Nantucket Sisters (16 page)

“Let me look at you,” Greta tells Maggie after she’s hung her coat in the back hall.

Greta’s completely in white, white shirt and slacks, white apron, white sneakers, and her short, practical white hair’s tucked under a white chef’s cloche. She runs a critical eye up and down Maggie and pronounces, “Perfect. I hope you wore comfortable shoes.”

Maggie’s glad Greta approves. She spent some of her hard-earned money on this ensemble, a plain black skirt with a discreet slit up one side, and a simple white shirt of cotton and Lycra, which fits her like a glove and looks as expensive as it was, one hundred dollars, half price at Murray’s Toggery. Her mother’s pearls lie cool against her neck and chest, they’ll show only when she bends forward. Her curly black hair is tamed tonight, caught up in a French twist with a few strands spiraling down each side of her face.

She’s not wearing comfortable shoes at all—let Greta, who’s old and married, wear comfortable shoes. Maggie’s wearing strappy black evening sandals that make her legs look long and her figure sleek. Well, as sleek as someone with her curves can look.

It’s only a little after seven. Everyone’s upstairs dressing for the evening.

Greta shows Maggie where she’ll be serving.

It’s a wonderful house. The living room and dining room stretch along the ocean side, with great expanses of plate-glass windows framing the view. Both rooms have fireplaces with flames flickering,
casting a golden glow into the air, and on the mantels and windowsills and tables and along the mahogany sideboard, tall tapers wait to be lighted to cast their soft illumination over the guests. Sofas, armchairs, windows, all are upholstered in flowery summer pastels, the material slightly faded and worn, subtly announcing: You can relax here, settle back, put your feet up, enjoy life. Multicolored banners reading:
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
are draped over mirrors and paintings. Streamers and helium-filled balloons hang in the air like enchanted trees.

Artie has set up the bar by the living room window overlooking the front yard. Glasses and bottles glitter there, and dishes of cashews and olives.

Maggie helps Greta set the dining room table. The heavy white cloth has already been spread down the length of the table, and cut glass bowls of spring flowers—irises, roses, daffodils, tulips, a fortune of flowers—decorate the table, alternating with white-and rose-colored candles. The women lay out the heavy silver, fold the thick white napkins, place the water glasses and wineglasses in perfect alignment with the rest of the table setting.

“We won’t light the candles until they’re coming in for dinner,” Greta tells Maggie.

Back in the kitchen, Maggie washes lettuce, spins it dry, tosses it into a large wooden bowl to wait for the dressing, and covers it with a damp paper towel. She’s intent on her task—she doesn’t want to disappoint Greta—so she doesn’t hear the door from the dining room open.

“Hi, Greta,” a woman says, and Maggie turns to see Clementine Melrose standing there.

Clementine comes by her sophistication naturally. Her father, Dr. Melrose, is a dapper, almost antique little man, a devout Francophile who speaks with a French accent because he and his family spend half of their year in France. Mrs. Melrose has the tendonstrung
scrawniness of a chicken’s foot, but Clementine looks drop-dead chic. Clementine’s only five feet tall, and tonight she looks like she weighs less than the gold jewelry hanging around her neck. Her dark hair, sliced in an asymmetrical cut, is set off by a jagged long-sleeved crimson crinkle of sheer chiffon that screams
Paris
.

Clementine’s dark eyes whip over Maggie with the same frank assessing stare she gives the canapés waiting on their silver tray. “Maggie, right?” She says the name as a challenge. They’ve run into each other briefly over the years, and Maggie’s got a suspicion from the way Clementine’s eyes narrow that she remembers the night at the art gallery four years ago when Clementine flirted with Shane only to have Maggie sidle up and steal him away.

“Right. Hello, Clementine.”

Clementine sniffs. She addresses her remarks to Greta. “Everyone will be down in a few minutes. Wait until, oh, let’s say eight-fifteen before sending Maggie around with the caviar and oysters, okay? And be sure, Maggie”—Clementine flicks a look her way—“to carry napkins with you. No one wants sauce or oil on her dress.”

Maggie considers curtsying and saying “Yes, Your Highness,” but restrains herself to a simple “Of course,” which Clementine doesn’t notice, because she’s already on her way out of the kitchen.

From the front hall, a grandfather clock strikes eight mellow notes, and soon after that footsteps sound on the front stairs.

Maggie and Greta hurry. Greta broils the marinated oysters, Maggie puts the doilies on the silver platters, and places the cocktail napkins close to hand.

At eight-fifteen, Maggie slides through the door to the dining room, carrying a platter of succulent oysters.

The living room is crowded with people. Artie, wearing a tux, stands behind the bar looking blank-faced, an automaton waiting for his orders. Maggie composes her face into a similar pleasant mask that signals:
I am here only to serve. I cannot hear. I cannot see. I cannot judge
. Maggie passes through the room, offering the platter and a napkin to each guest, saying nothing—those were her instructions, not to speak, unless a guest asks a question.

Six women and six men, just her age, laugh and chatter and collect their drinks at the bar. The men are all in formal wear, their shoulders are broad beneath their jackets’ black fabric. The women wear dresses in splendid colors: crimson, daffodil, azure, apricot. They look like goddesses.

Maggie presents her tray to a man whose blond hair flops charmingly into his hazel eyes.

“Thank you,” he says to Maggie.

She nods politely without speaking and starts to move on, but he lightly touches her arm. “Excuse me, but have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” she tells him, thinking she would definitely remember.

“Well, then, hello. I’m Cameron Chadwick.”

She’s not sure what to do. At other island parties she’s worked, lines blur, but here at Clementine’s, she’s uncomfortable talking to a guest. “I’m Maggie McIntyre.”

He’s holding her with his eyes. “Do you live on the island?”

“I do. My family has a house on the Polpis Harbor—”

“Maggie,” Clementine snaps, wrenching Maggie’s attention away from the man. “I’ll take one.”

Maggie turns to offer Clementine a canapé.

Clementine takes Cameron’s arm with a possessive grasp. “Let me introduce you to the other guests so you have someone to talk to.” She steers Cameron away.

Maggie makes the rounds with her tray. As she does, she feels Cameron’s eyes on her. When she pushes the door into the kitchen, she looks over her shoulder. He’s still watching her. And smiling.

In the kitchen, Greta says, “Honey! You’re as red as a lobster. Is it too hot in there? Should we turn down the thermostat?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie says.

“Yes, well, but we don’t want the guests dropping dead from heat exhaustion!”

“No, it’s fine,” Maggie insists. But her hands are shaking.

Dinner is served at nine. By now the guests are well lubricated with champagne, everyone talks and laughs, everyone is having a wonderful time.

Maggie moves around the table like a ghost, setting the first course, sliced duck breast in Grand Marnier and hot brown peasant bread and fresh unsalted butter before them. She retreats to the kitchen to help Greta lift the broiled swordfish steaks and beef filets onto a platter, peeks through the door—they’ve finished the duck—and hurries out to remove the plates. She removes, as she was taught, from the left, and when she carries the platter of meat around, she serves from the right. She sets the platter of meat on the sideboard, covers it with a silver lid, steps into the kitchen to take the bowl of roast vegetables from Greta while Artie follows her with a dish of mashed potatoes—Greta and Clementine agreed that men love mashed potatoes. Artie glides around the room filling the glasses with red and white wine, while Maggie uses silver tongs to distribute piping hot rolls to the bread plate above the forks.

The conversation—vivid, colorful, fanned with laughter—darts around the table like hummingbirds. Clementine’s guests exchange tales of friends who got in trouble for stupid pranks in college, and everyone’s laughing. Maggie remains as remote and expressionless as a mannequin although she can’t help noticing that Cameron’s eyes are on her every time she’s across the table from him, bending down to offer another steak of swordfish or filet mignon.

Most of the guests are sailors, although some prefer sport fishing. They compare locations where they’ve sailed in all corners of the
world, two of the men becoming heated as they argue over the waters off Australia and those off California.

“Don’t you have a rather famous race here?” Cameron asks. “With a cup …”

“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” a man, thick-tongued from too much liquor, agrees. “It’s the, the, the …”

“God, who
knows
,” Clementine cackles from the head of the table. “So many races …” She’s had, perhaps, too much to drink.

“It’s almost on the tip of my tongue,” a woman in black silk says, tapping her lip.

When no one else names the race, Maggie, standing at attention near the sideboard, provides it: “The Opera House Cup.”

“Right! Right! I was just going to say that!” the drunk bellows.

“Waitress.”
Clementine’s voice is as heavy as lead. “We’re ready for our salads.”

Flushing, Maggie begins to clear the table of the dinner plates. Clementine knows her name but wanted to put Maggie in her place, and Maggie feels strongly that Clementine succeeded. Maggie can’t wait for this evening to end.

As the partygoers bend to their salads, Maggie and Artie clear the buffet of the heavy serving dishes. Maggie slips back into the kitchen to help Greta load the dishwasher and deal with leftovers. Then it’s time to clear. Maggie follows Artie back out into the dining room. They swoop around the table, silently removing the salad plates. Artie pours more champagne, while Maggie returns to the kitchen for the final course.

From the oven, Greta takes an enormous, glorious Baked Alaska, its swirls and tips of meringue browned to a delicate caramel. With delicate concentration, Greta and Maggie maneuver the concoction from its baking tray to the silver platter. This is no ordinary dessert. The cake base is Greta’s own recipe, rich, dark chocolate laden with liqueur. Peaked and glossy, it’s a work of art.

Artie twists the top of a bottle of Courvoisier and pours it over the golden dome. Greta lights a match and touches the brandy floating in the platter, and the dessert ignites.

“Is that too heavy for you?” Artie asks as Maggie lifts it in both hands. “Would you like me to carry it?”

“I’m fine.”

Artie holds the door wide, and with ceremonial solemnity, Maggie goes through, carrying the flaming Baked Alaska before her like a servant making an offering to a monarch.

Around the table, all ten people are flushed from alcohol and food. At the sight of the blazing dessert, they stir, becoming more animated, exclaiming, turning toward her, pushing their chairs back expectantly.

As she carries in the Baked Alaska, Maggie’s aware of all the eyes at the table on her. She forces back a smug smile. The radiance of the flames makes her face glow, she knows from having watched others carry in these desserts. She feels more like a queen than a waitress, more like a goddess presenting an offering, and perhaps she strolls a bit more slowly, making her walk a bit sensual, as she approaches Clementine.

“Give it to me!” Clearly exasperated with Maggie capturing the spotlight, Clementine stands up, reaches out, and jerks the fiery platter out of Maggie’s hands with such force that Maggie, on her sexy stilettos, falls backward with a cry.

She lands in Cameron Chadwick’s lap.

Her arms flail as she tries to regain her balance. Cameron brings his own powerful right arm behind her back to stabilize her. With his help, she struggles to sit up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders briefly for support.

For a moment, she faces him, her white-shirt-clad breasts brushing the elegant black and white of his tuxedo shirt and jacket. For a
moment, her dark blue eyes meet his hazel ones. He puts his hands on her waist to steady her. Maggie knows her cheeks are blushing from the heat between them.

“Oh,” she says, wriggling to get her feet firmly planted on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

Cameron Chadwick says quietly, looking at her, “I’m not.”

There’s no graceful way to maneuver off a man’s lap at a dinner table, especially when the man’s hands are cupping her waist. Maggie thinks she might burst into flame herself.

“You clumsy idiot!” Clementine scolds. She plunks the Baked Alaska down on the table, her eyes shooting spikes at Maggie, so irritated at having such disgraceful behavior by the help at her dinner party that she doesn’t notice that the hem of her gauzy sleeve has swept through the flames and caught fire.

“Clementine!” one of the women screams.

Maggie, terrified for the hostess, seizes a glass of water and throws it at Clementine’s arm, soaking the material and extinguishing the fire.

Clementine shrieks. “Are you insane?”

Chaos erupts. Artie and Greta race from the kitchen to see what has gone wrong. Two of the male guests are blowing on the flames of the Baked Alaska, while one of the women has left the table to find her cell phone to snap photos.

“It’s all right,” Artie tells the group. “The flames will burn down by themselves. Look. They’re going out.”

“She set me on fire!” Clementine cries, pointing at Maggie.

Maggie, at last stable on both feet, draws herself up straight and tall. “No, you did that. I put the fire out.”

“She’s right, you know,” Cameron tells Clementine.

“Well, you shouldn’t have served a flaming dessert,” Clementine snaps, on the verge of tears.

“It was what you asked for,” Maggie reminds Clementine, who’s trembling with anger.