Secrets in Summer

by Nancy Thayer

Before Darcy could respond, Mimi chirped, “We’re all here now and no harm done. Why don’t you fix a nice cold pitcher of margaritas and the three of us can enjoy the evening?”

  “Another time, Mimi,” Clive said. “You’ve had a fall and you know you should rest. And I need to put away the groceries.”

  Darcy could see a small lump beginning to grow right where Mimi’s cheek had hit the ground. She knew some things about the elderly, because of her own grandmother, and one of them was that their bodies were more fragile than younger bodies. Mimi was probably bruised elsewhere from her fall. She did need to rest.

  “Thanks for the offer, Mimi,” Darcy said. “I’d better get home.”

  “Thank you for helping me, dear. We must do it again sometime.”

  Darcy grinned. “We’ll get you over to my garden some afternoon. I’ll serve margaritas.”

  Darcy rose, made a humorous salute, said goodbye, and walked out of their yard. Mimi, she thought, was just plain adorable. Clive was gorgeous, but kind of severe. Still, she didn’t know all that he knew about Mimi’s condition.

  Besides, Darcy thought as she stepped into her own house, it never had been her habit to get involved with her summer neighbors. This neighborhood was not like those on the mainland where neighbors called to each other from yard to yard and became familiar, family with family. Many of the people who had rented houses around Darcy were astoundingly rich. They sent their kids here with nannies and a housekeeper and arrived on island themselves only to throw fabulous parties before taking their private jets back to New York.

  In any case, today Darcy’d had more interaction with her summer neighbors than she usually had in months.

  In the kitchen, the bottle of uncorked Pinot Noir awaited and she had messages on her cellphone. First she fed Muffler, who was twining gracefully around her ankles like a warm feather boa. Then she hit the play button.

  Nash’s low mellow voice: “Hey, Darcy, I’m still at the site. We’re going to take advantage of the light and work until eight, so, as much as I’d like to, I’m not going to stop by for a drink tonight. I’ll go home, hit the shower, eat a microwaved something, and go to bed. Hope you had a good day.”

  Jordan was next. “Darcy, a bunch of us are going out to Cisco this Sunday for an all-day picnic. Want to come and bring Nash? And a potluck something? Let me know. Kisses from Kiks and from me, too.”

  The rest were junk calls from telemarketers. Darcy erased them.

  Outside, the sun was sinking, turning the sky into a Crayola box of colors. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking, so she carried her wine and a bowl of mixed nuts out to her garden. It was still, no breeze ruffling the leaves, and no voices from any side of her hedges. She strolled around the perimeter, studying the flowers. Her Knock Out rosebush needed to be deadheaded, but she could do that tomorrow morning before she set off for the library. For now, she put the nuts and her wine on the patio table and sank onto her lounger and let her head fall back. It was quiet, the only sound the twittering of the birds high up in the trees. She allowed herself to relax, go limp, and breathe deeply. For a few moments she sort of blurred into the past. It was as if Penny were just out of sight at the other end of the garden, humming as she cut back the pansies and violets so new blooms would come. Darcy wanted to be a grandmother someday. If she could still be here, in this house, and she had her own granddaughter visiting…that would be heaven on earth.

  She dozed a while and woke to find that darkness had fallen. Somehow a short nap outside was twice as refreshing as any sleep inside. Muffler had joined her and was curled in a silky fat ball of black fur on Darcy’s legs. For a while, she gazed at the sky, spotting Venus and several constellations. From the three houses around her—Mimi’s, Boyz’s, and Susan’s—golden lights beamed. Occasionally people would flicker past or voices would drift from the windows. Her stomach growled. She decided to make herself a scrambled egg sandwich.

  “Come on, old friend,” she said to her cat. “Let’s go in.”

  Muffler stretched and yawned, making it clear that he’d go when he got good and ready. Darcy stroked his satiny head and moved her legs. He jumped lithely to his feet and they went into the house for the night.

  6

  Thursday evening after a light dinner, Darcy walked to St. Paul’s Church, a handsome stone building only a few blocks from her home. The Women’s Chorus of Nantucket was having its rehearsal there tonight. Usually the concerts were only twice a year, once at Christmas, once at Easter, but this year a notable and cherished woman “had gone aloft” and the women wanted to perform a tribute to her when the year-rounders and the summer people who knew her could attend. The Women’s Chorus was not a professional group, but for amateurs they were pretty good. They were not performing for a month, but summer schedules were so wacky for everyone, they had to meet when everyone could.

  Their indomitable leader, Beth O’Malley, had chosen songs that reflected the passion of Sylvia Marks, islander, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and ardent birder. She led the Sunday morning bird walks for twenty-five years, wrote a book on the birds of Nantucket complete with her notes and photos, and inspired generations of young and old to appreciate the mysterious creatures that flew around the island. So the program consisted of songs about birds, especially songs that they knew Sylvia would enjoy. “Blackbird” by the Beatles, “Yellow Bird” by Chris Isaak, and “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day were in pretty good shape. Today they concentrated on an old dreamy favorite, “Skylark,” written by Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael in 1941, and performed by singers from Ella Fitzgerald to k.d. lang. It sounded best when it was smooth, silky, languorous, and as a group, they hadn’t achieved anything near smooth. Beth was wondering if this should be sung as a solo, and she was hinting that she wanted Darcy to be the soloist. Darcy hinted back: No way.

  Rehearsal lasted about an hour and it was a tribute to how much they revered Sylvia that they all were willing to take an hour or two out of the gorgeous summer evening. The moment Beth said, “That’s all for tonight, ladies, and thank you,” at least half the group rocketed off, back to their families and friends. The rest filed out quickly. Beth cornered Darcy.

  “You can do this solo, I know you can, Darcy. You’re the only one who can.”

  “I’d faint from nervousness, Beth. I’m fine with the group.”

  “Will you at least think about it? Tape yourself singing, and you’ll hear how good you are. Please.”

  Darcy shook her head. “All right, I’ll think about it.”

  “Do it in the shower with your clothes on without turning on the water. Bathrooms have good acoustics.”

  “Yes, well, that’s weird.”

  “Come on, who will see you?” Beth shouldered her crocheted Mexican shoulder bag and slipped out the side door.

  Darcy bent to tighten her sandal. When she rose, she saw Susan Brueckner hesitantly entering the church through the front doors. An aura of sadness enveloped her. Darcy was perplexed. Should she say a breezy hello and wave as she left? Or should she creep out the side door so Susan didn’t know Darcy had seen her? Susan’s eyes were downcast. Sometimes people needed to be in church privately, alone. Darcy opted for slithering out the side door, taking care to close it quietly.

  These long summer evenings were so dreamy, perfumed with salt air and roses, the sky so high and luminous it made Darcy feel something close to joy. She strolled home, humming “Skylark,” and as she passed, she overheard bits of conversation from open windows in the houses and from the yards. Laughter. Children playing. She didn’t want to go inside, she wanted to linger in this pale blue-gray light forever. She entered her house, tossed her keys in their bowl on the front hall table, stopped in the kitchen for a fresh peach and a napkin, and drifted out into her backyard. She settled on her lounger and stretched like a cat. It was so peaceful, the air around her dusky, a streak of high sky still blue.

  No sounds came from Mimi’s yard. Something was
making a rhythmic knocking noise in Susan’s backyard.

  “No, no, no,” a man said gruffly. It had to be Otto, the father, talking to his sons. “Do not kick the ball against the house.”

  “But, Dad…” a boy whined.

  “You will damage the house. Your mother took you to the beach today. You are tired. Play quietly.”

  Darcy took a bite of peach, chuckling to herself. Otto told his three little boys to play quietly? She bet herself that by the count of ten, the boys would be yelling and kicking the ball against the house again. After all, they were boys. Anyway, how could a ball hurt a house?

  By the count of seven, she heard shrieking. The boys were chasing each other around the small yard—most houses in town had small backyards.

  “Boys!” Otto yelled.

  “Excuse me,” a woman said in angelic tones. “Maybe your boys would like to play in our yard. We found a badminton set and a small round trampoline sort of thing in the shed. Our daughter is a teenager, so she doesn’t use them, but your boys are welcome to come over.”

  Boyz and Autumn’s yard extended in a kind of grassy dogleg a few feet behind Susan’s yard. Darcy closed her eyes; she could envision exactly where they were.

  “That is very kind of you,” Otto said. “Boys?”

  The three boys sounded like a mob of barbarians crashing the gates as they ran, yelling, into Autumn’s yard. Darcy ate her peach, happy in the knowledge that, because of her thick spruce hedges, no one could see her with peach juice running down her chin. She couldn’t see them, either, but she couldn’t help hearing them, and their sounds made her smile. The two older boys seemed to play a netless, rule-free game of badminton. The third son chose the trampoline, each jump accompanied by screams of delight.

  “I’m Autumn Szweda.”

  “I am Otto Brueckner. I’m very pleased to meet you. My wife, Susan, has gone for a walk, and I confess I am not naturally inclined toward organizing children.”

  “I understand completely.” Autumn’s voice slid into a silky-smooth pitch. Ah, Darcy thought, so even though he sounded like a stick, Otto must be attractive. “My husband and I have only one child, and she can be so exhausting. I’m sure that’s partly why my husband returns to the city so often.” Otto must be extremely attractive.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s in real estate in Boston.”

  “Ah. I work in Boston, too.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a lawyer for the Mandel Corporation.”

  “That sounds much more exciting than Boyz’s job.”

  It does? Which meant, Darcy thought, that Autumn was hinting that Otto was much more exciting than Boyz. Darcy wanted to peek through the thick needles of the hedge to see their expressions.

  “Not exciting at all. Mostly reading contracts.”

  “Oh, but that means you can do some of your work on Nantucket, right?”

  A laugh. “If I can ever get the peace and quiet to concentrate.”

  Darcy hadn’t come out here intending to eavesdrop, but Autumn and Otto seemed to be standing right next to the hedge. She wondered where Boyz was. In Boston?

  As if her question had wafted into Autumn’s mind, Autumn said, “Boyz’s in the city now. He’ll take a week of vacation in August, but for July, he gets here only on the weekends.”

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Willow is fourteen. An extremely young and naïve fourteen and very unhappy with me because I limit the amount of screen time she gets.”

  “You are wise,” Otto said warmly. “My sons do not have cellphones or computers yet. The electronics can become an addiction.”

  “True. It’s hard, raising a child these days. Fortunately, Willow’s addiction is books.” Autumn waited a beat, then added with a self-deprecating laugh, “I’ll admit, I get lonely here, especially in the evenings when Boyz is in Boston and Willow’s shut away in her room reading.” Her voice dripped with honey.

  Hey! Was Autumn doing what Darcy thought she was doing? Was she coming on to him?

  A wicked part of Darcy’s psyche hoped so. That would serve Boyz right! But then she thought of Susan Brueckner. She seemed to be having a hard enough time already.

  “We should get together some night,” Otto suggested, “for a nightcap. I could drop by—”

  “Oh, there you are!” A woman’s voice floated on the air. Susan. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  “The boys are playing in our neighbor’s yard,” Otto said. With the thwap of the badminton birdie and the squeals from the boys making it all seem so innocent, he continued: “Autumn, this is my wife, Susan.”

  The two women greeted each other, and Autumn invited the Brueckners up to her porch for a drink. But Alfred fell off the trampoline and hit his head and cried and the adults rushed to see if he was okay—he was—and Susan announced it was bath and story time. “Goodbye, goodbye,” they called out.

  Suddenly, Darcy was surrounded by silence. She could hear voices from the open windows, but no words. With the people gone, the birds cautiously flocked back to the feeder hanging from a low branch on her maple tree. She stayed very still so the birds didn’t seem to know she was there. It was better in the early morning, when Darcy could see their colors, the blush of rose or lemon against the finches’ chests. She simply sat and watched the darkness deepen. The flowers lost their colors, the grass grew dark. She liked seeing the glow of lights from other houses, beacons in the night. She wondered where Mimi was right now. Did she go to bed early, or was she one of the older people who couldn’t sleep much? She wondered where Clive was now. Their kitchen light was on, and one light on the second floor….

  Good grief, she was becoming one of those weirdos living her life vicariously through her neighbors. No, Darcy argued with herself, she was not! It wasn’t her fault if people stood next to the hedge to talk!

  Gradually, her mind stilled, her breathing slowed, and she relaxed against the soft cushions of the lounge. The birds were quiet. Above her, the Big Dipper twinkled against the vast black sky. Something rustled in a bush—a bird? She hoped it wasn’t a damn rabbit—they ate the leaves off her hostas. This was what refreshed Darcy after a long day being with people, the complete quiet, the sense of living for a few minutes within a hushed but living world. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the darkness and her garden became different shades of gray. Some night she wanted to sleep out here. She was amused by the thought of catching her garden at three in the morning—would tiny velvet voles be skittering through the grass? She’d seen them once, when she rose early. It was often misty in the early mornings before the sun came up over the horizon. Darcy wasn’t aware of thinking any kind of intelligent thoughts when she sat out here, but in a way it was her form of meditation.

  And she felt less lonely.

  She was thirty. She had lived on the island, in her grandmother’s big house, for three years. Gradually, she’d developed a group of friends, and Jordan had become an intimate friend, her best friend. She’d gone out a few times with island guys and a few times with summer guys, but Nash was the first man to make her wake up and smell the coffee since her divorce from Boyz.

  Boyz was charismatic and dramatic, and it had taken her a couple of years to realize he needed to be attractive to other people; it was part of his success in business, and more than that, it was a kind of drug for him. Giving people a look, a smile, a nod, and watching them be swept as if by magic into his web brought Boyz an almost addictive pleasure.

  Nash had a different kind of energy and a different sort of charisma. He was a tall, silent man, genial, courteous, easygoing, but guarded. Nash was a challenge. When they made love, the sex was intimate, thrilling, intense, but when it was over and they lay side by side, Nash was silent. He held her hand, but he didn’t speak. She had tried to talk. “That was amazing,” she’d said, knowing that her words were a cliché even though they were true. All he’d said was, “Good.” Good? It had seemed with
Boyz that she’d been pulled immediately into the inner circle of his life, his thoughts, his family, his dreams. With Nash, she was still an outsider. Even when they were making love, part of him held back.

  When they went out together, Nash was witty, gentlemanly, and amiable, and he gave her plenty of compliments, but something about him was distant. He told Darcy he had an unremarkable past, growing up in the ’burbs of Boston with a professor father and a quilt-maker mom. He spent Christmas with them. He cared for them, sure, but he’d left the nest. He had moved to Nantucket this winter, and he thought he’d like to stay here for the rest of his life, but on the other hand, Colorado and Vermont called to him, so next winter he might take off for a week or two to ski. Nash was four years older than Darcy. He never talked about having a family. He seemed content with his bachelor life in the apartment he rented over his friend Lois Cooper’s garage.

  Content. That was it. Nash was content with himself and his lot in life, and it puzzled Darcy. It challenged her—she wanted to break though his invisible wall. She wanted to make him discontented. She wanted to make him go wild for her, tell her he loved her, that she held his life in her hands, he needed her….

  Ridiculous. Nash didn’t hold her life in his hands. She didn’t need him. It was her bratty vanity wanting him to feel those things about her.

  The clock on the South Church tower struck eleven times. Time for bed. Darcy gathered her peach pit and went into her house. She missed Nash. Some nights, especially when the spring gales howled over the ocean to batter against the houses, Darcy and Nash would sit together in the living room, her feet on his lap, both of them working on crossword puzzles.

  “What’s a five letter word for ‘green energy’?” she would ask.

  He’d answer immediately. “Solar.”

  “Ha! I thought it was something like spinach!” They would laugh together and go quiet again, absorbed in their puzzles but together.

  Darcy wished he were here right now, not even for sex, but to sleep with, to curl up against, relaxing into the safety of his body, the sense of belonging she had when his arm was around her, holding him against her, his breath warm on her neck.