Heat Wave (15 page)

“You babysat for her so she could fuck my husband!”

“Vanessa, at first I had no idea! And when I found out, I refused to babysit for her anymore—”

“Well, that makes everything fine, then.”

“I can’t tell you how I regret what I did, Vanessa. I suppose I just hoped—and believed, I did believe it—that their affair would end. I never dreamed it would come to this.”

Vanessa slumped against the wall, running her hands over her face. “I’m so tired. I’ve been awake all night, crying and packing.”

“Packing?”

“I’m going to stay with a friend in Boston while I decide what to do next. I’ll probably move to Boston.”

“Oh, Vanessa, no. You can’t leave the island. You love it here so much.”

“I did love it here. Before.”

“Vanessa—”

“You know,” Vanessa suddenly laughed, a tight, harsh laugh. “This is like some kind of bizarre TV ad. ‘Your husband has just left you for another woman. But wait! There’s more! The other woman is one of your best friends! So you’ve lost her, too. But wait! There’s more! Your other best friend helped them have their affair!’ ”

Vanessa was trembling all over. She seemed close to collapsing onto the floor, in spite of her manic speech. Carley knew about this kind of craziness. She’d been there herself, when they told her Gus had died.

“Vanny, when did you last eat?”

“When did I eat? When did I
eat
?” Vanessa was laughing, and crying, too. “Because that will solve everything, if I eat.”

“It will help.” Carley reached out and fully expecting Vanessa to hit her or push her away, she put her arm around Vanessa. Vanessa was shuddering. “Come on,” Carley coaxed, and ushered her into the kitchen. She settled her friend in a chair and set a box of tissues in front of her. “I’ll scramble some eggs.”

It was just what she needed to do, to move around in a space she loved, doing what she loved, melting butter in Vanessa’s shining skillet, cracking open the perfect shells, whisking the eggs with a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, spilling the healthy golden liquid into the pan. She toasted rye bread and set out jars of beach plum jam and blueberry jam.

The familiar movements calmed her. The aroma of butter soothed her. It seemed to soothe Vanessa, too. She wept while Carley
worked, and when Carley set her plate in front of her, Vanessa stared at it for a moment as if she had no idea what it was.

“Eat,” Carley ordered.

Vanessa lifted a forkful of eggs to her mouth. “Oh,” she said after she’d swallowed. “Good.”

Carley put her own plate next to Vanessa’s and sat eating alongside her. They ate together companionably, as if tamping down their misery with this reliable comfort.

When she was finished, Vanessa murmured, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Isn’t it odd, how food can taste good at a time like this?”

“It’s got to be some basic animal need. When Gus died, I had this thought, not right away, but a few days later, I thought:
Oh, dear, what if I won’t be able to enjoy chocolate anymore?
Terrible of me, wasn’t it?”

“Normal, I’d say. The completely weird thing is, in a way, I’m sadder about Maud and you than about Toby.” Vanessa dragged her fork around the surface of her plate, looking at the squiggles she made. “I mean, men are genetically programmed to be unfaithful, they want to sleep with every woman in the world. But friends,
women
friends—”

“We were
such
a good little clique.”

“Do you think we were ever snotty? Maybe that’s why this happened to me, maybe I was too arrogant.”

“You’re the least arrogant person in the world, Vanessa. Are you saying I was widowed because I was arrogant?”

“Heavens, no, I’d never think that.”

“Well, then.” Carley reached over and put her hand on Vanessa’s. “I don’t think there are reasons for a lot of things. Or at least not reasons we can figure out the moment they happen. It may be that the love of your life is just around the corner and you need to be free for him.”

Vanessa snorted. “How could I ever trust another man?” She pulled her hand away from Carley’s. “For that matter, how can I ever trust another woman?”

“Vanessa—”

“Look,” Vanessa said, and suddenly she seemed weary. “I’m grateful for the food. It’s calmed me down and I needed to get grounded. And okay, you feel terrible, Carley, that sucks for you. But I’m really pissed off at you, and I think I deserve to be. And”—She held her hand up to stop Carley from speaking—“and I’ve got to get off this island as soon as I can. It’s hard enough to have Toby leaving me for Maud, but I can’t stand the thought of being around for the breaking news on the island gossip channel. All those people rushing up to me, cooing, oh, poor Vanessa, we just heard, it’s so terrible, so sad. Oh, man, suddenly I have the greatest sympathy for Jennifer Aniston.”

“Well, you look more like Angelina Jolie.”

“Yes, and that’s helped me a lot, right?” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I should do what Jolie did. I should just get my own babies.” Vanessa shoved back her chair and stood up. “Look, Carley, do me a favor and leave, will you?”

“Let me just clean up the dishes—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, leave the fucking dishes!” Vanessa commanded. “Do you think if you do my dishes you’ll make everything all right? I’m about to go into another fit of weeping again and I don’t want you here to witness it.”

“I want to help you—”

“Your time to help me was when you learned that Toby was sleeping with Maud.”

Carley winced. “I am so so sorry.”

“Maybe that will mean something to me someday,” Vanessa said bitterly. “But right now, it means
nothing at all
. Now please, if you want to help me, just go.”

Carley went.

• • • • •

T
he end of May was always an unsettling time on the island. Days that should have been sunny and warm were often windy and wet and as cold as February, shutting down the baseball games all the island kids were eager to play. School was almost out, so teachers and students alike seemed to lose interest and Carley’s daughters came home restless and uninspired. Tourists were beginning to make their pilgrimages to the island, some to their own houses, others to inns or rented homes. The roads in front of grocery stores, pharmacies, and shops clustered with UPS trucks, and the sun sparkling on the sea glanced off more and more masts as boats sailed into the harbor.

Carley had had six months to become accustomed to her widowhood. She’d grown used to life without Gus. She’d learned how to repair the tricky pipe under the kitchen sink, how to pay the bills, how to cheer up her children. Now all she had to learn was how to live without her two best friends.

Vanessa left the island, locking up her house and refusing to communicate with anyone. Maud was MIA for Carley, too. She was too busy making her relationship with Toby clear to the public. Toby, Maud, and her boys ate dinner out at least three times a week, one big happy family. Maud dropped in at Toby’s office at least once a day to bring his staff cookies or candy, and rumor had it that she’d hung a large picture of The Happy Family—Percy, Spenser, Maud, and Toby—on Toby’s consulting room wall. They hosted a Memorial
Day picnic at the house Maud publicized as “their” house—Toby had moved in with Maud, giving his former home to Vanessa. That house sat empty while Vanessa was in Boston. Maud left a message on Carley’s answering machine, inviting her and the girls to the picnic, but Carley took the girls to her in-laws’ instead.

Carley needed to spend time with her in-laws, because Cisco was agitating for more sleepovers with Annabel and Russell. Carley felt estranged from her older daughter, and secretly resentful of her mother-in-law. While it was true in one way that they would never recover from Gus’s death, in another way, it seemed unfair for Annabel to use her grief to seduce Cisco over to her house. Carley had to admit to herself that after Cisco spent time at Annabel’s, she was more pleasant. But how long would this go on? Didn’t Annabel see that she was causing a break between Margaret and Cisco? The nights Cisco wasn’t home, when only Carley and Margaret slept in the huge old house together, seemed so lonely, the house so empty.

It was
awesome
when the guests arrived.

The very first couple were Jenna and Harold Hooper from Oklahoma. They were in their fifties, both widowed and remarried, here on their honeymoon. He wore a belt with a silver and turquoise buckle and she dripped with gorgeous turquoise and silver jewelry. They were charmed by the house, the view of the water, their room, the island. Carly didn’t want to hover, but she wanted to be available, helpful. She was so glad the early June day was full of blue sky and birdsong. June could be a windy, rainy month.

Later that afternoon, the Munsens arrived from Connecticut. They were ancient, genteel, hard-of-hearing, slow-moving. They were visiting grown grandchildren who picked them up and brought them back. The rest of the time, the Munsens sat in the living room or the garden, dozing. When Carley watched them creep around, she was glad the other innkeepers had advised her to install bathtub safety bars.

Brie and Candy arrived that afternoon, two young single women
with appropriately delicious names. From New York, they were on the island looking for husband material—they’d heard that you had to be megarich to own a yacht. Carley tried to convince them that their very high heels, tied at the ankles with ribbons, would be uncomfortable if not dangerous for walking on Nantucket’s brick sidewalks and down the wooden piers, but they wouldn’t sacrifice their beauty. They set off to walk around town with their long hair—Brie’s blond, Candy’s brown—flowing and their short skirts flouncing, wearing more makeup than anyone wore even at the island galas.

They returned home several hours later, shoes in hand, limping. Bravely, they showered, changed into even more froufrou dresses and higher heels, and went off to an expensive restaurant for dinner. They returned before midnight, alone. Carley toured her house to be sure everyone was tucked in, all lights on or off, and went to bed herself, feeling oddly responsible for Brie and Candy’s disappointment.

The next morning was the first day Carley was serving a real B&B breakfast to real guests. She’d dreamed of this for months, and felt as if she were presenting a play, arranging a little world, a brief and perfect moment, for her guests. She set the long kitchen table with her grandmother’s blue-and-white Limoges china, the family’s sterling silver utensils, thick, white cloth napkins, and centered it with a low bowl of blue-and-white pansies. She stirred up her own favorite recipe for pecan and apple muffins, drizzled them with cinnamon butter, and put them in the oven. She chopped up melon, apples, grapes, and bananas into fruit cups. When she heard water running downstairs in the Hoopers’ room, she made coffee.

The Hoopers arrived fully dressed for the day in matching floral shirts and white cotton slacks and sneakers.

“Why, isn’t this just the ticket!” Jenna Hooper exclaimed, actually clapping her hands at the sight of the kitchen table. “I swear, I want to take a picture. Harold, would you get the camera?”

Harold obligingly went back and fetched the camera. By the time he’d returned, taken some photos, and settled into a place at
the table, the muffins were ready. Carley served them fruit cups, coffee, orange juice, and muffins, all the while chatting with them about the island and asking them about Oklahoma. Then the ancient Munsens came slowly toddling in, clad as if on their way to church, and Carley quickly moved to assist them as they wavered and wobbled and finally creakily subsided into chairs.

As Carley was serving them breakfast, Brie and Candy wandered in, still in their robes, which, since it was summer, were brief and diaphanous.
Oh, dear
, Carley thought.
Should I have established a dress code? Should I have put up a sign stating in no uncertain terms that guests were to come to the table dressed for the day?
Would her older guests take offense at the informality of her younger guests?

“Please introduce yourselves,” Carley asked as she bustled about getting the young women’s breakfasts.

To her relief, everyone spoke cordially and when the Hoopers said they were here on their honeymoon, Brie and Candy cooed like doves.

“Oh, your honeymoon, how romantic!”

“Look, you’ve got your camera, let me take a picture of the two of you here at the table,” Candy offered.

Carley wished she’d thought to do that herself, and tucked the thought away for the future.

“Maybe we’ll come here someday for our honeymoons,” Brie said wistfully.

“Oh, are you engaged?” Jenna Hooper asked.

“I wish.” Candy looked at her friend with despairing eyes. “We don’t even have boyfriends. And we’re
twenty-three
!”

To Carley’s surprise, ancient Mrs. Munsen spoke up, telling the girls not to be in a hurry, it was better to marry late than early, and the Hoopers joined in, to regale them with stories about their disastrous early marriages, and old Mr. Munsen croaked with pride that he hadn’t gotten married until he was thirty-seven, and they’d been married fifty-one years! Carley refilled the coffee cups, passed around the muffins again, and listened with wonder as her guests talked. They were all eating everything they could get their hands
on, and they seemed absolutely happy. Margaret came in for breakfast, and stayed to gaze at the resplendent young women in pastel. Carley wished Cisco would wake and come down. She’d enjoy watching Brie and Candy, too.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harold Hooper said. “You are two fine-looking fillies. But you won’t get a man’s attention just by looking good.”

“That’s right,” Jenna Hooper agreed with a fervent nod of her head.

“No, you have to
do
something,” Harold continued. “Men might like to look at you, but if you want them to find you of interest, you’ve got to be doing something they like doing.”

“Like what?” Brie asked.

“Well,” Jenna informed them with a cunning smile, “I met Harold when I was taking skeet-shooting lessons.”