by Nan Rossiter
I took a sip of my wine and nodded. “I know I’m in a better mood. Living here is like living in paradise. You can’t help but feel blessed when you’re surrounded by so much beauty.”
“You’re never coming back to Medford, are you?”
“I doubt it,” I said, shaking my head. “If I can find another apartment that’s reasonable after Simon’s grandmother sells her cottage, then I’ll definitely stay here.”
Lizzy nodded. “How’s your dad doing?”
“Okay. I talk to him every Sunday and I’ve been trying to get him to come for a visit, but he keeps putting me off. He says he can’t take the time, but he works too much. He works more now than when I was living at home, and he still doesn’t eat right. I’ve been after him to go to the doctor—he hasn’t been to one in years—but he refuses. I have a feeling there’s something going on.”
“Sounds like my mother,” Lizzy said. “She has to use oxygen now. I tell her she needs to quit smoking, but she just gets angry.”
I nodded. “My dad never smoked, so I don’t know what’s going on with him. Is your mom still drinking?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s three sheets to the wind every night.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know why people do these things to themselves—life is short enough without doing things that will create health problems down the road. I wish I could at least get him to go to the doctor.”
“Next time I’m home, I’ll check on him. Maybe he’ll let me take his blood pressure.”
“Ha! I doubt it,” I said, laughing and shaking my head.
“I’ll try,” Lizzy said, smiling. “Maybe he’ll respond differently hearing it from me and not his daughter.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “Maybe you could encourage him to come for a visit too.”
Just then, the waitress brought our dinners. Lizzy had ordered scallops, too, and after she took her first bite, she murmured, “Mmm, you’re right—these are better than sex!”
“I know! Right?” I said, laughing.
“Hey!” Simon said, looking wounded.
“I’m just kidding,” she said, “but I’m glad you’re engaging in conversation again.”
Simon poured more wine into our glasses. “I’ve been listening to every word.”
Lizzy nodded. “You’re lucky you still have both your parents. . . and your grandmother, and they don’t seem to have any issues.”
“Oh, they have issues, all right,” he said, laughing. “And besides, your dad is still alive.”
“He may be alive, but he’s not part of my life. He never cared enough to be.”
Simon frowned and I suddenly realized he and Lizzy had never talked about her dad.
“It’s his loss,” I consoled. “He has an amazing, beautiful daughter and he’s never made the time to get to know her. That is the biggest tragedy of all.”
Lizzy smiled and took a sip of her wine. “C’est la vie,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t let it get to me.”
I knew it bothered her, though. When we were little, Lizzy had always harbored a secret hope that she’d hear from her father on her birthday or on Christmas, but she never did. It was heartbreaking to see her so disappointed. When we were in high school, I tried to be supportive, knowing what was on her mind. “Maybe your dad will call this year,” I offered with an encouraging smile, but as the years went by, I realized I was giving her false hope, and finally, I never mentioned him again, except to say he was a total loser . . . and I’m sure that didn’t help either. Thinking back, I can only imagine how Lizzy must’ve felt. Her father made her feel as if she—her life, dreams, aspirations, and her very existence—didn’t matter, and yet, she just tucked the pain away and pressed on. I’m sure that’s why she had always been so competitive, why she’d been the best student in our class—the valedictorian—she’d felt she had to prove her value to herself. I also think Freud would’ve had a field day with both of us.
By the time we were scraping our dessert plates and finishing our second bottle of wine, Simon’s cheerful mood had been restored. The waitress brought our check, and when I reached for it, he eyed me but relented. I studied the bill, worked out the tip in my head, and set several bills on the tray, and when the waitress came to take it, she left three peppermints. “The tavern hosts a dance down on the beach the second Thursday of the month—it’s something new. There’s a bar and some appetizers—not that you’re hungry after having dinner,” she added with a smile, “but if you’re looking for something fun to do, it’s down in back.” She motioned over her shoulder and we looked through the window and saw flickering lights on the beach.
“I thought I heard music,” Lizzy said, sounding as if a problem she’d been puzzling over had just been solved.
The waitress smiled. “I hope to go down when I get off work.”
“Is this the first one?” I asked.
“No, we’ve had one the last two months. The first one was in June, and it was kind of quiet, but the word’s been spreading and there’s quite a crowd tonight. I don’t know if there will be one next month.”
“Sounds fun,” Lizzy said.
As we walked outside and around the building toward the beach, I felt a sudden chill sweep over me and goose bumps on my arms. It was a beautiful night—still warm from the day’s heat, so it was strange to suddenly feel cold. I could feel the dizzying effects of the wine, too, but now, the sensation that someone was watching was sobering. I jerked my head around, feeling my heart pound, and in my mind’s eye, saw Drew standing in the shadows. I cried out in alarm and Lizzy turned. “What’s the matter?”
I swallowed and shook my head. “I-I thought I saw something.”
“What?”
“I . . .”
“What?” Lizzy asked, frowning.
I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s just my imagination.”
Lizzy put her arm around me. “There are no boogeymen here,” she said softly.
I nodded. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, so I knew it wasn’t just the effects of the wine, and I realized it seemed to happen every time I walked into the shadow of a building. It had even happened at the cottage when I got home late, and I couldn’t seem to stop it. I’d also been having unsettling dreams from which I’d wake up shaking and crying—my image of Drew stepping out of the shadows was so real.
I swallowed and shook my head. It had to stop, but I didn’t know how to stop it—short of therapy, and I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable telling a complete stranger about my past.
As we walked down to the beach, Simon reached for Lizzy’s hand, pulled her close, and kissed her. I felt a pang of sadness and envy—was I destined to be alone my whole life? Would someone ever reach for my hand again? Would I ever have someone to make me feel safe?
We stopped at the edge of the sand to watch the festivities. Tiki torches flickered along the beach, illuminating couples sitting on blankets or dancing barefoot on the sand, while others had slipped out of their clothes and were skinny-dipping in the surf.
“Want a drink?” Simon asked, motioning to the bar set up near the DJ. We looked over and saw a long table lit with lanterns and candles and a long line of coolers underneath it.
“I’ll have a beer,” Lizzy said.
“Me too,” I said, hoping to recapture the sweet buzz I’d felt moments earlier.
Simon walked away and Lizzy and I found a driftwood log to sit on. She sniffed the air and grinned. “Smell that?”
I frowned. “What?”
“Pot—have you ever tried it?”
I shook my head and Lizzy laughed. “Well, we’ll just have to fix that! I’m pretty sure Simon brought some.”
A moment later, Simon came back with three frosty cans of beer, but just as he started to sit down with us, Elvis Presley’s unmistakable voice singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” drifted from the speakers, and he reached for Lizzy’s hand instead. She turned to me and grinned. “This is our song.”
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br /> I sipped my beer and watched the sparks from the torches spiral up into the sky, and when the song ended, I looked to see if Lizzy and Simon were coming back, but the DJ was playing another slow song and Simon was pulling Lizzy closer and softly kissing her lips. They looked as if they were in a world all their own. I smiled sadly—I was happy for Lizzy, but sad for myself—and with a sigh, I stood up and walked toward the water with my beer. It was then that I noticed the young man from the restaurant leaning against the bar. He was looking away, but when I walked past him, he turned, and for the first time I saw his face . . . and his blue eyes. He nodded to me and I smiled.
“How come you’re not dancing?” he asked.
“I don’t have anyone to dance with,” I said, finding it hard to not notice his chiseled jaw and fine aristocratic features. He was tall, and although his T-shirt was tight around his shoulders, his faded jeans hung loosely from his hips.
“Dance with me,” he ventured shyly.
I shook my head. “I’m not very good.”
“I’m not neither,” he said, holding out his hand. I put down my sandals and beer, and without saying a word, he pulled me toward him and we swayed slowly back and forth to Bob Dylan’s “Lay Lady Lay.”
“I love this song,” I murmured.
He nodded but didn’t reply, and when it ended, I heard Lizzy calling. “I better go,” I said, quickly pulling away and picking up my things. “Thank you for the dance.”
He nodded.
I started to walk away, but when I looked back, I saw the sad half smile that I would never forget.
Chapter 13
The weekend flew by and before we knew it, I was giving Lizzy and Simon hugs and watching them walk up the ramp to the ferry. Although their visit hadn’t been nearly long enough, we’d had enough time to catch up on each other’s news, and before they’d left, Lizzy had asked me to be her maid of honor.
“Of course!” I cried, and she said she’d let me know the date as soon as they’d set one.
“I still have to tell my mother,” she reminded, “and I’m sure it’s going to go over like a lead balloon. We can’t get married in the church, so I don’t know what we’ll do. I don’t even want to tell her in person,” she said, laughing. “Maybe I’ll send her a letter.”
I shook my head. “Your poor mom.”
“I know,” Lizzy agreed. “She really needs to lighten up.”
We gave each other one last hug; then I stood on the dock waving until they were specks of color. I turned, adjusted my bag on my shoulder, and dragged my heavy heart up the cobblestone street. I’d been looking forward to their visit for so long, and now the much-anticipated weekend was over. All I had left to look forward to was a quiet supper and work the next morning. Most days, I loved being at work more than I loved being off. I was always off on Sundays because the shop was closed so Abe could go fishing, but every other day, the shop was a lively place filled with the lovely aroma of baking bread, and since I’d found a taste for coffee, too—light with cream—I always had a cup nearby when I worked—it was my new source of comfort.
I turned onto Water Street and stopped in the little shop on the corner that sold newspapers and coffee. I ordered a large cup of coffee, poured in a generous amount of cream, put the lid on, and went outside to sit on a sunny bench—I was in no hurry to go home to my empty house.
I’d just taken my first sip when an old pickup truck slowed in front of me. I looked up and saw the man I’d danced with behind the steering wheel, and when he saw me, he smiled. “Where’s mine?” he teased, nodding toward my cup.
“In there,” I said, laughing and motioning over my shoulder. He smiled and continued driving slowly by, and as I sat there, I couldn’t help but wonder if he might find a parking spot and come back. In fact, for several hopeful minutes, I looked expectantly up the street, waiting for him, but he didn’t come and I felt disappointed and wished I’d asked him his name. If he had a truck on the island, chances were pretty good he lived here—but where? Nantucket isn’t very big and all the locals know each other. Still, I didn’t have much to go on—just that he drove an old Chevy pickup truck and had some tattoos on his arms. I’d have to ask Abe if he knew anyone fitting that description—he probably did. Between owning the bakery and faithfully attending mass every Saturday (so he could go fishing on Sunday), Abe knew everyone.
I finished my coffee, stood to throw it in a nearby trashcan, and then started to walk home, still hoping I’d see his truck. As I walked away, I pictured the way he’d looked on the beach—tall and slender and wearing faded jeans that hung loosely from his hips. He’d also been wearing a white T-shirt that made his copper skin look even darker, and although his hair was short, it looked like he might’ve been letting it grow out. I shook my head. The whole thing was crazy! I was still married, so I shouldn’t even be thinking about someone else, and a short haircut didn’t mean he’d been in the service—lots of guys wore their hair short—that was just something Simon had guessed at, and he’d been wrong to make assumptions based on his appearance and judge him without knowing him.
As I walked along the sun-dappled street, I began to wonder what I would have for dinner that night and then I remembered I still had leftovers. Simon had made dinner Friday night, explaining that Jewish people were not supposed to do any work on Saturday—Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath—so they had to do their cooking before sunset on Friday. Needless to say, the sweet scent of simmering beef had joined the scent of cannabis, which Lizzy had insisted I try that Friday afternoon, and by the time dinner was ready, we were ravenous. I don’t know if it was the effects of the pot or Simon’s cooking, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.
Brisket, Simon had explained, is actually made from one of the toughest and least expensive cuts of meat; it’s the endless hours of simmering in a broth of savory herbs, vegetables, brown sugar, and dried apricots that make it a tender, meltin-your-mouth dish; and when it’s coupled with kugel—a traditional potato or noodle casserole—you end up with a very filling—and fulfilling—meal. As I walked home, I realized I still had some left and I even had some snowflake rolls from the bakery with which I could sop up the yummy gravy. My stomach rumbled just thinking about it!
I climbed the cottage steps, pulled open the screen door, walked into the kitchen, and saw a bottle of wine and a new corkscrew on the table. There was also a hastily scribbled note in Lizzy’s illegible handwriting:
Thank you for the lovely weekend . . . not to mention the celebratory dinner on Thursday!
We loved seeing you. Enjoy the wine—no more Boone’s Farm for us! We’re grownup girls now! xoxo
Lizzy and Simon
I reached for the bottle and smiled; it was the same kind of wine we’d had at the restaurant—Gan Eden, a kosher chardonnay. I fiddled with the corkscrew, trying to remember how the waitress had opened our wine. Just as I pierced the top, I heard a knock on the door and frowned. I’d just watched Simon and Lizzy off, so I knew it wasn’t them, and although I knew all the customers who came into the bakery, I wasn’t really friends with any of them, so that only left Abe—but why would he be here? He was supposed to be fishing.
I peered down the hall. No one had ever knocked on my door before. Suddenly, a shadow fell over my heart as another possibility filled my mind: Drew must’ve followed Lizzy and Simon out to Nantucket and then waited for them to leave. My heart pounded. Simon had told me I should lock the door every time I went out, even when I was home, and now I’d been out for hours and I hadn’t even closed the door, never mind locked it. I tried to see a reflection in the mirror, but I couldn’t see anything.
I swallowed, and with the corkscrew in my hand, walked down the hall and peered through the screen. A tall figure was standing on the porch, looking at the gardens.
“May I help you?” I asked.
The figure turned. “Oh, hey.”
I smiled. “Hi,” I said, feeling relieved. And then, just as suddenly
my smile changed to a puzzled frown. “How do you know where I live?”
He smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you,” he said as if reading my mind. “After I finished running some errands, I went back to the coffee shop to see if you were still there . . . and, of course, you weren’t, but this was.” He held up my bag. “You left it on the bench.” I pushed open the door and he held it out to me. “That’s how I know where you live—your address was on an envelope. I didn’t go through your bag,” he added. “I just saw the envelope and wondered if it might have your address on it . . . and it did, so I thought I’d bring it to you. . . . You know, before you started to worry.”
“Thanks,” I said in surprise. “I hadn’t even missed it.”
“Good,” he said. “I mean, I’m glad you weren’t worried. There’s enough to worry about in life without worrying about losing stuff.”
“That’s true,” I said.
He noticed the corkscrew in my hand and raised his eyebrows. “Were you planning to use that in self-defense, or are you moving right from coffee to alcohol?”
I looked down and laughed. “Well, I might’ve used it as a weapon if I had to, but actually, my friends left it on my table with a bottle of wine and I was trying to figure out how to use it.”
“So you are moving right from coffee to alcohol,” he teased.
I laughed. “Well, actually, I’m used to screw tops—you know, the kind of wine you can open in the woods or upstairs in your friend’s bedroom without worrying about having a corkscrew.”
“I know just what you mean,” he said, smiling. “Like Boone’s Farm.”
“Exactly,” I said, laughing.
“I prefer good ole number seven myself—it has a screw top, too . . . and it works much faster.” I gave him a puzzled look and he continued. “You know . . . Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey—it works much faster than wine.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding, “I guess so . . . if your goal is getting drunk as fast as you can.”
“Yeah, that . . . and it’s just so smooth. Fire in your belly,” he added, patting his stomach.
