Island Girls: A Novel

by Nancy Thayer

  “What’s this all about?” Jenny asked, slightly suspicious.

  “Nothing,” Meg told her. “Everything.” She gestured toward the ocean. “This.”

  A ferry was gliding toward the island, as stately as a grand white castle on the calm blue water. In the harbor, golden lights beamed from sailboats and laughter drifted toward the shore. High in the blue sky, a few puffs of cloud drowsed unmoving, as if they, too, were stilled by the heat. At the edge of the waves, a yellow bucket and a red shovel sat lonely and abandoned.

  “Someone will come back for them tomorrow,” Arden said, reading Meg’s mind.

  “We could use them. We could build a sand castle,” Meg suggested. “A really enormous one, with lots of turrets and battlements and a moat.”

  “Then Arden could simplify it,” Jenny joked.

  Meg rose on her knees. “We should do it. Build a fantastic castle for kids to discover when they arrive tomorrow morning.”

  Arden snorted. “Please, don’t make me move. This is too blissful.”

  Meg sank back down. “You’re right.”

  “And you’re high,” Arden told Meg.

  “Kind of,” Meg agreed. “My work has been going so well. I’ve gotten a lot done. This place is great for working. I’m cut off from so many distractions.”

  “It’s turning out to be helpful to my work, too,” Arden said after taking another sip of her daiquiri. “My contact list is crammed with new names. I’ve got my camera crew coming down in August to do a few shoots. Except for Ariadne Silverstone, the homeowners are young. So take that, Zero Zoey.”

  Meg clapped her hands like a girl. “Arden, I just remembered! Your career in journalism started here on this island.”

  Arden lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

  “Arden. Remember when you were ten? You wrote the Lily Street News.”

  Arden chuckled. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  “What was the Lily Street News?” Jenny asked.

  “A newspaper Arden wrote on Dad’s computer,” Meg said. “Arden went up and down the street, interviewing people, asking them if they were summer residents, where they were from, if they had kids or dogs or cats, and what new things they were doing to their houses or yards.”

  “Then I’d print off copies and take them around to the houses. Put them in the mail slot or boxes. It was actually rather professional. I put in the names and times of the new movies and events at the library,” Arden said.

  Meg said, “Back then, I thought it was brilliant. Now I think it is adorable. Mr. and Mrs. Edward Jones of Houston, Texas, have a new member of their family with them this year: Poppy, a Jack Russell terrier puppy.”

  “But I made a typo and printed ‘Poopy’!” Arden whooped. “I had to print a special edition with the correction.”

  “And you made me deliver that edition to the Joneses’ house in case they were angry,” Meg added.

  “I knew they wouldn’t take it out on a sweet little seven-year-old.” Arden sighed, lost in memories. “I only did it for about a month. Someone in the neighborhood thought it was inappropriate for the daughter of a real estate agent to be cruising the area asking questions about houses.”

  “You’ve got to admit, they had a point,” Meg said.

  “Some people were cool with it,” Arden reminisced. “They invited me into their homes, showed me around. Especially the Wiltons. They were so proud of all the historical stuff that I could scarcely understand back then.”

  “They were nice, the Wiltons,” Meg agreed. “They’d invite us into their house on a rainy day and serve us tea and cookies, in real china cups and saucers, remember?”

  “Oh, and remember their grandson? What was his name?”

  Meg snapped her fingers. “Josiah. You and I thought it was the most hysterical name, although he told everyone his name was Joe—”

  “But his grandparents insisted on calling him the whole horrible thing. Josiah.” Arden bit into an olive and chewed thoughtfully. “He was really cute, wasn’t he?”

  Meg nodded. “I wonder whatever happened to him.”

  “I don’t know,” Arden said. “We lost touch with him after we were exiled from the house.”

  Jenny shifted uncomfortably on the blanket. After a moment, she said, “The old Wiltons died when I was about fifteen. Whoever inherited the house sold it. No Wiltons live on Lily Street.”

  “ ‘The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea,’ ” Meg murmured. Seeing the glances of the others, she gave the quote’s attribution: “Matthew Arnold. Staring out at the water while remembering people who’ve been separated from us made me think of that line.”

  “It wasn’t the sea that estranged us from this island,” Arden pointed out, her voice flat, empty of anger. She didn’t need to say that it had been Jenny’s mother.

  Jenny pretended to ignore Arden’s remark. “Actually,” she said, “the sea is becoming less and less unplumbed. James Cameron’s already explored the deepest part of the Mariana Trench in a private submarine.”

  “I heard about that,” Arden said. “I’d like to do that myself. Think of all the creatures you could see that have never been seen by humans before. Maybe down there, they’ll find intelligent life on this planet,” she joked.

  “I’d settle for spotting a whale in the waters around the island,” Meg said.

  “We should go on a whale watch sometime,” Jenny said. “They have them all summer.”

  “Good idea,” Meg said.

  “Whales.” Arden didn’t sound enthusiastic. “I guess I’m not as much of a nature fan as you two. Even this”—she spread her arms out, indicating the entire beach and sound—“is not really my scene. Those whale watches are expensive. I prefer my fish on a plate, with an endive salad on the side.”

  Jenny grinned. “You’d prefer to get laid.”

  Meg held up her thermos. “More daiquiris, anyone?”

  Arden extended her glass.

  “Palmer’s interested in you,” Jenny said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  “That would be complicated.” Arden shied away from discussing her ambivalence about that particular man. “He’s in the business. I don’t want to reach the top by lying on my back.”

  Jenny snickered and looked to Meg. “Isn’t that a mixed metaphor?”

  Meg and Arden smiled. They settled in to eat seriously, sharing the various sandwiches Meg had made: cheese, avocado, and chutney; crab salad; BLTs. The blue sky deepened to an indigo hue and a breeze rose, lifting the edges of the blanket and ruffling their hair.

  “I got some more movies from the library today,” Meg told them. “Three or four brand-new chick flicks.”

  “Just what I’m in the mood for,” Jenny said.

  Arden finished her sandwich and dusted crumbs off her hands. “I’m in the mood for a mystery.”

  “I’ve got a few of those, too,” Meg told her smugly. “Plus strawberry cheesecake.”

  After a while, they gathered up their things and slowly stepped over the sand to the parking lot, where they stopped to put on their sandals. A blonde woman in her late forties walked up behind them, a towel tossed over her shoulder.

  “Hello, girls,” she said in a sultry voice as she forked right to her own car.

  Politely, they murmured greetings.

  In the car on the way home, Arden asked Jenny, “Do you know that woman?”

  “No,” Jenny said, “but I think I’ve seen her before, on our street. Maybe she lives on Lily.”

  “She only said hello,” Meg snorted. “We’re on the island. People are friendly.”

  “Something seemed strange about her,” Arden said. “I’m paranoid, right?”

  “Only someone paranoid would think that,” Meg teased. The three of them laughed, easily, together.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jenny and Tim were sitting in Genevieve’s home office, holding their breath while the three of them studied her computer screen.

  “Hm
m, yeah, I think this is a bull’s-eye, exactly what I was hoping for,” Genevieve decided. Before they could relax, she added, “Now, what if some of the artists want to add something on the site’s blog?”

  “We’re e-mailing them all with instructions,” Jenny replied.

  “Will they be able to call you if they need help?” Genevieve asked.

  “They’ll be able to e-mail us,” Tim said.

  “Yes, darlin’, but some of them like to be able to actually hear a friendly, helpful voice on the phone.”

  “In some cases,” Jenny offered pleasantly, “it takes a long time to help someone—”

  Genevieve didn’t hesitate. “Keep track of the time you spend on the phone calls and I’ll pay you a consulting fee, extra to the basic commission.” Before Jenny could speak again, she added, “If you have to drive to their homes, of course I’ll pay your driving time and gas. Okay?”

  “Sounds good,” Tim answered.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth before Genevieve rose. “Fine, then. I’ve got to dash. Keep in touch. See yourselves out, darlins.” With a swish of her silk dress, Genevieve made her exit.

  Jenny flashed a wry smile at Tim. “For a big woman, she moves fast.”

  They closed their laptops and stood up. “So we’re good?” Tim asked Jenny.

  “Seems like it.” She slipped the laptop carrier strap over her shoulder.

  They went out into the hall, where the maid waited to open the front door for them.

  “Thanks,” Tim said, and they went down the steps into the bright summer day. After the air-conditioned house, for a moment the humid July heat stunned them. They stood on the brick sidewalk, gathering their thoughts.

  Jenny was aware of Tim next to her, so tall, smelling of a citrus aftershave, something he seldom wore; she bet he’d put it on for the appointment with Genevieve. He wore a button-down shirt in a dreamy blue that matched his eyes, a red tie, and khakis. He looked so damnably masculine, adult, and handsome Jenny’s knees went weak. A wave of sensual pleasure passed through her as one of those unexpected moments of good health and a fine sunny day stilled her normal need to rush. She let her head fall back, closed her eyes, and gave a silent thank-you to the universe.

  “You look like you’re ready to be kissed,” Tim remarked.

  Her head snapped back up so fast she almost cracked her vertebrae. “What?” She hoped he didn’t think she’d been coming on to him.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, backing away. “Just—good, it’s good that Genevieve’s happy with the site, right? See you.”

  Puzzled as much by her emotions as by Tim’s words, Jenny watched him walk away.

  It was her night to prepare dinner. To forget her problems, Jenny chose a complicated recipe for paella with lots of different seafood. She tossed in extra spices because she was in that kind of mood.

  The evening was hot and humid. The women loaded up their plates, filled their glasses with wine, and carried everything out to the patio to eat. At first, they hardly spoke, absorbed with the delicious meal, but after a while they sat back in their chairs, content and sated.

  “I could get used to this,” Arden mused. “Cooking only every third night. Eating homemade gourmet meals instead of what I usually eat—takeout, or a bag of popcorn and a pear.”

  “I enjoy cooking,” Jenny admitted. “It takes my mind off other things.”

  “Like what?” Arden asked.

  Jenny gave herself a moment to think while slowly sipping her wine. “Well, … it’s complicated.”

  Arden chuckled. “Who is he?”

  Jenny nodded. “You’re right, it’s a man, but not how you think.”

  Meg looked concerned. “Are you okay? Are you sick?”

  “No. What I’m talking about is something you two, with all the things you have to crab about, will never need to consider.” Jenny fiddled with her napkin for a moment, then lifted her chin and blurted, “I don’t know who my father is.”

  Arden snapped, “Dear God, you’re always making it clear that Dad is your—”

  “My birth father.” Jenny put it right out there in the evening air.

  “Your biological father,” Meg clarified.

  “Right. The guy who knocked up my mother.”

  “For heaven’s sake, haven’t you asked Justine?” Arden demanded.

  Jenny toyed with the last forkful of rice. “She refuses to talk about it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Arden said.

  “She says I have a father. Rory is my father, and I don’t need another.”

  Arden plonked her elbows on the table. “Jenny. Reality call. Ever heard of biology? Genes? What in the hell is Justine thinking?”

  Jenny’s mouth tightened. “I know you hate my mother, but—”

  Meg interrupted. “Jenny, what Arden means is that you need to find out who your biological father is for medical reasons. What if he has some kind of genetic disease?”

  “Disease?” Jenny shrieked. “Why would he have a disease?”

  “I don’t mean disease, necessarily. I mean, you need to know what traits he passed on to you genetically. Because you could be passing them on to your children.”

  “This is the most depressing conversation I’ve ever had,” Jenny moaned.

  “Look, don’t head right for the fatal stuff,” Arden suggested, keeping her voice mellow. “I’m thinking of normal issues like high blood pressure. Late-onset diabetes. Thyroid problems. Even things like dyslexia or bipolar disorder.”

  “We all have something,” Meg added sympathetically. “That’s just part of being human.”

  “Plus,” Arden insisted, “I think it would do you good to meet your biological father. Just to set eyes on him.” After a moment, she challenged, “Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

  “I am curious,” Jenny admitted quietly. “I mean, that’s why I brought it up.”

  “Then do something,” Arden urged. “Find him.”

  “I know. I know.” Jenny made a face. “But I don’t know how to go about it.”

  Meg patted Jenny’s hand. “You have to convince your mother to tell you who he is.”

  “What if she continues to stonewall me?”

  Arden grinned wickedly. “Scare her. We’ll look up some diseases and find some creepy symptoms. Tell her you’ve been shaking or twitching or whatever—”

  Jenny glared at Arden. “There is something so very wrong with you!”

  Arden laughed.

  Meg persisted in her gentle voice: “Jenny, I don’t think you should put it off. Why not get serious with Justine? You have a right to know.”

  Jenny picked up her wineglass, but it was empty. She set it back down on the table. “I can’t just call her up and demand that she tell me.”

  “I agree,” Arden said calmly. “Something like this should be done face-to-face.”

  A rush of relief swept through Jenny. “Right. And Mom’s in Boston and I’m down here, so I’ll have to wait until the fall. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”

  “Jenny, you could go to Boston tomorrow,” Meg pointed out.

  Jenny shook her head violently. “No, because we have to live here together for three months or the house won’t be ours.”

  “Please.” Arden rolled her eyes. “Dad didn’t stipulate that we could never leave the island for three months. Just that we live here, and we’re doing that.” Jenny chewed her lips.

  Meg said, “Jenny. You really should go talk to your mother. Now’s the time.”

  Jenny shoved back her chair and paced around the table, thinking. When she sat back down, she said with a touch of triumph in her voice, “Fine. And you should tell Liam you’re in love with him.”

  Meg tossed her fiery hair away from her shoulders. “Jenny. We’ve been through this.”

  Slyly, Jenny said, “You know, I looked at your notes.”

  “What?”

  “You left them on the dining room table the other day. The outline.�
��

  Meg put her hand to her forehead. She knew what was coming.

  “What are you talking about?” Arden asked.

  “I read your outline. You tell us everything about your precious May Alcott, but did you tell us about who she married?”

  “No. Why should I?” Meg demanded defensively. “The subject has never come up.”

  “Please,” said Jenny.

  “What are you talking about?” Arden asked again.

  Jenny faced Arden with a victorious grin. “Meg’s revered May Alcott married a man fourteen years younger than she was!”

  “Aha.” Arden sent a piercing glare Meg’s way. “And you’re worried about loving a man a mere five years younger?”

  “It’s more complicated.” Meg wriggled.

  “How?”

  “Ernest Nieriker was not May Alcott’s colleague, almost boss. Besides, May died in childbirth about a year into their marriage, so Ernest didn’t ever get the chance to leave her for a younger, slimmer woman.”

  Arden slapped her hand to her forehead. “You are one twisted sister!”

  “Don’t be so freaking superstitious!” Jenny scolded. “Whatever happened to May Alcott is not going to happen to you just because you’re writing a book about her.”

  Meg nodded unhappily. “I know.”

  Jenny said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll face off with my mother. I’ll make her tell me about my birth father. But only if you go up and talk with Liam about your feelings and your fears.”

  “Those two things aren’t comparable at all!” Meg objected.

  “Well, we both don’t want to do them,” Jenny told her.

  “Then what does Arden have to do?” Meg asked.

  Arden snorted. “Why should I have to do anything?”

  “Because we do.” Meg crossed her arms over her chest.

  “What do you want me to do?” Arden asked.

  Meg thought. “Ask Palmer White to dinner.”

  “Please, no.”

  “Why not?” Jenny asked.

  “He’s not my type,” Arden finished, squirming uncomfortably in her chair.