Island Girls

by Nancy Thayer

  Cyndi smiled. “Justine gave me some of her things. I can’t wait to go home. My flight leaves at two.”

  “I’ll drive you out,” Meg told her mother.

  “I’ll stay another day,” Justine told them. “I’ve got to go through the house and dig out anything I might want to keep. Paintings, silver, that sort of thing.”

  “Good.” Nora straightened in her chair. “Because we’re going to start showing the house next week. I’ve got to get the three girls to sign the listing, but that’s a formality. I’ve talked to Marcia Kirkpatrick, and she’s on the case.”

  “Marcia Kirkpatrick,” Justine muttered.

  “This way she’ll get money from the seller’s commission,” Nora reminded her. “So she won’t need to use any other means to try to get the money that Rory said he’d give her.”

  “Goody for her,” Justine murmured.

  “Mom,” Jenny said.

  “Furthermore,” Nora continued, “I’m going to open a branch of my real estate office here on the island. Marcia’s going to be my branch manager.”

  The news split Arden’s face into a smile, lifting her away from her smoldering thoughts. “How awesome! Dad’s first wife teaming up with his last liaison.”

  Justine’s lips thinned in anger.

  Jenny reached over and touched her mother’s hand. “Come on, Mom. You’ve got to see how karmic this is. Kind of closing the circle? You know Dad’s up there laughing his head off right now.”

  Justine looked at her daughter and her face was not completely bitter when she said, “I’m sure he is.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Arden had drawn up a rough script for the segment on Winkie Linden’s summer house. After lunch she phoned Winkie to see if she could stop by to check out a few things. The senator’s widow was gracious but terribly formal, and Arden wanted to make the process of having a cameraman in her house as painless as possible.

  The Linden summer house was on Cliff Road, overlooking the sound. It sprawled in gray-shingled glory over the lawn, surrounded by hedges of privet and rhododendrons, the long porch railings smothered in climbing roses. Winkie sat here in a wicker rocking chair with a glass of what she called ice water at hand; Arden thought it probably wasn’t water at all.

  “It’s nice to see a strange face,” Winkie told Arden. “I’ve been in the midst of a contretemps with my family for days. I’ve got four living children, and each has passionate thoughts about what I should do with Harold’s letters and papers. Of course several museums have asked me to donate the papers for safekeeping. I have the final say, but whatever I decide will make someone angry.”

  “I wonder whether I could video you talking about this,” Arden said. “Most families have similar issues. Yours is exceptional, of course, because your husband was a senator. Most families don’t have museums asking for memorabilia. But it’s always hard to divide up family possessions. We’re going through a similar process at our house right now.”

  “Oh dear.” Winkie took a sip of her drink. She patted her crown of thinning white hair. “I look rather ragged today. Not at all the way I’d want Harold’s former constituents to see me.”

  Arden thought fast. “What if I tape you talking? We could use your words as a voice-over while we showed shots of his papers, medals, books, and so on.”

  Winkie considered this for a moment, then agreed.

  With the dinner hour approaching, Arden drove back to the Lily Street house in high spirits. Winkie, relaxed by her water, confided the complicated history of many of the objects in their summer house and the complex claims of her four children on those objects. Of course Arden would show the shooting script to Winkie and her children; she’d never want to reveal secrets or expose anything unsavory. Hers was not that kind of show. Perhaps she could get one of the children to work with her.…

  Her mind tumbling with thoughts, Arden entered the house.

  “Good, Arden, you’re home!” Jenny called out from the living room.

  Arden strolled in, slipping out of her low heels and pulling her silk shirt out of her skirt as she went. She stopped dead. Palmer White sat on the sofa facing Jenny.

  “You have a guest,” Jenny announced brightly.

  “Hi, Arden,” Palmer said.

  Arden recovered her cool and continued to move casually to an armchair. “Hi, Palmer. I’ve just been working, talking with Winkie Linden. I’ve got lots of good stuff.”

  “Want a drink?” Jenny asked. Before Arden could answer, she offered, “How about a gin and tonic? With a slice of lime? Be right back.” She left the room.

  Arden unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt and lifted her shirt away from her, fanning herself to cool off. “You and I didn’t discuss exactly when I’m going to Houston, so I wanted to get a few more segments done for Boston before I left.” She was determined to be all business. If he was having an affair with Zoey, sweet for him. It didn’t matter to her.

  Palmer’s mouth curved up in an irritatingly knowing grin, as if he could read her thoughts. “Right. Business. That’s one reason I dropped in. I have yet another proposal to discuss with you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Arden crossed one leg over the other, slowly. She had great legs, and she let her skirt ride up her thighs.

  Palmer kept his eyes on Arden’s face. “Your colleague Zoey Anderson came to see me this morning.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Jenny entered the room with two drinks.

  Arden said, “Thanks, Jenny. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “I’ll let you two get on with your work.” Jenny slipped away.

  Palmer continued, “Zoey came all the way to see me because she wants something from me, and she wants it very badly.”

  “Oh, dear sweet blue-eyed saints in heaven, give it to her,” Arden said.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know what it is she wants?” Palmer asked.

  “Fine. What does she want?”

  “She wants to go to Houston with you.”

  Arden almost spilled her drink down her shirt. “What?”

  “Arden, Zoey is your biggest fan in, as she says, the whole wide world. She thinks you’re totally awesome. She wants to be your apprentice.”

  “She wants my job.”

  “True, in a way. It might be more precise to say she wants to be you. She realizes she’s got a lot to learn. She’s smart, quick, and young. She envies your style, your classiness, your finesse. At the same time, she doesn’t want you to think she’s only a stalker, a groupie. She’s serious about what she wants to achieve in the television world.”

  Arden took a long, cool sip of her drink, letting her thoughts settle. “I’m pleased Zoey admires me,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure I like her.”

  “How could you know?” Palmer reasonably pointed out. “You haven’t spent much time with her.”

  The small shot of gin gave Arden the courage to ask: “What about you and Zoey?”

  “Me and Zoey? There’s nothing about me and Zoey.” Palmer’s face cracked into a mischievous grin.

  Arden eyed Palmer levelly and took another sip.

  “You sophisticated, worldly wise, semifamous television personality,” Palmer said, and the brown of his eyes took on the allure of melted chocolate. “Don’t you have any clue yet about exactly which woman it is I want to be with?”

  Something made Arden shiver. Perhaps the ice in her drink.

  Palmer said, “Let me take you out to dinner.”

  “I need a shower,” Arden told him.

  Palmer said easily, “I can wait.”

  Arden slowly uncrossed her legs. She set her drink on the table. She stood up, smoothing her skirt down over her slender thighs, all the while keeping her eyes on Palmer. “Do me a favor first.”

  “Sure.”

  “Stand up.”

  His eyebrow quirked a question. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead rose from the chair, looking amused.

  Arden ambled over to him, tak
ing her time. She didn’t stop until she was only an inch from touching his body with hers. Sexual heat exploded inside her, but she forced herself to act cool. She was playing this game for keeps. She was sure Palmer was, too.

  Moving forward that one final inch, she brushed her breasts against his chest, teasing his face as she brought her lips close to his mouth, as if she were about to kiss him. Palmer no longer looked amused. His face was serious, his dark eyes as intense as a panther’s. Slowly Arden tilted her head so her mouth came closer, past his jaw, his cheeks, settling near his ear.

  She whispered, “You won’t have to wait too long, I promise.”

  Palmer groaned.

  She sidestepped around him, sauntering out of the room, unable to keep a satisfied smile from her face.

  After driving Cyndi and her bulging suitcases to the airport, Justine, Meg, Nora, and Jenny decided to go out to dinner at Town.

  “I’ll treat,” Nora told them. “It’s a legitimate business expense. I’ve got the listing form in my bag, and after dinner I’ll need the signatures of Jenny, Meg, and Arden.”

  “If Arden comes home tonight,” Jenny said archly.

  “I’m sure she and Palmer are discussing work,” Nora said, eyebrows raised.

  It was blissful to gather around a table out in the soft evening air, watching the other diners come and go in their cheery vacation togs. They ordered cocktails they’d never had before, martinis and margaritas with colorful liquors added, icy cold and delicious. They dined on Moroccan lamb sliders, grilled quail, mussels, and Korean short rib tacos, passing their plates around, sharing all the food. Tired from a day of packing, they talked only sporadically and shamelessly listened to nearby tables. Behind them, one couple was fighting. Next to them, a man was working on a seduction plan that seemed to be succeeding.

  They strolled around town afterward, indulging in ice-cream cones for dessert, enjoying the twinkling lights from the masts on the boats moored in the harbor and the scent of flowers drifting through the air. Finally they went home, lazy and content.

  They were getting ready for bed when Arden came in. She waved her hand and headed to her room.

  But Jenny noticed that Arden’s lipstick was smeared, and her lips were puffy, as if she’d been indulging in a lengthy kissing spree.

  “All right,” Nora said the next morning. Enough dillydallying; it was showtime.

  They were gathered around the table: Nora and Justine, Jenny, Meg, and Arden. Breakfast was over and they sat with their coffee mugs nearby.

  “This is the listing sheet. I made a copy for each of you. Read it over. It’s a standard form. I’ll want to go through the house and take some photos to put online, but before I can do anything, I need your three signatures.”

  Justine wanted to know how Nora had arrived at the price. “It seems high.”

  “Of course it’s high. People love to negotiate. They want to feel they’ve knocked the price down, they’ve got a bargain, they’ve won. Or, if we’re lucky, some wealthy couple will be captivated by this house and pay full price. More money for the girls.”

  Justine shrugged. “Understood.”

  Nora cast an unreadable glance at Justine. “How long are you planning to stay here?”

  “Why?” asked Justine. “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me. But Marcia Kirkpatrick might want to come through the house tomorrow—”

  “Why?” Jenny demanded. “She told us she knows the house.”

  “She might,” Nora agreed. “But she’ll need to view it with selling it in mind. Describing it to potential buyers. We could arrange a time for her to be at the house, and you could take yourself off somewhere, Justine.”

  Justine shook her head. “No. No, I’ll leave first thing in the morning. I’m done here, anyway.” She glanced around the kitchen. “You can’t pack up memories in a suitcase.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Justine and Nora left the next day. The girls had three weeks of August left to get through to legally fulfill the stipulation in Rory’s will.

  The first week, Liam came down, toting a laptop computer; a book bag of college directives, memos, and guidelines; and a duffel bag of clothing. Every morning he and Meg made the bed in the little back bedroom, organized their laptops and the book bag, and went off to the library to work on the fall course schedules and syllabus for freshman English.

  Arden made coffee, dressed in professional clothes, arranged her voice recorder and iPad filled with notes for her show, and drove off to interview someone or to meet with someone else for lunch or to make notes as she sat on a bench in the restful corner park on Main Street and Fair.

  Jenny pulled on shorts and a tank top, backpacked her Mac Air, and biked through town, stopping at Fast Forward to buy muffins and iced coffee. She carried these into The Computer Guy shop on Airport Road, where Tim was already at work. She set out breakfast for them on a table at the back of the shop, and as they ate, they discussed prospective projects and how to divide the workload.

  But by late afternoon, everything changed. Nantucket summer evenings were the glitter hours. Wealthy patrons threw lavish parties for their favorite charities: cocktail parties, dances, sunset cruises on fabulous yachts, intimate dinners for two hundred beneath white tents sailing upward, their posts rippling with banners like those of medieval kings. These were the fantasy weeks, the fairy-tale hours, the celebration of laughter, beauty, and camaraderie.

  Arden, Meg, and Jenny would rush home at four or five, slip into bathing suits and gauzy cover-ups in sherbet colors, and hurry down to Jetties Beach for a quick swim to cool off from the heat of the day. Back home, they’d shower and dress, sharing jewelry and clothes, scarves, shoes, shawls. Liam would don his navy blue blazer and white flannels and drive the three women in the Volvo to whatever party was on that night. There they’d meet up with Palmer and Tim to sip champagne, slurp oysters served up from the raw bars, help themselves to scallops wrapped in bacon or deep-fried mussels. They danced. If there was a band, they danced until the music ended and their splendid clothes were completely soaked with sweat, their hair plastered to their skulls, their legs weak. If there was a band, Meg caressed the back of Liam’s neck during the slow dances, and Palmer whispered in Arden’s ear, and Tim, with each slow dance, drew Jenny closer against him, until finally she surrendered and wrapped both arms around his neck, allowing herself to hold on to this man.

  But all the glitter was not at the parties.

  Some nights the August meteor showers were in exceptionally showy moods. The six of them would take blankets out to Madaket at the farthest edge of the island, away from the lights of town. They’d lie on the sand gazing upward as the Perseids streamed above them, flashing in a display of heavenly fireworks, shooting stars falling toward them, streaking across the night sky, lavishing the darkness with silver-white light. Nearby, the ocean lapped at the shore, and occasionally something would splash in the water, as if a star had landed there.

  Suddenly, there was only one more week left in August.

  People were leaving the island in droves. Families had to get their children ready for school. Students had to get back to their dorms and buy college supplies. Clerks, salespeople, waitstaff, all took off for more permanent jobs, and the island emptied out. No more musicians played on Main Street. At night, the summer breezes sometimes brought a hint of chill.

  The night before Liam left the island, he asked Meg if he could take her out to dinner. She understood—in the house with her sisters and sometimes Palmer and sometimes Tim, it was hard to find a private moment.

  Even though it was still hot outside, Meg knew there would be air-conditioning, so she tossed a silk shawl around her shoulders, pleased at the way its swirling hues accented her strawberry-blonde hair. She was secretly proud of what she’d learned this summer on the island from her sisters, knowledge college textbooks couldn’t give her: how to be feminine and adult without looking puritanical.

  She was glad she’d w
orn the shawl when she discovered that Liam was taking her to the best restaurant on the island, one of the most famous in the country, Toppers at The Wauwinet hotel, and they were going there by water. They strolled down Easton Street to the dock behind the White Elephant hotel and boarded the Wauwinet Lady, a small launch that took them through the harbor to The Wauwinet hotel at the end of Polpis Harbor. The evening was calm, the water an impressionistic mirror of the deepening blue sky, the air heavy and still. They were served sparkling wine to sip as they observed the shoreline with its inlets, sandbars, marshes, and mansions. It was like being whisked away by magic carpet to another world, and as they were handed out of the boat onto the hotel’s dock, Meg felt she was stepping into a fantasy world. All around on the beach were umbrellas, beach chairs, pots spilling with flowers, and then they were ushered into the bright restaurant with its sparkling crystal and crisp linen tablecloths.

  After they were seated by a window, Meg asked, “What’s the occasion?”

  Liam shrugged. “The end of a remarkable summer?”

  “And the beginning of a remarkable semester,” Meg agreed. “Liam, I’ve been getting positive e-mails from the other instructors about my freshman syllabus. I was afraid they’d balk at using someone else’s organizational plan, but most people seem glad to have it.”

  “I’m sure they are. It’s excellent. Plus, they’re aware your students had the best scores last semester.” He paused while the waiter poured them another glass of champagne and took their order. “How’s the Alcott book?”

  “I’m almost there.” Meg sat back, sighing. “It’s more difficult than I’d expected. I want to get it right. It would help to have someone else read what I’ve done so far and give me a critique. I wonder, Liam, would you have time to do it?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask. I’d be very happy to. Which reminds me, I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?” She spread crab pâté on a cracker and munched it, savoring the taste of summer.

  “Meg.”