by Nancy Thayer
* * *
—
“Hey, Isabelle!” Keely fell back on her pillows. “I haven’t heard from you in forever.”
“Sorry, and sorry to call so late. Did I wake you up?”
“Nope. Just trying to drag my weary body to bed. Will I see you next week?”
“No, but listen, Keely, I’ve met someone! Gordon Whitehead—could there be a more terrible name? But he’s handsome and smart and kind and maybe a little bit wealthy. His family has a house in the Adirondacks. And I’m going there for Thanksgiving. But they live in Greenwich. Gordy’s a history guy, all about the Middle Ages, I love him but he could put me to sleep talking about mace and mead. Good name for a pub, isn’t it? The Mace and Mead.”
Keely laughed at her friend’s exuberance. Gordon Whitehead of the Mace and Mead pub sounded perfect for Isabelle.
“What does he look like?”
“Okay, he’s not really tall, kind of on the short side, but he’s got broad shoulders and a massive chest, and thick auburn hair and brown eyes and he wears tortoiseshell glasses. His father manages hedge funds. My father will adore him!”
Keely hadn’t heard Isabelle sound so happy for a long time. Actually, she realized as she listened to her friend babble on and on, she hadn’t heard Isabelle’s voice for a long time. They were both so busy, Keely working and writing—although Isabelle didn’t know she was writing. No one did except her mother, who muttered vaguely supportive clichés when Keely spoke about her novel.
“I only managed two pages today!” Keely would cry, and her mother would say, “Many a mickle makes a muckle,” which was an actual Scottish proverb.
Isabelle was rambling on. “I met his younger sister, Giselle, when she came to tour Smith. I like her a lot. We had dinner together, Giselle and Gordon and I, and it was the best time! His family is so cultured. I mean, I’ve traveled a little bit, but the Whiteheads have been everywhere.”
She’s traveled a little bit, Keely thought sarcastically. Isabelle, who had gone abroad every single summer of her life, thought she’d traveled a little bit. Keely wanted to put the phone down and weep. Well, she was tired, tired from cleaning other people’s toilets and kitchen floors.
Keely had intended for days to tell Isabelle she was seeing Tommy, often, as a friend, but after hearing Isabelle’s chorus of rapture, she was too tired to mention him.
Oh, and how would Tommy feel when he learned about the cultured Gordon?
Keely’s heart stung a little bit for Tommy, who was as sexy as hell but who never would be called sophisticated.
“Are you coming home for Christmas?” Keely asked when Isabelle had to stop talking to draw breath.
“No. The family’s going to New York. Rockefeller Center, Christmas lights, a new play, the usual.”
The usual? Did Isabelle know how smug she sounded, how heartlessly spoiled?
“Gordon’s going to meet us there on Boxing Day. He’s bringing his sister down for a few days in the city. They’ll stay at their father’s club, the Knickerbocker.”
“Boxing Day? Wow, Isabelle, that all sounds terribly posh.”
“Do you know where the word posh comes from?”
“So sorry, m’lady, I don’t.”
Isabelle didn’t catch the sarcasm. “When England was an empire and India belonged to it, British people had to travel to India by ocean. And it was so hot down around India, people chose their cabins by which ones got less sun during the voyage. Port side out, starboard side home. Posh, get it?”
“Fabulously interesting,” Keely said, exhausted by her day of work, irritated by all this posh talk.
“Oh, don’t be so contemptuous, Keely. We’ve both always loved words.”
“You’re right. It’s true. Forgive me.” She took a deep yoga breath. “I’m happy for you, Isabelle.”
“I can’t wait for you to meet him, but I don’t know how soon that can be, because we’re talking about going skiing up in Vermont during January break.”
Keely listened. Said the appropriate words. When their call ended, Keely knew that she and Isabelle were worlds apart. And drifting even farther from each other. It made her very sad.
* * *
—
Christmas at Keely’s house was casual because her mother worked two shifts. Tommy was flying out to Vegas with his buddies over Christmas break, and Keely was glad. She didn’t want to be his rebound lover. She didn’t know what she wanted to be, except a novelist.
This Christmas, Keely was especially happy because the Lambrechts, a wealthy family from Texas, were spending the holiday in their picture-perfect brick house on Main Street. Keely was invited to be their housekeeper, hostess, and maid, bringing the exquisite heirloom platters loaded with turkey or ham or roast beef to the table and invisibly ensuring that the party of twelve never had an empty glass of wine. In the kitchen, Cindy Starbuck was in charge, stirring the gravy, telling her assistant it was time to take the rolls from the oven, not that oven, the other one. Cindy and the kitchen staff wore white shirts and white aprons, but Keely was expected to look appropriately festive because she was opening doors, serving the food, and generally moving quietly among the party.
She worked for the Lambrechts all day Christmas Eve and most of Christmas Day. She was paid a wage of sixty dollars an hour, and Dr. Lambrecht added an astonishing tip.
“Oh! Thank you, Dr. Lambrecht.” Keely almost curtsied.
“Thank you,” Dr. Lambrecht said.
Keely walked down to the main street of town. It was after nine and all the shops were closed. Her mother was working at the hospital—two women were in labor. Her friends were with their families. Keely wasn’t really lonely. She liked being alone. She liked this stretch of time just before the calendar tipped them over into a pristine new year. In her tote she carried seven Tupperware containers filled with delicious food Cindy had given her.
Historically, Nantucket had been populated by strong women who kept the town’s economy going while their husbands were off hunting whales. Keely strolled around the tic-tac-toe streets of town, nodding with affection at Stephanie’s and Vis-A-Vis and Hepburn and Zero Main and Bookworks and the Hub and of course Murray’s Toggery. Year-round women worked on this island, keeping it alive and vital. Keely was proud to be part of this group.
She was also glad that in the coming winter months she wouldn’t have much work to do for Clean Sweep.
Which meant she could seriously concentrate on writing her novel.
* * *
—
On a blustery late December morning, Keely drove out to Surfside to walk on the beach. The wind tossed the waves about like a child splashing in a tub. Huge ruffles of white towered and collapsed on the shore, hissing as they were pulled back into the sea. Keely was dressed for the wind. She wore a down jacket and a wool knit hat that fit tight to her head so the wind couldn’t blow it off.
She loved being here, and wished she had come more often. The ocean was so expansive, so full of relentless, reckless energy. She felt she was breathing in that energy with every step she took. She ambled along at the edge of the waves until she knew her face was almost frozen from the cold. She turned around and began to walk back.
In the distance, coming toward her, was a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his figure was familiar. Keely’s heart leapt in her throat before she had even said his name.
He came closer, his blond hair mashed beneath a wool cap, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.
When they were face-to-face, he said, “Keely.”
“Sebastian.”
They smiled. And for a moment, they only gazed at each other, smiling, warming one another with the affection in their eyes.
“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in Sweden or New York with your family.”
“I came
home to check on a few things.”
Her love for this man bloomed all over her body. It was two years since she’d seen him. He was older, more adult, still the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.
She felt like a flower opening to the sun.
Don’t be an idiot, Keely told herself, and asked, “How’s Ebba?”
“She’s good. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I’m working for Clean Sweep and doing odd jobs, and when I have time, I’m trying to write.”
They had turned and were walking side by side now, with the wind buffeting them and the ocean roaring and tumbling next to them.
“You’re still serious about writing.”
“I am. Writing every spare moment I can find.”
“You sound like Isabelle.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, she’s just been accepted to some writers’ group out in the Berkshires. She’s going to live there for two or three years and do nothing but write.”
Keely’s heart stopped.
“She got accepted by the Berkshire Writers’ Colony?”
“That’s it. That’s the name.” He grinned. “You two girls were always writing when you were kids. Books or stories or newspapers.”
“Yes,” Keely said softly, “I remember when you drew a bee for me and didn’t tell anyone you’d done it.”
And as she spoke, she sank to her knees by the edge of the surging waves and buried her face in her hands.
“Keely. Are you okay?”
Her words were muffled by her gloves. “Fine. I’m fine. Just…memories.” Let him think she was crying because of her childhood friendship with Isabelle. She was crying, helplessly, because Isabelle had been accepted by the writers’ colony, and Keely hadn’t even heard from them.
Sebastian knelt next to Keely. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. “Did you apply to the colony, too?”
Keely couldn’t answer.
He held her close. “The colony isn’t everything, Keely. Writing isn’t everything.”
But to her, it was. As her sobbing ebbed, she realized she was in Sebastian’s arms, where she had always longed to be. If she turned her head, she could kiss him.
But she was in his arms because he pitied her, and before everything else, he was Isabelle’s brother. Have some dignity! she admonished herself. Keely choked back her tears. She gently pushed away from Sebastian’s embrace and stood up.
“Sorry. I get emotional when I’m tired.”
Sebastian rose, too. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her tight, making her face him. “Listen, Keely,” he began.
Something broke in her, something carried by the force of the waves made her brave. “No, you listen. All my life I’ve wanted everything you Maxwells have. I wanted to live in your wonderful house. I wanted Isabelle to be my real sister, and I wanted you—” She straightened her shoulders and held back her tears. “I wanted you,” she finished. She turned and walked away on the edge of the beach where the waves had made the sand hard.
“Keely,” Sebastian called.
She didn’t turn around.
She ran up the sand dune toward the parking lot and her car.
A thread of words spun through her mind: Ebba was fine, Isabelle had been accepted by the colony. Sebastian was with Ebba. Isabelle had been accepted by the colony.
She drove home, still choking back tears. The house was warm when she entered. Her mother was at work. She leaned against the door and let her tears flow.
Then she noticed the mail scattered on the floor, pushed in through the mail slot.
She spotted an envelope with the Berkshire Writers’ Colony as the return address.
Her heart stopped in her throat. Her tears froze.
She snatched up the envelope and tore it open.
Two pages. One, a standard “we regret to inform you” letter.
The next was a private note, handwritten, from a woman novelist Keely idolized.
Hi, Keely Green,
I’m sorry we didn’t have room for you in our new group, but I wanted to tell you how very much I like the writing that you sent us. If you finish this novel, you could write to Sally Hazlitt at the Hazlitt and Hopkins Literary Agency. Tell them that I recommended you. In fact, I’m dropping a note to Sally today.
Best wishes,
Liane Harington
Keely, wrapped in sweatpants and a flannel shirt, had settled on the sofa where she could enjoy the lights of their Christmas tree while she started one of the five books her mother had given her for Christmas.
Her cell buzzed. She considered letting it go to voicemail, but with Isabelle gone, Janine was her closest friend.
“Merry Christmas! Guess what, I got you a fabulous present!”
“Merry Christmas, Janine. When do I get my present?”
“On New Year’s Eve. We’re going to the Nantucket Hotel party. Champagne, dinner, and a live band!”
“Thanks, Janine, but I might babysit New Year’s Eve.”
“That is not allowed. I don’t care how much money you’ll make. If you keep working and hiding away in your house, you’ll turn into one of those eccentric old women with facial hair who hoards cat food!”
Keely laughed. “I’m not that bad.”
“Not yet. That’s why you’ve got to come to the party with me.”
“Who else is going?”
“Sarah B. and Sarah N. for sure. The usual suspects. Hey, think about it this way. You’ll get more material for your books.”
“Okay, I’ll go. And thank you.”
“You want to know what your present is to me?”
Keely laughed again. “Tell me.”
“There’s a sexy little black dress at Hepburn. I tried it on. I told them to hold it. Because it costs exactly as much as a ticket to the New Year’s Eve party. You can buy it for me.”
“Janine, you should run the town.”
“Hang on, Keely, that might happen one day.”
* * *
—
The ballroom was packed. Colorful helium balloons floated above the crowd. Waiters bustled about removing dishes and glasses. Dinner was over. The band was setting up. Women hurried to refresh their makeup. Men—and some women—stepped out on the deck to enjoy a cigarette. Waiters skimmed through the room setting champagne flutes on the tables.
“I’m so glad you invited me,” Keely yelled at Janine.
“Me, too!” Janine yelled back.
Their gang had a round table for eight, all girlfriends of Keely, all looking smashing in bright silks and extravagant jewelry, and all of them, including Keely, with rosy cheeks from the champagne they’d already enjoyed.
Keely wore a figure-hugging sleeveless velvet dress. Janine had come over earlier that day to put Keely’s brown hair up in a curly mass at the back of her head, with slender red and gold ribbons wound through here and there. With Janine at her side to egg her on, Keely layered her eyes with smoky shadow and black liner. She wore scarlet lipstick—she’d never worn such a bright color before. She felt a bit like a 1950s doxy and when she told Janine that, Janine said, “You feel like a dachshund?”
“No, no, ‘doxy’ means a mistress, maybe for a gangster.” For a moment, Keely was pierced with longing for Isabelle, who would know exactly what a doxy was, and what books and films it had been in.
But Isabelle was with Gordon Whitehead, skiing in Vermont.
The band started with “Love Shack” and slid into “Little Red Corvette.” By the time they played “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” the dance floor was packed. Keely and Janine danced with each other at first. After only a moment, Janine’s eyes went wide. Keely felt a tap on her shoulder.
Turning, she looked into Tommy’s black eyes.
“You’re back
from Vegas!” Keely yelled.
He only smiled at her—no one could hear anything but the music. He pulled her into the center of the dance floor. The music continued, fast and loud and manic.
Tommy was an excellent dancer, catching the beat and making it belong to him, slowing the music down as he silkily moved his shoulders, his back, his hips. He sauntered through the music. Gradually, Keely changed her movements from frantic screaming hopping waving madness to catch Tommy’s more languid style. It was amazing. She felt like her body was a dam, filled to bursting with desire, and the fast dancing splashed the desire all over the place but the slow dancing kept everything inside, so her yearning was contained and pressing against her skin.
Tommy knew how to make her want him. He brought his mouth closer to hers. Closer. She couldn’t get her breath, but she had enough pride—or maybe it was an instinctive primitive understanding—that she didn’t move her face toward him to kiss him. Another grin. He moved his mouth slowly and touched her lips. Her eyes were still open, but Tommy’s eyes were closed, and she closed her eyes, and all the world existed right there, in the silk of his mouth, the sweetness of his breath, the wetness of his tongue.
He put both arms around her, pressing his hands against her buttocks, pulling her against him, pulling her to fit him, and she put her arms up around his neck and bravely ran her hands up into his thick black hair. She kissed him back. She pressed her breasts against his chest. She felt his erection against her pelvis and nearly melted into the floor.
For the rest of the night, whether the music was fast or slow, Keely and Tommy danced slowly, locked together, kissing or smiling at each other, and then kissing again. When the night ended, Tommy kept his arm around her waist and waved to his gang of friends, and escorted Keely out of the hotel to his car. When they got there, Tommy leaned her against the door and leaned himself against her. He smiled down at her, and put a strand of hair behind her ear, and kissed that ear, and her cheek, and slowly, teasingly, moved to her mouth. She knew what was happening now. She knew she was caught in a current of sensation, like the current off the south shore of the island. You couldn’t fight it. You had to go with it, and sooner or later you’d be free and could swim to shore. If you wanted to.