Everlasting
Page 35
“Really! I’m so glad to hear that! It’s nice to know other families have their problems living together. Tell me more!” Catherine said greedily.
Ann grinned. “Let’s see … Ned’s doing so well with the mysteries that we don’t need to run it as a bed-and-breakfast anymore, but Hortense and Elizabeth and their husbands have devoted their lives to it, so we can hardly kick them out. Madeline’s made it clear that when she dies it will pass completely to Ned and to me, but we have a responsibility to the others. There are lots of changes I’d like to make in the gardens, but you know they’ve always been Hortense’s territory, and she gets wild if I suggest a change.”
Ann talked about her in-laws, and Catherine responded with anecdotes about hers, and as the sisters sat by the fire in the dark room on that cold day, comparing the complications of family life, they had never been closer, or so happy together, in their lives.
Finally Ann said she had to get back to the city. She helped Catherine carry the tea things down the long hallway, then they went together to the front door.
“One more question,” Catherine said as Ann pulled on her coat. “Are you upset that you didn’t inherit this Everly, or part of it?”
“God, no! Believe me, one Everly is more than enough for me. Besides, I truly feel at home there. And I know you’ve always loved this place. What are your plans for it?”
“I’m going to restore it. I promised Grandmother I would. I want to do it right. It will take buckets of time and money, though. How I’m going to juggle Blooms and Everly, I don’t know. I’ve got some serious thinking to do.”
“Whatever you do, it’ll be right,” Ann said. “I’ve always admired you, you know. The way you just plunge in and make things work. It’s helped me have the courage to live my life.”
“Oh, Ann, what a wonderful thing for you to say. Thank you.” Catherine pulled her sister to her. Then Ann turned her coat collar up against the wind and ran out to her car. A moment later she was gone, and Catherine was alone in the vast rambling house—in her house.
She wandered up to the third floor, pausing in each bedroom, looking out the windows at the darkening November sky. It was a source of deep pleasure for her that Andrew and Lily were carelessly, comfortably secure in their family, always inviting friends home from boarding school for long weekends and holidays. If they made a few of the small bedrooms into one large game room, they could put in a Ping-Pong and pool table and one of those computers Andrew and his friends loved so much. For that matter they could have a tennis court built over where the ground was flat and shady; both children would love that. She’d talk to Kit about it; she’d hire a decorator to overlook the renovations and the refurbishing of the old rooms.
For what she really cared about was not the interior of Everly, but the untamed land spreading out from the formal gardens she knew and loved. Almost five acres of luxuriant land, overgrown with weeds, brambles, saplings, woods. Every day she heard about floriculturists coming up with new breeds and strains of bulbs and seeds and flowers; it would be fun to cultivate the land and use it for experimental planting. She wanted a large plot of herbs right away; some of her clients were already getting interested in what could be recycled, and only two weeks ago she’d used potted herbs as table decorations at a luncheon party. That had been wildly successful. And there was Jean-Paul Michette, the chef who had come to her for edible flowers with which he could embellish his newest dishes; so far she had supplied him only with what she knew was safe—violets, pansies, and nasturtiums from Kathryn’s gardens, where no chemical pesticides had been used. It would be interesting to see what other clever, delicious delicacies she could discover.
She could use a specialist. Well, Everly was certainly large enough to house a resident floriculturalist or two and a decent working lab. At last she could have her greenhouse. For years she’d been toying with the idea of creating her own potpourri to sell under the Blooms label, something completely original, tangy, and distinctive; out here she could find the room to dry flowers, herbs, and fruits and experiment until she found the perfect fragrance. Last month the owner of an upscale health food store had asked her for something unique and enduring to decorate his walls: she had glazed loaves of breads that were twisted or knotted in appealing ways, entwined them with sprays of wheat and grasses, and sprayed the arrangements with a protective glaze of glossy acrylic. The result had been surprisingly attractive; what other objects could she use as dried-art arrangements for her clients? There wasn’t room enough to experiment at Blooms, but there was room here.
Catherine made a pot of coffee, stoked up the fire in the library, and sat for a long time with pen and paper, making lists until the telephone broke into her thoughts. It was Kit, safely back at White River after delivering the children to school.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m disgustingly happy,” Catherine said. “I suppose I should be ashamed of myself.” She told him about her plans and listened carefully to his response and suggestions. They talked for a long time. Not until he relayed the various phone messages on the answering machine did she feel the weight of the day fall upon her, but when he mentioned the people who had called to extend sympathy about Kathryn’s death and the business briefs from Sandra or Jason, exhaustion finally hit.
After they said good night, she rose to pile a triangle of great fat logs on the andirons; that should burn for hours. She had no desire to sleep alone in any of the dusty bedrooms tonight, and the library was warm and fragrant from the maple and applewood that had been burning all day. Its scent was companionable, soothing. The sofa was just as comfortable as the old beds. From the back of the sofa she took a Hudson Bay wool blanket Kathryn had often used as a lap rug, tucked it around her feet, and curled up on the sofa, her head on a needlepointed pillow. Reaching up, she switched off the brass lamp on the end table.
Now shadows leapt on all the walls as the fire flared in the darkened room. She snuggled into the old soft cushions, feeling completely at home, remembering days when she had been very young, before Shelly or Ann had been born, when her grandmother had let her take her nap here by the fire on rainy Sunday afternoons. Someday she’d be a grandmother—and perhaps she’d have a grandchild who’d carry on her work.
Catherine’s eyes flickered and closed. For a while her thoughts danced like the flames. Then she entered that blissful state between wakefulness and sleep, when she knew for certain that her dreams would lift off, as light as fiery ashes whirling up the chimney into the dark night, or wildflower seeds spinning off into the air, to drop through the darkness into the sweet welcoming ground, where, if they were strong, they would take root and bloom.
This book is dedicated to the memory of my brother William S. Wright II
I WOULD LIKE TO THANK
Mark Hagopian, florist at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston, for generously giving me information, anecdotes, and insights;
Rhon Logan, florist at For Any Occasion in New York, for showing me around New York’s flower district at five-thirty one March morning and for sharing his wealth of information; and especially
Harrie Wagtenveld, florist at Grass Roots in Nantucket, who was endlessly knowledgeable, patient, creative, instructive, and kind.
The florists mentioned above are good-humored, generous-spirited, charming, and highly ethical. Any negative qualities possessed by the florist in this novel are absolutely her own.
BY NANCY THAYER
Nantucket Sisters
A Nantucket Christmas
Island Girls
Summer Breeze
Heat Wave
Beachcombers
Summer House
Moon Shell Beach
The Hot Flash Club Chills Out
Hot Flash Holidays
The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again
The Hot Flash Club
Custody
Between Husbands and Friends
An Act of Love
Family Secrets
My Dearest Friend
Spirit Lost
Morning
Nell
Bodies and Souls
Three Women at the Water’s Edge
Stepping
Nancy Thayer is the New York Times bestselling author of Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, and The Hot Flash Club. She lives in Nantucket.
nancythayer.com/
Facebook.com/NancyThayerAuthor
Read on for an excerpt from Nancy Thayer’s
Nantucket Sisters
Ballantine Books
It’s like a morning in Heaven. From a blue sky, the sun, fat and buttery as one a child would draw in school, shines down on a sapphire ocean. Eleven-year-old Emily Porter stands at the edge of a cliff high above the beach, her blond hair rippled by a light breeze.
The edge of the cliff is an abrupt, jagged border, into which a small landing is built, with railings you can lean against, looking out at the sea. Before her, weathered wooden steps cut back and forth down the steep bluff to the beach.
Behind her lies the grassy lawn and their large gray summer house, so different from their apartment on East 86th in New York City.
Last night, as the Porters flew away from Manhattan, Emily looked down on the familiar fantastic panorama of sparkling lights, urging the plane onward with her excitement, with her longing to see the darkness and then, in the distance, the flash and flare of the lighthouse beacons.
Nantucket begins today.
Today, while her father plays golf and her beautiful mother, Cara, organizes the house, Emily is free to do as she pleases. And what she’s waited for all winter is to run down the street into the small village of ’Sconset and along the narrow path to the cottages in Codfish Park, where she’ll knock on Maggie’s door.
First, she waves back at the ocean. Next, she turns and runs, half skipping, waving her arms, singing. She exults in the soft grass under her feet instead of hard sidewalk, salt air in her lungs instead of soot, the laughter of gulls instead of the blare of car horns, and the sweet perfume of new dawn roses.
She flies along past the old town water pump, past the ’Sconset Market, past the post office, past Claudette’s Box Lunches. Down the steep cobblestoned hill to Codfish Park. Here, the houses used to be shacks where fishermen spread their nets to dry, so the roofs are low and the walls are ramshackle. Maggie’s house is a crooked, funny little place, but roses curl over the roof, morning glories climb up a trellis, and pansy faces smile from window boxes.
Before she can knock, the door flies open.
“Emily!” Maggie’s hair’s been cut into an elf’s cap and she’s taller than Emily now, and she has more freckles over her nose and cheeks.
Behind Maggie stands Maggie’s mother, Frances, wearing a red sundress with an apron over it. Emily’s never seen anyone but caterers and cooks wear an apron. It has lots of pockets. It makes Maggie’s mother look like someone from a book.
“You’re here!” Maggie squeals.
“Welcome back, Emily.” Frances smiles. “Come in. I’ve made gingerbread.”
The fragrant scent of ginger and sugar wafts out enticingly from the house, which is, Emily admits privately to her own secret self, the strangest place Emily’s ever seen. The living room’s in the kitchen; the sofa, armchairs, television set, and coffee table, all covered with books and games, are just on the other side of the round table from the sink and appliances. In the dining room, a sewing machine stands on a long table, and piles of fabric bloom from every surface in a crazy hodgepodge. Frances is divorced and makes her living as a seamstress, which is why Emily’s parents aren’t crazy about her friendship with Maggie, who is only a poor island girl.
But Maggie and Emily have been best friends since they met on the beach when they were five years old. With Maggie, Emily is her true self. Maggie understands Emily in a way her parents never could. Now that the girls are growing up, Emily senses change in the air—but not yet. Not yet. There is still this summer ahead.
And summer lasts forever.
“I’d love some gingerbread, thank you, Mrs. McIntyre,” Emily says politely.
“Oh, holy moly, call her Frances.” Maggie tugs on Emily’s hand and pulls her into the house.
* * *
Maggie acts blasé and bossy around Emily, but the truth is, she’s always kind of astounded at the friendship she and Emily have created. Emily Porter is rich, the big fat New York/Nantucket rich.
In comparison, Maggie’s family is just plain poor. The McIntyres live on Nantucket year-round but are considered off-islanders, “wash-ashores,” because they weren’t born on the island. They came from Boston, where Frances grew up, met and married Billy McIntyre, and had two children with him. Soon after, they divorced, and he disappeared from their lives. When Maggie was a year old, Frances moved them all to the island, because she’d heard the island needed a good seamstress. She’s made a decent living for them—some women call Frances “a treasure.”
Still, it’s hard. It isn’t that kids made fun of Maggie at school. Lots of kids don’t have fathers, or have fathers who live in different houses or states. It’s a personal thing. The sight of a television show, even a television ad, with a little girl running to greet her father when he returns from work at the end of the day, or a bride in her white wedding gown being twirled on the dance floor by her beaming, loving father, can make a sadness stab through her all the way down into her stomach.
Plus, her life is so cramped by their lack of money.
When a friend asks her to go to a movie in the summer at the Dreamland Theater, Maggie always says no, thanks. She can’t ask her mom for the money. In the winter, when friends take a plane off island to Hyannis where they stay in a motel and swim in the heated pools and see movies on huge screens and shop at the mall, they ask Maggie along, but she never can go. She hates the things her mom makes for her out of leftover material saved from dresses she’s sewn for grown women. Frances always tries to make the clothes look like those bought in stores, but they aren’t bought in stores, and Maggie, and everyone else, knows it.
Frances never makes her brother Ben wear homemade stuff. Ben always gets store-bought clothes—and nice ones, ones that all the other guys wear. Their mom knows Ben would walk stark naked into the school before he’d wear a single shirt stitched up by his mother. Ben’s two years older than Maggie, and bright, perhaps brilliant—that’s what his teachers say. Everything about him’s excessive, his tangle of curly black hair, the thick dark lashes, his deep blue eyes, his energy, his temperament.
During good weather, he’s outside, his legs furiously pumping the pedals of his bike as he tears through the streets of ’Sconset, or scaling a tree like a monkey, hiding in the highest branches, tossing bits of bark on the heads of puzzled pedestrians. He’s a genius at sports and never notices when he skids the skin of both knees and elbows into tatters, as long as he makes first base or tackles his opponent.
During bad weather, Ben becomes the torment of Maggie’s life. When the wind howls against the windows, she’ll be curled up with a book, assuming he is, too, for he does like to read—then she’ll discover that while he was so quiet, he’d been removing her dolls’ eyeballs in an unsuccessful attempt to give all the dolls one blue eye and one brown. One rainy summer day, he scraped the flakes of his sunburned skin into her hairbrush. Another time he put glue between the pages of her treasured books.
From day to day and often minute to minute, Maggie never knows whether she loves or hates Ben more.
Emily says she’d give anything for a brother or sister. Maggie tells her she can have Ben any time.
Emily is only on the island for three months in the summer, so Maggie doesn’t understand why, during the school year, she misses Emily so much. It’s not like she doesn’t have friends. She has lots of friends.
Alisha is fun, but she’s pure jock. Alisha’s perfect day is going to
the beach, running into the water, shrieking and jumping until a wave knocks her down. She comes up laughing, knees scratched from the sand, and runs back into the waves, over and over again. If Maggie suggests a game of make believe, Alisha looks at her like bugs are coming out her ears.
Delphine loves horses. Her parents have a farm. They sell veggies and plants in the summer and Christmas trees in the winter. When Maggie goes to Delphine’s house, she spends all day on horseback, or helps Delphine curry the horses or muck out the stalls. Delphine doesn’t like to come to Maggie’s house—no horses there.
Kerrie reads and sometimes plays pretend, but Kerrie has an entrepreneurial mind. She started a summer newspaper for children that she writes, illustrates, and sells from a little newsstand she built out of crates and set up on the corner of Orange and Main. When she isn’t selling her newspaper, she’s selling lemonade and cookies she bakes herself.
Then there’s Tyler Madison. He would be Maggie’s best friend except he’s a boy. Tyler will play pretend with her if no one else is around. He loves the island as much as Maggie does, perhaps even more, and she can often find him on the moors painstakingly drawing in his own guide to landmarks, like the unusual boulders the glaciers left thousands of years ago. Using an ordinary scrapbook, Tyler is creating a fantastical volume of detailed maps, showing the names and locations of each salient feature. The cover is carefully pasted with calligraphed words: Official Register of Secrets. Inside, the first page is the Table of Contents. Next, Tyler has entered page after page of carefully sketched or photographed, imagined, and described boulders and their locations: Ocean Goddess. Island God. Pond Princesses. Lord and Lady Boulders. Twenty-seven different elf communities. Twelve separate Fellowships of Bushes and the Maraud Squad of poison ivy, scrub oak, bayberry. It’s so thoroughly detailed it seems as real as a chart of the stars. Maggie thinks the map is awesome and she adores Tyler, but Ben calls Tyler geekasaurus and four-eyes. It’s too bad, but understandable. Pale, underweight, uncoordinated, too clumsy to play sports, Tyler’s ostracized by most kids. Maggie suspects she’s Tyler’s best friend. Maybe she’s his only friend.