Nantucket Sisters (15 page)

Yet here he is. Her body is begging.

“Cameron,” Emily replies gently, removing her hand, “I’m involved with someone on Nantucket. We’re in the middle of—I guess it’s a kind of a negotiation, or confrontation. It’s a mess, is what it is. I don’t want to go to bed with you”—Emily’s not sure she can explain—
“experimentally,”
she concludes.

“I wouldn’t mind experimenting,” Cameron jests, immediately adding, “Emily, it’s fine.”

She relaxes, both relieved and disappointed.

“I’ll drop you off and make the drive back to Manhattan,” he tells her. “I have work to do tomorrow anyway.” He signals the waiter. Turning back to Emily, he says, “But let me say this. I knew the moment I saw you, you were special. Damn, that’s trite, but—we really do seem to get along, don’t you think?”

Overwhelmed in the glow of his charm and gorgeous, aristocratic face, stunned by his ease and his serious admission of attraction to her, Emily can scarcely speak. You don’t have to have sex with another man to be unfaithful, she thinks. She could never, ever, tell Ben about this day. She manages to agree, “We do have a good time.”

“Good. I’ll leave it with you, then. If you want to see me, well, give me a call.”

Cameron drives her to her apartment in an old Victorian house in Amherst and walks her to the door. In the shadows of the streetlights, he takes her in his arms and pulls her to him. He smooths back her hair from her face. He bends down, and with lips silky with wine, he kisses her for a long time. Her body rises up to him like a flower to the sun.

“Thank you for today,” he says. “I hope you’ll call me.”

Emily can’t speak. Her throat is tight with tears, her heart thudding with a guilty, insubordinate desire. But then she says good night, and goes inside, alone.

Part Four

Siren Song

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Emily steps off the little nine-seater plane that jostled her over the swollen gray waters of Nantucket Sound from Hyannis to Nantucket. She takes a deep breath. She’s going to spend this special Christmas Stroll weekend entirely with Maggie. Maggie has no idea that right now Emily has no desire to see Ben.

“Emily!” The moment Emily sets foot in the airport terminal, Maggie’s there in a flurry of black curls and emotion, squeezing Emily in a tight hug, glowing like the sun. “You’re here, you’re really here, and Ben doesn’t get you for one hour this weekend. You’re all mine!”

Emily can’t help but laugh. Maggie’s good mood is contagious. She allows herself to be whisked out of the airport and into Maggie’s Bronco.

“
Everyone
wants to see you. I’ve got so much planned for us. We’re having dinner at Pazzo tonight with Kerrie, Delphine, and Robin. Tomorrow we’ll do the Stroll, watch Santa arrive by Coast Guard, go shopping at the craft fair—fabulous stuff, I can’t wait—and hear
Robin Knox-Johnston read ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales’ at the library. Then—oh, my God, this is so exciting—you and I are going to get glammed up and attend a cocktail party thrown by Stevenson Braig, the author who wrote the true crime book? I met him when I worked a cocktail party and Marilyn O’Brien told him I write, too, as if I really do, which I guess I do, and he’s ancient, but incredibly nice and he knows
everyone
…”

Maggie’s cheerful chatter passes over Emily like smoke from incense. Her spirits lift, her heart lightens. They agreed that this weekend they would focus only on the positive. They would be
young
, forget about men and marriage and all that, and have fun, two girlfriends at the holiday season.

Friday night they party with friends, eating, talking, laughing, until they fall into bed at Clarice’s, thoroughly hoarse and exhausted. The next day at the craft fair, they buy each other matching cashmere scarves, Nantucket sister scarves, they say, only half-kidding. The weather is chilly, crisp enough to make them need their coats as they stroll the cobblestone streets, petting pooches decked out in antlers or wreaths, listening to the Victorian singers, lunching in the tent on hot dogs and cold beer. At the writer’s cocktail party, they flirt with everyone, munch on shrimp, scallops, and lobster, drink champagne, and signal each other with their eyes when they spot huge ruby necklaces, emerald rings, diamond Christmas tree pins. It really is a
scene
here, and when Emily meets people, she listens carefully and files their names into her mind for the future when she’ll work at the science museum and be involved in fund-raisers.

Ben doesn’t know Emily’s on the island. If she runs into him, she’ll act terribly casual, and Maggie will be her buffer. But Emily doesn’t run into him.

After the party, she and Maggie sit up in Clarice’s living room by
the fire, in their flannel pajamas, drinking hot chocolate and eating sugar cookies, talking until three in the morning.

It almost kills Emily not to mention Cameron. She can’t help feeling like a weasel, keeping such an important secret from her oldest best friend, but they have agreed not to talk about men this weekend … And Emily hasn’t slept with Cameron. She has gone out with him several times, to events she totally enjoyed, which Ben would have no interest in. The Metropolitan Opera. An art opening. A couple of dinners at new fusion restaurants. It’s such a luxury to have these provocative hours out in the city, to steal away from her desk, her computer, her texts, notes, and schoolwork, to toss off her sweatshirt and jeans and slip into a little black dress and high heels. Cameron’s a charming date, attentive but never possessive. A gentleman. He hasn’t tried to seduce her into bed again. But he’s definitely biding his time.

Will there be a time? Emily doesn’t know. She knows Maggie has her own concerns. Maggie would like to be in love. She would like to be
with
someone. Maggie’s worried about the island, too, the way it’s changing in so many ways.

On Sunday morning, when Maggie drives Emily back to the airport, they’re both tired and sleep-deprived.

“At least we’re not hungover,” Maggie murmurs from behind the steering wheel.

“Right.” Emily nods. “A sure sign of adulthood.”

“Emily, I know I wasn’t going to bring Ben up, but … never mind. I’ll phrase it another way. Are you coming here for Christmas?”

Emily’s glad Maggie’s asked this now, when it’s almost time for her to leave the island. “I’m going to spend Christmas Day with my parents in New York. Plus, I’ve got so much work to do, Maggie.”

“I thought the semester was over.”

“It doesn’t work that way when you’re a graduate student with a
long-term project. I’ve got tons of research to do on water quality, reports to compile—”

Maggie interrupts. “Poor you.”

“No, it’s fine. My parents will do the tree, the big dinner, the whole celebration bit and I’ll be free to work. It’s all for a good cause, remember? When I finally return here, I’ll have gained some expertise and some authority.”

“It’s only another year, right?”

“Right.”

Maggie pulls the Bronco into the parking lot they were in just two days before. Switching off the ignition, she turns to face Emily. “I miss you. Ben misses you.”

“I miss you and Ben.” Emily dips her face down as she adjusts her cashmere scarf around her neck.

“I wish you lived here,” Maggie says.

“I will.” Emily reaches out to hug Maggie, this spontaneous, ebullient, warm, loving friend, her Nantucket sister. “I promise.”

“How was your trip to Nantucket?” Cameron asks.

Emily runs her finger around her wineglass. They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of a noisy Italian restaurant on Fifty-fifth Street.

It’s Sunday evening. Emily phoned Cameron from the taxi coming in from JFK. He asked her to dinner, and she agreed to meet him. She feels guilty, of course, and slightly embarrassed to seem so keen to see him—but she also feels excited and wants to go.

Slow down
, she advises herself.
Be truthful
. “Exactly what I needed,” Emily tells him. “I’ve tried to explain this to my parents, but they don’t
appreciate
it, the connection I feel to the island. It was wonderful seeing Maggie again, and the Stroll is always a blast, but it’s the
island
that lights me up. The way it’s always the same yet always different. The colors on the water in the harbor—more shades
of blue than there are names. The sense of safety, of being home, the way the boats blow their horns when they leave or arrive, the lights flashing from the lighthouses … I can’t explain it.”

“I’m actually going to spend New Year’s Eve on Nantucket,” Cameron tells her.

“You
are
?” Emotions shower down through Emily: surprise, jealousy, anxiety—not good emotions, and she can’t decide whether she doesn’t want Cameron on
her
island or whether she’s worried that he’ll be with another woman.

“Mmm.” Cameron swallows a bit of his Bloody Mary. “Clementine Melrose invited me.”

“Clementine Melrose. I know Clementine.” Emily becomes terribly interested in her tilapia. Clementine is her age, spends half her year in Paris, is
très
petite and while she’s not beautiful, she’s chic and sexy.

“We’ve been friends for a long time,” Cameron says slowly. “Clementine’s broken up with her boyfriend and asked me to come so she won’t be alone.”

“Nice of you.” Emily can’t keep the wry tone from her voice.

Cameron leans forward. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Won’t you be on Nantucket yourself, with Ben?”

Emily puts down her fork. She smooths the linen napkin in her lap. “I don’t think so, Cameron … Ben and I haven’t been talking much recently. I think it’s possible that Ben and I are over. We are so different …” As always, guilt flushes through her when she speaks about Ben to Cameron. “I’ll be here for Christmas with my parents. I’ve been invited to a bunch of parties on New Year’s Eve, so I’ll stay in Manhattan.” Looking up, she meets Cameron’s eyes. He’s watching her carefully, intent on her words.

“Do you mind if I go to Nantucket?” Cameron asks.

She clears her throat, then, in a low voice, she admits, “You know, I think I do.”

Cameron leans back in his chair with a huge grin on his face. “Good.” He lifts his water glass as if making a triumphant toast. “I would change my plans, but Clementine’s father is one of my clients, and I try to keep everyone who invests with me happy.”

“I understand,” Emily says, and she does.

After dinner, without discussing it, they slowly wander over to his apartment on East Sixty-third. The doorman’s face remains stony with dignity as he bids them good evening, as if Emily isn’t yet another of Cameron’s conquests being led to the kill.

Emily’s nervous. As they enter Cameron’s apartment, she focuses on the décor, a masculine mixture of old and new: fat leather sofa, chrome lamp, enormous wide screen television, antique Persian rug on the living room floor.

“Would you like some wine?”

“Sorry, what?” Emily blushes, knowing she’s been caught off guard.

Cameron slides her cashmere coat off her shoulders and tosses it casually onto the sofa. “I don’t think I want any more wine,” she says. “I want to be totally present.” Taking her face in his hands, he kisses her. His kiss is slow and gentle. She wraps her arms around him. He slides his hands down her back, pressing her body against his. His kiss becomes more passionate, and he breaks away from her only long enough to capture her wrist and tug her after him into his bedroom. One sweep of his arm, and his down comforter falls away from the bed. They fall onto it, still clothed, too excited to stop.

She wants him as much as she’s wanted anything, with an urgency she can’t repress. She tugs up her skirt, kicks off her shoes, wrestles with her underwear. When he enters her, it’s so fiercely good, Emily bites her lip.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days after Christmas, Greta White phones Maggie.

“Honey, I’m cooking a zillion-course fancy meal on New Year’s Eve for a party out at Clementine Melrose’s in ’Sconset and my assistant, Diane, had a death in the family and had to leave for a week and I’m in desperate need of help. Can you work for me?”

“Clementine Melrose.” Maggie hesitates. She knows who Clementine is, stinking rich, pencil thin, and haughty. “Is it going to be terribly formal?”

“Probably. I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour, plus they should tip us nicely, seeing as it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“I’ll do it,” Maggie decides.

“God bless you,” Greta says.

At six-thirty on New Year’s Eve, Maggie drives her clunking old Bronco out to Baxter Road. The big blue van with “Greta’s Gourmet” painted on the side is parked about four houses away from the
Melrose house, because in the Melrose driveway are parked two Range Rovers and a Mercedes four-wheel drive.

Maggie parks behind Greta’s van and steps out into the crisp night. As she walks toward the house, she hears the great black ocean rolling and turning in its winter sleep.

Maggie finds the side entrance to the garage and the door leading into the kitchen. Greta and Artie are already there, having arrived earlier to set up the bar, arrange the table, and organize the kitchen.