Island Girls

by Nancy Thayer

  “Tell me about your sisters.”

  The waiter set their entrées in front of them, giving Jenny a moment to gather herself.

  Delicately, she requested, “First, could I hear something about your life?”

  “All right.” He sipped some wine. “I’m old enough now to reflect on my past. So I can say with some pride that I’ve had a rewarding career as a transplant surgeon. I have saved lives. I’ve been less of a success as a father.” His eyes were sad. “My relationship with my children was never close. Entirely, I’ll be the first to I admit it, my fault. It has improved since their mother died. By the way, before I forget …”

  Putting down his fork, he reached into his breast pocket, took out an envelope, and handed it to Jenny.

  She accepted it, confused and slightly alarmed.

  “It’s a sort of medical history of my side of the family,” Chivers explained. “I made a copy for you to keep. You can study it at your leisure, but I can assure you there are no hideous genetic diseases in our family. Although”—he hesitated—“there might be a history of OCD. Obsessive-compulsive disorder.” With a twitch of his shoulders, he added, “Also a bit of anxiety.” His eyes twinkled. “I have often heard it reported that I prefer people under anesthesia.”

  Jenny chuckled. “You’ve always lived in the Boston area?”

  “Yes. Back Bay. I can walk to Mass General.” Sighing, he continued, “Peggy, my wife, had hoped that would mean I’d be able to spend more time at home, but it didn’t work out that way. I found family life rather stressful, I’m afraid. Two children—well, with children, very little is under complete control.”

  Jenny had to duck her head so he would not see that this made her guiltily happy, that he hadn’t been such a perfect father. “I provided financially, and of course I attended school events and graduations. I took everyone on vacation for two weeks to Cancún or Hawaii. Unfortunately, I remained in the hotel room reading medical journals. In my field, there is never enough time to keep up with new techniques, new advances.” He cut a piece of haddock and chewed it thoughtfully. “I sound as if I’m stating my claim to the entrance through the Pearly Gates before Saint Peter. Not, my dear, that you resemble Saint Peter in the slightest.”

  “Good to know,” Jenny said.

  “Let’s get back to you. I’d like to hear about your childhood.”

  He wanted to know about Justine, Jenny understood, and now she was ready. “Mother got married when I was five, but I don’t remember much about her first husband except that Peter didn’t especially care for me. They got divorced after about a year, and I was glad. Mother got married again, when I was ten, to Rory Randall. He adopted me, so I took his last name. Jenny Randall.” She savored the words. “He died this spring.”

  “You loved him,” Chivers said.

  “Very much.” How to describe Rory, his energy, his magic? “He was a real estate broker, here in Boston, very successful, and he appreciated people, which must have been one of the reasons for his success. He possessed a singular, remarkable charm—it was such fun to be with him. He had terrific ideas, enjoyed playing games—life was a game for him in a way. He was handsome. All my girlfriends at school had the silliest crushes on him. He’d take us all out for ice cream in his convertible with the top down and would let a lot of us smash in together, not caring whether we wore seat belts, so even when we were twelve, we felt kind of like we were living dangerously.”

  “You were,” Chivers said dryly, and Jenny caught the flash of disciplinarian in his expression.

  “He didn’t do that often,” Jenny hurried to add. “He wasn’t a careless man.” She paused, wondering if her words were true. “Although … well, my mother was his third wife.”

  “So he was careless with women?”

  “With his wives, yes. He was a bit of a … philanderer is perhaps too strong a word. But he left his three daughters the Nantucket house. If we three manage to live in it together for three months this summer, we can sell it and split the proceeds. It’s generous of him. He was always financially generous.”

  “Tell me about your stepsisters.”

  Jenny took a big sip, almost a gulp, of wine. “Actually, they’re okay.”

  “You seem to imply there’s some discord among you.”

  Jenny paused thoughtfully at his formal words. “Discord. Well, at first there wasn’t, then there was, and now we’re working it out, or I hope we are. We’ve drifted apart since we were young. The reason is complicated, but I’m sad about it. I hated being an only child growing up, and this summer, getting to know Meg and Arden again, it’s been a dream come true being around them. My sisters.”

  Chivers raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Do you want to stay living on Nantucket?”

  “Absolutely. The island is my home. I’ve lived there for years now. My friends are there, my work.”

  “And the house? Will it be hard for you to leave it?”

  “Gosh, yes.” Jenny put her fork down and gave herself a small, comforting hug at the thought. “It is the most wonderful house.” After a moment and a reassuring sip of wine, she continued, “But it’s far too big for one person. And realistically, Arden and Meg should have their third of the proceeds from the sale. It’s only fair.”

  “It’s what your father did stipulate in his will, correct?”

  Jenny leaned forward. “Could I tell you a secret I haven’t told anyone else?” she whispered.

  “Yes. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  Jenny scanned the room, as if expecting Meg and Arden to pop up at another table. “When my father was dying, in the hospital, I got to spend some time with him, which I’m so grateful for. Anyway, I asked him to add that stipulation to his will. Actually, I typed the letter on my laptop and printed it off, and he signed it and discussed it with his lawyer.”

  “Really. How curious.”

  It felt so good to let the secret out. The words spilled from her like a waterfall; she felt light-headed and breathless. “I’ve always wanted to be closer with Meg and Arden. My mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with them. I’m an adult now; I’m making my own money and doing just fine. I don’t need money. I want my sisters. I thought this would be a brilliant way to force them to spend time with me—a sustained, concentrated time when we could get to know one another. And it’s working really well. I don’t mean we’re all jolly friends forevermore, but we’re muddling along. We are definitely getting to know one another. We’re laughing, and talking about stuff, and I know after this summer we’ll keep in touch, see each other, e-mail—be a family—and that means more to me than any money in the world.”

  Chivers shook his head in amazement. “What an unusual person you are.”

  “Meg and Arden can’t know this. They’d get upset, tell me it’s just another way I’ve manipulated matters to my own ends, even if it means this way they’ll get one-third of the sale of the house.”

  “So no one else knows?”

  “No one.” Jenny smiled. “Perhaps when we’re all old, sitting in our rocking chairs on some porch somewhere, I’ll tell them. Then they’ll peck away at me like a pair of old hens, but by then it will be too late.”

  “I doubt that either one of them will make much of a fuss about receiving so much money.”

  “Oh, they’ll say Dad would have left them a third of the house anyway, and perhaps they’d be right. He didn’t even have a will until he had the heart attack. He had his lawyer come in and draw one up while he was in the hospital bed. I don’t know how he would have disposed of the house, but I don’t think he would have stipulated that the three of us live there together for the summer.” Remembering, Jenny’s eyes filled. “He liked my idea. He saw immediately how perfect it was.”

  Chivers laid his knife and fork in exact parallels across his empty plate. “I wonder if my own son and daughter are capable of such generosity. Or such cleverness.”

  “I wish I could meet them,” Jenny admitted hesi
tantly.

  “You do? Yes, of course you do, it’s a natural instinct. All right, then, you shall. We’ll arrange it. Not until after August, I think. You’ve got enough drama going on for the summer, and I have some plans myself. Vacation, I mean, nothing as exciting as what you’re up to. But I need time to contemplate all I’ve come to learn today.”

  Jenny froze. Perhaps he thought she was unstable, impulsive, even a bit daft, showing up as she had at his office, clear out of the blue without so much as an introductory phone call or note, and now knowing the crazy thing she’d done with the house. Perhaps he wouldn’t want to be associated with her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Chivers reached over and patted her hand. “Jenny, I am so glad you found me. I hope we will stay in touch for the rest of our lives. I believe I’m a more deliberate man than your stepfather, but I am a resolute man. You can trust me. Now that we are in each other’s lives, we will remain that way.”

  She would not make any kind of a scene in this elegant restaurant, with her distinguished father sitting across from her, but she could not hold back the tears. She carefully removed her hand from the table so she could open her purse, find a tissue, and wipe her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she told him quietly. “I would like that more than I can say.”

  Meg awoke in a strange bed. It took her a moment to realize she was at Liam’s. She’d been in his apartment before, but never in his bedroom. She closed her eyes again, allowing herself to savor the moment. The aroma of warm male next to her, and the sound of his breath. The appearance of his room, all navy blue and antique wood, elegant, as he was.

  The memory of their night in bed together. The words they had murmured to each other. Words of love.

  Liam shifted next to her in the bed. “Good morning.” He bent to kiss her.

  “Morning breath,” she warned.

  “Me, too,” he told her, and then they didn’t talk again for a long time.

  She showered and dressed while he prepared a light breakfast of coffee, bagels, and cream cheese.

  “I have to go back to Nantucket today,” she told him.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Because of our father’s silly inheritance clause. It’s not for much longer. Just till the end of August. Will you come down and visit me?”

  “How many times can I come?” he asked. When she blushed at his double entendre, he said, “Would you like me to drive you back to your apartment?”

  “That would be good. I have to pick up a few discs and folders I need for my book.”

  “How are you getting back to the island?”

  “Jenny’s going to pick me up around ten thirty, so we can make the one o’clock fast ferry.”

  “Okay, then, I guess I’d better let you go.”

  “No,” Meg said. “Don’t let me go.” She blushed again. She wasn’t used to flirting with him in this delicate, amorous way. She certainly wasn’t used to sitting across the table from him in a low-cut sundress.

  He drove her to the Victorian house and stopped in front.

  “Shall I see you in?”

  “Thank you, no.” It seemed they couldn’t stop gazing at each other, smiling at each other. “I think I can find my way from here.”

  She put her hand on the car door.

  “Meg.” Reaching out, he took her arm and turned her toward him. “This isn’t a frivolous thing we’ve got here, you know.” She nodded, close to tears.

  “It’s as serious as it gets,” he continued. “At least it is for me.”

  “And for me.”

  Leaning forward, he kissed her. “I’ll see you soon. And please, buy more of those dresses.”

  She laughed and nearly skipped from the car, up the walk, and into the house. Had she ever been this happy? She didn’t think so. She fairly flew up the stairs to her room at the top, unlocked it, and went in. She needed to find—oh, where had she left that one folder on the Paris art exhibition? As she rummaged through the piles of paper on the ornate antique table she’d bought for a desk, she remembered she’d left the folder at the college.

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she set off for the college, only a few blocks away, where even her small cell of an office was centrally air-conditioned. She could check any snail mail that had piled up in her absence, find the folders, and be back home in time for Jenny to pick her up.

  The main building housing the college’s administrative offices was a dignified edifice of brick and stone built in the early nineteen hundreds by a flourishing national men’s club that by 1970 no longer had any local members. The state bought it and refurbished it, constructing less attractive cement block wings for classrooms and instructors’ offices. Later on, plantings had been added to soften the harshness of the annexes, and now in summer, trees and bushes cast a lush green shadow over the sidewalk as Meg took a shortcut to the door to the liberal arts section.

  She had just stepped inside, onto the hideous gray-green linoleum, which must have been bought at discount, when she heard her name called.

  “Meg! Just the person I want to see!”

  Meg froze in place. It was Eleanor Littleton, PhD, head of the liberal arts department. A brilliant woman with a quick wit and a depth of knowledge, she had not been equally blessed with beauty. But she had great charm and genuine respect for the college and its students.

  Meg turned. “Eleanor. Hello.”

  Eleanor came down the hall toward Meg, carrying, as usual, a stack of folders up against her bosom. She wore a plain tan sleeveless dress and sensible heels.

  “I thought you were gone for the summer,” Eleanor said. “And don’t you look pretty.”

  “Thanks. I was gone. Well, I am. I just returned for a day or so.”

  “I’m glad. I want to talk with you about something. Come with me.”

  They strolled side by side down the long, empty hallway, chatting about easy topics—the weather, the Red Sox, new books—until they entered Eleanor’s large and precisely organized office.

  “Sit down, dear.” Eleanor gestured toward a chair as she took her own behind her desk.

  Dear, Meg thought. That was a good sign.

  Stacks of folders, papers, and envelopes covered Eleanor’s desk, but they were neatly arranged, edges tidily aligned, topped with colorful paperweights. Eleanor crossed her arms on her desk and said, “I’ll get right to the point. Your freshman writing students perform better on national exams than the students from any other class in this college.”

  “Oh!” Meg smiled, pleased.

  “I’ve been looking at the syllabus, reading assignments, and worksheets you’ve compiled for your students. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank y—”

  Eleanor held up her hand. “Wait. I’ve talked this over with the dean of liberal arts, and we’ve come up with a plan. Writing is not the favorite subject of many of our students, but it is the most necessary. Many of our students are ESL, or come from high schools with abominably low standards, or have been out of school for a long time. But you know all that.”

  Meg nodded.

  “Frank and I want you to turn your class material into a bound document that we can distribute to all our freshman writing instructors.”

  Meg’s jaw dropped.

  “We understand this will take some work on your part. We’re prepared to compensate you in two ways. First, we’re offering you tenure as a full professor. Second, we’ll increase your salary.”

  Meg was speechless.

  “We wouldn’t expect you to have it completed until the beginning of the spring semester in February. We would expect you to continue to carry your teaching load as well as put the text together. You’ll have the rest of the summer, and the month of January during midwinter break. Do you think you can do it?”

  Meg bit her lower lip, thinking of her cherished May Alcott project. She was so far along; she couldn’t abandon it now. But it was a stunning compliment to her that both Frank Ruffalo and Eleanor Littleton found
her freshman writing preparations so good they wanted to turn them into a textbook used by the entire freshman writing faculty. And tenure? And a raise? Why was she even hesitating? She would find a way to do it all. The fall semester would have plenty of weekends and evenings when she could work.

  “Eleanor, I’m so pleased.” As the realization of it all set in—tenure!—she wanted to jump from her chair and perform a victory dance, but attempted to retain her dignity. “It’s wonderful to know my students have done so well, comparatively. You know I’m committed to this college and to working with these students. I’d be so glad to have tenure, and of course to have a raise.”

  Eleanor clapped her hands on the desktop. “Well, great. Just what I was hoping you’d say. Now, what I propose is that you work on this directly through me. Some of our other instructors are going to feel slighted by this, or at least propose suggestions, additions, alterations. You could be overwhelmed with politics, egos, suck-ups, and so on. Don’t deal with any of them. Tell everyone to come straight to me.”

  Meg’s eyes went wide. “Oh. I hadn’t even thought.… But do you want to deal with all that?”

  Eleanor smiled her endearing crooked grin. “Absolutely. You’re good at teaching, I’m good at administrating. Frank and I are thinking that once the handbook’s completed, you might teach a couple of seminars to our instructors before each term begins. So we don’t want them to hate you. It’s fine if they hate me.”

  “Eleanor, you’re amazing.”

  “Hah. Thanks. I’m experienced, that’s what I am. I’ve been doing this a long time. Also, I go to conferences where we discuss research on negotiation and strategy. Most of all, I’ve learned not to take campus politics personally. If I want to get things done, I’ve got to be prepared to take the flack. For our less fortunate students, education can be an economic challenge, but it’s nevertheless an absolute necessity. We need to make adult education as appealing as possible, which you do in your classes.”

  Eleanor stood up and extended a hand across the desk. “You realize the tenure bit has to be passed by a committee, blah blah blah, but consider it done. I’ll start e-mailing you about the composition syllabus soon.”