Beachcombers (36 page)

58

Emma

T
he sound of running water woke Emma. As she surfaced from her warm ocean of sleep, she was aware of a sense of extraordinary happiness growing within her. She didn't want to wake from this blissful dream. Then she opened her eyes ... and the dream was still there. Even more happiness rushed through her.

She was in Spencer's bed. The sound of running water was Spencer in the shower. They'd slept the night together here, in his house.

Sighing with pleasure, Emma sat up in bed, stuffing all the pillows behind her for support. When they came in last night, she hadn't really paid attention to Spencer's house--it could have been the Taj Mahal or a refrigerator box and she wouldn't have cared.

Now she let her gaze wander around the room. It was a quaint little chamber, tucked up on the second floor of this old house. The entire house was a low-ceilinged, beam-and-plaster jewel box, built in the late eighteenth century and remodeled and modernized as the decades passed. The front door opened directly off a narrow hidden lane into a long room that served as living and dining room, with a galley kitchen downstairs and the bathroom upstairs built on the back of the house in what the islanders referred to as "warts." It was Spencer's house. He'd bought it with money left to him by his grandparents, and loving history as he did, he cherished the house.

The room was sparsely furnished with a double bed, an old bureau, a chair, and on the wall several paintings of Nantucket by island painters. No curtains hung at the small, many-paned window. It was open, and the dewy air of early morning drifted into the room.

Last night had been amazing. Emma closed her eyes and hugged herself, remembering. When they first got to the cottage, they'd gone directly to bed, but later, after they made love, as they were ravaging through Spencer's refrigerator and making grilled cheese sandwiches, they'd talked and talked, getting to know each other better, sharing secrets and plans and dreams.

Later, around two, they'd gone back to bed again. They'd made love again. It was very late when, exhausted, satiated, and content, they finally fell asleep.

Now Emma's gaze fell on the clock on the bedside table. It was after seven-thirty. Oh, heavens, Marcia must have gone to Emma's house to pick her up for work. Emma jumped out of bed, grabbed her purse from the floor, and dug out her cell phone. She hit Marcia's number and got her voice mail.

She held the phone to her ear and leaned against the little window, peeking out at the bright day.

"Marcia? It's Emma. I'm sorry, I can't come to work today. I'll explain later. Sorry."

"Good God!"

The woman's voice, so close to Emma, made her nearly jump out of her skin, and it was only her skin that she wore. For a horrified moment, Emma stood there, stark, raving naked, gaping at Sandra Bracebridge, who loomed in the doorway bristling like a giant hedgehog. Spencer's mother wore a Lily Pulitzer dress in a geometric pattern and from her arms, neck, and ears several pounds of gold glittered. She carried a lightship basket purse, one of the new styles with a strap handle.

"What are you doing here?" Sandra demanded.

Emma was seized by an almost irresistible desire to laugh as various answers flashed through her head. She started to say, "Sorry," but realized that actually, she had nothing to apologize for. She crossed back to the bed, yanked the top sheet off the mattress, and wrapped it around herself.

"Mother?" Spencer stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, steam drifting behind him into the bedroom. "What are you doing here?"

Sandra Bracebridge drew herself up to her full belligerent grandeur. "I've been talking to your grandmother and I need to talk with you. Obviously things have progressed further than appropriate."

"Oh, for God's sake." Spencer's face darkened. "In the first place, Mother, it's not
appropriate
for you to just appear in my bedroom unannounced. We've gone over this before, it's my house, not yours, and you should call me before you barge in."

Sandra was undaunted. "If you were in danger, wouldn't you want me to 'barge in'? If your house was on fire, wouldn't you expect me to--"

Spencer turned his back on his mother. "I've got to get dressed."

His mother glared at him for one long moment. "I'll be waiting downstairs."

Spencer tugged open a bureau drawer, pulled out a pair of boxer shorts and stepped into them. "Emma, I apologize. Mother has never just burst in on me like this. Give me a few minutes to talk to her and I'll get rid of her." He yanked on a pair of trousers and pulled on a white button-down shirt, then strode across the room barefoot to kiss Emma quickly on the mouth.

Stunned, Emma sank down on the side of the bed. She wanted to take a shower, but she also wanted to hear what Spencer had to say to his mother, and curiosity won out. She remained very still, hardly breathing, and listened.

"I'd like you to give me my key back now." Spencer's voice was calm but firm.

"Nonsense. What if you need me to fetch something when you're off-island--"

"In that case I'll give you a key before I leave. I want my key back now. Or I'll change the locks."

"Why are you acting like this! You have no right to speak to me this way!"

"I have every right, Mother. I'm an adult. This is my house. I bought it with my money. I--"

"Very well, I apologize. But really, Spencer, consider it from my perspective. I hardly slept last night, not after I phoned Mother and she told me you'd gone off with that girl."

"Her name is Emma, and I'm going to marry her."

Emma nearly fell off the bed.

"Oh, Spencer, you can't be serious! She's just an island girl, she's not one of our kind."

"Thank God for that," Spencer said. Sandra's voice had risen a few octaves, but he sounded mild and reasonable. "Mother, I've got things to do. You need to leave."

"Spencer, I'm your mother. I'm only concerned about your welfare. I--"

"Believe me, I've never been happier. Now please go."

"You can't shut me out like this."

"Please go."

"Promise me you'll come to my house for a drink this evening.
By yourself.
"

"I can't promise that. I have plans."

"It's your grandmother who's instigated this, isn't it! Millicent is always trying to turn you against me."

Now his voice was cold. "Please. Go."

Emma heard the hard click of Sandra's heels against the floorboards, and then the firm slam of the door.

Spencer came up the stairs, two at a time. "Damn, that woman makes me crazy! My brother and sister have both moved to the other side of the country, and now you know why. She's so controlling, she's so infuriating, she's like some kind of giant household pest!"

Emma just smiled. She couldn't stop smiling.

Spencer gawked at her, then suddenly smiled back. "So I guess you overheard our conversation." He sat next to her on the bed and took her hand in his. "I suppose that was not the most romantic marriage proposal in the world."

"But perhaps the most unusual," Emma assured him.

Spencer laughed. Then, more soberly, he said, "I'm not trying to rush you, Emma. I don't want you to answer yet. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to marry me. I know I've got the strangest, most dysfunctional family in the world. You've seen my mother in action. And I want to live on this island, and that means I'll always be within Mother's striking range. Does that frighten you?"

Emma started to reply, but the question was a serious one, and she took a moment to consider it. She had never discussed the thorny subject of money with Duncan. She had always glibly pretended to be comfortable around people with lots of money, and for the few years she'd lived in Boston, she'd felt certain she was going to make a nice fat bunch of money for herself and her family and belong to that golden group.

"I do think," she said slowly, thinking aloud, "that your mother will never accept me. I don't come from money. Our family doesn't have the kind of money you do."

"Let me just remind you that my mother doesn't even have the kind of money she acts like she has. That's why she tried to steal those lightship baskets. She's always trying to sell off something so she can have more ready cash."

Emma nodded. "Still. Still ... Spencer, I think I'm a little afraid of people like you."

"Because we have an old family name? I am proud of being a Bracebridge. It's one of the reasons I know so much history. But other than that--my father is dead. My mother is a terrible snob. My brother and sister have moved away and hardly keep in touch. Plus, they don't give a fig about Nantucket. My mother fights with my grandmother all the time. Since my brother and sister have abandoned me, my mother focuses way too much of her energy on trying to run my life. And I'm afraid I love my grandmother more than I love my mother." He paused, and with a wry smile said, "Actually, now that I've enumerated all our charms, I can see why you'd be afraid of us."

Now Emma smiled. "Oh, Spencer, I've got a pretty odd family, too. Perhaps everyone thinks their family's odd." She laughed. "Perhaps every family
is
odd."

"You can't build a straight house out of crooked wood, but you can build a very cozy crooked house," Spencer said. "Grams used to say that all the time. The house Grams lives in will have to be sold when she dies, and the money will be divided up among my siblings and me. I'll never be rich, Emma, but I think I'll be comfortable."

"Comfortable," Emma echoed. She ran her thumb over Spencer's hand. "I like this, Spencer, I like talking about all the real stuff." Suddenly, sitting there naked with a sheet wrapped around her, she remembered--"Actually, my own family is in its own crisis right now. My father has met someone, at last, a really nice woman who makes him happy. Spencer, I need to take a quick shower and get back home."

"I'd like to meet your family. Outside of the police station, I mean." He grinned.

"Oh Lord," Emma moaned.

Spencer stood up. "You shower, I'll make coffee."

59

Abbie

A
bbie took Harry upstairs to help him brush his teeth and dress for the day. She really wanted to tuck him under her arm and run. Or maybe just hide in the closet. She heard the front door open and slam shut.

"Mommy's home," she told Harry.

"Mommy!"
Harry raced down the stairs.

Abbie followed, her heart triple-timing in her chest.

"Hello, Big Guy." In the front hall, Sydney performed an admirably graceful squat, given the tightness of her suit and the height of her heels. Harry ran into her arms. She hugged him and kissed the top of his head.

Then she noticed Abbie standing on the stairs. "What are you doing here so early?" she demanded.

"Sydney." Howell came into the hall, a kitchen towel in his hand. "We need to talk."

Sydney narrowed her eyes. She glared at Howell, then at Abbie, then back at Howell. She rose up, tall in her high heels, thin as a whip. "So that's what's going on." She snorted. "Unbelievable! You and the nanny are having a little fling."

"It's not a fling," Howell objected, adding, "and let's not do this in front of our son."

"I think
fling
is actually a rather perfect way of putting it," Sydney snapped, "and why not do it in front of Harry? I imagine you two have been doing lots of things in front of Harry."

"Harry!" Howell reached for his son's hand. "We're going to have some adult time, so you get to watch television."

Harry pulled away, reluctant.

Howell persisted. "In fact, I'm going to give you the remote control. You can change channels all you want."

At this, Harry's face lit up.

"I'll be in the kitchen." Sydney stalked away from the rest of them.

Howell led Harry into the living room and settled him on the sofa. Abbie took a deep breath and followed Sydney into the kitchen. Howell's wife was leaning against the counter, her arms crossed, her face bitter.

Sydney raked her gaze over Abbie's face. "Well, aren't you the little multitasker. I have to say I'm surprised you've caught Howell's eye. You're hardly a femme fatale."

Abbie didn't reply. She understood Sydney's anger.

"It's a cliche, you know," Sydney sneered. "The boss screwing the help."

Howell entered the room. "Sydney, let's not talk that way."

"Oh, listen to you, so civilized and refined. You can screw the nanny but you don't want to talk about it."

"I want to marry Abbie," Howell announced. "I love her, and I think she's good for Harry."

Sydney shook her head like a boxer who's been stunned by an unexpected blow. "You want to
marry
her? Good God, Howell, you really are full of surprises." Then she smiled triumphantly. "And
she
is why you want a divorce?" Sydney really had a remarkable voice, as clear as a bell, and full of confidence. "Howell, you are such a loser.
I'm
the one who wants a divorce! You want to shack up with a babysitter. But I'm going to marry the next senator for New York State."

Howell seemed genuinely amazed. "Everett Candelli? You've been seeing Everett Candelli?"

"What?" Now Sydney's voice was gleeful. "You think someone that important wouldn't notice a little ol' lawyer?"

Oh, man!
Abbie felt like a kite swept up in a gale of fresh, intoxicating air.
Oh, man, Sydney wants a divorce, too!

"I'm impressed," Howell said. "Everett is a remarkable man and a great public servant. I'm glad for you, Sydney."

"The hell you are. You're just relieved that you won't have a nasty divorce and custody case to deal with."

"Well," Howell admitted, "that's true, too."

"Daddy," Harry called. "The remote doesn't work."

Howell looked frustrated. "Okay, kid, I'm coming." He left the room.

Abbie found Sydney's angry eyes latched on to her face. She sucked up her courage and found her voice. She said the one true thing that would matter to the other woman. "I love Harry. I want you to know that."

"Like you have any idea what maternal love is," Sydney snapped. "Sweet little you, all innocent and eager! You're just a hopeless girl, you can't imagine what it takes to be a mother."

"Actually, I can," Abbie began.

"Being a nanny is
nothing
like being a mother!" Sydney exploded. "You worry all the fucking time! Vigilance, intelligence, all your best intentions, none of that matters! It doesn't stop when you go to sleep, it never stops! You are going to be so
swamped
if you take on Harry. You won't sleep at night, you won't know what to do when he gets sick, hell,
you
can't even take him on a fucking carousel! It's hard work, sometimes it's hopeless and heartbreaking! You feel like you never get anything right! But look at you, you think you know how to be a mother!"

Abbie could understand the woman's rage, and it was with consideration of the mother Sydney was that Abbie said quietly, "My own mother died when I was fifteen. I pretty much raised my two sisters."

"That's hardly the same!" Sydney retorted. Suddenly she collapsed in a chair and rubbed her hands over her face. "But that's too bad. It must have been hard for you." She studied Abbie for a long moment, her eyes penetrating and critical. Finally, she said, "Oh, fuck it, what do I know? You've been good with Harry. I can tell he feels loved by you. Damn it all, you'll probably be a decent stepmother."

"I will," Abbie promised in a hushed voice.

"All right, do me a favor," Sydney said. "Take Harry somewhere so Howell and I can talk. We've got a lot of details to iron out."

Abbie hesitated. "Okay."

Howell and Harry were still in the living room, struggling with the stalled remote control. They looked up at her, the lines of their faces, the fall of their hair, and their hopeful expressions so much alike it made Abbie smile.

"You know what?" Abbie said. "Forget the TV, Harry. I'm going to take you to my house to meet my family."

Howell looked relieved. "Good idea." He added, "Come back by lunchtime, okay?"

Abbie nodded and took Harry's hand. "Okay."

They stepped out into the gusty day. Abbie's spirits swirled like the wind and she was almost running, tugging Harry along. "You'll love my house, Harry. I've got lots of cool things for you to see. We've got seashells and dolls and a cat named Cinnamon and a Playhouse!"

"You're silly today," Harry giggled.

"Harry, I'm absolutely slaphappy!" she agreed.