Summer Secrets (28 page)

“I’m Eddie,” says mine, and yes, I’m sorry, but I’ve already decided he’s mine.

“I’m Sam,” says Sam, shaking hands with both of them.

“So which one of you is Abigail’s son?”

Both burst out laughing. “I’m just here to help fix the grill,” says Billy. “Eddie’s a genius with wood but doesn’t know the first thing about gas.”

“Thanks, buddy.” Eddie lets out an easy laugh. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Only if you have a beer, which I know you don’t.” Billy grins. “Nice to meet you all.” He looks at us before heading for the door, as I close my eyes and offer a silent thank-you to the gods.

“Come outside,” he says. “We’re all set up out there, and you can meet Brad Pitt.”

*   *   *

I used to hate small talk. I would crease up with anxiety when I found myself standing with someone new at a cocktail party, ease the fears with a few glasses of something.

I don’t seem to do small talk anymore. I’m having a very hard time even remembering what it is. Something in me has shifted to the point where I know, very quickly, what the heart of the matter is, and it has brought extraordinary connections into my life.

I think it is because I am now so used to sharing in meetings, and being brutally honest, out of habit I find myself doing the same thing in, well,
civilian
life. I’m seeing a difference in how people are around me. It’s as if me revealing my true self, flaws and all, allows people to drop their guard, to feel safe enough to reveal their true selves to me in turn.

It’s not unusual anymore for me that when I go to a party—not that I go to a tremendous amount of parties, but when I do go—I walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a room full of friends, and not just superficial ones, but people who have bared their souls in a very short space of time. I don’t necessarily ever even see them again, but we have bonded, have connected in a very real way by letting down our guards.

So it is tonight. We all instantly connect, have real conversations, and all of us are high on the excitement of finding each other. Sam is completely enthralled by Eddie. Who wouldn’t be enthralled by Eddie? How is it possible, in fact, that Eddie hasn’t been snapped up by some great woman?

Forty-two and still single. Forty-two and never been married. There must be something wrong with him, I think. Who gets to be forty-two and unmarried unless there’s a serious problem?

I think of Alex, a television producer I met years ago when I was at the
Daily Gazette.
I did a piece on one of his shows, and we became friends, and he’s still, often, my unofficial “walker” when I need a date.

We both must have been around thirty when we first met. He was incredibly handsome, and funny. Oh my God, Alex used to make me laugh more than anyone else I’d ever met. I have absolutely no idea why I never fancied him, because he should have been my type completely, but from the get-go he always felt more like a brother to me.

Plus, Alex dated the most beautiful women in the world; there was no way I could ever compete. I didn’t bother trying. He had the most terrible reputation as a heartbreaker, and it was true, he moved through women in the way I move through a box of chocolates—with tremendous speed and purpose, barely stopping to appreciate what I’ve got.

Until he met Sara. Sara was not his type. She was kind of ordinary. Quiet, even. A bit mousy, as tiny as a doll, with a slightly odd, asymmetrical face, and crazy smart. She is a lecturer in political science, and had she been in a roomful of women that I had to pick out for Alex, she might possibly have been the absolute last person I would have chosen. Too short, too ordinary, too … pedestrian. Alex had always been with women who stopped traffic. This woman was almost invisible.

None of it made sense, and I waited for the text to say it was all over and did I know any women to set him up with. It didn’t come.

Alex dropped off the face of the planet with Sara. He wasn’t at parties, or ringing to ask me to TV awards. There was radio silence for a few months, and the next thing I knew, I had received an invitation to his engagement party. His engagement to Sara. The librarian (which is how I have always thought of her in my mind).

Alex the commitment phobe was making a commitment. All those women, those dozens and dozens of women who had sat on my sofa crying, were wrong about him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make a commitment; it was that he didn’t want to make a commitment to
them.

There was nothing wrong with Alex other than that he picked badly, and as soon as he met the right woman, he settled down. Six months ago they had a baby. In his late forties, Alex is happier than he ever thought possible, and no one, none of us, ever thought this would happen to Alex.

It taught me not to make assumptions about people. It taught me not to look at this perfect specimen of manhood sitting in front of me and assume there must be something wrong with him.

I suppress a yawn—oh God! Please stop me yawning!—and look over at Eddie, wondering if it is the same story. Wondering if he has just been waiting for the right woman to settle down. Knowing that it’s highly unlikely that I’m the right woman, but perhaps I could be the woman for right now.

Or perhaps the stirring in my loins, a stirring I haven’t felt for a very long time, can be satisfied by Eddie. Not forever. Just for a holiday fling. I blink and swim back into the conversation, realizing I have no idea what he’s been talking about for the last ten minutes, my mind far away, on Alex, and commitment, and finally, naughtily, deliciously, on sex.

“… so my dad died a few months ago, and it kind of feels like I’ve been set free,” Eddie is saying. “My grief felt much more like relief. It’s why I stayed away from the island for so long. I came back a free man.”

“I felt exactly the same way when my dad died,” I say. “Relief. He wasn’t actually my biological dad, although I didn’t know that until after he died. But that sense of relief, and guilt. I was never what he wanted, he clearly didn’t like or approve of me, yet I’m the one who felt guilty!” I let out a wry smile.

“How could he not approve of
you
?” Eddie says.

“I was very different from him, not unsurprisingly.”

“But look at you! You’re gorgeous, and successful, and sweet. He must have had a big problem.”

“He did,” I say, but my ears are buzzing. All I can hear is what he just said. I’m gorgeous! Sweet! He, this man to whom I am growing more and more attracted as the minutes tick by, thinks I’m gorgeous! And sweet!

I realize I am high. High on the excitement, the possibility, the flirtation, for that is surely what this is. High on the fact that after all this time, someone as great as this is actually interested in me. Finally!

Abigail comes to the back door and calls me inside.

“Would you mind helping me with this salad?” she asks, sliding a wooden chopping board and a bunch of tomatoes over to me. “Just slice the tomatoes and the basil, would you, Cat?” She peers out the window to where Sam is chuckling over something Eddie has said. “Are you having fun outside?”

“Huge fun,” I say. “Your son is lovely.”

“He is,” she says, a look of sadness crossing her face. “I just wish he would settle down with the right woman.”

“I’m pretty sure a divorced mother who lives in London isn’t the right woman.”

“You are a Mayhew, my dear. You may live in London now, but who knows what the future holds?” She winks at me.

I go to the window, realizing I can hear everything Sam and Eddie are saying.

“She’s pretty great,” I hear Eddie say.

“She is.”

“How do you guys know each other?”

And Sam starts to tell Eddie about how we met.

*   *   *

By 8:45 I am more than clear that I fancy Eddie. Fancy him in the way I haven’t fancied anyone in a very long time. I love the way he moves, the strength in his arms, his politeness and attentiveness.

When I talk, Eddie looks deep into my eyes. He asks lots of questions, seems genuinely interested in what I have to say, but I have absolutely no idea whether he might be attracted to me. I do know he thinks I’m gorgeous. And sweet. And pretty great.

Is that enough? Does that mean he’s interested? Suddenly I feel like a lovesick sixteen-year-old, analyzing every word he’s said, trying to figure out if that look means something more.

I’m starting to get tired. I know I’m not supposed to think in English time, but I realize it’s after two o’clock in the morning where I’m from, and this makes me yawn even more, which I try very hard not to do, because as we all know, yawning begets yawning.

But I can’t stop.

“You’re tired! Nearly done. Will you stay for dessert?” Abigail shoots me a concerned glance. I am desperate to go to bed, but desperate for more time with Eddie. Sam, on the other hand, seems to be absolutely fine, and I have no idea how that is possible.

There is now a chill in the air. Eddie stands up and grabs the wrap from the back of my chair and wraps it around me, as a warm glow starts to spread in my heart.

Abigail takes dessert from the fridge, a blueberry pie she made this morning. We decide it’s too cold to stay outside, so we’ll all go in to the kitchen for dessert. Sam goes to the bathroom, leaving Eddie and me to clear the table. We don’t talk, but we smile at each other as we move around the table gathering things up, our hands brushing each other’s as we both reach for the salt at the same time, and I laugh, awkwardly.

God. I have forgotten how to do this. I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to act, other than like a lovestruck teenager.

“Do you guys want to come to the Club Car?” Eddie says suddenly. “There’s a great pianist this evening. It’s a fun night, should be filled with islanders. It will give you a taste of what Nantucket’s really like.”

I want to go. There’s nothing I want to do more. I have visions of Eddie and me squeezed together in a bar, sexual tension wrapping itself around us. I look at Sam, wondering if he might possibly bow out, might realize his presence would not be a good thing, but he is clearly considering the possibility.

And I yawn again, and shake my head. There is nothing I want to do more than continue this evening with Eddie, but I can’t. I just haven’t got it in me.

“I’ve got to get back to bed,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’m on English time, and the jet lag is killing me. Another time?” I add hopefully.

“Absolutely,” he says, turning to Sam. “How about you?”

“You know, I really don’t feel jet-lagged at all,” says Sam. “I’d love to.”

*   *   *

I grab Sam in the hallway.

“How are you not tired? I’m almost dizzy. This is completely unfair.”

“I bought something called a five-hour energy drink,” he confesses. “I took it at seven. It’s great! I really do feel filled with energy.”

“Thanks!” I mutter. “You could have got one for me.”

“I will next time. Promise to tell you all about it.”

“I hate you,” I say.

“I know.” He puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. “I’ll be sure to get home safe.”

Thirty

I wake up briefly when Annie comes in to give me a kiss after Julia dropped her home, then sleep the sleep of the dead, until I open my eyes and look at the alarm clock, and it’s 7:43 a.m. After the past two days of waking up at 3 and 4 a.m., this feels like the lie-in of the century. I have missed the morning meeting, but clearly I needed to sleep more.

*   *   *

I open my eyes again and it’s 10:24 a.m. Oh my God! I went back to sleep. Annie! Sam! Where is everyone? I jump out of bed, completely bleary-eyed, and go to the stairs.

“Annie? Sam? Hello?”

No answer.

I go to Annie’s room and quietly push the door open, and there she is, fast asleep on her bed, her face as relaxed as a baby’s. I smile, then pad down the hallway to Sam’s room, gently push his door as well, and he too is fast asleep.

It seems the jet lag caught up with all of us.

I slip on yesterday’s shorts and T-shirt, slide my feet into the flip-flops by the back door, and jump in the car to go grab croissants and coffee, to bring back to the house.

*   *   *

“Morning!” Sam is almost ridiculously clich
é
d in the mornings, stretching his arms up like a great sleepy bear, yawning in the doorway as he stumbles into the kitchen.

I have been dying for him to wake up. The croissants are still warm, on a plate on the kitchen table, and I have made a bowl of berries to have with them. I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for Sam to get up, desperate to do the postmortem on last night, to find out what Sam thought of Eddie, whether he thought there was chemistry, and most important, to find out if Eddie said anything when they went out.

I’m sure he did. He must have done. I am desperate to know but have to pretend to make small talk before I go in for the kill.

“Late night?” I say, passing the plate of croissants over to him and pouring him some coffee.

“So late!” he groans. “God, it was completely wild in there. It’s good you didn’t come, actually. Big, big drinking. Everyone in there, I think. Do we have any painkillers?”

“I think there are some in the kitchen drawer.” I go to the kitchen drawer to find a bottle of Advil. “How many? Three? Four?”

“What? Are you crazy?” Sam looks at me in horror. “Who takes three or four painkillers, for God’s sake? Two!”

I feel a faint flush on my cheeks. I sometimes forget that I am a person of extremes, that other people,
normal
people, don’t overdo everything in their life. I have to do everything in my life to excess or I can’t feel it: coffee as strong and thick as mud, everything a little harder, faster,
more
. And then at times like these, I am embarrassed when I realize I have no idea what normal is.

I shake two out into my hand and give them to Sam with a glass of water, watching as he gratefully gulps them down.

“So, was it fun?”

“Oh God. Huge fun. I just wish I hadn’t had so much to drink. Lots of singing.”

“You? Singing? You must have been drunk.”