Girls of Summer

by Nancy Thayer

  “Oh, you can tell that by looking?”

  Juliet laughed.

  “We’re almost there,” Ryder said. “Let me take you out to dinner Tuesday night. Just dinner, nothing else.”

  “Fine,” she answered carelessly, hoping she didn’t sound as frightened, amazed, and attracted as she felt. “That will be fun.”

  nine

  Sometimes, Beth thought, a person really needs life to give them a sign.

  When she woke on the first day of June, her third morning home, her bed and her childhood bedroom had seemed odd, as if they belonged to another person, and in a way, they had. Of course if she had to, she could walk through the entire house blindfolded, but this house had belonged to a different person, a girl who had been knocked down by fate before she had time to grow up.

  On her bedside table was the framed photo of her as a little girl with her father and her mother. She’d been only two when the picture was taken, and she didn’t remember that moment, but she cherished the photograph that proved it had existed. Her mother had existed, had loved her, so long ago, and might even be somewhere loving her still.

  Next to that picture was one of Atticus. The glass was cracked because one day years ago, in a fit of rage at Atticus for killing himself, she had picked up the photo and carried it out to the trash barrel and tossed it in, slamming down the lid as hard as she could. That night she hadn’t been able to fall asleep until she quietly retrieved the picture. She would never see him alive again, but she needed to have him with her somehow. And the cracked glass over his face seemed somehow appropriate, because he was broken. She never got a new one.

  Beth pulled on a light summer dress and flip-flops. Her father called out to her, “See you tonight!” and left for work. She found fresh coffee waiting for her, and in the middle of the kitchen table, a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which had been her favorite cereal when she was a child.

  “Sweet!” she said aloud, smiling at her father’s thoughtfulness.

  But what she really craved was an onion bagel with cream cheese. She didn’t want to hurt her father’s feelings, but no way was she going to eat that sugary cereal. She wasn’t a little girl anymore.

  Carrying her mug, Beth walked through her home as if it were a museum. In a way it was a museum. Nothing had changed since she went away to college, seven years ago. No new furniture, no new carpet, no new drapes—one new thing, a large flat-screen on the wall in the den. Other than that, she didn’t think her father had changed a thing.

  But why should he? Old Persian rugs that were once his family’s softened the wood floors, and the mix-and-match furniture was welcoming. The most modern place was his kitchen, with its gleaming chrome appliances and the rack over the stove, which was hung with copper-bottomed pans. The only art on the walls were three pictures Beth had painted at various times in her life. Her father had had them framed and hung around the large room.

  He needed some good art. He could use a new armchair—the one he clearly favored was slightly sagging. She had usually come home from college at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and she’d also spent every summer at home, but she’d never considered the state of the house because she was working two jobs to make money for college and then for grad school and working for her master’s.

  And now? She wanted to brighten up the place.

  First things first. She needed to get a job. She wanted to work for the Nantucket Historical Association, but they were fully staffed and now that summer was here, they would have plenty of volunteers. There were museums all over the country that needed qualified help, but Beth wanted to live and work on Nantucket. At least she thought she did. Now that she’d earned her master’s degree, she had no one to report to, no deadlines to meet, no papers to write, and it seemed only natural to return to her island home. That didn’t mean she had to stay here. She wasn’t locked in.

  But actually, she was locked in, by her own emotions. She wanted to see Theo again.

  Theo. It had always been Theo for her, but he was so popular, dating a different girl every weekend, she’d assumed he had no interest in her. Atticus was Theo’s best friend, and Atticus had been in love with Beth. He had told her that, and that had tied her to him. She had cared for him, she’d worried about him and tried to help when his dark depressions came over him. Somehow they had become a couple, and she believed, she was certain that she had made him happy, or at least less depressed. From time to time in classes or walking in the hallway, Beth caught Theo looking at her, and his look was like a song calling her home, and then he’d flush and turn away. So she had believed that Theo liked her, that he might actually want her in the way she wanted him—not simply sexually, but spiritually, too, as if he was missing part of himself, and if only she would go to him, he could be complete. That was how she felt about him.

  They never talked about it. Once, at a school dance, when he held her as they moved to a slow song and the desire between them was so obvious, so strong, Theo had smiled down at her and asked, “Beth. What are we going to do?”

  “What can we do?” Beth asked, and there was no answer, or not the answer they wanted. She was Atticus’s girl, and he needed her in a serious way—so serious that his mother had actually taken Beth for coffee so they could talk about Atticus and his problem.

  “You know,” Paula Barnes had said, “Atticus is afraid you will leave him for Theo.”

  Beth had nearly knocked over her mug. “Why would he think that?”

  “Atticus is very sensitive,” his mother had replied.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” Beth snapped, because she wanted to say, good grief, every moment of every day when I’m with him, I have to be attuned to his precious sensitivity, and sometimes I want to run away and be free or do something that will offend that sensitivity! Immediately, she apologized for snapping at his mother. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for him. I wish someone could help.”

  “He’s seeing a therapist. And he’s on medication. And, Beth, Atticus’s father and I are so grateful to you for being there for him, for doing all you do. That’s why I asked to meet you. To thank you. To tell you we know he can be hard work, but we believe he’ll get better, he’ll get well. He’s so awfully brilliant, and he has a wonderful future in front of him—if we can just get him there.”

  Mrs. Barnes was crying, quietly, gently. Beth knew what she had to say, and she said it, “I care for Atticus very much, Mrs. Barnes. I’ll be there for him as much as I can be. You can trust me.”

  Often, it wasn’t a hardship, dealing with Atticus. For one thing, he was amazingly handsome, in a doomed-poet sort of way, with long tousled black hair and blue eyes with black lashes. He was tall and too thin, and he always wore button-down shirts to school, so he looked like an aristocrat among the grungy peasants. At his best, he could be smart and funny and quick-witted. At his best, he always had Beth laughing.

  At his worst, he didn’t laugh. He hardly spoke. He had dark circles beneath his eyes from not sleeping and he grew increasingly paranoid, thinking the teachers were trying to flunk him out, thinking that Beth and Theo were in love. It became too unpleasant for the three of them to walk home together, so Theo walked home another way. With other girls.

  Even when he was at his worst, Beth never suspected that he might actually commit suicide.

  When Atticus was found dead from an overdose, everyone who knew him or his family was shocked. Many were overwhelmed by grief, but a few people were angered, and their anger at this senseless loss had driven them to bring therapists over to the island to talk at a town meeting. The police department had bulked up its presence. The mental health organizations had spread the word that they were there to help. Beth’s father insisted she spend an hour a week with a counselor. And that helped, a little, because Beth felt so guilty about Atticus’s suicide. Had she not loved him enough? She’d never had sex with him, but he had
never urged her to, and she knew Atticus didn’t often have the energy or the desire for much of anything. Dr. Moore helped release some of the guilt she carried, and Paula Barnes had written a brief note to Beth telling her that Atticus’s suicide was not in any way Beth’s fault, that it might have happened sooner if Atticus hadn’t had Beth’s companionship and love.

  Over time, the town went on. The Barnes family moved off-island. Beth and her classmates went off to college.

  With a kind of jolt, Beth came out of her reverie. She was here, now, staring out the kitchen window, lost in her thoughts. She wanted to go forward, but where?

  She gathered up her purse, redid her lipstick, and was headed out the door when the house phone rang.

  “Beth? Is that you? You are exactly the person I’m looking for!” Prudence Starbuck didn’t need to introduce herself. Her sterling silver voice was unforgettable. “Listen, darling, I’d like to take you to lunch to talk about a job that might interest you now that you’re home.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Starbuck, that’s very nice—”

  “It concerns this new organization, Ocean Matters. I saw you at Ryder Hastings’s lecture. I’ve agreed to be his point man on the island. We need someone young and energetic and savvy to do the social media for our Nantucket chapter.”

  “I’d be glad to volunteer my free time, Mrs. Starbuck, but I need to get a job—”

  “Darling, this is a job. You’ll have an office on Easy Street, and a computer and all that sort of thing, and of course you will have a very considerable salary. Now, what are you doing for lunch today? May I take you to lunch at Cru?”

  Maybe this was the sign from fate that Beth was looking for! Anyway, Beth liked Mrs. Starbuck’s brisk can-do energy.

  “I’d be happy to meet you at Cru,” Beth said. “What time?”

  ten

  Monday morning, Lisa unlocked the door to her shop. Every time she entered, moving around the space, turning on lights, waking her computer, she felt a surge of pride. She had built this business. She had made it happen.

  She set her go-cup on the shelf behind the counter. She was behind on ordering, and because Monday mornings were always slow, she expected to get a lot of work done.

  She was arranging a new shipment of summery jewelry—turquoise, blue, coral—when Moxie Breinberg entered the shop.

  “Hi, Moxie,” Lisa called. “Let me know if I can help you.”

  “Sure thing.” Moxie fastened her attention on a rack of new sleeveless dresses, pulling one out and holding it to her while she looked in the full-length mirror, putting it back, choosing another one. “Could I try this on?” she asked Lisa.

  “Of course,” Lisa said, leading Moxie to the dressing room.

  For a good thirty minutes, Moxie tried on dresses. Moxie was divorced, with one child in college. An extremely pretty woman, she spent a lot of time keeping in shape and trying to look young. Lisa knew Moxie the way she knew many islanders, from seeing her at community events, school plays, summer parties, so she knew that Moxie was around forty-five—around Mack’s age—but she wore cropped tops and short shorts and very short dresses with plunging halter tops in the summer. Lisa didn’t think Moxie had ever bought anything from her shop, and her curiosity grew.

  Moxie made her decision and brought a light peach pashmina to the counter.

  “I think I’ll take this. It’s so pretty.”

  “It is. And you’ll look beautiful in it.”

  “So,” Moxie said, “I heard that you’re seeing Mack Whitney.”

  Lisa focused her attention on the credit card machine. Now she knew why Moxie had come in. “He’s working on my house,” Lisa explained. “I have to have some ceilings replaced and my bathroom renovated.”

  “Oh! How nice.” Moxie toyed with the other pashminas displayed on a nearby table. “So that’s why he took you to the Seagrille?”

  “Right. Last Friday. I didn’t see you there, Moxie.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t…” Moxie laughed a tinkly laugh. “Someone told me you two were there. Together.”

  Lisa took great care wrapping the pashmina in tissue and slipping it into a bag.

  When Lisa didn’t answer, Moxie said, “He’s a lot younger than you are, isn’t he?”

  Lisa hadn’t thought this kind of inquisition would happen so soon. Put on your big girl panties, she told herself, and with a sweet smile, she said, “Why, yes, he is, and so are you. In fact, you’re around the same age, right? Of course, you look so much younger, Moxie. You could be in your thirties. Your early thirties.” Lisa handed Moxie the small paper shopping bag holding the pashmina. “If you’d like to look, well, not older, but more sophisticated, I could help you build the right wardrobe.” Lisa moved around the counter toward her summer dress rack. “For example, this long-sleeved silk dress would be elegant on you. And it’s only a bit over four hundred dollars.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Moxie stuttered, heading for the door. “Maybe another time.” She fled.

  Lisa grinned. If there was anything she’d learned from her ex-husband and his mother, it was how to be critical in the sweetest possible way. She felt slightly guilty, but she mentally replayed their conversation, and decided she hadn’t insulted Moxie really, she had only smothered her with compliments. And, as announcers said about sports events, Lisa had won the field.

  She returned to her computer and her spreadsheets, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the brief exchange with Moxie. It had been spontaneous, and Lisa had defended herself and her relationship with Mack without thinking. What did that mean? Did she think she could have a relationship with this man who was ten years younger?

  She certainly wanted it.

  The phone rang.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Rachel said.

  “And good morning to you, too,” Lisa replied. “What was I supposed to tell you?”

  “Lisa! I thought I was your best friend. The whole town knows you’re dating Mack Whitney! And you didn’t even call me.”

  “Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry, but I don’t even know if ‘dating’ is the right word, and it’s happened so fast, and then Juliet came home with a broken heart, and just this moment Moxie came to the shop to get a dig in about the age difference between me and Mack.”

  “Well, he is an entire decade younger than you.”

  “Rachel! Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m being factual. I’m worried about you.”

  Lisa sighed. “I’m worried about me, too. I know I’m too old for him, but he seems to like me, and we have amazing chemistry.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. All we’ve done is have dinner at the Seagrille.”

  “And…?” Rachel coaxed.

  “And we talked. We got to know each other. He told me about Marla and I told him about Erich. It was a good conversation.”

  “And…?”

  Lisa paused to look through her shop window at the street. No one was coming toward her shop. “Okay, Rachel, but this goes no further than you, right? I don’t want to be the subject of gossip.”

  “Oh, my God, Lisa! Did you go to bed with him?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then what?”

  Lisa felt her face flame as she talked. “So he drove me home and I invited him in for coffee, and we sat on the sofa, and he kissed me.” She closed her eyes, remembering how he had put his hand on her cheek and gently tilted her mouth to his. The kiss had lasted. She had responded, putting her arms around his neck and leaning against him.

  “Lisa, are you still there?”

  “Yes, Rachel. Mack kissed me, and it was wonderful, and our ages didn’t matter, all that mattered was right there between us—”

  “And?”

  “And,” Lisa said, bursting out with laugh
ter, “and then Juliet came walking in the door. We jumped apart and we both made excuses for why Mack was there, which was ridiculous, and the nicest thing, Rachel, the nicest thing was the way Mack looked at me when he left, smiling with his eyes, showing me we shared a secret now.”

  “He said all that with his eyes?”

  “Yes,” Lisa said dreamily.

  “Oh, honey, you sound down for the count.”

  “That sounds terrible.”

  “Well, do you think it’s good?”

  “Rachel, I hardly know what to think yet. All this is so new, and I’ve never been in this place before, where I feel attracted to a man, and terrified at the same time. I mean, I know I’m older than he is. I know I’ve had babies and gotten stretch marks and I’m not all fit and toned like younger women. But come on, I’m not decrepit! I still have all my teeth!”

  “Lisa, stop. I’m sorry I got you so worked up. I’m not implying that you’re not gorgeous enough for him, because you are. I’m only worried about you. You’re not the kind of person to have affairs, or dalliances or whatever they’re called.”

  “And you think that Mack and I couldn’t possibly have a serious, long-term relationship.”

  Rachel didn’t answer for a moment. “Do you think the two of you could?”

  “To be honest, Rachel, until the last few days I didn’t think Mack and I could have any kind of relationship. And I still don’t know what the future holds. We’ve talked honestly about our past lives—Erich, Marla—but we haven’t talked about the future. It’s too early to do that. You don’t have to warn me, Rachel. I’m scared. I’m afraid of being hurt when he dumps me, which I have to assume he will, but don’t I deserve some pleasure until then? Because I think he really likes me.”

  “Of course he likes you. You’re wonderful. And of course—”

  A customer entered the shop. “Rachel, I have to go. Talk later.” Lisa quickly ended the call. “May I help you?”

  “Just browsing,” the woman said. She was young and slim and wore four-inch Manolo Blahniks.