomorrow, and you pick me up. How does that sound?”
“That sounds wonderful,” she says.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Cameron takes her hand now, drawing them together.
They hurry through the garage out into the dark night. Lights from the house fall over the driveway where various vehicles, sleek sports cars, powerful four-wheel drive Jeeps and Range Rovers, are parked.
“Is one of these yours?” Cameron asks.
“No. I’m down the street.”
The privet hedges stand high and black as stone walls. They pass through the arch on to the narrow lane where Maggie’s old Bronco sits.
Cameron opens the door for her as if it’s a gilded carriage. “I’ll call you later today.”
She squeezes herself onto the seat behind the steering wheel. Cameron leans in, cups her face with his hand, and kisses her softly, a seal of heat and promise. Dazzled, Maggie puts her key into the ignition and drives away.
“Good morning, Maggie. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Maggie laughs. “It’s after noon, Cameron.”
“I wonder, could I take you to dinner tonight?”
Maggie hesitates. “What about your friends?”
“It’s all under control. I’ve had a sudden change of plans, have to go up to Maine to see my uncle, so I won’t be flying back to New York with everyone else. Instead, I’m doing taxi service.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s still uncomfortable.
“Clementine leaves at three,” Cameron continues. “I’ll drive her to the airport in my rented car and drop her off, then hang out until my own flight.”
Maggie’s so silent she thinks she can hear Cameron smiling.
“Or I might decide I like this island so much I’ll stay another night. I have a reservation at the Jared Coffin House. I hear they have an excellent restaurant. I was hoping I could take you there for dinner.”
What a setup, Maggie thinks. Dinner in a hotel restaurant? So he can take her to bed later? She’s surprised at how much the idea appeals. She wouldn’t mind that at all, not even if it’s only a fling. And maybe it could mean more …
“I’d love to have dinner with you,” Maggie tells him.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Cameron says.
The main dining room of the Jared Coffin House unfolds in lush patrician pastel hues, the walls hung with magnificent oil paintings of nineteenth-century whaling ships. Swan white tablecloths, fresh flowers, flicking candles create an aura of private luxury, and Keyo Raith, who graduated from Nantucket High School two years after Maggie, takes one look at Cameron and Maggie, then leads them to the most intimate table in the far corner. As she walks away from them, behind Cameron’s back, Keyo mouths, “Wow.”
Maggie has to grin. By tomorrow morning everyone will know where and with whom Maggie had dinner tonight.
She settles back in her chair, reading the menu. She’s wearing a little powder blue knit dress, very plain, very expensive—one of her mother’s discoveries at the Seconds Shop. It had been brought in with the store tags still dangling from the cuff of one sleeve; this often happened, summer people bought piles of clothes, then discarded them, tired of them before bothering to wear them. Her hair is loose, slightly subdued by violent measures with the blow dryer, held back with a blue headband. She wears no jewelry, and only lipstick. She knows her cheeks are flushed enough.
Cameron is wearing a camel hair blazer and a white shirt with gold links in the French cuffs.
“Explain, please,” he says. “I thought you said your family lives on the harbor, but I picked you up at a house on Orange Street here in town.”
“I’m living with my grandmother, Clarice. It works well for both of us. When I finished Wheaton last spring, I knew I wanted to return to the island. So I’m here, doing lots of odd jobs, writing in the summer for a local glossy mag, and …” She can’t help it. She wants to impress him, and she feels somehow that she can trust him. “And I’m working on a novel.”
“I see,” Cameron says, arching an eyebrow. “You are what my grandmother would call a bohemian.”
Maggie frowns, confused.
“Artistic, you know. Interesting. I’ve always wanted to be a bohemian,” Cameron continues, “but I’m just too dull.”
Maggie laughs. “Hardly.”
The waiter sets their first course, smoked salmon, before them.
“Sorry, it’s true, I work at an investment firm, and so do my two brothers. My father’s a tax lawyer. Mother volunteers for the library.” He brightens. “Although we do have two dogs, spaniels, and they’re allowed to sit on the sofa.”
“Ah, well,” Maggie says, relaxing into the spirit of the evening, “then you’re almost bohemian.”
“I read books, too,” he offers.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Maggie counters.
“You’d be surprised. The average American watches twenty-eight hours of television a week and reads three books a year.”
“You’re kidding! How do you know?”
Cameron shrugs. “I research stuff. I need to know what people like. So I hope you’re impressed with me now, because I do read.”
Maggie gives him an assessing eye. “How many books a year?”
“Probably, let’s see, two a month, that’s twenty-four. Not ba
d, don’t you think?”
She loves this little game, this sense that she has the upper hand, that he’s trying to impress her.
“What do you read?” she inquires as the waiter brings their swordfish.
“Thrillers. Love them, and you can’t tell me they’re inferior literature.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Maggie can’t believe how easily the conversation is flowing. She worried that she’d be too intimidated to eat in front of this cosmopolitan man, but by the time the waiter takes the dessert plates away, Maggie and Cameron are inclining toward one another across the table, comparing opinions. He can’t believe she’s never read The Count of Monte Cristo. They both love Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books and argue fiercely over the movie adaptations.
They’re the only ones left in the dining room. How can the evening have gone by so fast?
“I’ll tell you one book that I’m definitely going to read,” Cameron says.
“What’s that?”
“Your novel.”
She takes a deep breath. How nice of him to remember that she wants to write a novel. How kind of him to assume it will be published. She’s tongue-tied.
The maître d’ hovers near the door, pretending to be busy with a chart on his podium.
“We should let the poor man go home,” Cameron whispers.
Maggie gathers up her purse and rises, slightly unsteady on her high heels. In an instant, Cameron’s next to her, his hand supporting her elbow. That touch sends a flash of fire through her blood. The intoxicating softness that she floated on all through dinner vanishes like a mist, leaving her hyper-alert.
Cameron leads her out to the reception room and finds their coats, helps her slide into hers, pulls his on, and taking her by the hand, leads her outside. They stand at the top of the steps for a moment, looking out at the town. Small Christmas trees march in rows up and down the streets, twinkling with lights. Above the shops, here and there, lights shine from windows shaped like fans. It’s almost midnight.
“Would you like to see my room?” Cameron asks.
Standing on the steps, her hand in Cameron’s, Maggie feels perched on the end of a diving board. It’s her choice: to jump or to retreat.
She says, “Yes.”
He leads her across Centre Street to the annex, and up the stairs. He unlocks the door and ushers her inside. The room is large and graceful, with a silky Persian rug spread over gleaming wooden floors. A tapestry fire screen stands in front of the fireplace, the fabric portraying a pineapple, a Nantucket symbol of welcome. The canopy bed, side tables, and chest of drawers are antique. The only modern touch is the television in the armoire. A deep crimson armchair is next to a window overlooking Broad Street.
“Beautiful room,” Maggie says.
“Beautiful woman,” Cameron replies, and leaning forward, he kisses her.
She falls back against the wall, surrendering. All she’s thought about all day is Cameron. She’s nervous, but he’s gentle, telling her she’s beautiful over and over again until she believes it, although he’s the one who shines as his pale body arches over her, like a crescent moon spilling light.
When they wake, a bar of daylight lies between the drapes. Maggie stirs her limbs luxuriously among the tangled Egyptian cotton sheets.
Cameron opens his eyes, yawning. “Good morning,” he whispers.
“Good morning.”
He starts to kiss her, but she pulls away. “I need a toothbrush.”
“Use mine.” When she hesitates, he chuckles. “I think we’ve gotten intimate enough for that.”
Brazen, she runs naked into the bathroom. The tile floor thrills her feet with its chill, and the minty tang of toothpaste makes her entire body feel fresh and clean. Her reflection in the mirror is flushed, full blown, like a rose. Her breasts seem fuller than they did yesterday, her whole body has ripened overnight. As she walks back to bed, she doesn’t mind a bit that Cameron lies there feasting his eyes on her.
They snuggle together in the warm bed, intertwining their knees, hers, smooth; his, thick with downy hair. Plumping and folding pillows, they recline, staring at each other.
With the lightest of touches, he draws his fingers along her mouth, around her jaw, down her throat, along her collarbone. His hazel eyes follow his fingers, as if he’s memorizing her. In turn, she gazes at him, fascinated by the milky hues of his skin. His narrow rib cage seems sheathed in an envelope of white silk, with fine, very blond hair curling over his chest. Near his left nipple is one small pink mole, but otherwise his arms and torso are unmarked by freckles or blemishes. Reaching out, she touches his chest, drawing her hand down to his hip. The silky linen duvet makes a shivery sound as she sits up.
He says, “Tell me more about your family.”
“Well … let’s see.” Maggie shifts her gaze from his body. “My mother is like a magician. She used to sew for women, rich women, and she could make the most beautiful clothes. Now she’s married to my stepfather, and she’s turned his big old house from a kind of storage locker into a warm, comfortable, cozy home. She bakes. She’s tamed the yard around the house and she’s become an avid birder, so she’s planted all sorts of bushes and put up bird feeders. Even in the coldest winter, we can sit in the kitchen and look out at cardinals, brilliant red against the white snow.”
“She sounds like a fairy-tale mother.”
“She’s wonderful. Well, to continue the fairy-tale motif, Thaddeus, my stepfather, is the beast her love has transformed into a prince. He’s huge and gruff, likes to pretend he’s fierce but really he’s softhearted. Then there’s Ben, my brother. Two years older than me. So smart, and incredibly handsome—at least every female I’ve ever met starts drooling when he walks into the room.”
“Do you like him?”
“My brother? Of course I like him. Sure, we sometimes fight, but I adore him.”
“You’re lucky to have such a family.”
“Tell me about your family.”
Cameron sighs. “You understand, we had nannies and boarding schools, and all that. A lot less time together watching cardinals out the window, you might say. More time schmoozing with the right people. My brothers and I work for different brokerage houses. We’re a bit competitive, and our father likes it that way. So family is kind of a profession for us.”
“Like the royal family.”
“More like a money-making system. Each person has a job to keep the mighty engine working. I want my own family to be different.”
“Tell me,” Maggie urges.
“I’d like a big house with porches all around upon which I can sit at night and watch my unruly brood of kids catch fireflies. I’ll work in the city, commute home every night to my wife and children.” His hand moves along her arm, the side of his warm palm grazing her breast. “I intend to love the woman I marry.”
He stops talking, and gently turns Maggie’s face toward his. He tenderly kisses her. This is the most intimate connection she’s ever had with any person in her life, and as she wraps herself around him, Maggie surrenders her body and her soul.
They have a delicious room service breakfast of cheese omelets and Nantucket beach plum jam on toast. When they’re drinking the last of their coffee, Cameron says, “I hate this. I’ve got to go back to the city.”
Maggie’s heart sinks. So soon. He’s leaving so soon.
“I wish I didn’t have to leave today,” Cameron tells her.
“I know. I wish that, too.” Maggie turns to him so he can zip up the back of her dress.
“You think you could come down to New York any time?” he asks.
She’s glad he can’t see her face. Come to the city? Doesn’t this imply a kind of commitment?
“Cameron …” She pauses, uncertain of her words. She wants to be straight with him. She wants everything between them to be honest. Turning, she faces him and says, “You and I don’t exactly run in the same crowd.”
Cameron also
takes time forming his thoughts. “True. That’s why I want to see more of you, Maggie. You’re a breath of fresh air. You’re not old school, rah-rah, like everyone else. You’re unique.” He smiles. “You’re bohemian and you make me believe I could be that way, too, with luck.”
Maggie laughs. “What an ambition. I’d love to come in.”
“Good.” He pulls her to him in a tight embrace. Kissing the top of her head, he murmurs, “I’ll phone you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Maggie says, carelessly. With his warm arms around her, and his steady heart beating powerfully against her chest, she feels a contentment she’s never felt before.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emily phones Ben from the mainland to ask him to meet her on New Year’s Day at her parents’ home on the bluff. He agrees, but doesn’t offer to pick her up at the airport. Good. This will make it even easier to break off with him.
Emily doesn’t tell Maggie she’s coming. This is between her and Ben. She doesn’t intend to stay more than the one night, and she’s only spending the night because no planes or boats leave after eight o’clock. Arriving at the Nantucket airport, she’s dressed casually: jeans, cashmere crewneck, down jacket, and carrying only a small overnight bag. A taxi takes her to the house on the cliff.
Inside the giant empty house, she turns on all the lights and turns up the heat, then sets about making a fire with the cherrywood stacked next to the fireplace. She flips some of the dust covers off the chairs and sofa and unceremoniously dumps them on the rug. Ben won’t notice the décor. Probably he won’t stay very long. She imagines that when she tells him she’s breaking off with him for good, he’ll slam out the door. It will be hard—it breaks her heart—but she has to do it. It’s good to start the new year clean.
In the kitchen she digs out the coffee, sweetener, and container of creamer. After two mugs, she stops, realizing the caffeine is only making her jumpier and more nervous.
At six o’clock, the doorbell rings.
On the front porch, Ben stands very straight, shoulders back, looking handsome and serious and vaguely military—at attention.
