Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, and Summer Breeze are works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Ballantine eBook Edition
Beachcombers copyright © 2010 by Nancy Thayer
Heat Wave copyright © 2011 by Nancy Thayer
Moon Shell Beach copyright © 2008 by Nancy Thayer
Summer House copyright © 2009 by Nancy Thayer
Summer Breeze copyright © 2012 by Nancy Thayer
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, and Summer Breeze were each published separately by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2010, 2011, 2008, 2009, and 2012.
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54602-9
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Beachcombers
Heat Wave
Moon Shell Beach
Summer House
Summer Breeze
Beachcombers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Nancy Thayer
Reading group guide copyright © 2011 by Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Random House Reader’s Circle and Design is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
Title page and part title page image copyright © iStockphoto.com
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Thayer, Nancy.
Beachcombers / Nancy Thayer.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-51830-9
1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Nantucket Island (Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3570.H3475B43 2010
813′.54—dc22 2010010064
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: Shasti O’Leary Soudant.
Cover illustration: © Tom Hallman.
v3.0
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part 1 - Before
Part 2 - Now
Chapter 1 - Abbie, Lily, and Emma, Sort of
Chapter 2 - Marina
Chapter 3 - Abbie
Chapter 4 - Emma
Chapter 5 - Lily
Chapter 6 - Abbie
Chapter 7 - Marina
Chapter 8 - Lily
Chapter 9 - Emma
Chapter 10 - Marina
Chapter 11 - Abbie
Chapter 12 - Marina
Chapter 13 - Lily
Chapter 14 - Abbie
Chapter 15 - Emma
Chapter 16 - Lily
Chapter 17 - Marina
Chapter 18 - Abbie
Chapter 19 - Emma
Chapter 20 - Lily
Chapter 21 - Marina
Chapter 22 - Abbie
Chapter 23 - Emma
Chapter 24 - Lily
Chapter 25 - Marina
Chapter 26 - Abbie
Chapter 27 - Emma
Chapter 28 - Lily
Chapter 29 - Marina
Chapter 30 - Abbie
Chapter 31 - Emma
Chapter 32 - Lily
Chapter 33 - Marina
Chapter 34 - Abbie
Chapter 35 - Emma
Chapter 36 - Lily
Chapter 37 - Marina
Chapter 38 - Abbie
Chapter 39 - Emma
Chapter 40 - Lily
Chapter 41 - Marina
Chapter 42 - Abbie
Chapter 43 - Emma
Chapter 44 - Lily
Chapter 45 - Marina
Chapter 46 - Abbie
Chapter 47 - Emma
Chapter 48 - Lily
Chapter 49 - Marina
Chapter 50 - Abbie
Chapter 51 - Emma
Chapter 52 - Lily
Chapter 53 - Marina
Chapter 54 - Emma
Chapter 55 - Abbie
Chapter 56 - Marina
Chapter 57 - Lily
Chapter 58 - Emma
Chapter 59 - Abbie
Chapter 60 - Abbie, Emma, Lily, and Marina and Harry, Spencer, and Jim
Chapter 61 - Abbie, Emma, Lily, and Danielle, Kind of
Chapter 62 - The Family
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Reader’s Guide
For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
—e. e. cummings, “maggie and milly and molly and may”
“Look,” their mother said to them.
It was late October, and Danielle had brought her daughters here to Surfside, the beach that faced, unprotected by bulkhead or harbor or jetties, the immense sweep of the Atlantic Ocean.
The water was sulky today, deep blue and aloof, the erratic autumn wind stirring its surface into restless waves. By now the girls knew how the ocean had its moods. On summer days it would be playful, sparkling, seductive, tossing up its lacy foam with sounds like kisses. In November, it would hiss as the tides spat and sank into the sand, dragging cold nets of froth back into its hungry depths, as if the sea itself were hunting. Winter made it warlike, hurling its waves toward the shore in battalions that rose up and thundered down, carrying the shrieking wind on its back. And when the skies were blue and the wind was mild, the ocean would shine, as if deep within, its own blue sun glowed.
Whatever the weather, the surf always brought treasures; their mother had taught them that. It was their mother who started the Beachcombers Club.
The universe is always speaking to us, Danielle told her daughters. Sending us little messages, causing coincidences and serendipities, reminding us to stop, to look around, to believe in something else, something more. And those of us who are lucky enough to live surrounded by the ocean have more opportunities than many to see, to know. You have to be willing to step away from what we consider normal life. You have to have imagination. You have to be aware that we’re all part of a wonderful, mysterious game.
They came to the beach at least once a week, no matter the season or weather. They stalked the edge of the beach, the mother and her three daughters, heads bent forward as they scanned the sand, stopping when someone discovered a prize, and usually they tossed their finds back into the watching waters, but occasionally they slipped the rock or shell or glass into their bags to take back to their house on Fair Street.
At home, they’d gather around the kitchen table and wait until their mother had set out cups of hot chocolate frothy with marshmallows or lemonade tinkling in icy glasses. Their mother would sit at the head of the table—she was the ultimate judge—and the girls would present their discoveries: a mussel shell with the glossy indigo iridescence of a starling’s head. A broken whelk, its interior twisted into a perfect spiral staircase, as smooth as bone. A flat square of blue glass like a pane of summer sky fallen to earth. Sometimes a human obj
ect: the handle of a translucent china teacup, a bracelet or hair clip or key chain, a bottle.
They’d hand their treasures around, then vote to see which one was the best, and the winning find was proudly placed between the cookbooks—on the lowest shelf so little Lily could see—until a new find was brought in. The unchosen ones were usually returned to the beach the next week, but a surprising number of them remained in the house. The windowsills of each girl’s bedroom were littered with ocean trophies.
Abbie, who was the oldest and wisest, might go into a tidying fit and decide to clean her room and toss it all out, and then she would spot a rock, thinking, this is only a funny old rock, there are zillions of them on the beach. But when she picked up the rock, she would suddenly remember why she kept it, because of the way it fit into her hand like a secret promise or the weight of safety, and she kept another rock, the white one, because it was marked with a crooked blue-gray vein like a scribbled message she was sure to interpret someday, if only she had patience.
Emma liked slipper shells. Turned upside down, they became cradles for her many babies. Twisted bits of driftwood became sofas, chairs, bureaus, and beds for the dollhouse her mother had helped her create out of several packing boxes.
Little Lily liked the pretty things best. The fluting of a snow-white angel’s wing or the twist of deep coral from a channeled whelk pleased her, but best of all was the discovery of sea glass, and her favorite of colors was a deep cobalt blue. Sometimes her mother glued colored yarn to a shell to make a bracelet or necklace.
Now Emma called out triumphantly to the others. She’d found a bottle, complete, unbroken, an old-fashioned, long-necked thing of pale, clear turquoise. Lily and Abbie clustered around to scrutinize the object, checking first of all, of course, for a letter rolled up and tucked inside. But the bottle was empty. They inspected it for writing, because sometimes on this beach they found items inscribed in Portuguese or French. No writing on this one. They held it up, trying to guess what it once contained.
Only Abbie was aware that while they concentrated on the bottle, their mother, standing near them, gazed out at the sea, her longing so extreme it hurt Abbie to see it.
“Mom,” Abbie said, calling her back to them.
Their mother immediately focused her attention on Abbie. “I’m here.”
She dropped to her knees. She put her arm around Lily’s waist and held her close as she said, “Girls. Look.” She wet the tip of her finger, pressed it into the sand, and held her finger up for them to see. She blew gently and most of the grains fell back down. “See this grain of sand? This one, here. Now look at the ocean. Think of the size of the ocean compared to the size of this grain of sand. This is what we are in the universe. Think of it. How enormous the universe is. How tiny we are.”
Emma shivered. She didn’t like it when her mother talked like this.
“Think of the creatures swimming in the ocean depths,” their mother continued. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair she allowed the wind to toss into tangles. “Whales and mermaids and monsters and long squirming eels and fish striped with gold and silver. We haven’t even discovered all that hides in the deepest parts of the ocean.” She looked out at the water. “So many mysteries,” she told them. “Never think that there is only here.”
“Mommy, I’m cold!” Lily, bored and hungry and chilled, pulled away from her mother.
Their mother kissed the top of Lily’s head. She stood up. “Okay, kids, let’s race for the car. The winner gets the front seat.”
“Yay!” Lily yelled and took off running down the beach.
Abbie and Emma followed, pacing themselves, letting little Lily win, because it meant so much to her.
Abbie turned to look back at their mother. She was standing very still, facing the ocean, yearning for its depths.
1
Abbie, Lily, and Emma, Sort of
SUBJECT: HELP!
FROM: Lily
DATE: June 5, 2009
TO: Abbie
Oh, Crabapple, I hate it when I can’t reach you by phone. Where are you? Why isn’t your cell phone on? Would you please please email me right away? We’re all in a mess here and we need you to come home.
SUBJECT: But don’t panic.
FROM: Lily
DATE: June 5, 2009
TO: Abbie
Disregard that last email. Well, don’t disregard it completely, but no one is dead or anything. It’s just that Dad’s in financial trouble, plus a sexy woman’s after him, and Emma lost her job AND Duncan broke off their engagement. Emma came home from Boston and just lies on her bed, crying all day long. She’s so thin, I’m kind of scared for her. I’m trying to keep up with the house and everything, but my crazy busy season’s started with the magazine. And I guess you’d better not call me, because you’re six hours ahead or behind or whatever and I probably can’t talk when you can plus I know you hate the expense of a transatlantic call. Just please, please, come home.
SUBJECT: Help
FROM: Abbie
DATE: June 5, 2009
TO: Lily
I’ll email Emma today. But honey, isn’t it about time Dad had a girlfriend? Mom’s been gone for fifteen years. He’s probably lonely. And maybe you’re overestimating Dad’s money problems. I mean, everyone’s having trouble this year. Has he told you he’s worried about money?
FROM: Abbie
DATE: June 5, 2009
TO: Emma
Hi, Emma, what’s going on? Lily tells me you’re back home. God, you must be desperate. ☺ Email me, let me know you’re okay, okay?
SUBJECT: The Playhouse
FROM: Lily
DATE: June 5, 2009
TO: Abbie
Dad hasn’t said he’s worried, but he acts worried, and he’s rented the Playhouse (to that woman, wait till you see her!), plus he said he might put the boat up for sale. And I know a lot of the people who’d hired him to renovate their houses have canceled. I can see with my own eyes how little work there is for him this summer. I think if you were here, he’d talk about it. I know he thinks I’m still a baby.
SUBJECT: Please
FROM: Abbie
DATE: June 7, 2009
TO: Emma
Just send me one little email, okay? You don’t even have to say anything. Just hit reply!
SUBJECT: I’m coming home.
FROM: Abbie
DATE: June 8, 2009
TO: Lily
I’ve got a reservation on British Air. I’ll be home tomorrow. Probably around three, if my connections go smoothly.
2
Marina
So here she was, on Nantucket. In a small rented cottage in the middle of an enchanted island. At least she hoped it was enchanted. She was waking to another day without family or love or plans for the future.
Still, she felt just a bit better.
Lying curled in her bed, she forced herself to name just five things for which she was grateful. It was an exercise Christie had advised her to perform first thing in the morning and last thing at night. If nothing else, Christie had told her, it will give you a little bit of structure, one tidy line to start the morning and end the day to make you feel enclosed and on task.
All right then.
Marina was grateful that she’d slept through the night without needing a sleeping pill. She’d been afraid she was becoming addicted to them. Over the past few months, the divorce had plunged her into a state of grief and despair that at night turned into a raging anger and a kind of burning terror—what was her life about? Did she mean nothing? But here on the island, for the past three weeks, she’d discovered that something in the sea air worked like a charm to make her fall into a deep, relaxing sleep. Christie had been right to tell her to come here to heal.
Two—well, she was grateful she’d found the cottage. It resembled a dollhouse, with wild roses rambling all over the roof and clematis and wisteria blossoming on the trellis on the outside walls. The windows were mullioned like
a fairy-tale cottage. The door was bright blue. Inside, one large room served for living, dining, and kitchen areas. A ladder led up to the loft with the bed. Windows on three sides provided views of the birds nesting in an apple tree on her right, a pine tree on her left, and a hawthorn tree straight ahead.
Inside, the décor was—well, there was no décor, actually. The few furnishings had a cast-off and shabby air, but were basically sound and comfortable. No curtains hung from the windows. No paintings graced the walls. No rugs brightened the floors, but she could understand that. It was so easy to track sand into the house, and the floors were wood and felt cool and smooth to the soles of her feet.
She was grateful to be in the heart of the town. That was the third thing, and it had been on her list every morning and every night. The cottage was off an idyllic lane in the illustrious historic district. She could walk to the grocery store, the pharmacy, the post office, the library. Tucked away at the far end of a long garden, it had once been the Playhouse for the family that had grown up in the huge old house at the front. The owner and one of his daughters lived in the house. Their presence made Marina feel not so alone. She liked seeing the lights come on in different rooms of the house. The daughter, Lily, was pretty, but not very friendly. Well, she was only twenty-two. Marina must seem ancient to her.
Jim Fox, on the other hand, was really nice. He’d brought her fresh fish several times already, and often in the evenings when he came home from work, he jumped out of his red pickup truck and sauntered down the lawn to chat with her. Did she need anything? If she did, she had only to ask, he’d be glad to help. Had she enjoyed the bluefish? Would she like some more when he went out fishing again? He was so attentive that Marina sometimes wondered if he were hitting on her. She doubted it. She was sure she wasn’t giving off any sexual vibes, since her sexuality was hiding under its shell like a wounded turtle. Although she could still recognize that Jim was an awfully attractive man, tall, muscular, and comfortable enough in his powerful body to be easygoing and kind.
Summer Beach Reads Page 1
