Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (17 page)

“It’s kind of sad,” Marina said as she climbed up into the cab of Sheila’s truck. “Throwing books away.”

“I know what you mean,” Sheila agreed, yanking down on the gearshift and steering away from the curb. “But the old has to make way for the new. Besides, a lot of the books are still available, just in a different format.” She looked over at Marina. “So, have you been out to the Madaket Mall before?”

“The Madaket Mall? No.”

Sheila laughed. “That’s what we call the recycling shed. That’s where we’ll drop off the books. That’s where everyone finds treasures. I’m not kidding you. Just follow me. I dive right in. Everyone does. You’ll see.”

Sheila was right, Marina discovered. At the end of the landfill parking lot was a large wooden shed. Inside the shed were tables piled with discarded but perfectly good items: clothing, books, housewares, toys. Various people pawed through the garments or
studied the pots and pans, and some of the people appeared poor and some of the people appeared privileged.

“Aha!” Sheila held up a man’s short-sleeved polo shirt. “L.L. Bean. Spotless, not a tear. Perfect for my husband.” She dove back into the pile.

A swirl of blue and turquoise caught Marina’s eye. She pulled it out from under the mountain of clothing and held it up. It was a batik bedspread. If she folded it just right, it would make a dynamite sarong. She draped it over her arm and set off to search the rest of the shed.

At the back of the building, next to some battered pots and chipped fine china, was an old portable record player. She smiled and reached out to stroke it, as if it were a friendly old beast. Her mother had one like this when she was a child. Did it still work? She’d brought her iPod, but this was kind of tantalizing. On the floor sat a cardboard box of records. She knelt. Patti Page: “Old Cape Cod,” “Tennessee Waltz.” Rosemary Clooney: “Sway.” Jo Stafford: “You Belong to Me.” The Mills Brothers: “Up a Lazy River.” Lilting melodies drifted through Marina’s mind.

“Take it home.” Sheila stood next to her, her arms filled with clothing. “If it doesn’t work, we can bring it back.”

“You know, I think I will,” Marina said.

Loaded with loot, they drove back to town.

“How’s your summer going?” Sheila asked.

Marina considered her answer. “It’s odd. Sometimes it seems to go fast, and sometimes it seems to be absolutely stopped still. When I have something planned, if I’m at a play or a lecture, time speeds along. But if I have a few empty hours, and especially when I come home to an empty cottage at night, then an hour lasts forever. I suppose part of it is that I always used to have someone to talk to about the little things. Insignificant things, like I stubbed my toe on the sidewalk and tripped and felt like everyone was laughing at me. Or I saw a cute dress I’d like to buy. Back home, I always had Gerry, my husband, my ex-husband, to talk to, or one of my friends. Here, I have no one. I’m not complaining. I love being here, and I chose to be here. I guess sometimes I’m just lonely.”

“Sometimes you can be lonely right in the middle of a marriage,” Sheila told her.

“Yes. I guess that’s true. But since I’ve been here, I’ve come to
realize that my nature is gregarious. I like people. I like working with people. Gerry and I had a really first-class office and a staff of twelve and dozens of clients, and maybe, for sure in the last few years, I let myself get too busy, too pressured. But I liked it all, and I miss it.”

“What made you decide to spend so much time here alone?”

Marina took a deep breath. “My husband and my best friend fell in love. They’re going to have a baby in September. I sold him my part of the business and my half of our condo. And I came here. To get away, I guess. To get away from all the people who know about them, to get away from my anger. To start over.”

“A lot of people come here for just that reason,” Sheila said.

“That’s good to know.”

At the Foxes’ house, Sheila pulled into the driveway and parked near the garage. Jumping out, she helped Marina carry her plunder inside.

“Wow,” Sheila said, noticing the walls. “What a luscious blue!”

“Can you stay for some tea?” Marina asked.

“Sure.”

“I chose the color and painted the walls myself.” She took a pitcher of tea out of the refrigerator as she talked, filled two glasses with ice and tea, and garnished them with mint from a little pot in her window. She set a plate of shortbread on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, facing Sheila. “It’s probably an odd thing to do, to paint a place I’ll be in for only a few months, but you know, I found it very satisfying.”

“I can imagine that. Making my lightship baskets does the same for me.”

“How long have you lived on the island?” Marina asked.

Sheila took a piece of shortbread. “All my life, really. I was born here. Went to school here. Went off to college, met my husband. He’s a pharmacist, so he could work pretty much anywhere. We moved around for a while but when I got pregnant, we decided to move here for good.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Two. Kirsten’s twenty-two and Roger’s twenty-six. They both live in California now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved back here eventually. I hope they do. I love having them around.” She paused. “Do you have children?”

“No. I tried. I couldn’t get pregnant.”

“That’s so sad. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. And it is sad. I’ve spent a lot of time being sad, and angry at fate, and resentful. Now my husband of fifteen years is having a baby with my best friend and I’m driving myself nuts with jealousy. I’ve got to stop wasting time on regrets and self-pity. I want to move on. I want to enjoy life.”

“Well, Nantucket’s the right place to come if you want to enjoy life.”

“I think you’re right. So far, I’m having a great time. And”—she couldn’t help smiling—“I’m having Jim Fox here for dinner Friday night.”

“Well, well.” Sheila’s face brightened. “First the Downy Flake and now an intimate dinner here.”

“He took me to Tuckernuck a couple of days ago. We spent the afternoon together. He seems like a nice man.”

“He is. He did a swell job of raising his three daughters after his wife died.”

“How did she die?” Marina asked.

“I think I’ll let Jim tell you about that.” Sheila stood up. “Let’s see if this record player works.”

Marina set the little machine on the kitchen counter and plugged the cord into the socket. A small light came on and the turntable began to revolve. Sliding a round black vinyl record out of its jacket, she laid it carefully on the turntable and set the needle gently into the groove.

A honeyed male voice began to sing “Blue Moon.” The silken tones swirled up into the air, slow, mellow, golden.

“Gosh, this record isn’t even scratched,” Sheila said. “You’re going to have fun with this.” She set her glass in the sink. “I’ve got to get home. Thanks for the tea.”

“Thanks for the ride out to the mall.”

“We’ll do it again sometime. Have fun Friday. And be good, Marina. Everyone loves Jim Fox.”

Friday evening, the air was soft and warm. Marina stepped out of the shower and dressed in a pale blue tee shirt and the blue and turquoise batik swoop of cotton she’d found Wednesday at the recycling shed. She’d washed it, cut and hemmed it, and it fell smoothly
around her hips. She creamed her skin, which was nicely tanned and glowing from a day in the sun, flicked on a coat of mascara and a pale gloss of lipstick. She pulled her blond hair back in a low ponytail and slipped some silver bangles over her wrist.

She didn’t use perfume. The cottage smelled tantalizingly of the beef bourguignonne simmering on the back burner. She’d decided Jim might like beef for a change—she knew he had the opportunity to eat plenty of fish. A crisp salad waited to be dressed, and she’d made a chocolate cake this morning as she listened to all her new old records. When had she last made a cake? She couldn’t remember an occasion. She’d always taken Gerry out to some posh restaurant for his birthday.

She padded barefoot around the small cottage, not really double-checking everything as much as simply enjoying it. She’d bought new wineglasses and some nice red wines for this evening. She’d taken her computer, newspapers, letters, and other paraphernalia off the little table and set it with the plain white plates and inexpensive utensils that had come with the cottage, then she’d turned off the electric lights and put lighted candles all around. The gentle glow made everything appear antique and lustrous.

It surprised her, how her heart leapt when she heard his knock at the door.

He came in, presenting her with a bottle of red wine. They talked easily as she poured them each a glass and settled on the sofa. She’d put out a plate of cheese and crackers and relaxed as he regaled her with a humorous account of his day’s latest crisis: helping an octogenarian get her cat from its terrified perch in the top of a tree.

“My gosh,” she said, “your life is a Norman Rockwell painting.”

Jim laughed. He wore khakis and a green rugby shirt. “Sometimes it seems like that, I know. One of the good things about living on an isolated island.” He took a sip of wine. “Tell me about Kansas City.”

“Well, I don’t know any octogenarians,” she told him. “Actually, now that I think about it, I didn’t know any of our neighbors in the condo. We—my ex-husband, Gerry, and I—really used the place as a kind of crash pad, we were so busy working. And I never spent any time near cats or trees, although there’s an excellent park
in Kansas City, Swope Park. It’s got a first-class zoo, and lots of great places to walk or hike. And the Starlight Theater is there. And the Nelson Museum of Art, which has a sensational collection.”

They kept to safe, light topics as they ate. Jim had two helpings of her beef bourguignonne, which pleased Marina. He seemed completely at ease. She was relaxed, too, but that was because of the wine. She still couldn’t figure out what kind of relationship they were headed for.

When she brought out the cake, he lit up.

“Chocolate cake. I don’t know when I’ve had a homemade cake.”

She set it before him. “Do your daughters cook?”

“They’re all busy working.” He ate the cake as if he were starving, as if he hadn’t just had a full meal.

“I’ve only met one. Lily.”

“The youngest.” He licked his fork. “God, that was good.”

“Would you like another piece?”

He grinned. “Maybe in awhile. Leaning back in his chair, he said, “My two oldest daughters were living off-island—that’s what we say when anyone from here lives anywhere else in the entire world—but they’ve come home for the summer.”

“I guess it’s the season to make money, with the summer tourists.”

“Right. And Emma, that’s my middle daughter, well, she’s had a tough time recently. She lost her job in Boston, and the man she was engaged to broke off with her to be with another woman.”

Marina groaned. “She has my sympathy.” But she didn’t want to talk about Gerry and that whole sad mess right now, not on this soft, sensual evening, with this handsome and pleasant man sitting so near. “And what about your oldest?”

“Abbie. I’m not sure just why she came home. She’s been gone for almost two years. I wasn’t sure she’d ever come back for any length of time.”

“Would you like some decaf?” Marina asked.

“That sounds good.”

She was glad to have something to do as she moved around the kitchen. She could sense how their conversation had deepened. Quite a few of the men she knew somehow kept their work and
family life separate, but she could tell that whatever Jim was about, his daughters were an integral part.

She set the cup in front of him. “Tell me about Abbie.”

He stirred a bit of sugar into his decaf, slowly, thinking. “She was fifteen when my wife died. She was always a responsible girl, and she really took charge. She pretty much raised Emma and Lily.”

“What was she like before your wife died?” Marina asked.

“I think that’s the first time anyone’s asked me that. You know, I have to think about it.” He smiled at a memory. “She was always bossy, even as a child. When she was about twelve, she told us she was going to be an anthropologist. She wanted to travel all over the world and study strange cultures.” A shadow crossed over his face. “Abbie didn’t get the chance to go to college. Her mother died, and she stayed to help with her sisters. I don’t know what I would have done without her.” He squinted down into his cup as if seeing the past there. “Perhaps I gave her too much responsibility.”

Marina prompted, “And your middle girl? Emma?”

“Emma’s our smart one. Not that all my girls aren’t smart. But Emma made straight A’s in school. Won a scholarship to college. Graduated magna cum laude. Worked for an investment broker until just recently. She’s always been the organized one, kept her bedroom neat, had a bunch of dolls, changed their clothes every day.” He shook his head. “I’m a little worried about her. She’s having a tough time, losing her job and her fiancé, although I never cared for Duncan. I think in the long run it will be a good thing that he’s broken off with her.”

“And Lily? She’s a lovely girl.”

“Thank you. She is. I suppose I spoiled Lily. I suppose we all did. She was only seven when her mother died. So we all treated Lily like a fragile china doll. She’s kind of used to getting her own way. But to give her credit, she’s done a great job over the past year, keeping the house tidy and making us some decent meals.” He looked at Marina. “You don’t have any children?”

“No.” It was always hard to say this. “I couldn’t have any.”

Jim reached over and touched her cheek. “You would have had beautiful children.”

He kept his hand on her cheek, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world, to turn her head so that her mouth touched his
hand. She heard his breath change and her own pulse sped up. When he dropped his hand, she was disappointed, but he pushed back his chair and rose and moved next to her.

“Come here,” he said softly, putting his hand on her shoulder.

She stood up. They looked at each other and then Jim wrapped his arms around her and brought her close to him. She nestled her head on his shoulder and leaned into him. He kissed the side of her neck and ran his hands down her back. She turned her head, longing for his mouth on hers. But he continued to kiss her neck, her cheek, her collarbone. She put her hands on his shoulders, loving the strong, meaty, male heft of his muscles. She inched as close to him as she could, and felt his erection straining between them.