Now, next to her, Jason snored gently. He’d hooked one of his legs over hers and his body warmth almost disguised the chill of the basement walls. Lily shifted onto her back and checked her watch. It was after eight, but this was the one morning of the week when she didn’t have to hurry. Except she did have a lot to write up. Last week had been filled with activities, and it would take some time and concentration to be sure the right names were matched with the people she’d photographed.
Plus, she had some serious atonement to do with her sisters. Emma didn’t seem too upset about Lily forgetting to go to the grocery store, but yesterday Abbie had turned into a drama queen, storming past Lily, head high, not speaking. Having Abbie back home wasn’t the unmitigated pleasure Lily had anticipated.
What a confusing summer it was turning out to be! Emma was sad, Abbie was huffy, and the Playhouse was inhabited by a woman with designs on their father. And Jason—oh, this thing with Jason was happening so fast! He had rented an apartment just because of her! Last night when they were making love, he had told her he loved her, and she had told him she loved him. And she did. But she didn’t want to get serious yet, not so soon. And not—she allowed herself to be brutally honest in her secret thoughts—not with a man who could only afford a basement apartment. She wanted to live in a house on the cliff, a house like Eartha’s. Thank heavens for Eartha, she was the only part of the summer that came close to matching Lily’s dreams.
Her thoughts made her restless. She slithered out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, Jason was still sleeping. She wrote him a note and tiptoed out of his apartment and up the stairs to the street.
The morning air was fresh, the sky bright blue. As she strolled along the narrow lanes and over cobblestone streets to her own home, she fished her cell phone out of her bag and listened to her voice mail.
Invitations to a few more events—good.
A snippy message from Abbie: No milk in the house. God, you are such a spoiled brat. Ouch. Lily would have to go to the store today.
Then, Eartha’s raspy voice: Honey, some friends of mine just arrived on their yacht and want me to come to dinner tonight. Wanna go with me? You might like their son.
Oh my God, Lily thought! Her heart leapt. Dinner on a yacht? With Eartha and a man Lily might like? As she walked, she clicked in Eartha’s number and agreed to meet her employer at Straight Wharf at six.
When she walked into her house, the only sound Lily heard was the vacuum running upstairs. That would be Abbie. Lily rushed through the house, grabbed the grocery list off the refrigerator door and the keys off the hook by the back door, and hurried out to the car. At the Stop&Shop, she filled the cart so full she could scarcely push the damn heavy thing. When she got home, Abbie was gone, and so was everyone else. Hurriedly she put away the groceries. She raced up to the bathroom—she had to admit, it was awfully nice that Abbie had washed the towels and put out fresh ones—showered and washed her hair, then slipped on shorts and a tee shirt and grabbed up her digital camera and her laptop. She grabbed a banana and a Diet Coke for her breakfast and went out to the patio. She linked her camera to her computer and downloaded the photos while she ate, then opened her notebook and began to write.
The phone rang, breaking her concentration.
“Hey, Lily.” Jason’s voice was rumbly, warm, and masculine. “Why’d you leave? You should have woken me. I wanted to take you out to breakfast.”
“Oh, Jason, I’m sorry, but I had to get home and go to the grocery store. If I didn’t, Abbie would absolutely detonate.”
Jason laughed. “How about lunch, then?”
“I can’t. I’ve got to write up a bunch of stuff for the magazine. I should have done it last night, but you—distracted me.”
“Can I take you out to dinner?”
“Oh, Jason, I’m sorry. I’ve got another event.” It was only a white lie, Lily told herself. And God knew, dinner on a yacht certainly ranked as an event for her.
“Damn. I won’t get to see you at all today?”
She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to envision his mouth, his lips, his hands, his body … “But I’ll come over tonight,” she promised. “As soon as I can. And I’ll spend the night.”
33
Marina
Sunday evening, Marina settled out beneath the apple tree with a glass of wine and the Sunday papers. She’d had a good day. She’d gone to church, and chatted with people at coffee hour, had a pleasant lunch at the Boarding House, then spent a few hours in Sheila’s studio working on her lightship basket. In the late afternoon, she’d gone for a swim, and now she was showered and pleasantly relaxed.
And she’d only thought about Jim seventy-five or eighty times.
She’d been aware all day that Jim was around. All morning he’d hammered away, repairing the steps at the front of the house. Later, she’d heard Abbie and Jim talking and laughing as they washed the windows.
Now she couldn’t help noticing that Jim’s red truck was parked in the driveway. Maybe another woman had picked him up in her car. Well, good luck to her, whoever she was. Jim was a gorgeous man, but he seemed emotionally imprisoned by his daughters. She’d considered not sitting outside, because she didn’t want to seem to be telegraphing her availability to Jim, if he happened to be watching from the house. But she’d rented the cottage. She wasn’t going to hide inside, as if she’d done something wrong. It was cool there, so pleasant.
She took her time reading the papers and sipping her wine. She heard the door slam on Foxes’ house, but didn’t allow herself to observe who was coming or going.
At least, she decided, if she was obsessed with Jim, that was better than being obsessed with Gerry and Dara and their baby. Which was due any minute, she thought.
The light was fading from the sky as Marina folded the newspapers and carried them into the house and the recycling box. She decided to have a sinfully big bowl of ice cream for dinner—surely she could allow herself to indulge after a day of biking and swimming. She curled up on the sofa with a novel, but by ten her eyes were closing, so she climbed the loft to bed and fell asleep at once.
She woke at eleven. The moment her eyes snapped open, she knew she was doomed for one of her insomniac nights. She went down the ladder to the main room, picked up her novel, and settled in for a long read. She had nowhere she had to be tomorrow, she reminded herself. She could sleep all day if she wanted to. At least she knew enough by now not to lie in the dark with her eyes closed—that would guarantee that her obsession with Gerry and Dara, and now, Jim Fox, would buzz through her thoughts like a plague of mosquitoes.
The novel was a page-turner mystery by a writer she enjoyed. She yawned and stretched out on the sofa, feeling cozy in the circle of light cast by the reading lamp.
Someone knocked on her door.
“Marina? It’s Jim.”
She was wearing only her nightgown, a little bit of emerald silk which was held up by two thin straps and ended at her thighs. She thought about going up to the loft to find her wrapper, but decided the hell with that. If he was going to come here at this hour, he could take her as he found her.
She opened the door. She’d forgotten how handsome he was.
“I saw your light come on.” Jim wore a white tee shirt and baggy khaki shorts and he smelled like soap. “I can’t sleep. I thought perhaps you couldn’t sleep, either.” He was leaning toward her, as if expecting to walk in.
The tug between them was powerful, but she didn’t want to seem eager. “I’m reading.”
He put his hand on the doorjamb. “Marina, I want to talk to you.”
“You don’t have to explain anything, Jim.”
“For Christ’s sake, Marina!” Jim growled. He stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hard, crushing her lips, pressing her head back, forcing his body against her.
She tightened her arms around his neck and lifted herself against him.
Holding her
to him, Jim entered the cottage, slamming the door shut with his foot, and he half walked, half carried her to the sofa. He kissed her mouth, he clutched her hair with his hands as he kissed her neck and collarbone.
Then, abruptly, he pulled away. He held her from him with both hands on her shoulders.
“I want to talk to you,” he said. “I need to tell you some things.”
“You don’t have to,” she protested. “I’m sorry if I rushed you, I—”
“Listen to me,” Jim insisted. “Listen.”
Marina shifted slightly away from him and turned so that she could sit with crossed legs, facing him. “I’m listening.”
He took hold of her hands. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve decided that you are like music to me. You know how you go along, busy with life, and then one day you turn on the radio and a song hits you and your whole body responds, your heart and soul and body, and you think—why have I been living without that? How have I been living without that? I need that every day in my life.”
Astonished, Marina said, “That’s quite a compliment.”
“It’s not a compliment. It’s not a line to get you into bed. It’s the truth. It’s a fact. Ever since you came to the cottage to see about renting it, I’ve wanted to be with you. The moment I saw you, it was as if I knew everything I needed to know about you. But I wasn’t thinking about your side, about you knowing everything you need to know about me.” Now he dropped her hands and turned away. “I haven’t told anyone this before.”
Marina held her breath. She could sense his struggling.
“I was having an affair when my wife died.” He clenched his fists. “She drowned. I don’t know, I’ll never know, if Danielle found out and that’s why she committed suicide. If it was suicide. The autopsy showed she’d taken an overdose of her medication. Perhaps she just made a mistake. Sometimes … sometimes she thought she could swim forever.” He ran his hand over his face, then continued. “Danielle always had emotional troubles. She tried everything, psychiatrists, medications, exercise, super blue-green algae—but it all got worse and worse for her. She was difficult to live with. She was difficult for herself to live with. And she had this spiritual side. Or maybe I should call it mystical. She wasn’t happy here. She often talked about being there. And all I can hope is that she’s there now. She loved our daughters with all her heart, but it just wasn’t enough.”
“Oh, Jim.” Marina wanted to touch him consolingly, but held still.
“She started Prozac, and for a while we thought she was getting better. One night I went to Gretchen’s house. I told Danielle I had to double-check a house I was caretaking. It was early September, still hurricane season. I was just gone for an hour or so. When I came home, Danielle was gone. I waited up all night. I drove around the island, searching for her.” Jim was nearly bent double now, sitting with his head hanging low and his arms crossed over his knees. When he spoke, his voice was scarcely audible. “I didn’t even think of notifying the police. Sometimes Danielle went off without telling us. Thursday I got the girls dressed and fed and off to school like always, and then I called some of our friends. No one had seen her.” He paused. “That evening the police came to the house. Danielle’s body had washed up on the beach out at Surfside.”
“I’m so sorry,” Marina whispered.
“It was devastating for the girls.” His face was grim. “The pain of losing their mother—oh, God, it was so hard. I don’t know, I’ll never know, if Danielle found out about me and Gretchen. It only happened twice, but it happened the night Danielle died, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling guilty. Forget being with another woman, if only I had stayed home. If only I had stayed home, I would have kept Danielle from going out. We might have fought. We often fought. But she would have stayed alive. The girls would have had their mother.” He buried his face in his hands. “The girls don’t know about the affair. I don’t think anyone on the island knows, or knew. It was just a couple of times, it wasn’t love—but I know I’m still a shit for doing it.”
Marina rose, went into the kitchen, and set about brewing tea. Now she knew why the British made tea in every mystery she’d ever read. It provided a moment, a space, to step back from the anguish and catch your breath. It gave you something sensible to do, as if you could ever do anything that mattered.
She carried the tea tray over to the table.
“Thanks,” Jim said, his voice husky. “But I’d rather have a brandy.”
“I’ve only got wine.”
“That’s fine.”
She poured them both a glass, set one before him, and returned to her place on the sofa.
“Gretchen left the island shortly after Danielle’s death.” Jim took a sip of wine and a deep breath. “I haven’t heard from her since. She was the only one, as far as I know, who knew about her and me. Not that there was a ‘her and me.’ It was just two times. And she wasn’t in love with me. She was an actress, she was on her way to California.” He drank more wine. “The only other person I’ve spoken to about all this is a counselor I went to see in Boston a few years ago. For years I focused my whole life, my time, my thoughts, everything, on raising the girls. I know I can never make up for the loss of their mother. For a long time I didn’t date or see any women. I felt I shouldn’t; it seemed to me that being celibate was what I should do, what I deserved to do, to atone for Danielle’s death.”
“I can understand that.”
He looked at Marina. “So now you know why we’re such an odd family.”
She objected gently, “I don’t think you’re odd at all.”
“Well.” He nodded. “I guess the girls have turned out remarkably well, given what they went through. Sometimes it seems a long time ago. Well, it was years ago, and the loss is part of our lives. We’re used to it. The girls have grown up. They’re competent, happy—well, perhaps not so happy right now. I mean, Emma’s miserable since that creep Duncan dumped her. But we manage to roll along okay together.”
“I like your daughters. I think they’re charming.”
“Thanks. Sometimes they can be … rather opinionated.”
Marina touched his hand. “Jim, have you never dated another woman since your wife died?”
“Well, I’ve seen other women.” His face went crimson for a moment. “But to be honest, not very often and I’ve always kept that secret. I haven’t brought another woman into the house. Into my life. Into our lives.” He turned to face Marina. “But I never wanted to until now. That’s why I’m here. I don’t know exactly what I’m saying here. I don’t want to rush anything. But I want to have you in my life. I want you to meet my friends. I want to go places with you.” He smiled bashfully. “I don’t know why, but you just fascinate the hell out of me.”
Marina laughed. “And you fascinate the hell out of me.”
“And there’s something else,” Jim said.
She shivered at the intensity of the moment. “Yes?”
“This.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “There’s this.”
“Jim,” Marina said. “Wait.”
He pulled away. “I don’t want to rush you—”
“Rush me all you want,” Marina said. “First, just let me turn off the light.”
34
Abbie
Abbie didn’t sleep. She tossed in her bed, tortured with thoughts of Howell making love with Sydney. She rose early in the morning, while the others were still sleeping. She would have liked it, she admitted to herself, if Lily had forgotten to go to the grocery store again. It would have felt so good to yell at someone. She kicked herself for that thought. Still, it would have been something positive to do, to buy groceries. But the shelves were stocked. She settled on putting together a stew in the Crock-Pot and making a carrot cake with buttercream frosting. For the first time ever, she wasn’t tempted to lick the icing off the beaters.
She biked over to the Levins, and after making more mist
akes on the computer keyboard in ten minutes than she usually made all morning, she got herself in control and concentrated on her job, which made the time go faster.
Finally, it was time to bike over to the Parker house. She biked around their block a few times, trying to get her breath in control. She didn’t know if Sydney would still be there. Probably she’d gone back to New York.
But when Abbie tapped on the door and then slipped into the front hall, there was Howell’s wife. Sydney looked whip-thin and brittle in her black suit and crisp black hair.
“Hi, Abbie. Come into the living room with me. I need to talk to you.”
Oh, man, Abbie thought. She swallowed. “Okay.” She held her head high as she followed the other woman into the living room.
Sydney shut the door. “I understand you took Harry horseback riding.”
Abbie’s blood pressure dropped back to normal. “That’s true. I have a friend—”
“I don’t want you taking him again.”
“But he loved it!” Abbie protested. “He loves horses!”
“I’m well aware of that. He is my son, after all. But he’s only a little boy, and he’s a particularly fragile child. Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t look so horrified. I don’t mean he has a condition or anything like that. But he’s clumsy. He’s not naturally athletic. And he takes everything to heart so terribly. He needs to toughen up, and I mean mentally as well as physically, before he does anything serious like horseback riding.”
“We didn’t let him go off on his own,” Abbie assured her. “My friend Shelley was with him every minute. Harry didn’t really ride. He didn’t hold the reins. Shelley held the reins and only led him around the ring.”
Sydney crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “I appreciate your kindness and your friend’s kindness. But I don’t want it to happen again. Is that understood?”
Abbie took a deep breath. It was odd, being spoken to this way by someone pretty much her own age. But Sydney was Abbie’s employer. “Yes. I understand.”
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