by Nancy Thayer
Jenny and Danny jumped up from their sand castles and began to gather sticks and rocks and shells to decorate them; Danny had taken off his shirt and his pale skin gleamed in the sunlight. Daisy watched her children, pleased at the sight of their small bodies. Just past them, the bright blue of the lake stretched out endlessly, the waves peaking up and down gently, flashing sparks of light when the sun hit just the right way. How beautiful the water was, Daisy thought, and how fortunate she was to be able to live near it. How fortunate she was to be able to sit out here on this luminous day, basking in the warmth of the sun, looking at the expanse of dancing blue. Yet it was the presence of her son and daughter, running back and forth by the water that pleased her most, she realized. She found them by far the most beautiful; they were so compact, so complete, so delineated and defined. She could gather them up in her arms and squeeze their solid responsive flesh; she could gather them against her in a way she could never hold the water. And it was that that she loved, she realized, it was the flesh. She loved the flesh, the sight, the textures, the smells, she loved the flesh best.
She stared at her children, marveling at them, stroking them in her thoughts, running her hands over their firm miraculous heads, down over their vulnerable necks, their delicately framed rib cages, their busy energetic arms. Their stomachs, she loved their fat full comical protruding stomachs, and she loved, oh, she loved their thighs, thighs so stuffed with life that they seemed full to bursting. Oh, the fat sweet goodness of the flesh, Daisy thought, it was so substantial, so receptive, so real. Now even the fatigue that mellowed her very bones seemed sweet, seemed pleasurable; she felt her body flowing with the pleasure of life.
So she did not have regrets. She did not regret her marriage to Paul, because it had brought her all this: her children, her house by the water. She did not regret the divorce, because it had brought her herself. She had learned to manage, she had learned to cope. So far she had made her life come out as she wanted it, she had arranged life more or less to her satisfaction. Someday she would come to love a man again, because someday the flesh of her children would not suffice and she would desire something larger and different—and if she was attractive to Jim Duncan and Jerry Reynolds now, now when she looked worse than she ever had in her life, then surely as the months went by and she was able to manage such monumental activities as losing some weight and doing exercises, surely she would find men who would want to touch her and love her and someday even share her life. What was not possible? Everything was possible. Daisy felt strong and immensely vital. She felt happy.
She heard Allison come out the kitchen door and looked over her shoulder to see the young girl walking out into the sun, carrying baby Susan in her arms.
“Don’t worry,” Allison said. “I heard her cry and thought she might like to join us out here. I’ve changed her and everything. She can hang around with us on the blanket for a while. We haven’t had a good chat for several days. I’ve got to tell her about my date last night. She’s two months old; it’s about time she started learning about men.”
Daisy watched as Allison and Ruth Anne settled the baby on the blanket. She listened for a moment as the two girls chattered to each other about the men they had been with the night before. Susan hunched about on the blanket, cooing and drooling, perfectly content. Daisy turned back to the sight of the water, thinking how nice these girls were, how nice. How nice life could be, she thought; I must remember this. I must save the memory of this afternoon to carry me through some rainy night.
And so she sat, relaxed and warm, buffeted by the sounds of her laughing moving children and her friends, and watched the sun sparkle on the water with a radiance that almost equaled the radiance of life.
This book is for my mother, Jane,
my sister Martha, and for Jean,
Robb, Dina, Vicki, Merry, Jill, Katherine, and Miriam
BY NANCY THAYER
Nantucket Sisters
A Nantucket Christmas
Island Girls
Summer Breeze
Heat Wave
Beachcombers
Summer House
Moon Shell Beach
The Hot Flash Club Chills Out
Hot Flash Holidays
The Hot Flash Club Strikes Again
The Hot Flash Club
Custody
Between Husbands and Friends
An Act of Love
Family Secrets
Everlasting
My Dearest Friend
Spirit Lost
Morning
Nell
Bodies and Souls
Three Women at the Water’s Edge
Stepping
PHOTO: © JESSICA HILLS PHOTOGRAPHY
NANCY THAYER is the New York Times bestselling author of Nantucket Sisters, Island Girls, Summer Breeze, Heat Wave, Beachcombers, Summer House, Moon Shell Beach, and The Hot Flash Club. She lives in Nantucket.
nancythayer.com
Facebook.com/NancyThayerBooks
Read on for an excerpt from Nancy Thayer’s
Nantucket Sisters
On sale now from Ballantine Books
It’s like a morning in heaven. From a blue sky, the sun, fat and buttery as one a child would draw in school, shines down on a sapphire ocean. Eleven-year-old Emily Porter stands at the edge of a cliff high above the beach, her blond hair rippled by a light breeze.
The edge of the cliff is an abrupt, jagged border, into which a small landing is built, with railings you can lean against, looking out at the sea. Before her, weathered wooden steps cut back and forth down the steep bluff to the beach.
Behind her lies the grassy lawn and their large gray summer house, so different from their apartment on East 86th Street in New York City.
Last night, as the Porters flew away from Manhattan, Emily looked down on the familiar fantastic panorama of sparkling lights, urging the plane onward with her excitement, with her longing to see the darkness and then, in the distance, the flash and flare of the lighthouse beacons.
Nantucket begins today.
Today, while her father plays golf and her beautiful mother, Cara, organizes the house, Emily is free to do as she pleases. And what she’s waited for all winter is to run down the street into the small village of ‘Sconset and along the narrow path to the cottages in Codfish Park, where she’ll knock on Maggie’s door.
First, she waves back at the ocean. Next, she turns and runs, half skipping, waving her arms, singing. She exults in the soft grass under her feet instead of hard sidewalk, salt air in her lungs instead of soot, the laughter of gulls instead of the blare of car horns, and the sweet perfume of new dawn roses.
She flies along past the old town water pump, past the ‘Sconset Market, past the post office, past Claudette’s Box Lunches. Down the steep cobblestoned hill to Codfish Park. Here, the houses used to be shacks where fishermen spread their nets to dry, so the roofs are low and the walls are ramshackle. Maggie’s house is a crooked, funny little place, but roses curl over the roof, morning glories climb up a trellis, and pansy faces smile from window boxes.
Before she can knock, the door flies open.
“Emily!” Maggie’s hair’s been cut into an elf’s cap and she’s taller than Emily now, and she has more freckles over her nose and cheeks.
Behind Maggie stands Maggie’s mother, Frances, wearing a red sundress with an apron over it. Emily’s never seen anyone but caterers and cooks wear an apron. It has lots of pockets. It makes Maggie’s mother look like someone from a book.
“You’re here!” Maggie squeals.
“Welcome back, Emily.” Frances smiles. “Come in. I’ve made gingerbread.”
The fragrant scent of ginger and sugar wafts out enticingly from the house, which is, Emily admits privately to her own secret self, the strangest place Emily’s ever seen. The living room’s in the kitchen; the sofa, armchairs, television set, and coffee table, all covered with books and games, are just on the other side of the round table from
the sink and appliances. In the dining room, a sewing machine stands on a long table, and piles of fabric bloom from every surface in a crazy hodgepodge. Frances is divorced and makes her living as a seamstress, which is why Emily’s parents aren’t crazy about her friendship with Maggie, who is only a poor island girl.
But Maggie and Emily have been best friends since they met on the beach when they were five years old. With Maggie, Emily is her true self. Maggie understands Emily in a way her parents never could. Now that the girls are growing up, Emily senses change in the air—but not yet. Not yet. There is still this summer ahead.
And summer lasts forever.
“I’d love some gingerbread, thank you, Mrs. McIntyre,” Emily says politely.
“Oh, holy moly, call her Frances.” Maggie tugs on Emily’s hand and pulls her into the house.
—
Maggie acts blasé and bossy around Emily, but the truth is, she’s always kind of astounded at the friendship she and Emily have created. Emily Porter is rich, the big fat New York/Nantucket rich.
In comparison, Maggie’s family is just plain poor. The McIntyres live on Nantucket year-round but are considered off-islanders, “wash-ashores,” because they weren’t born on the island. They came from Boston, where Frances grew up, met and married Billy McIntyre, and had two children with him. Soon after, they divorced, and he disappeared from their lives. When Maggie was a year old, Frances moved them all to the island, because she’d heard the island needed a good seamstress. She’s made a decent living for them—some women call Frances “a treasure.”
Still, it’s hard. It isn’t that kids made fun of Maggie at school. Lots of kids don’t have fathers, or have fathers who live in different houses or states. It’s a personal thing. The sight of a television show, even a television ad, with a little girl running to greet her father when he returns from work at the end of the day, or a bride in her white wedding gown being twirled on the dance floor by her beaming, loving father, can make a sadness stab through her all the way down into her stomach.
Plus, her life is so cramped by their lack of money.
When a friend asks her to go to a movie in the summer at the Dreamland Theater, Maggie always says no, thanks. She can’t ask her mom for the money. In the winter, when friends take a plane off island to Hyannis where they stay in a motel and swim in the heated pools and see movies on huge screens and shop at the mall, they ask Maggie along, but she never can go. She hates the things her mom makes for her out of leftover material saved from dresses she’s sewn for grown women. Frances always tries to make the clothes look like those bought in stores, but they aren’t bought in stores, and Maggie, and everyone else, knows it.
Frances never makes her brother Ben wear homemade stuff. Ben always gets store-bought clothes—and nice ones, ones that all the other guys wear. Their mom knows Ben would walk stark naked into the school before he’d wear a single shirt stitched up by his mother. Ben’s two years older than Maggie, and bright, perhaps brilliant—that’s what his teachers say. Everything about him’s excessive, his tangle of curly black hair, the thick dark lashes, his deep blue eyes, his energy, his temperament.
During good weather, he’s outside, his legs furiously pumping the pedals of his bike as he tears through the streets of ‘Sconset, or scaling a tree like a monkey, hiding in the highest branches, tossing bits of bark on the heads of puzzled pedestrians. He’s a genius at sports and never notices when he skids the skin of both knees and elbows into tatters, as long as he makes first base or tackles his opponent.
During bad weather, Ben becomes the torment of Maggie’s life. When the wind howls against the windows, she’ll be curled up with a book, assuming he is, too, for he does like to read—then she’ll discover that while he was so quiet, he’d been removing her dolls’ eyeballs in an unsuccessful attempt to give all the dolls one blue eye and one brown. One rainy summer day, he scraped the flakes of his sunburned skin into her hairbrush. Another time he put glue between the pages of her treasured books.
From day to day and often minute to minute, Maggie never knows whether she loves or hates Ben more.
Emily says she’d give anything for a brother or sister. Maggie tells her she can have Ben any time.
Emily is only on the island for three months in the summer, so Maggie doesn’t understand why, during the school year, she misses Emily so much. It’s not like she doesn’t have friends. She has lots of friends.
Alisha is fun, but she’s pure jock. Alisha’s perfect day is going to the beach, running into the water, shrieking and jumping until a wave knocks her down. She comes up laughing, knees scratched from the sand, and runs back into the waves, over and over again. If Maggie suggests a game of make-believe, Alisha looks at her like bugs are coming out her ears.
Delphine loves horses. Her parents have a farm. They sell veggies and plants in the summer and Christmas trees in the winter. When Maggie goes to Delphine’s house, she spends all day on horseback, or helps Delphine curry the horses or muck out the stalls. Delphine doesn’t like to come to Maggie’s house—no horses there.
Kerrie reads and sometimes plays pretend, but Kerrie has an entrepreneurial mind. She started a summer newspaper for children that she writes, illustrates, and sells from a little newsstand she built out of crates and set up on the corner of Orange and Main. When she isn’t selling her newspaper, she’s selling lemonade and cookies she bakes herself.
Then there’s Tyler Madison. He would be Maggie’s best friend except he’s a boy. Tyler will play pretend with her if no one else is around. He loves the island as much as Maggie does, perhaps even more, and she can often find him on the moors painstakingly drawing in his own guide to landmarks, like the unusual boulders the glaciers left thousands of years ago. Using an ordinary scrapbook, Tyler is creating a fantastical volume of detailed maps, showing the names and locations of each salient feature. The cover is carefully pasted with calligraphed words: Official Register of Secrets. Inside, the first page is the Table of Contents. Next, Tyler has entered page after page of carefully sketched or photographed, imagined, and described boulders and their locations: Ocean Goddess. Island God. Pond Princesses. Lord and Lady Boulders. Twenty-seven different elf communities. Twelve separate Fellowships of Bushes and the Maraud Squad of poison ivy, scrub oak, bayberry. It’s so thoroughly detailed it seems as real as a chart of the stars. Maggie thinks the map is awesome and she adores Tyler, but Ben calls Tyler geekasaurus and four-eyes. It’s too bad, but understandable. Pale, underweight, uncoordinated, too clumsy to play sports, Tyler’s ostracized by most kids. Maggie suspects she’s Tyler’s best friend. Maybe she’s his only friend.
Sometimes Maggie thinks that books are her best friend, her truest, most reliable, friend. The fathomless, most treasured part of her own private self is her connection with books. She’s happy when she’s reading, and library books don’t cost Frances a thing.
Maybe that’s why she and Emily are so close. Emily reads as much as Maggie does. Like Maggie, Emily talks about the characters as if they were real people, and she can enter a pretend world like a fish slipping into water. When Maggie met Emily, it was as if a gate opened in Maggie’s life. Like a path curved into the future. Maggie began to believe having an imagination was a good thing, that somehow, even if she couldn’t see it now, she could believe she had someplace to go and feel a wonderful sense of relief that she would have companions along the way.
Emily is the person who seems most like Maggie, who gets Maggie. Maggie’s not an idiot. She knows Emily is rich while she is poor. Maggie knows rich and poor don’t mix.
On the other hand, her favorite stories tell her they can.
—
They sit at the kitchen table, breaking off bits of gingerbread and munching it, washing it down with cold milk. Even now, in the middle of June, the heat and humidity are oppressive.
“Did you read The Secret Garden?” Maggie asks.
“I did. I loved it.”
“Oh, good! Because I
have a surprise—”
The front door flies open and slams shut. A thirteen-year-old boy stomps inside, completely ignoring the girls as he rummages in a kitchen cupboard. He’s got shiny black hair like a crow.
“Want some gingerbread?” Maggie asks.
Ben grabs a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. Tossing himself into a chair, he digs a spoon into the peanut butter and licks it off.
“Ben,” Frances says quietly.
“The jar’s almost empty,” Ben tells his mother. “I’m going to eat it all. No one else will get my cooties.” He’s always got an answer for everything.
Ben wears nothing but swim trunks, and Emily thinks she sees some hair in his armpit. He’s a teenager, she reminds herself, and the thought makes her stomach do flip-flops. She wonders when she’ll grow armpit and pubic hair. She wonders if Ben has pubic hair. Emily and her city friends have all made bets on who will start menstruating first.
“Hey, Neanderthal,” Maggie says, “could you say hello to Emily? She just got here for the summer.”
Ben jabs the spoon into the peanut butter again, then takes a bite and grins hideously at Emily, peanut butter hanging in disgusting clumps from his teeth. “Hello, Emily.”
“Gross.” Maggie stands up. “Come on, Emily, let’s go outside.”
Emily follows obediently but reluctantly. She’s never told Maggie, or anyone, but Ben, even with peanut butter teeth, is so gorgeous he gives her shivers. Maggie’s just as good-looking; both have wavy glossy black hair and deep blue eyes accentuated with thick black eyelashes. Beside them Emily, with her blond hair and freckled skin, feels colorless.
“I don’t play with dolls anymore,” Maggie announces as they walk around the side of the house. “You know how we made those Laura Ingalls Wilder dolls? Well, this year, I don’t want to make dolls, I want to be Mary Lennox. Mom let me plant my own garden in the backyard, near the Rosa rugosa and honeysuckle. I actually made a wall around the garden out of boards I found at the dump.”