Summer Beach Reads

by Thayer, Nancy

  But not as good as the other women there. She strolled along, tossing off easy smiles and checking for a chance to start up a conversation, privately intimidated by the other guests. All the women were tanned and shimmery, with sleek hair pulled back into casual low ponytails or chignons, and diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires clustered around their necks in fabulous arrangements. Their clothes made her burn with envy. Some women wore real true gowns whose skirts swept the floor, with halter tops or asymmetrical bodices or beaded bustiers. Others wore tunics so short that their slender legs seemed endless. Few wore pants, and why should they, this was summer, time to show off one’s long sleek legs.

  Stop it! Lily ordered herself. She had work to do.

  First, perhaps, a little drink to soothe her nerves. She made her way to the bar at the end of the deck.

  “Hey, Lily,” the bartender said.

  Lily gawked. “Jason! What are you doing here?”

  “What does it look like? I’m working.” He was scooping ice into a glass as he talked.

  “I thought you were a contractor.” She couldn’t believe how sexy he was in black jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms were so muscular, his shoulders so broad. His brown hair was cut brush-style and he was, not surprisingly, very tanned.

  “Contractor by day, bartender by night. I’m a man of many talents. What can I get you?”

  Lily surveyed the table. “Oh, good, you have Prosecco. I’ll have that, please.”

  “So you’re here for your column?”

  He knew about her column? Lily blushed. “Right.” She took a sip of sparkling wine. “Here’s my courage,” she told him, holding up the glass. “I have to approach complete strangers and ask if I can take their photos and names. Sometimes it’s fun, but sometimes people are offended.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone being anything but nice to you, Lily,” Jason said.

  “You’d be surprised,” she told him.

  “Actually, I don’t think I would. Remember, I work for people like this.”

  As if to prove his point, an older man in a blue blazer slammed his glass down on the table. “Again,” he ordered Jason, then turned away, scanning the crowd.

  Jason cleared his throat. “Would that be Scotch, sir?”

  “Right.” The man answered without looking at Jason.

  Jason got a clean glass, scooped in some ice, added the Scotch, and held it out to the man, who snatched it and walked off without a word of thanks.

  “Point made?” Jason said, smiling at Lily.

  Lily nodded. “Still, it’s a job.” She fluttered her fingers and forced herself out into the crowd.

  She knew the hostess wanted her photo taken; she’d discussed it briefly with her a few days before. Mrs. Hennerson was a familiar face in the society pages and it didn’t take Lily long to find her in the crowd. The older woman grabbed the senatorial candidate and they posed willingly while Lily clicked off several shots. After that, buoyed by the wine, Lily plucked up her courage and wandered through the group, introducing herself to strangers, chatting with them, taking their pictures, and carefully writing down their names.

  “Hey, Princess, do me a favor.”

  Lily was just squeezing between two groups of people when she heard the low, raspy voice. She looked toward the end of the deck. An older woman sat there in a swirl of crimson and diamonds. She was probably around seventy, but obviously had had face-lifts and Botox and heaven knew what else, so that her face seemed strangely ageless and also oddly alien, as if she were from another planet and just masquerading as a human.

  “Were you talking to me?” Lily asked.

  “I was.” The woman held out her glass. “I’m dry. Get me another.”

  Slightly insulted, Lily hesitated. “I’m not—”

  “I know you’re not a waitress. But I need another drink and I don’t have the energy to fight through the mob. Get me a drink and I’ll let you take a photograph of me. Your editor will like having my picture, believe me. And I’ll tell you who’s who in this crowd.”

  “All right.” Lily reached out to take her glass. “What are you drinking?”

  “Gin martini. Tell the bartender I don’t want him even thinking the word vermouth. Two ice cubes, no more. Fill it to the top.” She’d barely finished with her instructions before a couple of older men came up to her. “Darlings!” she bellowed at them. “Give me a cigarette before I perish!”

  Lily made her way back to the bar, told Jason how to fix the drink, then asked, “Do you know who that woman in red is?”

  “God, yes. That’s Eartha Yardley. Countless husbands and endless money.”

  “That’s Eartha Yardley? She looks so old!”

  “She is so old. She’s got to be in her late seventies. The latest rumor is that she’s got a younger lover—a much younger lover.”

  “Well, well.” Lily held out her own glass. “Better fill mine, too.”

  “Sure,” Jason said. “But Lily, a word to the wise. Be very careful what you say around her. She’s got a reputation for being a ruthless gossip.”

  “Thanks, Jason. I’ll remember that.” She took her new glass of Prosecco. “See you later.”

  “Hey, Lily.”

  She turned back toward him.

  “Want to go out sometime? Maybe this weekend?”

  She nearly dropped both drinks. “Oh, Jason, I’d love to!”

  “I’ll call you.” Jason turned his attention to a pair of women wanting wine.

  Lily squeezed her way back to Eartha Yardley. The summer had just gotten much more interesting.

  17

  Marina

  Marina stood in the morning sun with a coffee cup in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, surveying her work. She was painting the walls of the cottage a dreamy, pale Caribbean blue. She enjoyed the rhythm of painting, the way everything changed so quickly, with a few sweeps of her brush.

  She set her coffee cup down and knelt on the newspapers she’d spread to protect the floor from spatters. As she cut carefully in a low corner, she let her thoughts drift.

  It was early July. She’d been here for a month, and she thought she was doing a pretty good job of going forward with her life. She wasn’t sitting around moping, she was making herself get out into the world, she was doing things! She was attending lots of lectures and plays and concerts. She was helping at the library. She was even making a friend in Sheila Lester.

  She’d decided to go to Sheila’s studio to learn how to make a lightship basket. It would be a good discipline for her. It wasn’t the sort of work she was used to, it wasn’t high energy, high stakes. It would require steadiness and patience and that would make it a challenge for her. It would help her to learn how to move slowly through the world.

  And she’d bought a little bike. She rode out to the beach on the Atlantic side of the island and took a swim almost every evening. Then she would walk along the beach, idly checking out the shells and pebbles and gazing out at the vast, indifferent ocean, and she’d throw this question out at Fate:

  What good am I on this earth? Why am I here?

  She didn’t have children, so that wasn’t her purpose in life. Her husband left her so she wasn’t here to love and support her life’s mate. She’d sold her share of her business. So what worth did she have?

  She didn’t expect something to rise up out of the ocean holding a sign that told her the answer. But she hoped to come up with some kind of answer before she left this island and returned home.

  Her life did seem more like a work in progress now, not something ruined or stunted.

  She really did need to slow down. She’d been sloppy at first, spattering paint on the windowsills and floor as she slapped the brush against the wall. She had to grab herself by the scruff of her own neck and metaphorically shake herself, reminding herself there was no need to hurry. Being in a rush was a habit she could get rid of—needed to get rid of.

  As she smoothed the
creamy blue paint up the wall, she understood, suddenly, that all her life she’d been trying to get there. She’d been hurrying toward there, that mythical place where life would be full and happy, and now there was gone. She’d wanted only the normal things, she decided: home, husband, children, work, and plenty of money.

  Well, she had plenty of money. And if that was not sufficient to make a life, it was still something to be proud of. She hadn’t been given a nest egg to start with; she’d earned everything she had. She hadn’t won an Oscar or flown to the moon, but she had, with Gerry, started an advertising agency and built it into a flourishing business. She’d worn some fabulous clothes and she’d taken some exotic vacations. She’d been written up in newspapers and magazines and professional journals. She’d lived in a gorgeous penthouse with a fabulous view.

  So had she been there all along?

  No. Because she had wanted children. If she had had a family, she would have been there. If she’d had a family, the business could have disappeared and she still would have been there.

  She had been a good person, she was fairly sure of that. No torturing animals, stealing from old ladies, polluting the water. So why had Fate denied her her dearest wish? Had she done something wrong and was being punished for it? She couldn’t imagine what.

  A knock sounded on the cottage door, startling her. She put the brush down, carefully balancing it on the gallon can of paint, got up, and went to the door.

  Jim Fox was there. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  The brightness of the sun made her blink. “No, not at all. I’m just painting. Want to see?” She stepped back for him to enter.

  He came in, a big man in a small cottage. “Good job. Nice color. But hey, today’s a great day. I thought you might like to take that boat ride with me.”

  “I’d love it!” She looked down at her shorts and paint-stained tee. “Should I change?”

  “You might want to put on a bathing suit.”

  “Good idea. And what can I bring?”

  “We can pick stuff up on the way.”

  “All right, then. I’ll just clean up my paintbrush and change.”

  “I’ll meet you out at the truck.”

  Marina felt slightly breathless as she rinsed the brush in the kitchen sink. Jim was older than she was—she couldn’t figure out just how much older—but today in his swim trunks and tee shirt, she could tell quite clearly that he was in great physical shape. He had big forearms and huge, muscular, hairy thighs. Just thinking about his thighs made her want to giggle like a teenager.

  She pulled on her most conservative, least flirtatious bathing suit, a blue Speedo, yanked her tee and shorts on over it, slid her feet into her flip-flops, and found her beach bag, which she kept ready to go with sunblock, bottled water, beach towel, and paperback. She raced out of the cottage like a schoolgirl released for summer vacation.

  As they drove along Madaket Road, Jim pointed out the bike path, and Sanford Farm with its great walking paths, and Long Pond where boys gathered to catch crabs. Jim’s boat, a thirty-foot Boston whaler, rocked sedately in the Madaket Harbor. Jim handed her down, stored the beach bags and cooler of food, settled himself behind the wheel, and started the engine. Marina pulled off her tee, slathered herself with sunblock, and leaned back on her arms, letting the sun beat down on her as they slowly chugged out of the harbor and into the wilder waters.

  The breeze was slight, and the sea glistened like a great shattered slab of polished sapphire. In the distance white sails cut through the skyline and the distinctive silhouette of a fishing boat loomed on the horizon. The whaler’s engine rumbled like a purring cat and today even the ocean seemed content.

  A long narrow beach stretched out from the eastern shore of Tuckernuck Island. Already a couple of boats were beached in the shallows. Jim anchored his boat a few yards from shore and they slipped into the waist-high water, carrying bags on their shoulders. The lazy waves were silkily cool against her hot skin. After they’d established their little nest in the sand, they hurried back to the water. Jim swam far out; he was a strong swimmer with a powerful stroke. So that’s where he got those muscles, Marina thought. She was less sure of herself, so she swam near shore and spent a lot of time just floating on her back, eyes closed, the sunlight flickering against her eyelids.

  After awhile, they came up onto the beach and settled on the blanket to eat lunch. Music from someone’s radio drifted in the air, and another boat slowly motored past. The bread was fresh, thick, and hearty, and the bottled water tasted like a fine wine.

  “My bones have turned to gelatin,” Marina told Jim.

  “Take a nap,” Jim told her.

  “I don’t think I have any choice,” she murmured. She turned on her stomach, crossed her arms, laid her head down, and was asleep at once.

  When she woke, the sun was higher in the sky. Only a few feet away, Jim lay sleeping, his scalloper’s cap pulled over his face. She took a moment to study him, liking his strong workman’s body. Then, embarrassed by her staring, she rose and headed off down the beach, letting her gaze drift along the water’s edge. She stopped to pick up a striped scallop shell, and a white sand dollar, and a shard of cobalt glass. The sand whispered against the soles of her feet, and the ocean seemed to breathe. She picked up an iridescent mussel shell, both sides still connected, and an ivory slipper shell. Perhaps she might make a sailor’s valentine, she thought. She needed a container, though, she realized, as she turned around and made her way back along the shore. Her hands were already full.

  Jim was awake. “You found some treasures.” He held out an empty Tupperware box.

  “Thanks.” She sighed. “It’s so peaceful here.”

  “Today it is,” Jim replied. “One more swim, then we’d better go back.”

  During the slow, easy journey across the channel to the harbor, Marina stared out at the water as if mesmerized, and when they loaded their gear into Jim’s truck, she said, “I feel like I’ve just had a lobotomy.”

  Jim laughed. “The sign of a perfect day.”

  He tuned the radio to a soft-rock station as he drove back into town.

  “I have no idea what time it is,” Marina said.

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “You know, I guess it doesn’t.”

  When they pulled into the driveway, Marina said, “Jim, this was a wonderful day. I’m so grateful.”

  “I enjoyed it, too,” he said.

  “Listen, I’d love to repay you somehow—let me fix you dinner.”

  “Well,” he said, hesitating, and it seemed the color rose in his cheeks, or perhaps it was only a glow from the day’s sun. “Well, okay. Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “How about Friday night?” she asked.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Thanks again,” she said.

  Jim hauled the cooler out of the back of his truck and carried it toward the house. Marina handled her beach bag gently. Back in her little cottage, she took her array of shells out and spread them across the table. Each shell was curled or striped with its own distinctive hallmark. She sat down in a chair and began arranging the shells in patterns, making roses, and circles, and garlands, and after awhile she realized that her mind was so full of beauty she had no room for words.

  18

  Abbie

  The Jetties Beach was only a few blocks from the Parkers’ house but the Parkers allowed Abbie to drive their SUV to take Harry to the beach, which was a good thing, because Harry was such a dawdler they’d never get there by walking. Abbie had never seen such a slow-moving little child.

  On Friday afternoon, Abbie knelt in the sand helping Harry build a complicated sand castle. According to Sydney’s meticulous instructions, Abbie had slathered him with sunblock so he wouldn’t burn. She’d fastened a floppy sun hat on his head. She’d adjusted the beach umbrella over his thin little body and covered him with a beach towel while he took a little nap after his snack, and she’d walked up an
d down the beach with him, and tried to lure him more than ankle-deep into the water, but so much water and all the shouting, shoving children leaping in the shallows made him nervous.

  Occasionally another child would attempt to play with Harry, but at any overture, Harry would hurriedly retreat to his towel and curl up in a ball like a bug. Aware of the judgmental looks other women exchanged, Abbie wanted to post a sign: I’m the nanny, not the mother! Then she chided herself for not wanting to claim the little boy. She knew he was doing the best he could. She didn’t think there was anything seriously wrong with him, but he was peculiar. She wanted to talk with his father about him, but so far the chance hadn’t arisen.

  Right now, her job, assigned by Harry, was to dip one of the buckets in the ocean and carry up water to moisten the sand just right for building. The perfect building sand nearby, already moist for packing, was too near the threatening surge of tide for Harry. He had constructed an elaborate and lengthy castle complete with a moat and drawbridge. He was a patient little guy. If a wall gave way, he would study it from all angles before beginning the reconstruction.

  Abbie had a brainstorm. “You know what, Harry? I’ll build a little corral for the horses!” Hurriedly, she corrected herself. “I know, knights didn’t call them ‘corrals.’ I don’t know what they called them.”

  “Pens, maybe,” Harry offered. “Yes, that would be a good place for the horses to stay. Maybe we could build a little barn over there so they are out of the hot sun.”

  “I’ll start on the pen,” Abbie said.

  “After I finish this wall, I’ll start on the barn,” Harry told her, and he smiled.

  As she worked, Abbie told herself she really had to get Harry out to see Shelley’s horses. Anything with horses seemed to make him happy, and while he was a pleasant child, he didn’t seem like a happy one.

  But there were times when he was enthusiastic. At the end of the day, when Abbie brought Harry back to his house, she would first rinse him off in the outdoor shower, being sure all grains of sand were sprayed out of his hair. Wrapped in a clean towel, Harry would run down the hall to see if his father’s study door was open. Howell would rise from his desk, cross the room, and pick Harry up, holding him so high his head touched the ceiling.