by Nancy Thayer
“Good morning,” she said when he had drawn near her.
“Good morning,” he replied. “Is this space reserved?” He indicated with his hands the space of sand next to her.
She smiled. “No.”
“May I join you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, still smiling.
He settled himself down next to her and then just sat there a while companionably, looking out at the water.
“I’m Nell St. John,” Nell said finally, smiling at him again. The sun was in her eyes and she had to squint to see him.
“I’m Andy Martindale,” the man said, and held his hand out to her.
Andy—Abe/Anthony, Nell thought, I wasn’t that far off! She felt her smile broaden. She shook his hand. “Do you live here on Nantucket?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I do. I’m what they call a year-round summer person. That means I’ve lived here for nine years but I wasn’t born here and my family wasn’t born here so I’m not a native. I came here every summer as a child and I have lived here full time for nine years and this is my only residence, but I’m still considered a year-round summer person, and I guess I always will be. Not a real Nantucketer, you know.”
Nell grinned. “Well,” she said. “I’m a real newcomer. I mean this is my first time on the island. I’ll be in here this summer, though. I guess that makes me a summer person.”
“Where do you live?” he asked.
“In Arlington,” Nell said. “I live in Arlington and work in a boutique in Cambridge. The O’Learys—Colin and Elizabeth, you might know them—own both the boutiques. They want me to run the Nantucket one this summer. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why do you work in that boutique?” Andy asked.
Nell was startled. “Why? Well, because I need to support myself,” she said.
“Yeah. But why a boutique? Do you like it?”
He was almost peering at her as he asked this question, and Nell felt a bit like a scientific specimen. What kind of person asks that sort of question? she thought. But he did not seem flippant. She considered. “Yes,” she said at last. “I like it very much. I like clothes. I love clothes. I like fabric and color, and I like people. It’s really quite wonderful to see someone transformed by a good dress.”
“Yes, but it’s not very important work, do you think? Not really a challenge?”
You’re a real charmer, Nell thought, but in spite of herself she laughed. “Listen,” she said. “The last thing in the world I need is a challenge. I’ve had challenges all my life, I’ve got enough challenges just getting through the day.” She stopped, grew serious, looked at him. Okay, buddy, I can be as intense as you, she thought. “And you’re wrong if you think it’s not important. It’s very important. Well.” She stopped, thinking it out. “Perhaps not very important. Not as important, say, as doing research on cancer, that sort of thing. But maybe as important as flying to the moon. I mean clothes in general and the moon in general. Beautiful clothes aren’t necessities, but then neither is going to the moon.”
Andy stared at her. “That point is debatable,” he said. “Well, but is this it for you? Your goal in life? To sell expensive clothes in a boutique?”
“How come you’re so rude?” Nell asked. She glared at him, finally angered by his boorishness, and the wind whipped her hair in her eyes and made her wince.
“Oh God,” Andy said. “Was I being rude? I’m sorry.” He stared back out at the ocean as if reconsidering.
Nell sat next to him and glared out at the ocean. You may be attractive, she thought—and he was, he was very attractive sitting next to her there with his very long legs and his doggy face. He had hazel eyes and dark brown lashes and lines around his eyes that crinkled when he smiled or squinted. His face had that craggy bony homeliness that fell just short of great handsomeness. You are attractive, Nell thought, but I think you’re too rough at the edges for me.
“Listen,” he said, turning to her quickly. Nell thought he was going to say: Here’s what I mean to say. Instead, he said, “Let’s go have a cup of coffee.”
Nell paused. “Well, where? I mean, it’s early for a coffee shop to be open.… ”
“No, no,” Andy said. “My house is just up there.” He pointed to a huge gray Victorian on a cliff.
Well, Nell thought, I don’t think he’s going to murder me. He’ll just insult me to death.
“Okay,” she said, and they rose and began walking along the beach to the steps that climbed the long hill. They didn’t speak as they walked. It was necessary to walk single file up the narrow steps. Then Nell had to work to keep up with him, he had such a long stride.
His house was mammoth, fabulous, and echoing. It was a sprawling Victorian with porches and bay windows and gables and peaks and views of the water, and most of the rooms were completely or partially empty. As Andy fixed the coffee in the kitchen, Nell looked through the downstairs and saw rooms with beautifully sanded floors and ornately carved marble-manteled fireplaces. And no furniture.
“Did you just move in?” Nell asked, coming back to the kitchen.
“Oh no,” Andy said. “I’ve lived here nine years.”
The theme music from The Twilight Zone began to play in Nell’s head. She looked around the kitchen. This room, at least, was normal. There was a refrigerator, which was in fact a deluxe snazzy affair with an appliance in the door that gave ice water and ice cubes. There was a wonderful gas oven, a Jenn-Air range top for grilling, and a microwave oven. Every conceivable appliance lined the clean countertops, and a long silky-looking walnut table was placed next to the window so that one could sit at the table and look out at the ocean. The room was not decorated; the walls were off-white and there were no curtains, but it did look lived in.
Andy was fiddling with the Mr. Coffee machine. “I prefer the rooms upstairs,” he said at last. “They give a better view.” He poured cups of coffee into thick pottery mugs. “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the table by the window, and Nell sat, and so did he, on antique walnut chairs softened with quilted cushions. They sat for a moment in comfortable silence. “I live here alone,” he said after sipping his coffee. “So I guess I don’t need as many rooms as a family. I keep all my stuff upstairs. I guess it does look queer to a stranger. But I wanted a house with a view of the ocean, an old house, and this was all I could find.”
“What do you do?” Nell asked.
“Huh?” Andy said. “Well,” he said, and leaned back in his chair and thought about it for a moment. “I don’t really know,” he said finally.
“You don’t really know what you do?” Nell asked, incredulous.
“Now wait a minute,” he said. “I’m trying to explain. Well, I used to invent things. And then I stopped.” He turned to her and nodded, seemingly satisfied with his explanation.
“You used to invent things?” Nell asked. “What sort of things?”
“Terrible things,” Andy said. “Really terrible things. That’s why I stopped. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Well now, you can’t just stop there,” Nell said. “I mean you’ve got to be a little clearer. Did you invent bombs? Special poisons? That kind of terrible things?”
Andy laughed. “No, oh no,” he said. “Nothing like that at all. Look at the sailboat.” He pointed out to the water, where a boat with a rainbow-striped sail was skipping along the waves.
“I think you’re trying to change the subject,” Nell said.
“I am,” Andy said. “They’ve got a great day for sailing.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Nell said, and rose and zipped up her windbreaker.
“What?” he asked. He had been leaning back in his chair so that it rested on its two back legs—one of Jeremy’s favorite and most irritating tricks (Nell was always afraid he’d fall over and break his head open)—and now he brought his legs and the chair back down with a thud. “You haven’t finished your coffee.”
“I know,” Nell said. “But I’d better
go anyway.” She started across the kitchen.
“You’re going to leave just because I won’t tell you what I invented, aren’t you?” he asked.
Nell stood in the doorway leading to the back door and porch they had come in. “Yes,” she said. “That’s right.” She stared at him. He stared back. Neither of them spoke. Nell turned and went out the door.
“Ashtrays for mobile homes!” he called after her. “Toilets for private jets!”
Nell stopped on the top step. Andy came to the door and stood, pressing his face against the screen. She turned and looked at him.
“See?” he said. “See what I mean by terrible? I designed gadgets for private luxury vehicles. There’s a lot of money in it. You’d be surprised. And I love technology; love figuring out little problems. But after a while I thought I just couldn’t go on in life designing toilets. So I moved here. Now I’m designing a software package for home computers. And writing a book about twentieth-century technology. But both projects are just in the embryo stage. Nothing to show anybody yet.” He shrugged, then looked at her in appeal. He was a very appealing man.
“I guess I’ll finish my coffee,” Nell said.
She went back into the echoing Victorian house and sat with him for the rest of the morning, talking and drinking coffee and eating toast with rose hip jelly. He continued to talk in starts and lurches, as if conversation was for him a rusty contraption that hadn’t had much recent use. Now and then he made her smile. Now and then she made him laugh, and she saw that he had the most endearing smile. He had beautiful, evenly spaced white teeth. As the morning went on, it grew warm in the kitchen and he pulled his sweater up over his head and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and Nell noticed that he had thick black hair on his arms and even on the back of his hands and the knuckles of each of his long fingers. He didn’t say much more about himself. Nell found out that he was divorced, that he had one daughter who was in prep school, that his ex-wife lived in New York City, that he liked mysteries, Alfred Hitchcock movies, jazz, Scotch, solitude. Mostly Nell talked about herself, because he asked so many questions. Finally Nell said she had better go, that her hosts, who were also her bosses, would be expecting her. They had work to do even though it was a Sunday.
“Look,” he said, when she rose to go the second time. “Can you have dinner with me tonight?”
“Oh, I’d like to,” Nell said, “but my plane leaves for Boston at seven.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well then, let’s just eat early. We could eat at five and then I’d drive you to the airport.”
“Oh,” Nell said, and her heart flipped a bit at his persistence. She was pleased. “But are any restaurants open that early?”
“Well, I thought we’d eat here,” he said. “I don’t much like eating in restaurants. And I’m a good cook.”
Nell smiled. “All right, then,” she said. “That would be nice. I’ll have Elizabeth drop me off here around five and we can eat and then you can drive me to the airport. If you’re sure you don’t mind …”
“No, no,” he said. “I wouldn’t mind driving you to the airport at all. It would be a mild price to pay for the pleasure of your company,” he said, then grinned at himself, as if surprised at his courtliness.
Nell grinned back. A current of attraction that was as definite and enticing as a cat’s purr ran between the two of them. “See you then,” she said, and left.
Nell looked at her watch as she walked. It was ten-fifteen. How had it gotten so late, she wondered. Amazing. She hoped the O’Learys wouldn’t be upset at her absence; she hadn’t thought to leave them a note. When she got to the house, she found them rushing around downstairs, fully dressed and in a snit, but not at her.
“I forgot there’s a gallery opening in New York this afternoon that it’s essential we go to,” Elizabeth said. “I really need a secretary,” she muttered, glaring at Colin. “Three shops in three different places; it’s just too much to keep track of. We’ve got to go, we’ve got to catch a plane. Look, Nell, you finish the unpacking today and be sure the store’s locked tonight. And the house. All right. You know, it would be an enormous help if you could just come on over now and run the store for us. I hate leaving it in the hands of that girl.” Elizabeth stared at Nell.
Nell stared back at her employer. “I really can’t come before June, Elizabeth,” she said. “I’ve got to stay in Arlington until the kids get out of school. I’m sorry.”
Elizabeth continued to stare at Nell, her face set. Then she sighed. “Well,” she said, “I suppose nothing disastrous will happen while Mindy’s in charge, and the really busy season won’t begin till you get here. Still. Look, why don’t you plan to come back over in two more weeks. We’ll have more stock to price and arrange, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get here then. All right? We’ll take care of the plane ticket again, of course. All right. Now here’s the key to the house and here’s the key to the shop. You know where everything is, and what needs to be done. You can get yourself to the airport okay, just call a taxi. We’ve got to run. You are a jewel.” Elizabeth kissed the air near Nell’s cheek, grabbed up her Gucci bag, and flew out the door.
Her husband followed close after her. “We’re counting on you, you know, Nell,” he said. “Be sure to lock up.”
After the O’Learys were gone, Nell stood, a bit stunned, still in the entrance hall in her jeans and sneakers. She watched the O’Learys ride off in the taxi, and then everything was silent. She sighed. She stretched. She walked through the house, studying each room more carefully now that she was alone. It was not a beautiful house, she thought, but it was uncluttered and bright. And she would have it for three months! It really was going to be fun.
She went upstairs, showered, put on a fresh shirt with her jeans, and walked to the boutique. She worked hard. She had orders to unpack and price and hang, invoices to check, boring paperwork to do in addition to the pleasurable tasks of fiddling with the lovely clothes. But Nell was conscientious. She was happy. She found a radio and turned on a rock station and worked steadily all morning and most of the afternoon. When she finished, she surveyed her work with satisfaction. Mindy, who would run the store for the next two weeks, would have little to do other than just sell the clothes and smile at the customers.
Nell shut and locked the shop around four and walked back to the O’Learys’ house to pack and get ready for her dinner date with Andy. She took her time putting on makeup. She wanted to do it so artfully that it would seem she was wearing no makeup at all. Her hand shook a bit as she applied the mascara. Andy was the first attractive, intelligent, grown-up man to interest her in a long time, in years. She wanted everything to go right—this mattered to her. It seemed that this could be the beginning of a … She could not find the courage to articulate anything more than that awful word, relationship. Well, this could be the beginning of, if nothing else, an interesting relationship. What bland words, what a jaded expression, when here she was, as confused and hopeful about the possibilities of this evening and this man as if she were a teenager. She knew she wanted to kiss him. She had wanted to kiss him that morning. She had wanted to reach across to touch the black hair that ran down his arms to his hands. She was intensely attracted to him—but what should she do? What would he do? They scarcely knew each other. She was grateful that she had to catch a plane back to Boston. That would prevent her from having to make too many decisions.
Then, as she stood, freshly made up and perfumed in her bra and panties, she faced another problem. She had come in a dress with high heels, and she had brought jeans and shirts and sneakers. Now she had to walk to his house, which was a good thirty-minute walk. She wanted to wear her dress; it was a becoming dress, simple and alluring. But she’d never survive if she tried to walk all those blocks in her high heels. If the cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks didn’t get her, the cracks and bumps in the cement sidewalks would. But she didn’t want to put on her jeans again. She stood for a moment, miffed
at the O’Learys, at their thoughtlessness in not leaving her their car. Then she realized how ridiculous that thought was and decided to call a taxi. But she had very little cash in her purse, and she had no idea how much a taxi would cost here—everything seemed to cost twice as much here as in Boston.
Finally she put on her elegant cotton dress and her sneakers. She packed everything else in her canvas suitcase and put her high heels on top. She locked the O’Learys’ cottage and walked to Andy’s. When she was two blocks away from his house she stopped, leaned up against a picket fence, and changed shoes. Then she went on.
She was glad she had worn the dress. Andy had shaved and put on gray flannels and a white cotton shirt. And he had gone to a lot of trouble with the dinner. She was pleased and surprised and also a little horrified at how delicious and exquisitely prepared everything was. They sat in the kitchen again, but the dishes were thin china and the flatware was heavy silver. Andy had chosen a different wine for each course. First he served a homemade vegetable soup. The liquid was clear and the vegetables almost crisp, so that each bite scintillated against her tongue. While Nell watched, he prepared escalopes de veau à la chasseur. It didn’t take long, but it was an elaborate undertaking requiring, Nell would have thought, great concentration. But as Andy worked, doing mysterious things with wine and shallots and mushrooms, deftly mixing butter with cornstarch and stirring it in a shining copper-bottomed pan, he continued to chat with ease. Nell was impressed. She would never have tried such a feat in front of another person, especially not for a first dinner. She hated making clever sauces. She always scorched them or used too much thickening or not enough. And she certainly couldn’t have talked while fixing such an elaborate and delicate dish.
Andy arranged the meat on a platter in a geometric design with the shallots and mushrooms and poured the sauce over it all. He brought it to the table, set it down, then took hot French bread and a casserole of green beans and almonds from the oven. Nell looked at the platter before her and was almost more astounded than hungry. She thought she would have felt rather silly arranging mushroom caps and shallots just so like that, serving up something that more closely resembled a work of art than a plate of food.
