by Nancy Thayer
Darcy’s entire body was trembling now as adrenaline hit. As the truth hit.
She nodded toward the bedroom. “So that was Autumn in there, helping you with your work?”
Boyz sucked in air as if he were going to roar. Instead, he paced away from her and then returned to sit on a nearby sofa. “I hate it when you’re sarcastic. But, yes, actually, Autumn does help me with my work, because she makes me feel adored. Autumn would do anything for me, and she makes me feel like a king.”
“Does she work?”
“She’s a bit older than I am, and divorced. She’s sophisticated. She knows how things work. She has a daughter, Willow, who is eleven years old. Autumn was well provided for in her divorce.”
Oddly, that cheered Darcy—to know that a divorced woman could be loved.
“You were so eager to please when we first married,” Boyz continued. “You were such fun.”
“I was so malleable,” Darcy whispered, more to herself than to Boyz.
“I thought you’d be an asset to the family business. But you insist on isolating yourself with your books, like, I don’t know, like a little old lady. I’m not trying to insult you, Darcy, I still think you’re beautiful, but you’ve grown more and more distant. Frankly, my entire family thinks so.”
Darcy nodded her head. She couldn’t disagree. Still, it stung to know all the other family members had been discussing her.
“If you could change, Darcy”—Boyz held out his hands toward her, as if offering her a gift—“or if you were pregnant, at least, and could give me an heir.”
“What about me?” Darcy asked quietly. “What about what I want?”
“What else could you possibly want?” Boyz looked genuinely curious.
Darcy buried her face in her hands. She wanted to laugh hysterically; she wanted to sob. She’d thought she was getting a family when she married Boyz. She’d thought they would never divorce—she would never be like her mother. But would she ever have a family?
But she did have a family. She had Penny.
4
While the legalities of the divorce were grinding along, Darcy moved down to a small rented apartment on the Cape so she could visit her grandmother daily. By then, Penny’s vision was so compromised by aging that she couldn’t read or even watch television. She was seldom hungry, and when she ate, her digestive system caused her great discomfort. She was on various medications for the lingering consequences of Lyme disease, and the side effects of the medications were almost worse than the pain the disease caused.
Darcy brought fresh-picked flowers from a nearby farm stand to place in Penny’s room so she could enjoy the familiar fragrances. She brought expensive delicacies—chocolates, figs, tomatoes fat and red and just picked that morning. Penny did her best to enjoy them, but by then the effort of eating offset the pleasure of the taste. Darcy spent hours reading to her grandmother—old British favorites such as Nancy Mitford’s Love in a Cold Climate, or a biography of Virginia Woolf and her sister. Penny listened, nodding or chuckling at a certain passage, but she was always rubbing her hands, her arms, trying to ease the arthritic pain. When Darcy closed the book, rose and bent to kiss Penny goodbye for the day, she noticed the relief that swept over her grandmother—how glad Penny was that she no longer had to keep up some kind of pretense, that she could take more pain medication and sink into the oblivion that distanced her from her discomfort.
One day Darcy entered her grandmother’s room to find Penny sitting in a chair, dressed and apparently having a good day.
“You look good,” Darcy cried happily, kissing Penny’s wrinkled pink cheek.
“I don’t want to read today,” Penny replied tersely. “Sit down.”
Darcy obeyed, pulling a chair close to her grandmother. “Does the doctor—”
Penny cut her off. “Just listen.”
Darcy nodded. “Jack Truman, on Nantucket, is my lawyer. He has my will. I’m leaving everything to you.”
“Oh, Penny—”
“Don’t interrupt. I hope you won’t sell the house. I hope you will live in it. You know Nantucket has a fine library and I think you could be happy on the island.”
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t want any kind of memorial service. The people I liked are all dead now, and I don’t want Eugene or Lala rushing up to cry crocodile tears and try to convince you to sell the house and split the proceeds with them. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“I want my body cremated. I want my ashes buried in the garden. It may or may not be legal. Lie if you have to, tell the authorities you tossed me into the ocean. I’d like to be next to the lilacs. If that doesn’t freak you out too much, of course, to enjoy a garden with your crippled and cranky old grandmother haunting it.”
“Penny, I—”
“If I had the power to arrange such things, I would have you live in the house all your life. I would have you marry a man who reads books and have several children who would play in the backyard, and I want you to know I will not be upset if you put up one of those hideous play sets for the children to climb on and slide on and whatever. I like to think I’ll be able to hear their laughter.”
Tears spilled down Darcy’s face.
“You should sell my jewelry. No one wears such heavy pieces anymore, and the proceeds should help you pay taxes and so on. I know librarians don’t make much money. The furniture is up to you. Some of it is unsightly, uncomfortable, or useless. Still, much of it is antique and could bring you a pretty penny.”
Darcy reached over to put her hand on her grandmother’s. “You’re my pretty Penny.”
That brought a smile to her grandmother’s face. “You’ve always been such a clever child.” Her body stiffened as she endured a wave of pain. “Go, now, Darcy. Please. Go.”
“Penny.” Darcy stifled her sobs, which she knew would irritate her grandmother. “I love you so mu—”
“Dear Lord, save me the melodrama. I know you love me. I’ve always known. Just as you’ve always known I love you. No more bedside banalities. Just go.” Penny took a deep breath. “And ring for the nurse on your way out.”
Three days later, Penny Cotterill, eighty-seven years old, died in her sleep.
Darcy obeyed her grandmother’s wishes and embroidered on them, just a little, by not informing her father down in Florida about his mother’s death until after Penny had been cremated and sprinkled in the garden by the lilacs. She was not surprised when her father’s first question was “Has the will been read?”
All her life, Darcy had secretly yearned for a loving father, just as she had wished her mother had been more maternal. But she had learned how love comes in many forms, and often from unexpected directions. She had been blessed to have Penny in her life.
She moved into her grandmother’s house on Nantucket. She kept the room she’d always been in, added a luxurious bathroom, and bought a few new appliances for the kitchen. She decided to take her time dealing with the rest of the house. Two weeks after Penny’s passing, Darcy applied for a job at the Nantucket Atheneum. To her amazement, she was hired immediately, as the assistant children’s librarian. It was March, summer would be upon them before they could blink, and they needed her, especially since she had housing on this crescent-shaped shoal of sand where rents were astronomical in the summer.
All this, she knew, was not magic. But she couldn’t help believing in even the most rational corner of her mind, that somehow Penny was still somewhere at Darcy’s side, nudging, warning, praising. Helping.
Loving.
That was three years ago. As Darcy settled into her new home, she felt lonely, so she went to the Safe Harbor animal shelter and adopted a homeless cat. Muffler was a skinny, skeptical, long-haired black male who’d been abandoned. When she brought him home, he hid under the sofa for two days before the odor of expensive cat food drew him out. Slowly, he grew to trust Darcy. Now he slept on her bed, sat on her lap when he wanted, and bossed her around
. She was delighted with his company. Gradually Darcy accustomed herself to the seasons of the island. The library was insanely busy in the summer and quiet in the winter. She made friends with the other librarians; she made friends with other women her age.
So, on this ordinary weekday morning, Darcy woke to her alarm clock. She lay in bed for a while, enjoying the sun slanting through the window, thinking of the day ahead.
Then she remembered yesterday. Boyz. Boyz here, living on the other side of her hedge.
She went down to the kitchen for her morning cup of coffee. She felt like a cat with her hair standing on end because her kitchen looked out at the garden, and it was only natural, a habit, to look out her kitchen window. But now, on the other side of the garden hedge, lived her ex-husband and his family. She couldn’t see Boyz’s entire yard, but she could see much of it—the driveway, the side porch, a door. Lights in their windows.
She wanted to buy a powerful telescope, set it up, and aim it at their house.
Oh, dear.
Interesting, that she’d never thought about Boyz after they were divorced. She had made a mistake—and so had he. She had not liked the life Boyz lived, and his glamour dissipated for her when she was with him up close every day. After the divorce, she hadn’t been inconsolable. She didn’t yearn for him. Dream of him. Gaze at old photos of him. She hadn’t even googled him, although she’d thought of doing so once or twice.
But now that he was here, next door, where she could hear him and see him, she was fascinated. Was he happy with Autumn? Did he allow clients to paw her while he got thoroughly drunk?
What was he doing on Nantucket, anyway? Had he broken away from his family?
Obviously, she would run into them one way or another. Nantucket was a small island, a small town. She couldn’t hide from them and she refused to change her life because of their presence. She made a plan, short and simple: When she met Boyz or Autumn on the street, Darcy would smile, say hello, and briskly walk away. She was busy, she had her own life, she had no desire to linger and chat.
And that was all she would allow herself to think about him, because she really was busy. She took a quick shower and dressed, spooned up some yogurt with fresh blueberries, and drank her coffee, idly scrolling on her cell phone for news and weather. She picked up her book bag and laptop, and left for work.
It was a wonderful day. The air smelled sweet, slightly scented with salt and sea. The bushes and flowers gleamed as if they’d been recently polished. Fair Street was a charming old lane, narrow, one-way, with historic houses separated from the brick sidewalks by small, complicated, cleverly planned gardens.
It was such a pleasure to walk past these houses. Some had clever door knockers or American flags flying above the doors. Some had window boxes spilling over with fresh-faced pansies. In one, next to a large blue and white vase, sat a Siamese cat, as still as a work of art, except for her turquoise eyes, which watched Darcy carefully as she passed.
As she turned on to Main Street, she saw shopkeepers arranging their window displays and preparing to open. It was breezy now, but the weather channels predicted a fine, clear, windless afternoon. Nantucket year-rounders were obsessed with the weather. June, July and August were the months when shopkeepers made the money that would support them through the winter. Cloudy, windy, and rainy days brought the most foot traffic into town because then people couldn’t go to the beach. But too many cloudy, windy days made everyone cranky. The beautiful golden beaches, the gentle surf, the warm sun was why people came. The beaches were all open to the public, free, and most of them had lifeguards. This was not the case on most beaches along the East Coast.
On mornings like this, the library was busy, too. Readers rushed in to stock up for the week. The office of the director of the Children’s Library where Beverly and Darcy worked was on the ground floor, in a small room tucked in next to the gallery. Later in the day, the gallery was the venue for story times, and Margery Trott taught wildly popular movement, dance, and yoga for children here as well. Darcy couldn’t get to her office without going through the gallery, so a couple of extra hours of quiet were worth gold in the summer.
Darcy imagined every librarian in the world enjoyed the same smug tingle when he or she inserted the key into the lock of a door that opened a closed library. It was sort of like opening a new book you’ve been longing to read. That anticipation. Darcy would also admit to a momentary rush of pride and satisfaction. She’d been trusted with the keys to the doors of this grand, historic library. Okay, three other people had, too, and their custodian was often here before or after the library opened and closed, but still. Still. She felt like some mythic superwoman who possessed the secrets to opening the treasure chest.
It was silent inside. From where Darcy stood, she could go up the stairs to the children’s library and cross the hall to the adult library, and she did that often. She sometimes even climbed the second flight of stairs to the Great Hall, just to be there, alone with all those books and computers and historic oil paintings and the secluded areas with fat comfy armchairs. A female figurehead from an old whaling ship stood in the corner of the small stage at the far end of the room. Sometimes a librarian dressed the figurehead in a Christmas stocking cap or a wreath of flowers.
Today Darcy headed right down the stairs to her office. The library’s basement, like many of the buildings in town, was half in, half above ground. It had its own entrance, and plenty of windows.
Light streamed in as Darcy woke her computer and scanned the various piles and folders on her desk. Summer was always crazy busy on the island, when their winter population of sixteen thousand exploded to sixty thousand. All the nonprofit organizations held at least one fabulous fundraising event—super-glam auctions for items donated by generous supporters held in four-star restaurants. Concerts by popular rock groups or classical musicians, depending on the taste of the benefactors. Nights of dining and dancing under the stars. Cocktail parties in the houses of the dazzlingly rich and famous. The island had just had its annual wine, book, and film festivals, each event with its own superstars to tempt the public to attend.
The library held several summer events. The most exciting was the dance festival, presenting ballet troupes from Boston. Amy Tyrer, head of programming for the library, handled the logistics, coordinating with Grace Pindell, the president of the library’s board of trustees. Edith Simon, the library’s director, had the responsibility for attending all these galas and festivities, and she did it with her trademark dignified charm. Beverly Maison, the children’s library director, also did her charismatic meet and greet at the summer events.
Darcy held down the fort. She took care of a hundred daily minor matters, ordered books, coordinated story hours, and in a pinch manned the circulation desk or did a story hour.
Her job was delicious. It was a joy to do the behind-the-scenes slog that kept books available for children or to wander into the staff kitchen for coffee and a chat with the staff and volunteers. The town newspaper came out once a week, on Thursday morning, so it was fun to hear about who bought what house for how many millions, who filed for divorce or bankruptcy, who was in the court report. Two of the circ desk women were party girls, spending every night at bars and parties, returning with all kinds of fun gossip. As they said, if you want to know anything, ask a librarian.
At five o’clock, she said goodbye to everyone and headed home. The town was pleasantly busy but not frantically overcrowded as it became during rainy or windy days later in the summer. People were arriving for their summer rentals, settling in, preparing their home base for the next month or two. If any place on the island was busy, it was the Stop & Shop, where families were filling their carts high, so they would be stocked with food and beach chairs, sun block and tonic water, and could spend the next few sunny days at the beach.
Darcy walked up Main Street, leaving behind the small business district for one of the most beautiful avenues in the country. Wide enough for two bug
gies to pass each other on the cobblestones of the street, upper Main was graced by historic mansions. Brick or shingled, stately and aloof, these dignified houses had been built by the owners of the whaling ships that had made the town wealthy in the early half of the nineteenth century. The extremely wealthy lived in them now, for a week or so in the summer, before moving on to another of their houses in California or Switzerland. Still, their landscapers kept the flowers blooming all summer and into the fall.
She turned off onto Pine Street, narrow, one-way, and shaded by a canopy of trees. As she walked, she spotted a car parked in the driveway to the left of her house. Aha. More new summer neighbors.
An older woman leaned on a cane, inspecting the hydrangea planted in the small area between the sidewalk and the front of the house. As Darcy approached, she realized the woman was quite old—close to the age her grandmother was when she went into the nursing home. Already, Darcy liked her.
“Hello!” Darcy called out.
The old woman turned, a bit unsteadily. Darcy hoped she hadn’t startled her. She walked up the drive a few feet, close enough for the older woman to see Darcy, not so near she was intruding.
“Hello,” Darcy said again. “I’m Darcy Cotterill. I live right next door.” She pointed to her house.
When the old woman smiled, something shone from her face, something generous and welcoming and gentle. Something so much like Penny’s expression years ago.
“Hello, dear. I’m Mimi Rush.” Slowly, she walked toward Darcy, wincing each time she moved her left leg. Before Darcy could move, Mimi waved a hand. “No, no, stay where you are. I’ve got to force these old pins to do their job.”
She had deep brown eyes and that pure angelic white hair some people get. Her dress was a summer print of lilacs and she wore a lavender cardigan over it. She wore jewelry, too—amethyst earrings and a rather large brooch. A large watch on her wrist.