by Nancy Thayer
"Daddy!" Harry giggled. "You look silly."
"I've been reading for so long it's made my eyes crossed." He uncrossed his eyes and rubbed them. "Seriously. I've got to get out of that room. What are you two doing this afternoon?"
Abbie smiled. "I thought I might take Harry to a secret place."
"And what about dinner tonight?" Howell asked.
"Oh, I'll make chicken with--"
"I meant, will you join us for dinner?"
Abbie hesitated.
"Please?" Howell asked.
"Yes, Abbie, eat with us tonight!" Harry cried.
Abbie took a deep breath. "Well, all right, then," she said, trying to sound casual, as if this were only another insignificant invitation.
Howell sat in the backseat of the SUV with his son while Abbie drove them to the moors and then more slowly over the rutted dirt road until they arrived at the grassy turnoff to the pond. While Howell negotiated his way out of the vehicle, Abbie lifted Harry down. All around, hills rolled in green abundance, wild and free beneath the blue sky.
"Cool!" Harry cried as he ran down the path toward the pond.
"We call this the doughnut pond," Abbie told him. "Because of that little island, right in the middle, like the center of a doughnut." She spread a blanket on the ground and set up the folding canvas chair for Howell. "Come here, Harry. Do you know what this is? A deer path. Want to walk it? It goes all the way around the pond."
Harry's eyes were wide. "Will you come with me?"
"You bet." She took the little boy's hand. The sandy path was tangled with all kinds of wildflowers and vegetation. Abbie bent to touch one delicate stem. "See this, Harry? It's called blue-eyed grass."
"Grass doesn't have eyes, silly!" Harry giggled.
Farther on, she stopped and pointed. "Look, Harry. Deer tracks. See the prints?"
He squatted down, scrutinized the tracks, and touched them. "They have funny feet."
"They have hooves. Cloven hooves. That means like this." She forked her fingers. "The deer come down here to drink water."
"Where are they now?" Harry scanned the horizon.
"Oh, they're hiding. They're afraid of people."
"I wouldn't hurt them," Harry promised earnestly.
"I know. But deer are very shy."
They walked on. At a tangle of wild roses, she stopped to let Harry inhale the fragrance. She pointed out the osprey stand built in the middle of the pond and promised she'd find a book with a picture of ospreys in it. She knelt down to show him a clump of berry bushes with minuscule tight green buds.
"We'll come back in a month and pick blueberries," she assured him. "You'll be able to pick berries right over the bush and pop them in your mouth!"
"Pop them in my mouth!" Harry echoed.
When they reached the far side of the pond, they waved at Howell, who waved at them. As they headed back, Harry said, "When Daddy can walk again, we can show him the deer tracks."
"We'll do that!" Abbie agreed, smiling when she said "we."
Back at their picnic spot, Abbie poured Harry, Howell, and herself paper cups of pink lemonade from the thermos. She took off Harry's sandals and put more sunblock on him. He squirmed as she rubbed it in, then grabbed up his bucket and shovel and hurried down to the water's edge. For a moment he hesitated, concerned--there was no sandy beach, only mud.
"Go ahead, get dirty," Abbie told him. "Mud washes off just as easily as sand."
He stepped into the mud, smiling with happiness as it squelched between his toes.
"This is a great place," Howell told Abbie.
"It is." She stretched out on the blanket and let the sun beat down on her. She wore shorts and a button-front, short-sleeved camp shirt. She knew the coral color was becoming to her complexion. She heard Harry talking to himself as he filled his bucket with mud. She kept her eyes closed, sensing that Howell was looking at her body. She hoped he was.
The afternoon drifted by. The heat of the day made her indolent. They took a walk together, stopping to investigate bugs and leaves. The three of them were so comfortable together. So natural.
Finally they returned to the house. Emma hadn't scheduled any work for her that evening, so she had no reason to hurry. As she showered Harry and dressed him in clean clothes, Howell went into his study to work.
Harry lay beneath the kitchen table playing with his horses while Abbie lazily moved around preparing dinner. She knew the things Harry loved to eat, and made plenty of it: rice, and carrots cooked and smothered with butter, and chicken breasts with mushrooms and cream. Harry would pick the mushrooms out, but that was okay. She sliced fresh Bartlett's Farm tomatoes to serve instead of a salad. Harry had eaten his green food for the day, she decided, with a little thrill of rebellion.
While the chicken baked, she went out onto the patio with Harry. They were building a fairy house like the one in front of The Toy Boat on Straight Wharf. Abbie was carefully putting together the house out of sticks. Harry was making a path to the house with tiny moon shells.
Howell came hobbling outside. "What an evening. Harry, I like your fairy house. Abbie, I poured us both a glass of wine, but I haven't figured out how to get it out here without spilling."
She smiled. "Sit down. I'll get the wine."
By the time she returned, a glass in each hand, Howell had lowered himself onto a wicker chair. She took a chair nearer Harry than Howell. She hoped he didn't notice how her hands were trembling. Her throat was dry. She kept licking her lips.
"It's hard to get used to so much peace and quiet," Howell said. "I'm such a city boy."
"What city?" she asked.
He'd grown up in Cambridge, where he lived with his parents and his sister in an apartment. He'd gone to college in Berkeley. He worked in New York and New Haven.
"It was Sydney's idea to buy a house here," he said.
It stung, hearing his wife's name in Howell's mouth. She bit her lip.
"So many acquaintances have places here. It's a good place for her to network."
"Plus, it's paradise for kids," Abbie said.
"Absolutely," Howell agreed. "Of course Sydney figured that into the equation."
"I can hear the timer. Excuse me." Abbie fled into the kitchen. What the hell was she thinking, drinking wine with that man as if they were some kind of couple! She was glad he mentioned Sydney. They should keep Sydney right there in the room with them.
She drank the rest of her wine as she worked in the kitchen, preparing the meal. She called them in, and supervised Harry as he washed his hands. She served the food. She put Harry and his father side by side and sat across the table from Harry.
Howell asked Abbie what it was like to grow up on the island, so during dinner she entertained father and son with tales from her childhood. How the seals gathered on the jetties during the winter, and congregated at Great Point like great snorting, grunting, shiny rubber rocks. The time the whale washed up in Sconset. How the electricity used to go out before the underwater cable to the mainland was installed, and everyone read by candlelight, shivering beneath blankets.
Harry listened, wide-eyed, so Abbie continued to regale him as she led him upstairs for his bath and before-bed ritual. She dressed him in clean cotton pajamas, tucked him into bed, and sat next to him, still talking. He fell asleep almost immediately. Abbie sat for a while gazing down at his dear little face and her heart almost burst with longing.
Downstairs, she discovered that Howell had managed to hobble around the kitchen. All the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, which churned steadily away, and the kitchen counters were clean.
She stood in the kitchen doorway. "He's sound asleep."
"You work magic with him, Abbie." Howell held up the bottle of wine. "Help me finish this."
"Oh, well ..."
"Just one glass each."
Maybe he's just lonely for adult conversation, Abbie thought. "All right."
Since his accident, Howell's customary place was on the sof
a, with his leg stretched out and elevated on a pillow. Abbie took a chair opposite with the coffee table safely between them. She took a sip of wine with a trembling hand. It was still light outside, but in the house the rooms were dim and shadowy. No lamps were lit.
Her skin glowed from the day's sun. Every cell of her body seemed alive and awake. Alert. Ready. She could not look away from Howell. His handsome face, his strong body, his steady gaze ...
"Abbie," Howell said softly. "My God. What are we going to do?"
She didn't try to act coy. "Howell, you're married."
"Let me tell you about my marriage," he said.
"I don't think--"
"I'm not going to disparage Sydney. You've met her. She's an amazing woman."
Of course, Abbie knew that, but still the word pierced her with jealousy.
"She's brilliant," Howell continued. "She's ambitious. She works tirelessly. She might have a future in politics. It's what she wants. I admire Sydney tremendously, even though, as you might have gathered, she can be abrasive."
Abbie's heart was leaping about in her chest. He admired her! Now each word he spoke seemed to build a bridge between Abbie and Howell.
"She's your wife," she said, trying to cut through this connection with the knife of Sydney's image.
"By accident. We met just a few days before we graduated from grad school. We each had landed the jobs we wanted in New York. We were giddy and we were stupid. We went out a few times, we slept together a few times, and then we got too busy to even think of dating. I hadn't even seen Sydney for a month when she came to tell me she was pregnant."
"Howell--"
"She'd thought she'd missed her period because she was working so hard at her new job at the law firm. She was three months' pregnant. God knows she didn't want a baby." He made a scoffing noise. "She wasn't thrilled about marrying me, either. She didn't love me. I didn't love her. She considered giving the baby up for adoption." Pain flashed over his face. "Imagine giving up Harry." He shook his head. "So we married. We are fairly good friends. We've worked out a manageable life. But I don't love her, Abbie. And I've never felt about Sydney the way I feel about you."
It was everything she wanted to hear. Softly, she said, "I know. I feel that way about you."
"Then come over here."
"Howell--" She hesitated.
"Abbie."
As if she were riding a tide tumbling toward the shore, Abbie allowed herself to be pulled by the irresistible magnetism of their mutual desire. Howell made room for her on the sofa, and she perched on the edge next to him, and he put his arms around her and gently drew her to him and kissed her mouth. Pleasure shot through her. His hands found her breasts, pushed up her shirt and struggled with her bra and touched her skin. She kept her mouth on his as she unbuttoned her shirt, unsnapped her bra, and tossed them to the floor. While she stood to tug off her shorts and panties, Howell shifted on the sofa so that she could straddle him. He fought to tug his shorts off.
"Damn!" he whispered when his clothing caught on his ankle cast. "The hell with it. Come here, Abbie."
She settled herself over him, leaning down to kiss him, and he ran his hands over her body, everywhere. She raised herself and he pressed himself inside her.
Here, her body told her. Here. This is right. This is perfect. This is everything.
This is home.
27
Emma
Emma, you are a wonder," Spencer whispered.
She grinned. "I'm pretty pleased with myself, I have to say."
They were standing at the back of the small auditorium in the Whaling Museum. Spencer had just given a lecture about Nantucket shipwrecks and lightships, and Emma had accomplished the brilliant coup of persuading Mrs. Bracebridge to attend.
Really, it hadn't been so difficult. Toots Carlyle was young and strong and his vehicle was equipped for wheelchairs. He easily lifted Mrs. Bracebridge out of her wheelchair and into the van, then lifted her wheelchair into the back of the van and out again at the Whaling Museum. He helped the older woman descend from his van on its little electric lift, and he carefully attended her as she sank back into her wheelchair.
Emma took over then, pushing her charge in front of her through the electric doors and around the visitor's stand to the meeting room at the back. The docents at the door did not ask Mrs. Bracebridge if she was a member. It was obvious from her regal bearing that she belonged anywhere she chose to be.
Emma heard the murmuring as she wheeled Mrs. Bracebridge into the room. After the lecture, half the audience swarmed toward Millicent Bracebridge. People leaned close to Millicent, announcing their names, patting her hand, exclaiming how very happy they were to see her.
Emma stepped back, preparing to wait patiently, but to her surprise three women in their fifties approached her.
"Emma Fox? Is that really you?"
They had been friends of her mother and were still friends of her father. She'd played with their children, had overnights in their homes, and now she caught up on all the news. When they asked why she was on the island, and why she was with Millicent Bracebridge, she bit the bullet and explained that she'd lost her job at a Boston investment firm. They commiserated, telling her about their children, all Emma's age, many of whom had also lost their jobs or their savings in the past year.
Across the room, Spencer was also surrounded by people. After awhile, the lecture room emptied. Spencer came to his grandmother and bent down close to her.
"Grams. Thank you for coming. I'm honored."
Millicent Bracebridge's face bloomed with pleasure. "Oh, don't be silly."
"I'll phone Toots," Emma said, and slipped away, allowing her employer some private time with her grandson.
When she'd finished her call, she dropped her cell phone into her bag and returned to the lecture room. Spencer wheeled his grandmother out of the building and stayed with her until the van arrived, then kissed her wrinkled cheek.
"Love you, Grams," he said.
To Emma's surprise, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek, too. "Thanks for bringing her. I really appreciate it. See you tomorrow?"
"Yes. See you tomorrow."
Back at the Bracebridge home, a black SUV sat in the driveway. As the driver helped Mrs. Bracebridge out of the van and into her wheelchair, the front door flew open and Sandra Bracebridge exploded out of the house, her face dark with fury.
She stomped down the walk and planted herself right in Emma's face. "What do you think you're doing!"
Emma began to explain. "I took Mrs. Bracebridge to hear her grandson--"
"Did I not make it clear that my mother-in-law is in a fragile state?"
"Sandra." Millicent Bracebridge's voice was strained. "Could we please go into the house for this conversation?"
Sandra stormed ahead. Emma pushed the wheelchair up the ramp and into the house. She parked Millicent Bracebridge in her favorite spot in the living room.
"Would you like a glass of water?" Emma asked the older woman.
"Oh, you're not weaseling out of this!" Sandra snapped. "I want an explanation and an apology."
Sandra's mother-in-law lifted an imperious hand. "Sandra, leave the girl alone. She was only obeying orders. I wanted to go hear Spencer speak."
"You know you don't have the stamina for this sort of excursion."
"Obviously, I'm capable of an occasional outing." Millicent's voice came out in a labored whisper.
"Listen to you, you don't even have the energy to speak!" Sandra scolded.
"I'll get some water." Emma left the room.
When she returned, Sandra was pacing in tight little circles around Millicent's wheelchair.
"--'course they act delighted to see you! You own the greatest collection of Nantucketiana in the world! They want something from you."
"Here's your water, Mrs. Bracebridge." Emma knelt next to the wheelchair and carefully guided the glass into Millicent's hands, waiting until she was certain the older woman had a fa
st hold on the glass before taking her own hands away.
Millicent Bracebridge sipped the water. "Thank you," she said, turning in Emma's direction. "I'm tired now. I'd like to rest."
"I just hope you haven't made yourself sick, Millicent," Sandra huffed.
"Would you like me to stay?" Emma asked.
"Please. I'll probably only nap for a while and I'd like you to read to me later."
Millicent held the glass out. Emma took it and set it on the table. Millicent closed her eyes.
"Very well, then, I'm going." Sandra glowered at Emma. "I'm not through discussing this with you! As far as I'm concerned, you've seriously overstepped your duties."
Emma said nothing. Sandra sniffed mightily and strode away.
Millicent awoke after a thirty-minute snooze. Emma made her a cup of tea and read to her from Agatha Christie. They didn't discuss Sandra's anger or whether or not Emma's job was in jeopardy, but they did discuss, in great detail, the brilliance of Spencer's speech, his remarkable stage presence, and how pleased he had been to see his grandmother in the audience.
"It's time for me to go, Mrs. Bracebridge," Emma said reluctantly.
"Please call me Millicent," the older woman said. "And thank you again, Emma, for providing me with such a pleasant day."
"I enjoyed it, too," Emma told her truthfully.
Emma walked home feeling quite pleased with herself. When she turned onto her street, she stopped for just a moment. Really, it was such a pretty street. The houses weren't as imposing as the Bracebridges', but they each had a special charm--a window box spilling with petunias, a mermaid door knocker, a trellis smothered with pale pink climbing roses. A pigtailed girl zipped past Emma on her bike. In one yard some mothers sat talking while their little children ran screaming through the water sprinkler. Emma smiled, remembering being young in the summer.
Her mother had been so very beautiful, and she'd laughed so often. She'd invented great games for her daughters to play. She'd decorated each room so prettily, and she loved doing her daughters' hair in fabulous braids. And when they'd been little girls, her mother had been so loving, always hugging, kissing, holding them--Emma still remembered the scent of her mother's perfume as she rocked Emma in her arms. Emma had wanted a lot of babies to love just the way her mother loved her.
