by Nancy Thayer
Young’s Bicycle Shop insisted she wear a helmet that rather ruined her dream image—she wanted to sport a straw hat with a pink ribbon trailing down her back. But she took their advice about safety seriously and promised to wear it. She asked for the least challenging bike they had, confessing that she hadn’t ridden for “a while.” A nice teenage guy who worked there took her across the street to the long parking lot where trucks waited to board the steamship and let her practice riding up and down until she got the hang of the hand brakes. She studied the map he gave her, memorized his instructions about signaling, and then, with her heart thumping in her chest, she set off.
It was a good time for a novice, he had told her. Mid-June and the island traffic wasn’t crazy yet. Midweek, and there weren’t as many people out. If she went along North Water Street, she’d have several blocks of the uneven spine-wobbling stones to cross, the boy told her. He suggested she bike up Broad Street to Center Street and then across to Orange. That way she’d just have the cobblestones of Main Street to deal with. She followed his advice. As she went past Nora Salter’s Orange Street house, she flicked her eyes sideways, hoping she’d see Alice—hoping Alice would see her, pedaling along on her cute silver bike, all ease and coordination, as if she’d been born playing tennis, sailing boats, riding bikes. But Alice wasn’t there, and she was afraid to take her eyes off the road for more than a second.
Really, it was surprisingly easy. Shirley liked the way her pumping legs invigorated her, the way the street unrolled under her slender wheels, and the houses wound past, windows reflecting the sunlight at her like dozens of little lighthouses. She wasn’t even winded when she reached the Rotary, but she was intimidated by all the traffic, so she dismounted and walked the bike until she got onto the ’Sconset Bike Path. A short way down, she walked her bike again, as she crossed the road.
Now she was on the Polpis Road Bike Path. She passed forests and houses tucked behind flower beds, a car dealership, and Moors End Farm, which in August had, she’d been told, the best corn on the planet. She began to puff as she struggled to pedal up a hill, and from here she saw the island spread out in all directions. This was a very Zen activity, Shirley decided, as she rolled along. Every part of her body and brain was in use, she was breathing deeply, she was focused, she was conscious of the roll of the land, the curve of the path, the spots on the path where trees cast shadows, like pools of coolness, as Shirley zipped through. The moors, she knew from maps, were on her right, a rolling landscape of greenery in an amazing variety of shades. Occasionally, a trophy house loomed up, perched like a bloated toad on the horizon. She kept pedaling, past pine trees and twisted scrub oak nestled among Scotch broom covered with yellow buds. Silvery beach grass was tangled with the dark green of rosa rugosa and a shrub covered with white flowers blazed everywhere. Vines curled around trees and fence posts and a mysterious sweet fragrance occasionally greeted Shirley as she sped past.
It was thirst, not exhaustion, that made her finally stop. She hadn’t thought to bring lunch or even a bottle of water. Stupid. Pulling her bike off the path, she collapsed in the shade of a juniper tree. Leaning against its trunk, she let her legs rest on the ground and discovered to her surprise that they were trembling. Had she overdone it? Probably. She had no idea how long she’d been biking. She had no idea how far she’d come. Now that she’d stopped, she realized she was not only thirsty and tired, she was starving. Well, she’d give herself a nice long rest, then bike back to town, right to Orange Street.
Her pulse slowed and her breathing returned to normal. It was very quiet here. She could hear the birds sing. She could hear rustlings in the bushes. She could almost hear the sun shine. It was a cool day, perhaps only about seventy degrees, but she’d sweated through her lavender spandex pants and her loose tee. She’d have a shower when she got back, and a huge lunch. Her stomach growled at the thought.
She’d only been biking for about an hour, she thought. She’d bike faster on the way back, push herself a bit, get home sooner.
She jumped on her bike and headed back toward town.
But something was wrong.
For some reason, she couldn’t match her former pace. It was as if an invisible opposing force were pushing her backward. Then she suddenly understood: an invisible opposing force was pushing against her—the wind. No wonder she’d biked along so effortlessly. She’d had the wind behind her! With it facing her like this, it was as if she were trying to bike through some kind of clear marmalade, some substance that slowed her down and would not yield. Her thighs burned with the effort. She could feel her heart churning. Her breath pounded in her ears. The slightest incline down felt like a blessing, and the slightest incline up, a curse.
After a few moments, she wondered if she were going to be able to make it. Her face was hot with exertion, her mouth uncomfortably dry. It was like a terrible nightmare, where the harder she pedaled, the slower she went. Suddenly all the “cute” sayings she’d heard about “Let the wind be at your back” made sharp, brutal sense.
She could hear a vehicle coming down the road. Wanting not to appear as completely out of shape as she obviously was, she tried to sit back on the bike, instead of leaning nearly collapsed over the handlebars. She still had that much vanity left. An old red truck rattled past her.
To her surprise, it turned in a driveway and came back, pulling onto the verge, parallel to the bike path.
“Hello, there!”
Shirley could not summon the coordination to keep pedaling while looking away from the path. In a clumsy flurry of movement, she squeezed the handlebars, stopped the bike, and staggered to a stop. Then she focused on the red truck. A golden Lab stuck her head out the passenger window and barked a greeting.
“Reggie!” she cried with delight. “Harry!” How lucky was this, that the one person she knew on Nantucket had appeared at this particular moment in time! Gosh, it was like Fate!
“You’re working pretty hard against that wind.” Harry grinned.
“I’m an idiot!” Shirley told him, embarrassed by the way her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “I never thought about it!”
“Would you like me to drive you back to town?”
“Oh, would you, please?”
Harry turned off his engine, climbed out of the car, and came over to the path. “People always forget about the wind here. Well, the first couple of times they do.” Effortlessly, he hefted the silver bike up and laid it gently in the bed of his truck. Then he opened the passenger door. “Scoot over, Reggie. We’ve got company.”
Shirley climbed up into the cab of the truck and collapsed on the seat. “Oh, man, does this feel good.”
Harry got in on his side and slammed the door. “Where were you headed?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Everywhere!” Shirley waved her hands. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“Would you like me to drive you home through the moors?”
“Sure, I guess, if you have time.”
“I’ve got all the time in the world.” Harry put the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life.
They followed the main road for a few minutes, until they came to a dirt road nearly obscured by bushes. Harry turned off onto it, and soon they were bumping along a rutted track, away from civilization, into a sweeping sea of green.
“It’s not like the mainland here,” Shirley remarked. “Everything’s so low to the ground.”
“That’s why it’s called the moors,” Harry said. “Forests grew here once, centuries ago, but all the trees were cut for timber for houses, then sheep were pastured here, and they destroyed the vegetation. What you’ve got left is heath land and some hearty wild plants, and also a lot of endangered flowers. Later, in the summer, the sweetest wild blueberries grow out here, and beach plum, too.” He braked to a stop and pointed out the window. “See that patch of white flowers, low to the ground? They’re called Quaker-ladies.”
Shirley smiled. “I’ve been reading
about the Quakers on the island.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“Yes, and I want to go see the Quaker meeting house, later on in the summer, when I have more time. There’s so much to see and do here.”
He set the car in motion again. “True. Though most tourists stick to the beaches.”
Shirley studied his profile. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t approve of ‘most tourists’?”
“Because most tourists litter the beaches and trample endangered vegetation. They drive monster SUVs and destroy the environment.” He flashed a grin her way. “I’ve become an obstreperous crab in my old age.”
“You’re not so old,” Shirley told him. Neither was she, she thought, with her heart going wild in her chest. Harry’s sideways smile had kick-started a little engine in her torso. Her body was flooding her with a wonderfully pleasant sensation. Her cheeks tingled, and so did—oh my gosh!—her belly, way down low. She looked out the window, letting the breeze cool her burning skin.
Harry steered the car over a grassy track and onto another dirt road that plunged downhill past a small pond. A short distance on, he pulled off the road and turned off the engine. “Let me show you something few people see.”
Shirley hopped down from the truck and followed Harry and Reggie. Through a gap in tall bushes, she saw a round blue pond, its waters shimmering beneath the sun.
“We call this the doughnut pond,” he told her, pointing to the small island in the middle.
Shirley surveyed the area. The pond was ringed with grasses, shrubs, and trees. “Over there!” she whispered excitedly. “What is it?”
Harry smiled. “White heron.”
“Oh, she’s so pretty! Like a painting.”
Harry looked down at her. Shirley could feel him studying her face. She felt a warmth emanating from him that was setting the tingling in her body to a full boil.
“You really like it out here,” Harry remarked.
Shirley moved away from him, pretending interest in the pale green grasses, striped, threaded, and wound with darker plants and vines. It was either move away, or jump the guy. “Do I? I guess so,” Shirley responded honestly. “I’ve never spent much time in the country. I run a wellness spa, The Haven, about thirty miles outside Boston. My condo’s there, too. We do have a large grounds with space for badminton and croquet and a woods with a walking path. Still, it’s all part of, well, civilization.” She sat down on a hillock of tough moss, linked her arms around her knees, and stared out at the water. “Just think, all this is here, all the time, while we go on with our busy lives.”
Harry sat down next to her, not too close, but not too far away. Reggie went sniffing off into the high grass ringing the pond. A large bird flew overhead.
“Hawk,” Harry told her.
“Wow.”
“Yes, this place is a real bird sanctuary.”
“And other animals, too?” Shirley pointed to a set of tracks in the sand near the water.
“Deer come here to drink. Yes, we’ve sure got deer. Too many of them. And rabbits.”
“Oh, I love rabbits. I hope I see some.”
Harry laughed. “You won’t be able to miss them.” He pointed to a long-stemmed plant with a tiny blue flower. “Blue-eyed grass.”
Shirley laughed. “What a great name. As if the grass can see.”
“Not necessarily. I mean, we say the ‘eye’ of the storm. Meaning the center of something.”
Shirley sat in silence for a while. “I think…” she said musingly, “…I think I ought to come out here by myself now and then. And maybe my friends should, too. I mean, it seems to me that nature like this”—she waved her hands around—“without any sign or evidence of humans, is like a kind of halfway house between life and death. What we construe as death. I mean, there’s life, but not human life. You can hear the birds rustling, and sort of sense the, well, the alertness of the plants, and so you think, hey, it’s really okay, it’s different, the natural world, but still so vivid, and it will be okay when you die and leave your human body, because there’s all this to get to be part of.”
Harry didn’t reply, but Shirley could feel his eyes on her.
She looked at him. “I know. I’m so weird. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he protested. “Please don’t apologize. I like what you said. It was interesting. I’m just thinking about it.” He reached over, putting his warm hand on her wrist. “I think you’ve articulated something I’ve often felt.”
His touch made something inside Shirley melt. Their eyes met and held. Gosh, he was good-looking. Shirley felt her lips part. Harry seemed poised—was he going to kiss her?
An explosion of noise made them turn. The golden Lab came bounding out of the pond, her coat wet and slimy with weeds, a filthy stick in her mouth. With an expression of great pride, she presented it to Shirley.
Shirley laughed, stood up, and threw the stick for the dog, who plunged happily back into the water. They played the game about a dozen times.
Harry finally stopped them. “Come on, Regina, you spoiled old thing. Let’s go.”
The dog obviously understood. She lunged through the grass to the truck, pausing to shake the water from her coat.
“Have you seen ’Sconset yet?” Harry asked as they settled in the truck.
“Not yet,” Shirley told him. “I’d like to. I’ve seen pictures of the lighthouse and those little fishermen’s cottages.”
“Let me take you out there someday,” Harry said.
“I’d like that,” Shirley said.
She noticed, as they drove back into town, how Harry stopped to let other vehicles turn out onto the street. “You’re a polite driver,” she told him.
“We’ve all got to be, in the summer. It gets so crowded. If we aren’t courteous, we get all riled up over something that in the scheme of things is absolutely infinitesimal.”
Shirley smiled. She liked that he used the word courteous.
“Now where are you living, exactly?”
When she told him the address on Orange Street, he gave a little snort of surprise. “You’re staying at Nora Salter’s house?”
“I used to be her masseuse in Boston. We became friends, and she’s one of the investors in The Haven.” She glanced at him. “And you know her?”
Harry pulled his truck up onto the sidewalk in front of the house. “Oh, yeah. Used to come to her house, back when I was on the cocktail party circuit. Never saw a place crammed with so much stuff.” He jumped out of the truck, unlatched the tailgate, and lifted her bike down to the ground.
Shirley took hold of the handlebars. “Harry, thank you so much for taking me through the moors. I loved it.”
“My pleasure.”
For a moment, they just stood there, smiling at each other.
“I’ll call you.” Harry dipped his head in a kind of salute, then jumped back in his old red truck and rattled away, leaving Shirley so giddy she had to restrain herself from hugging her bike.
24
On the last Thursday in June, it was finally warm enough on the island to cast off sweaters and long pants. Shirley, in a swirly summer dress, and Alice, chic in a black linen shift, strolled along Straight Wharf, idly gazing at the sleek yachts and pleasure boats docked in the harbor. The day was warm, bright, and mild, the water a dazzling blue.
“There they are!” Shirley cried, pointing to the Hy-Line catamaran as it rounded Brant Point. “Oh, I just love these boat trips. It makes everything so celebratory!”
As the ferry glided near, people on the upper deck waved. Alice and Shirley waved back. The boat drew to a stop. The deckhands set the ramp in place and the passengers filed down to the cobblestoned dock. Alice and Shirley hurried to greet their friends. They all hugged and talked at once as Polly and Faye grabbed their luggage off the blue luggage trolleys. Marilyn had only a small canvas purse; she was just here for the day. She’d driven Faye and Polly down, left her car in a Hyannis lot, and would drive
Alice and Shirley home.
“We’re having lunch at the Ropewalk.” Alice led them over the bricks to the restaurant at the water’s edge. “That way Marilyn, Shirley, and I will be right here to catch the boat back.”
The host met them on the patio. “Inside or out, ladies?”
“Inside, please, but could we have a table by the water?” Shirley requested sweetly.
“Absolutely.” He led them into a large room with a bar along an inner wall and tables on the far side, overlooking the docks where smaller craft bobbed gently in their berths. Gulls swooped overhead, and a pair of mallards paddled idly near the pier, waiting for a bit of bread to drop. A beautiful young couple in bathing suits sunbathed on the deck of their polished teak sailboat. Farther out, a fabulous private yacht slid majestically into the harbor.
“This is too blissful,” Faye said, looking around with a sigh. “I’m going to go wild and order a drink.”
“We make dynamite strawberry daiquiris,” the waiter informed her with a wink.
“Fabulous!” Faye clapped her hands together. “So healthy!”
Everyone else ordered one, too, except Shirley, who asked for a cranberry juice with lots of ice.
“Now,” Alice said, “tell me. How’s life in the real world?”
Marilyn, Polly, and Faye exchanged glances.
“We talked nonstop on the ride down,” Marilyn informed Alice and Shirley. “We still haven’t solved our problems.”
Polly had dark circles beneath her eyes. Quietly, she said, “And isn’t there a rule that we can’t worry when we’re on Nantucket? Because if there is, I’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“Okay, okay, rule rescinded,” Alice said quickly. She put a hand on Polly’s arm. “What happened?”
Polly’s eyes filled with tears. “Roy Orbison died.” She covered her face with her hands. “Sorry. Sorry. Don’t mean to be so emotional.”
