by Nancy Thayer
Maggie’s kind of nervous with so much time and contentment. She’s great at pulling herself up by her bootstraps and trudging onward, but being in love with a great guy who loves her and her daughter, too, is almost more than she can comprehend. When she confides her anxieties to Tyler, he grins knowingly.
“Ah, Maggie.” He squeezes her shoulder. “You know what you have to do, don’t you? You have to start writing again.”
“Gosh, I think you’re right.” She’s stunned by his insight. “Now I really am anxious,” she tells him, only partly joking.
She begins a routine, writing for one hour in the late morning, after Heather’s gone to preschool and the house is relatively tidy. She takes out the novel she was working on, and rereads it with a critical eye. She starts over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Oh, Cameron! Come see!” Emily bends over her daughter to tweak the petal of one of the daffodils into perfect position on Serena’s headband. Bending down to her daughter’s level, she coos, “Serena, you look like the princess of spring!”
Serena twirls away, watching her yellow and white net skirt flutter around her legs, which are covered in yellow tights. It’s Daffodil Festival Weekend on Nantucket, and the entire family is going to take part in the parade, which starts on Main Street in town with an antique car display and finishes in ’Sconset with elaborate tailgate lunches.
Cameron has joined them, just for today, but he has come with them, flying with Emily, Serena, and Emily’s parents last night from Manhattan to open up the Porter house on the bluff. He’s agreed to wear the straw boater with a yellow seersucker ribbon, like the one Emily made for her father, and a yellow vest. With his chiseled face and his blond hair, he looks like he came right off a Wheaties box.
“Daddy’s outside with Granddad,” Serena calls from the living room window. “I’m going to show them.” She scurries away.
Emily follows. Her father and Cameron are in the driveway, decorating their un-antique Range Rover with huge yellow bows. One on the front grille, one on the back, and smaller ones hanging from the door handles.
“Daddy, look at me, look!” Serena calls, running to her father.
Cameron sweeps her up into his arms, spins her around, and sets her down on the driveway. “Serena, you are as pretty as a daffodil!”
Serena giggles and poses. She adores her father and when he has time to be with her, no one else exists. Cameron squats down to readjust the yellow ribbon around her waist. Emily watches, her heart swelling with gratitude. Cameron is good with Serena. Their two heads are on the same level now, as Cameron turns her around in order to retie the big yellow bow at the back of her dress. Their two heads: Cameron’s shining blond, and Serena’s glossy black. People have remarked, occasionally, on the oddity of two blond parents having a daughter with such extremely dark hair, such vivid blue eyes, but the remarks are merely conversational. No one has expressed any doubt about Serena’s paternity, not even Cameron’s parents.
“God. I look like Big Bird,” says Cara.
Emily turns to see her mother enter the living room, wearing camel trousers, a yellow cashmere sweater, and the sweater Emily made for the three females out of feather boas she found at an accessory store.
“I was afraid you’d be cold,” Emily tells her mother. “It can be chilly here in April. And you look fantastic like that, Mother.”
“No, I look fat.” Cara tosses the feathery garment off. “I’ll wear a jacket.”
“But I wanted the three of us to match—”
“Sorry, sweetie, but I’m not coming down with pneumonia for that.”
Emily starts to argue, then stops. All right. So what. She’s trying to make everything perfect, because she’s beyond thrilled that they are all here together on this traditional Nantucket holiday. Cameron’s been preoccupied and aloof, not attending Serena’s ballet recital, and flying off God-knows-where more often than usual. Work, he claims, always work; she knew when she married him he was a workaholic, he says. Emily has been patient and understanding.
And who knows, perhaps her patience actually paid off, because over the past two weeks, Cameron’s been more available to her, more present in his family’s life. He’s been home several nights in time to have dinner with them and to bathe Serena, read her a story, and tuck her into bed. He’s taken Emily out to dinner and asked her about her committees, and laughed at her description of some of his bosses’ wives, and confessed he was sometimes awfully tired of this daily grind. That night, after dinner and a good bottle of wine, when they went home, they made love. Emily didn’t have to seduce him; Cameron made the first move.
Now he’s joined them for Daffodil Weekend on Nantucket. Maybe only for one night, but he’s here for the big day, the parade, the tailgate picnic, and Serena can hardly bring herself to leave his side.
Watching from the doorway, Emily studies her husband as he unrolls a length of yellow ribbon to drape across the tailgate of their SUV. He’s speaking with Serena, telling her where to hold the end of the ribbon, and he’s so handsome with his gleaming blond hair and his aristocratic profile that Emily can’t help but admire him. She does love him. She’s not in love with him, but it’s okay, more than okay. It may be that this sensible kind of love will weather better than the overwhelming and irrational passion she shared with Ben.
Ben. She wonders if she’ll see him this weekend, accidentally. She could say hello as they pass on the busy cobblestoned street …
She emailed Maggie to ask if they could get together, but Maggie responded that she and Heather were involved in a whirlwind of parties and picnics. They’d have no time to talk … couldn’t they meet sometime this summer, the four of them, all girls, when no one else was around and they could have a good old chat?
How’s Ben? Emily had casually asked. Email was great for this sort of thing; no one could see her face, watch her cheeks flush, hear her voice tremble.
Ben’s fabulous! Maggie emailed back. Maggie’s words stung Emily’s heart.
“Mommy! Mommy! Daddy says we’re ready!”
Emily and Cara bring out the picnic baskets. Emily’s father follows. Most of the necessities, folding chairs, folding table, tablecloth, flowers, dishes, silver, were already put in the back of the car this morning. The five settle into the car, Serena bouncing with such excitement Emily can hardly fasten her seat belt.
Main Street is roped off for the display of antique cars. They find a place on Union Street to park, and walk into town. Cameron carries Serena on his shoulders. Emily runs alongside, snapping photos. The weather has been kind this year. The yards and window boxes fountain with daffodils, narcissus, and jonquils, in all shades of yellow and cream. A pale green canopy of new leaves extends over the brick sidewalks, casting shadows that dance in the slight breeze.
Main Street is lined three abreast with amazing cars—antique Bentleys, well-tended woodies, ’59 Chevy Impalas, old fire trucks, VW buses—all swathed with flowers and ribbons and bows and shining like the sun. Women wear tiaras, crowns, and necklaces of daffodils, and of course the dogs are the most decked out of all, with daffodil collars and yellow suede coats and banana-bright bandannas.
Cameron sets Serena on the pavement so she can skip along, giggling, pointing, petting the dogs, squealing when they lick her face. Hundreds of people throng through the aisles, bending down to look inside at the creamy yellow leather of an antique Jaguar, or standing on tiptoe to catch a photo of the yellow balloons tied to the antennae of an old police paddy wagon.
Emily doesn’t see anyone she knows.
When the parade heads out to ’Sconset, they return to their Range Rover and gradually join the line of traffic, finding a spot on ’Sconset’s Main Street at the end farthest from the post office and general store. By then many of the other tailgate parties have been set up, so Cameron takes Serena off to enjoy the display of daffodil-themed picnics, costumes, and cars while Cara and Emily set up the table and food. Emily’s father sits in a
folding chair reading the New York Times.
She spreads a yellow-and-white-checked tablecloth piped with green over the card table, while Cara uncovers the bowls and platters of food: salmon, rye bread, capers, and cream; shrimp on skewers; deviled eggs; endive stuffed with crab salad; curried chicken salad; sweet corn, tomatoes, and mozzarella salad; champagne, 7Up for Serena; and of course, a tall white cake swirled with yellow cream icing and decorated with flowers. Emily ordered it all from her corner deli in Manhattan yesterday and brought it out to the island in a cooler. Her mother brought forced forsythia, yellow roses, and yellow tulips in a low green vase, and Serena chose to add her yellow rubber ducks from her bathtub. They circle the vase, ducklings following mother’s lead, and the arrangement is so adorable several people stop to take photos.
They have way too much food—everyone’s brought too much food—and the aroma of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs fills the air. Emily’s family settles into their folding beach chairs, eating off plastic plates, which caused a slight disagreement this morning when Cara wanted to bring china plates and Emily insisted on the yellow plates she brought because if Serena accidentally dropped a plate, she’d be horrified. Serena’s a sensitive little girl; Emily wants today to be perfect.
It is perfect. Couples with dogs pause at their table, introduce themselves, allow Serena to pet their dogs, and happily partake of champagne, salmon, and cake. Everyone they meet lives somewhere else and has come for the weekend festival. For them it’s a ritual beginning of spring. Emily meets more people who live near her in New York City than people who live on the island. She doesn’t see Maggie, and she doesn’t see Ben. Which is fine, of course. Emily didn’t come here hoping to see them. They’re part of the island.
The island weather is typically chilly in April. Emily’s parents have insulated themselves against the cold with alcohol, but Serena’s energy is running out after hours outside skipping, petting dogs, and twirling in her yellow skirt. She’s whiny and cold, and starting to suck her thumb, a bad habit Emily tries to ignore. Time to go home.
Taking off her jacket, Emily wraps her daughter in it and settles her into her car seat. Cameron helps her load up the Range Rover and her parents stiffly unfold themselves from their canvas chairs and stalk to the car.
“Nap time for Cara Mia and Serena,” Cara says to her granddaughter.
Emily tries not to roll her eyes at her mother’s use of the Italian phrase for “my dear,” which Cara is attempting to get Serena to call her instead of “Grandmother.”
The ride home is brief since they’re already out on the eastern end of the island. Cameron unbuckles a dozing Serena and carries her into the house and up the stairs to tuck her into bed. Emily’s father helps her unload the picnic paraphernalia, and once that’s done, he disappears up to his room with Cara for their own late afternoon nap.
Emily finds Cameron in their bedroom. He’s tossing clothes into his suitcase.
“Cameron? Your flight doesn’t leave until seven.”
“I called for an earlier reservation,” Cameron tells her. He drops his straw boater and yellow vest on a chair. He won’t need them for business. “The fog’s coming in. I can’t risk being stuck on the island tonight.”
“Oh, Cameron.” Emily’s shoulders droop. “I’m sorry you can’t give yourself one more day to relax.”
“Me, too.” He drops into a chair and bends over to unlace his island sneakers and put on wing tips.
It’s no use trying to persuade him to stay. They’ve done this routine before, many times. It’s part of island living, sudden departures or arrivals due to eccentricities in the weather system. “I’ll drive you to the airport,” she offers.
“Great. Thanks. I’ll get my Dopp kit.”
Emily quickly scans the suitcase and on the spur of the moment slips a pair of her laciest panties deep into it. That will surprise him. That will remind him of the night they made love, and make him eager to return home.
“I’m ready. We’d better go.” Cameron grips his suitcase, and as they go out the door, picks up his briefcase. He’s already in work mode, wearing blazer, khakis, and tie, his cell phone in his pocket.
Emily drives. They pass through the main street of ’Sconset, where stragglers from the Daffodil tailgate picnic linger along the side of the road. A group of young people have set up a rock band where a sexy tall man with his hair dyed yellow and moussed into a wild puff sings into a mike while people dance in the street.
“Ah, to be young again.” Emily sighs.
“Come on, we’re not so very old,” Cameron protests.
“Yet here you are, leaving on a holiday weekend to work.” Her voice isn’t petulant, and she tries not to seem resentful.
“You knew when you married me what I do, and how hard I have to work,” Cameron reminds her yet again. His voice isn’t accusatory.
After a moment, Emily concedes, “That’s true. It’s just that I’ll miss you. Serena will miss you.”
Cameron doesn’t reply. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive from their house to the airport, too short a time for a serious conversation, and what could Emily say that she hasn’t said before? They’re both quiet on the way in. Cameron’s fingers fly as he texts on his cell. Emily keeps her eyes on the road.
When she pulls into the airport parking lot, Cameron says, “You don’t have to come in. It will be chaos in there anyway.”
He’s right. Weekends are busy travel times to and from the island. Emily pulls the Rover into a fifteen-minute zone and parks.
“Cameron,” she says.
“Emily,” Cameron says, at the same time.
They laugh. Cameron leans over and kisses her cheek. “I’d better hurry. Thanks for driving me out.” He opens his door.
“Wait,” she says. “What were you going to say?”
Cameron faces her, suddenly serious. “We need to talk. Soon. What were you going to say?”
As he speaks, he’s pulling his suitcase from the backseat. He’s only half-focused on her. His mind is elsewhere. They need to talk? What does that mean? Emily wonders.
“I wanted to tell you it was a wonderful weekend with you, Cameron, last night and today, with Serena and the island, and everything. Thank you.”
Cameron waves absentmindedly and strides toward the terminal. The electric doors slide open. He’s gone.
Sunday morning, Emily’s awakened by light slanting through the guest room onto her deep queen bed where she sleeps on blue-and-white-checked sheets. She’s not used to light coming from this direction, or coming across her face, or being this clear and luminous. Going to the window, she sees the clouds parting to display a pure blue sky. Raising the window, she hears gulls cry and the gentle swoosh of the tide gently sweeping up to the shore. The day is mild and fine.
She peeks into Serena’s room. Her daughter lies flat on her back, her black hair spread over her pink pillow. Emily tiptoes past her parents’ closed bedroom door. Pulling on her fleece robe, she pads downstairs, she quickly makes herself a cup of coffee, then slips out to the patio to enjoy the morning. The lounge chair she set out yesterday is damp with dew; she doesn’t mind. She settles in, knees drawn to her chest, and lets herself breathe.
This side of the island faces the open Atlantic. The expanse of shining water, so calm this morning that it’s almost glassy, hides a galaxy of secret lives. Seals lazily swim in the depths, and also, probably, sharks, who have been enticed by the prevalence of seals to explore these particular waters. Bluefish, sea bass, tuna, swordfish, cod, and other fish flick through the cold water, and squid, eels, and grouper squirm around seaweed, mussels, crabs, and clams. The Algonquians named this bluff area “Siasconset.” That means “Near the great whale bone,” and all her life Emily’s been hoping for a glimpse of a whale breaching out in the sea. She hasn’t seen one yet, but she has time. Of course Serena always keeps an eye out for mermaids.
“Mommy?” Serena’s suddenly at her side, startling Emily from her tho
ughts. “What are you doing?”
“Sweetie.” Emily pulls Serena onto her lap and wraps the sides of her robe around her daughter’s thin body. “You snuck up on me! Are you hungry?”
Serena shakes her head. “I want to go to the beach.”
Emily laughs. “Baby, it’s too cold in April to swim.”
“I know that. I want to look for shells. Please?”
“Why not? Let’s sip some orange juice and we’ll be off. But let’s be as quiet as fairies so we don’t wake the grands.”
They walk through the sleeping town along Main Street and down Gully Road to the beach. Over the years storms have eroded this part of the island so deeply that an entire row of beach houses has been swept away. Now the ocean in its fickle wisdom has decided to build the beach back up again, which will present a dilemma to land owners: to build again or not? Is this still their land?
Emily thinks such adult thoughts while Serena, clad in a tracksuit against the chill but barefoot, like Emily, skips through the sand to the edge of the water. She plays a game with the sea that all children must play, daring the incoming waves to catch her feet as she skirts the shoreline, trying to figure out the tide’s pattern.
“Eeek!” she shrieks, when the sea washes over her bare ankles. “Cold!”
The summer people who own the houses facing the water haven’t arrived yet. No lights shine from the empty houses. No cars pass, no pedestrian strolls past with a dog on a leash. The golden beach stretches empty and still to the left and the right. Serena and Emily could be the only people on earth.
“Mermaid’s purse!” Serena calls, holding up one of the rather hideous black skate egg cases that litter the shore. The little girl drops down to her knees, absorbed by a particularly fascinating cluster of rocks and pebbles.
Emily takes her time catching up to Serena. “Pretty,” she says, observing the design her child is making from the rocks. “Why are you making a moon shell?”
