Summer Secrets (24 page)

“What are those goggles?” They are white plastic with tiny black holes to see out of.

“I stole them from the spray-tan place. Aren’t they fab? I couldn’t bear to have panda eyes again after the whole Ray-Ban Aviator fiasco last summer. So? How was the meeting?”

“Well, oddly enough, it was all rather exciting. Actually, that’s not true, the meeting itself wasn’t that exciting, although it was really good. In fact, it may have been one of the best meetings I’ve ever been to.”

“Really? What makes a good meeting?”

I always wonder whether Sam is being facetious or whether he is genuine when he asks about AA, but he takes his goggles off and makes eye contact, without a smirk, so I know it’s genuine.

“Strong recovery makes a good meeting. Old-timers. People who have been sober for years and years, who are really living in recovery. They work the steps, over and over, for years. They’re never not working them. They speak to a sponsor every day, and they have sponsees. They show people like me how to do it a day at a time. Plus I hear amazing slogans, things that just make sense to me, or help me.”

I look at Annie, who doesn’t move a muscle and has her earplugs in. This may mean she has Bruno Mars at full volume, or may mean that she is pretending to listen while eavesdropping. Hard to tell which. At this moment, even if she’s listening, it is fine. I used to have such shame in admitting I am an alcoholic, at anyone knowing I was an alcoholic, at my child, of all people, knowing that not only was I not perfect, but I was as flawed as this.

As if she didn’t already know.

I tried to hide it from her, begged Jason not to tell her, but then realized I had to come clean, that it was better for everyone. Now I talk about it openly, and Annie has come to accept it as a way of life. I have no idea whether she will turn to alcohol, whether it is in her blood as it is in mine, but I do know that if she is an addict, whatever her addiction happens to be—drink, sugar, shopping, sex—she will know that there is another path, and for that I am now grateful.

“So what did you hear today?”

I’m not supposed to talk about what happens in meetings. It is a spoken rule, so clear that we end every meeting by saying, “Who you see here, what you hear here, when you leave here, let it stay here.”

But for God’s sake, I’m human. As long as I’m not saying who said what, surely it’s okay to pass on a little?

“Someone used the phrase ‘itty bitty shitty committee,’ which I thought was sheer bloody genius.”

“Definitely genius,” agrees Sam. “What does it mean?”

“They were talking about stinking thinking, which is another one that I’ve always loved. How they thought they always knew best, they were in control of everything. Their itty bitty shitty committee.”

He gasps with pleasure. “Can I steal it?”

“Absolutely. It’s yours.”

“Any other gems?”

“I remember in my home meeting in London, a girl once said she had been dating the same guy for ten years. Only his name kept changing.”

“Ooh, that’s good. But that didn’t resonate, surely? You haven’t dated anyone.”

“Thanks for that. But no, it didn’t resonate, I just thought it was a great concept. Maybe I’ll use it in the novel I’ll probably never get round to writing. Someone else said who else but them gets to have a meeting with God every day. God being a group of drunks. I quite liked that one. But then afterward I ended up going for coffee with this fantastic woman from the meeting, and…,” This time I glance at Annie and do lower my voice. “She’s invited us all for dinner tomorrow night and she has a hunky son she wants to introduce me to.”

Sam slowly sits up. “Great. You’ve met a complete stranger who may well turn out to be an ax murderer, and we’re going into the lion’s den tomorrow night.”

“She’s not an ax murderer. I asked. She’s a Realtor. And house manager. And a few other things, but she’s really nice, and anyway, she knows my family.”

“But you can’t check her out because you’re not in touch with your family.”

“Trust me. She’s fine.”

He raises an eyebrow. “She’s an alcoholic.”

“Oh, ha ha. We’re going.”

“You’re sure you’re comfortable flirting with Mr. Handsome with young you-know-who around?” He gestures to Annie, who still hasn’t moved a muscle, and so presumably is still not eavesdropping.

It is true there has been nothing physical since Jason. I have never had to think about how Annie would react if I suddenly announced I was going out with someone, or brought someone home she had never met before. I presume she would be fine. I like to think of my daughter as well rounded, secure, polite, but God knows I have heard horror stories from other people about children of divorce who make the second marriages hell.

I wrote a story on it last year. The reason most second marriages break up, I had read, was because of the children. I found three case studies, and each one was heartbreaking. The children hated their new stepparent, resented them, causing more friction than any reasonable person could endure, trying to force their parent into making a choice, so much so that it ended up breaking the marriages apart.

I remember being horrified at some of the things these children, and their stepparents, had done, before realizing that I was in that same boat, or at least hoped one day to be. I hoped to meet someone, to settle down, even to marry again, and na
ï
vely presumed that Annie would be thrilled to have a family again, a man in the house, never thinking that she might do everything in her power to get rid of him.

Sadly, I have never discovered how she would react because there hasn’t been the slightest sniff of anything since I broke up with Jason. The one time I actually found someone sexy, a minor actor in a major TV series who flirted with me outrageously at the press launch and demanded my phone number, sending me home in a cab almost delirious with excitement, he turned out to be married.

Thank you for that, Google.

Not that he ever phoned.

I look at Sam. “I wouldn’t be flirting. Not tomorrow night, anyway. And even if he is gorgeous, he probably wouldn’t be interested in me.”

“Now why would you think that? You’re one hell of a sexy woman, plus you have the English accent, which over here seems to go down a storm. If I could find out where the gay men congregate, I could have myself a seriously good time.”

“What if there aren’t any gay men on Nantucket?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. There are gay men everywhere. It’s just a question of weeding them out. Although it would have been so much easier in P-town. Next time, Cat, we’re going to Provincetown. Next time it’s all about me.”

“I love you.” I blow him a kiss as he lies down and places the goggles over his eyes again. “And I thought it was always about you.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “I have trained you well.”

*   *   *

We swim in a surprisingly still ocean, although Annie suddenly freaks out about sharks and runs out of the water, refusing to get back in.

“Are there sharks here?” asks Sam quietly, so Annie doesn’t hear. “Because if there are, I’m getting out of the fucking water too.”

“
Jaws
was filmed in Menemsha,” I say. “Which is not very far.” Sam looks terrified and starts to move toward shore. “
Jaws
also featured a mechanical shark. We are fine. Anyway, the sharks don’t come here. They’re all over in Sconset.”

“How on earth would you know that?”

“Because Julia told me never to go skinny-dipping there. It’s where they fish, so there are always sharks. Julia’s friends all used to come over to Galley Beach to swim at night. Much safer.”

“What about Steps Beach?” Sam looks around, worried.

“Safe. No fishing.”

“I think I’ll get out now anyway,” he says. “Isn’t it nearly time for lunch?”

Twenty-five

I take them both to Something Natural for lunch. The line is short, miracle of miracles, and we each order sandwiches, bags of chips, and Diet Coke—my one indulgence since getting sober—then go outside to sit at a picnic table, waiting for our name to be called. We watch families with kids play in the boat on the grass, feeling as if we are in the middle of the countryside, this field overlooking a wildflower meadow just beyond an old wooden split-rail fence.

I warn Sam and Annie about staying out of the sun, feeling suddenly like the mother of both. “Just because you spray-painted your skin dark bronze doesn’t mean you built up any protection,” I say to Sam. “You have to be careful. I think your shoulders are a fierce angry red underneath all the fake tan.”

“They are a bit sore,” he says, wincing as I press his skin to see the white mark left by my thumb. When I say white, I mean dark bronze, but a definite big change of color.

“You’re burnt to a crisp,” I say. “Why don’t we stay out of the sun for the rest of the afternoon? Maybe we should walk around town. You can buy a baseball hat to protect your face, because your cheeks are lobster red too.”

*   *   *

We leave Something Natural, stuffed from enormous sandwiches crammed with turkey, Swiss cheese, avocado, and fresh, juicy tomatoes, and go to town, weaving our way in and out of the stores, and I know where we are heading, I know we will eventually make our way down to the water, to the pretty little stores, in one of which sits, possibly, Julia. But the meeting this morning was the very best thing I could have done, and all of a sudden I am ready, ready to see her again, ready to say what I have to say and get on with the business of vacation.

Deep down I hope that Abigail is right. I hope this is an amends that Julia will have practically forgotten about. “Oh, we were so young!” she might say. “Aidan was a waster!” She will laugh. “You did me a favor!”

Or, “Who?”

We step onto the dock, and a wave of anxiety washes over me.

“Why don’t you take Annie for an ice cream?” I say, trying to communicate with my eyes that I need to do something important.

“Oh! Okay!” Sam says, steering Annie across the street as I walk down the dock, suddenly wishing I didn’t have to do this, knowing I have no choice.

There is her name above the shop. Julia Mayhew. It doesn’t surprise me that she has her own business, that she is probably successful. Julia struck me not only as creative but as scrappy. She was someone who could always manage to get herself out of trouble. Outside there are mannequins, pretty knitted shawls draped around their shoulders, in fine cashmere, lacy knits. I pick up one and marvel at the tiny stitches, at how beautiful and fine they are. Exquisite beaded necklaces, doubtless beaded by Julia herself, semiprecious gemstones studded with pearls, hang around the mannequins’ necks. I pick up a price tag from behind a neck, thinking I might buy one for myself, thinking how lovely it is, but it is thirteen hundred dollars, so clearly it is not destined for
my
neck.

The Haves and the Have Mores, I think. Good for Julia, recognizing she can charge this much, recognizing there will always be people who will pay. I look at the cashmere scarf. Nine hundred dollars. Good Lord.

The Haves and the Have Mores.

I hesitate outside, take a deep breath, and walk into the tiny shop, making eye contact with the girl behind the counter. She is not Julia. It may have been years, but this is not Julia, although in looks they are similar. This is a young girl, too young, it seems, to be working in a shop, although granted, I remember having a Saturday job in a shop when I was fourteen. She has a sweet smile, a familiar smile, as she says hello and asks if she can help.

“I was wondering if Julia Mayhew was around?” My voice catches in my throat, signaling my nerves, if only to myself.

“She’s just in the back. Let me get her for you,” she says, going to a curtain and poking her head around. I watch her move, almost unable to breathe, there is something so achingly familiar about her. “Jules? There’s someone here to see you!”

Jules. I didn’t expect that. I realize I was expecting her to say “Mom.” Of course she is familiar; she has the same hair as Annie, the same dark skin as me. But it is just coincidence. Jules. Not
Mom.
She is not my niece.

Julia steps out from behind the curtain, with me unable to take my eyes off her. Age has been kind to her. She is stockier than when I last saw her, and it suits her. She looks more solid, grounded. Her skin is tanned and clear, barely a line on her face. She looks fantastic, far better than I would have expected, although God knows what I expected. That she would have led a hard life, I think. A life filled with drink, maybe drugs, probably countless affairs. I expected her to have had it rough, and I expected it to show on her face.

She was with Aidan when I was here all those years ago, but she was a partier. I realize I presumed her life had followed a trajectory similar to mine, living life hard, squeezing out every last drop.

“I’m Julia,” she says, extending a hand with a warm smile, an expectant look on her face as she takes my hand, and I have no idea what to say. And as we stand there, clasping hands, forgetting to let go as we look into each other’s eyes, recognition starts to dawn, and I swear to God I watch the smile literally slide off her face as she gasps.

“Oh my God,” she says finally. “It’s
you.
”

Twenty-six

We walk to the end of the wharf, to Cru, where we grab a sofa in the lounge area, next to the beautiful people who have left their yachts for cocktails under the canopy.

She orders a glass of prosecco. I stick with a seltzer and lime.

“I remember this when it was Morning Glory.” She looks around. “When George and Bruce tempted you with these incredible waffles that had cream cheese frosting. I worked here a couple of summers. We had the most decadent staff parties you can imagine.”

Is this how it is going to be, I wonder? Small talk? Avoiding talking about the real stuff, keeping it light. Although she is surprisingly warm, which is not what I expected. I thought she would be cold, unforgiving, but she is smiling and sweet.

She looks around the restaurant, cranes her head to see who’s sitting in one of the great big wooden wing chairs outdoors, waves at various people across the way, gestures for the waiter, who of course knows her—everyone knows her—to refill her glass.