Nantucket Sisters (13 page)

“You know,” Maggie says gloomily, “if you ignore Ben and he marries someone else, I’ll have to kill her.”

“I would definitely visit you in jail every week,” Emily promises faithfully. “Or at least once in a while.”

“Ha-ha.”

When autumn comes and the island empties out, Clarice is hale and hearty, cooking, playing bridge, attending church, and volunteering at her favorite organizations. Now in her late seventies, Clarice tells Maggie, with a rare and startlingly gorgeous smile: “You can’t keep a good woman down.”

At long last Maggie has the leisure to write. Clarice’s house has many rooms, but Maggie loves the attic best, with its view of the harbor and the long narrow stretch of sand out to Great Point and the lighthouse.

Her writing space in the attic is eccentric but deliciously satisfying. She carries a creaky, scarred, cracked old wooden table up the stairs from one of the second-floor bedrooms and sets it onto the wide-board pine floors right in front of the window overlooking the harbor. Before laying out her laptop and notebooks, she takes the time to clean and oil the old table until it gleams like the lid of a treasure chest filled with secrets. Fortunately, there’s an electric socket by the window. She can plug in her laptop and her cell phone to recharge them. She also drags an old brass standing lamp over near the desk. Its stained glass shade is missing one pane of color, so she turns that side to face the luggage, old paintings, and cardboard boxes leaning against the side wall. Maggie wrestles a small bookcase from the back of the attic to hold her papers, notes, pens, and steno pad; the bookcase leans sideways a bit but that hardly matters, nor do the looming masses of antiquated castoffs stacked in the attic space behind her. She has a straight-backed dining room chair with some of the cane missing, and her printer sits on the floor like an obedient dog. All is silent around her. It is her own private world.

While she writes, she lets her eyes rest on the outside world—if she uses field glasses, she can almost see Thaddeus’s land: his boat dock and Shipwreck House. She goes there every Sunday when she and Clarice are invited to the farm for lunch. Maggie leaves the older people to talk and takes the opportunity to walk the land, breathe deeply of the salty air, and refuel her spirit for her work. She’s obsessed with her writing, and Sunday nights, back on Orange Street, with Clarice tucked onto the sofa watching
60 Minutes
, Maggie hurries up to the attic to write.

Clarice has her own car, an ancient Taurus she’s owned for about
twenty years and has put about twenty miles on, so after a year of saving money, Maggie buys herself a four-wheel drive, dented, rusted Bronco that looks like a junker but bumps over the beach with spine-snapping ease. With Clarice up and about, Maggie’s free to go out in the evenings for a drink or dinner and some fun and gossip.

Most of Maggie’s social life is dinner with her friends or a girly movie, which leads to the formation of a book club and potluck dinner twice a month and then, with some of the women, to a walking group. Many of her high school friends have stayed because they love the island: the moors, the sea, the dunes, the weather. They joke that it’s more an addiction than an association. Over the winter months Maggie’s walking group roams parts of the island too overgrown to enter in the summer.

Kaylie, who has become one of Maggie’s closest friends, suggests they combine the book and walking groups and walk entirely around the island, keeping a recorded account of where they start and finish each time, mapping their paths, and reading books especially about the island: novels, histories, biographies, walking guides. Something about walking for two or three hours in the fresh air makes the group talk more freely about their personal lives. Maggie tells them, not entirely joking, that they’re inspiring her writing. The group responds by presenting her with a tee shirt reading: “Be careful, or I’ll put you in my novel.” They all laugh, but Maggie almost bursts into tears. Her friends believe in her. They think because she’s had articles published in local magazines she can actually write a whole book. She’s more grateful for their faith in her than she can ever say.

CHAPTER TWELVE

In September, Emily begins work on her master’s degree at UMass Amherst. She’s focused, ambitious, and determined to make Ben part of her future without giving up all of her past.

Part of that past is her friend Tiffany Howard, who’s getting married in New York on a Saturday afternoon in October at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, followed by a reception with dinner and dancing at The Plaza.

Emily pleads with Ben to accompany her. He refuses. He’s got to manage a conference that weekend; there’s no way he can get away. He wouldn’t even if he could. His work is more important than some wedding, he tells her.

Please make Ben go 2 Tiffany’s wedding with me. xoE

You think Ben will listen to me? I did try. He harrumphed. xoM

Ben insensitive and harrumphing. Only old Pooka Sahibs are allowed to harrumph. xoE

Come on. It’s only a wedding. Ben’s got a conference 2 run. Aren’t you being a bit pigheaded, yourself? xoM

Well snort on u both. xoE

So on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, Emily holds her head high as she walks alone into the cathedral. The usher seats her on the bride’s side, and already so many people are there that she finds herself at the back, on the side, next to an ancient couple with skin and necks like tortoises.

The wedding is magnificent. The minister’s robes gleam, the organ swells, the soprano’s pure voice brings tears to everyone’s eyes. The flowers are amazing, huge fat roses of every hue perfuming the air. The flower girls are cherubic as they sprinkle rose petals on the carpet, the twelve bridesmaids are resplendent in sleek satin gowns of rosy pinks, corals, and lemon, and then Tiffany steps forth on the arm of her triumphant father in his tuxedo. Tiffany’s gown is heavy, creamy satin, perfectly plain, to show off the lacework of enormous diamonds spreading across her bosom.

Emily shares a cab with the tortoises to The Plaza. They’re both deaf, and mystified that “such a comely young lady” is by herself. She assures them she’s joining friends at the reception, but when she arrives, she finds to her complete dismay that her name card is set at a table with the elderly couple and other people she’s never seen before.

Determined to be cheerful, she seats herself, smiling brightly, turning to chat with the tortoises. Another ancient pair dodders up to the table and creakily sits down.

She has been cast into the outer circle of hell.

A voice comes at her shoulder. “Hello,” a man says. “I believe this is my place.”

Emily breaks into a helpless instinctive smile of delight at the tall, handsome stranger. He’s somewhat older, perhaps thirty, blond, hazel-eyed, slender in a perfectly tailored suit. He politely introduces himself to everyone: he’s Cameron Chadwick. With flawless manners, he shakes hands with the tortoises, then takes his seat next to Emily.

In a low voice, he confesses, “When I saw where my table was I thought I was being punished for some unspeakable offense I’ve forgotten about, but now that I see you’re here, I believe I’m being rewarded for something fantastic I must have done.”

Emily can’t help but smile. “How do you know Tiffany?”

“I don’t, actually. Her husband, Matt, is my friend. We sailed together at Harvard a few years ago.”

“You’re a sailor?”

Cameron cocks his head. “Is that a gleam I see in your eye?”

“It is.”

“Where do you sail?”

“Off Nantucket mostly. My family has a house there.”

“Ah, the warm waters of Nantucket. Our house is up where the people have fortitude. Camden, Maine.”

“Cold water. But I hear there are beautiful islands around there.”

“You’re right. It’s my idea of heaven. In the winter we go to Tortola, which is great in its own way.”

“I’ve never been to Tortola.”

“Did you say Tortola?” The older woman on Cameron’s left taps his shoulder. “We have a place there.”

“Really?” Cameron smoothly turns his interest to the older woman. “What did you say your last name is?”

“Cummings.”

“You don’t have a son named Andrew, by any chance?”

The woman laughs happily, putting her hand to her lips. “Aren’t you something. I have a
grandson
named Andrew.”

“I think I knew him at St. George’s.”

For a moment Emily allows herself to study Cameron as he chats with Mrs. Cummings. God, he is gorgeous. Floppy white-blond hair, hazel eyes, wide shoulders, but relaxed with it, comfortable in his skin. Such a gentleman, too; she admires him for his kind interest in Mrs. Cummings. She turns to the older fellow on her right and engages him in a rather one-sided conversation. He’s liver-spotted, mostly deaf, but amiable, nodding agreement to everything she says.

Waiters glide silkily around the room, setting out the first course. Cameron turns back to Emily.

“Did you have to come far for the wedding?” he asks.

“Not really. I drove down from Amherst. I’m working on a master’s in water ecology.”

“Damn, that’s the topic of the day, isn’t it. What’s your focus?”

“Pesticides polluting the harbor waters.”

“You’re speaking my language,” Cameron says. “I’m sure our problems in Maine are different so far north from Nantucket, but with global warming, everything’s changing.”

“Do you live in Maine?”

“Wish I did. No, I live here in Manhattan. Work on Wall Street. Boring money stuff.”

Emily doesn’t think Cameron’s boring at all. That he’s handsome and also conscious of the environmental matters that concern her just about knocks her sideways. Unfortunately their conversation is constantly interrupted by Mrs. Cummings or by the waiters with caviar, duck, sirloin, and salad, each course accompanied by a different wine. Emily’s almost giddy, and she’s not sure whether it’s from the alcohol or Cameron Chadwick’s charm.

After the ritual of cake cutting and toasts, the band starts up and
the lights dim. The music is geared toward the older crowd, but Emily’s delighted when Cameron takes her hand in his and puts his other hand on her waist and guides her in a lazy two-step around the room. He smells
good
, not of cologne, but of an expensively and subtly scented soap. When his eyes meet hers, a surprising
zing
shoots all the way through her body. She stumbles. He tightens his hold on her and smiles, as if he understands just what happened between them.

When the party ends, she’s surprised and a bit disappointed that he doesn’t ask her to have a drink with him—then surprised and pleased when he asks her to join him the next day for lunch.

They meet at one at a little French restaurant on Fifth. Emily has almost forgotten how much she likes this: stepping out of the crowded street through a discreet door into an inner sanctum of gentle opulence, the maître d’ bowing his head to her before leading her through the glittering room toward a table where a handsome man awaits.

He rises at her approach.

“Emily. How nice to see you again.” He’s casual today, in chinos, a polo shirt, a blazer, no tie.

“Nice to see you, Cameron.”

After they receive their menus, he leans forward. “I’m starving. I think I spent more time staring at you than eating my dinner last night.”

Emily blushes. She hasn’t been complimented so directly for—well, she can’t remember. That zing from yesterday is speckling into a force field around them, as if they’re captured in a snow globe filled with sparkles.

She can hardly think a sober thought when she looks into his eyes, then down at the menu. “What’s good here, do you think?”

“I like it all, though I confess I’ve never tried the quiche.”

Emily laughs. “I’ll try it, then, and give you a report.”

“Wine?” Cameron asks. “Champagne?”

“No, thank you,” Emily tells him. “I had more than enough last night.”

Cameron orders sparkling water for them both. When the waiter leaves with their orders, he turns to Emily with an exaggerated sigh. “Alone at last.”

“That
was
a crush last night, wasn’t it?” She can’t stop looking at the man. “I’m surprised I haven’t met you before.”

“I wish we
had
met before,” Cameron tells her, sounding as if he means it. “But we probably run with different crowds. I’m not Matt’s friend, I’m his older brother Bob’s friend. Plus I spent a couple of years after college traveling.”

“Where?”

“Switzerland, mostly. Well, Europe. I like to hike and ski.”

Emily grins. “And sail, too. Sounds like you enjoy yourself.”

“True. And why not? Life’s short and we go around only once.” Catching a shadow falling over her face, he immediately asks, “You don’t agree?”

“I suppose I’m a bit more serious than you are, that’s all. I do like having fun.” Quickly, she adds, “I’m not a
grind
. I’m not a recluse. But I have some, well, I suppose they’re vaguely scientific abilities, and I want to use them to do something to keep people from destroying the world.” Stopping as suddenly as she started, she closes her eyes in embarrassment. “God. I sound like such a nerd.”

To her surprise, Cameron responds, “True. It’s tragic really, especially because you’re so beautiful.”

This stops her in her tracks. Has anyone called her
beautiful
before? Ben has, of course. She takes a sip of sparkling water.

“Tell me,” Cameron invites, “what inspired you to become serious?”

He’s not making fun of her. He seems genuinely interested. Emily gives herself time to pause and gather her thoughts. “Nantucket. The light. The air is exhilarating. But the sea, the harbor, the water … that’s what fascinates me. Always has, ever since I was a little girl. As long as people don’t keep spilling oil into the water …” She stops, not wanting to get political.

But Cameron’s eyes are steady and warm. “Beautiful and green, as well? You’re too good to be true.”

“I’m real,” she insists, holding out her hand. “Feel.”