Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (15 page)

Abbie had a brainstorm. “You know what, Harry? I’ll build a little corral for the horses!” Hurriedly, she corrected herself. “I know, knights didn’t call them ‘corrals.’ I don’t know what they called them.”

“Pens, maybe,” Harry offered. “Yes, that would be a good place for the horses to stay. Maybe we could build a little barn over there so they are out of the hot sun.”

“I’ll start on the pen,” Abbie said.

“After I finish this wall, I’ll start on the barn,” Harry told her, and he smiled.

As she worked, Abbie told herself she really had to get Harry out to see Shelley’s horses. Anything with horses seemed to make him happy, and while he was a pleasant child, he didn’t seem like a happy one.

But there were times when he was enthusiastic. At the end of the day, when Abbie brought Harry back to his house, she would first rinse him off in the outdoor shower, being sure all grains of sand were sprayed out of his hair. Wrapped in a clean towel, Harry would run down the hall to see if his father’s study door was open. Howell would rise from his desk, cross the room, and pick Harry up, holding him so high his head touched the ceiling.

“Hey, buddy, am I glad to see you!” Howell would say. He’d squeeze Harry until the little boy giggled.

That was when Abbie saw Harry smiling the most, when he was with his father.

Abbie smiled when she saw Howell, too. He just had a way about him, a gentle, friendly aura.

So why was his son such a little knot of neuroses?

Harry finished his wall and moved over next to Abbie to start
construction of the barn. They worked for a while in companionable silence. She could see the shadows lengthening. People were folding up their beach chairs and heading home.

“Harry,” Abbie said, “we could get some beach grass from the dunes and stick it around the barn to make a little pasture for the horses.”

Harry’s face lit up in a smile of real amazement. “What a good idea, Nanny Abbie! I’ll go get some!” Off he ran, up the beach to the dunes.

Abbie was surprised to find tears in her eyes.
I’ve done it
, she thought!
I’ve made him smile!
She knew he missed his Nanny Donna, and he worried about his mother being gone all week, and if she could forge a bond with this little boy that would provide reassurance and connection—

From out of nowhere, a bright orange Frisbee came spinning through the air. It skimmed the top of Abbie’s head and sliced straight through the sand castle. The castle crumbled as the Frisbee crashed into the sand next to it.

Harry, running down from the dunes with grass in his hands, slammed to a halt, wide-eyed. “Oh, no!” Harry screamed. “You wrecked my sand castle!”

Abbie jumped to her feet and rushed to the child, who stood screaming at the top of his lungs while tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Harry,” Abbie said, “honey, it’s all right.”

She tried to get her arms around the little boy, but he was in a rage, jumping up and down and wailing. All up and down the beach people turned to gawk at him, the source of all this unpleasant noise.

“Harry, calm down.” Abbie tried to speak in a calming voice.

A teenage boy with spots on his face ambled up. “Hey, dude, I didn’t mean to wreck your sand castle. Sorry, man.”

“I HATE YOU!” Harry screamed at the boy. “I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!”

“Harry.”
Abbie made her voice stern. “Stop that now.”

To her amazement, he obeyed. But she almost wished he hadn’t, because it was obvious that he was swallowing his rage, internalizing it. He trembled all over, and his mouth quivered and his bony chest heaved.

She put her arms around him. “Harry, it’s almost time to go
home, anyway. We’ll build a new one, tomorrow, and it will be better.”

“Sorry,” the teenager said again, looking miserable.

“It’s all right,” Abbie told him.

The boy hurried away, sand spraying up from his heels as he ran. Abbie kept her arms around Harry and glared at the other sunbathers who were still studying Harry with a mix of sympathy and glee. After Harry’s sobs had subsided, Abbie took his hand and gently drew him down to the beach towel. She settled him so that he would not be facing his ruined structure.

“Here, honeybun, drink some juice. You’ll feel better.”

He obeyed but now he had retreated into his good little robot boy self with a blank expression, and Abbie was worried. She didn’t know if this sort of thing was normal. She’d babysat lots of children and never had this sort of experience. She didn’t want to leave the beach now, when it would resound with negative images. She had to direct his thoughts elsewhere.

“Harry, let’s go for a walk along the beach and see if we can see anything out in the water. Maybe a mermaid, maybe a whale, maybe a pirate ship.”

Obediently, Harry stood up and reached for her hand. It broke her heart, that one little action, the way he reached for her hand. She held it firmly, and together they walked slowly along the beach, looking out into the ocean. She stayed just out of reach of the tide line, knowing how Harry feared the rushing waves.

Millicent Bracebridge seemed half-asleep in her chair, and Emma didn’t blame her. The room was stifling hot and the light was dim. But Millicent didn’t want the drapes drawn or the windows opened. Outside noises disturbed her, she said. Emma continued to read, imbuing the dialogue with the inflections and accents that made Mrs. Bracebridge smile. Hastings was about to kiss an acrobatic actress named Bella, and Emma was surprised. She hadn’t remembered Hastings having any kind of romantic thoughts.

A loud noise coming from the front of the house startled her and made Mrs. Bracebridge wake up.

“Grams!”

A man entered the room, and for the first time since Emma had met her, Millicent Bracebridge’s face broke into a luminous smile.

“Spencer.” She held out her arms.

Spencer hugged his grandmother and kissed her cheeks, then knelt before her and studied her. “You look
ravishing
!” he told her.

And suddenly the older woman glowed.

“Emma, I’d like you to meet my grandson, Spencer Bracebridge.”

Spencer rose and approached Emma, holding out his hand.

He was terribly good-looking, with black hair and ebony eyes. He wore khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a turquoise tie with
sailboats on it. Emma was suddenly aware of her frizzy hair and face bare of makeup.

“Nice to meet you, Emma. Mom’s told me about you.” He glanced at the book in Emma’s hands. “Agatha Christie? Mom said you were reading
Moby-Dick.
”

“Let your mother keep her illusions, Spencer.” Millicent Bracebridge’s voice was soft and full of humor. “She judges me rather harshly. I want her to think I’m still intellectually top drawer.”

Spencer laughed. “She is hard to please, isn’t she! Don’t worry. This will be our little secret.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“But what are you doing,” Spencer asked, “cooped up in this gloom on a day like today?”

“I prefer peace and quiet,” Millicent Bracebridge began.

Her grandson interrupted. “I’ve got about thirty minutes free and I want to spend them with you, but not inside.” He grabbed the handles of his grandmother’s wheelchair. “Come on,” he said to Emma. “We’re going out to the garden.”

“Oh, dear,” his grandmother fussed. “It’s such a
project
, getting me out there and back.”

Emma followed as Spencer steered the wheelchair down the hall, through the dining room, and out the door onto a large wooden deck. The sunlight was dazzling after the dim interior.

“Listen,” Spencer said. “Can you hear the birds? I’ll bet that’s that crabby old cardinal who used to chase all the other birds away from the feeder.”

Millicent Bracebridge laughed. “I’d forgotten him.”

Emma asked, “Would you like me to make some iced tea?”

“I’d love some!” Spencer said. “And if you’ve got any cookies, or cake, or anything, cheese and crackers. This is my lunch break. I work at the NHA and they’re pretty easy, but this is such a busy season. And Emma, do me a favor. Would you open the drapes and windows and air out the living room?”

His grandmother protested, “I don’t like—”

Spencer spoke over her words. “My dear old vampire bat, we will close everything up before I wheel you back in.”

Emma stared, shocked at the way he spoke to her. But his grandmother was beaming.

The kitchen of the house was old, with an ancient porcelain
sink built into a metal cupboard and a Frigidaire so old it had to be manually defrosted. As Emma waited for the water to boil for the tea, she searched the cupboards and found digestive biscuits and ginger snaps and Carr’s wafers. She put them on a plate with a hunk of cheddar. She poured the water over some Earl Grey, filled a pitcher with ice, and put three tall glasses on a tray along with the sugar bowl and three spoons.

She carried it all out to the patio. Mrs. Bracebridge was laughing.

As Emma served the tea, she couldn’t help smiling. Spencer was recounting a disastrous adventure he and his friends had had on the island when they were children.

“Oh, I’d forgotten all about that!” Mrs. Bracebridge chuckled. Her laughter made her cheeks flush rosily. “Your poor mother. How did she survive having you for a child!”

Spencer consumed every cracker and piece of cheese Emma had put out, and when it was all gone, he turned to Emma. “That was great, Emma. Thanks. I was about to starve.”

“You always could eat more than anyone I ever knew,” his grandmother observed affectionately.

Spencer looked at his watch, made a face, and said he had to leave. Emma hurried in to close the windows and drapes. Spencer wheeled Mrs. Bracebridge back into her spot in the living room, kissed her on each cheek, and smiled at Emma.

“Are you here often?”

“Every day from one till four,” she told him.

“Great! I’ll try to take my lunch hours then.” And he whisked off out the door.

Smiling as they settled back in the living room, Mrs. Bracebridge said, “He always was like that. He was a happy, energetic little boy, and he’s a happy, energetic man. He’s working on his Ph.D. in history, you know. Specializing in Nantucket history. Wants to live here eventually. Would you like to see him as a baby? He was the cutest baby!”

“I’d love to see him as a baby,” Emma said.

“My photo albums are in the bottom shelf of the bookcase, over there behind the sofa.”

Emma fetched the albums and brought them to Mrs. Bracebridge. She pulled a chair up next to the wheelchair and helped the
older woman hold the albums close enough for her to see with the peripheral vision her macular degeneration allowed her.

Millicent Bracebridge beamed. “Oh, there I am at my engagement party! Look at my dress, wasn’t it lovely!”

“And your husband was so handsome,” Emma said.

“He was, wasn’t he?”

The afternoon flew past. When it was time for Emma to leave, she put away the albums and did a once-over of the room. A glass of water was on the table next to Mrs. Bracebridge, and at five someone would arrive for the evening. She had a hunch that after the excitement of seeing her grandson, Millicent Bracebridge would nap, and she was right. When she said good-bye to the older woman, she saw that Mrs. Bracebridge had already nodded off, her chin resting on her chest.

As she walked down Main Street and through the narrow, charming lanes to her father’s house, her thoughts lingered on the sight of the grandmother and grandson. What love existed between the two of them, what joy they had in each other. She remembered her maternal grandparents, who lived outside Boston, and who had been just as loving, devoted, and admiring, until they both passed away when Emma was in her teens. Her father’s mother had died years ago, also, and her father’s father lived in Florida now with a new wife and had little interest in his three granddaughters. At Christmas, he had sent them each a check for twenty dollars, and the three girls each sent a thank-you note, but when each one turned twenty-one, the checks stopped.

So not everyone had a warm, affectionate relationship with a grandparent. She knew that. She would love to be a grandparent someday. She would love to be as loving as Millicent Bracebridge was to Spencer.

But to be a grandparent, she had to be a parent, and who knew if that would ever happen for her?

At the moment, she didn’t have a real job, she didn’t have a place of her own, she didn’t have a fiancé or even a boyfriend. Alicia Maxwell had stolen her man. Alicia Maxwell had stolen her life.