by Nancy Thayer
—
Saturday, as Darcy strolled home from the library, she spotted a familiar figure on the brick sidewalk. Mimi crept along with her cane, head down—always wise no matter what age, because the Nantucket sidewalks were uneven, with bumps where tree roots shoved the bricks upward and sudden holes where entire bricks had come loose and disappeared.
“Hi, Mimi,” Darcy called as she drew near.
“Darcy!” Mimi put a hand on a picket fence to steady herself. “How pretty you look!”
“As do you. I think we have the same taste in clothes.” They were both wearing floral-printed summer dresses.
Mimi laughed. “But maybe not the same taste in shoes.”
Darcy wore beaded sandals with a small heel. Mimi wore huge clunky rubbery support boats.
“Tell me, Darcy, how was your day? Is it overwhelming in town now? Do you get to read to the children or are you stuck with administrative duties?”
“Oh, gosh,” Darcy said, remembering. “I was going to bring you some children’s books. So, yes, I’ll admit it is overwhelming in town. That’s my excuse for being forgetful!” She laughed with Mimi. “Look, would you like to come sit in my backyard and have a glass of lemonade with me?”
To her surprise, Mimi said, “Hm. I don’t know.” Her eyes twinkled. “Is lemonade all you’ve got to offer?”
It took Darcy a moment. Oh. “I’ve got wine, and I can make a mean margarita.”
“Ah. Good. In that case, I’d very much like to sit in your backyard.”
Darcy took her arm. Slowly they made their way beneath the rose-covered arbor into her garden and settled Mimi in a chair, cane in her hand.
“I’ll be right back with some drinks.”
From her kitchen window, Darcy observed Mimi surveying her garden, pleasure glowing on her face as she observed the flowers—larkspur, foxglove, phlox, all the old favorites. She also noticed that Boyz’s car was not in the driveway and no people of any age or size were in the garden on the other side of the hedge. Good.
Carrying a pitcher of drinks and a bowl of nuts on a tray, she joined Mimi. She dropped down onto one of her cushioned chairs, kicked off her sandals, and luxuriated in the feel of grass against the soles of her feet.
“So tell me,” Mimi said after taking a sip of her drink, “do you live in your huge house all alone? Why aren’t you married?”
What? Where was the small talk? Darcy shot back, “Why aren’t you?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me. I’ve had two husbands and a great number of pleasant dalliances.”
“Oooh, dalliance. That’s a great word.”
“Certainly more appealing than ‘friends with benefits.’ ”
Darcy choked on her margarita. “You are not the typical little old lady, are you?”
“Most of us aren’t,” she replied. “So you were going to tell me why you aren’t married.”
“I was married once. My husband left me for another woman. My grandmother willed me this house, which is why I live alone here. I spent much of my childhood here, so it’s my home.”
“And men?” Mimi prompted.
Darcy took a moment to consider her answer. Many older women, women in their eighties and up, liked to reminisce. Her grandmother certainly had. Penny had kept all discussion of her physical aches and pains to a minimum; she couldn’t tolerate what she called “organ recitals.” But she had enjoyed telling Darcy about certain people, certain times, and she’d told Darcy over and over again. In a way, Penny had relived those experiences, and Darcy never tired of hearing about them. Still, it was unsettling to have another grandmother ask these particular questions.
Mimi tilted her head, waiting for an answer.
“I have a—boyfriend, let’s call him. Nash Forester.”
“The one with the red pickup truck,” Mimi said knowingly. When Darcy showed her surprise, she smiled. “I sit by the window and gaze out at the street. So sue me.”
“Right. Nash is a carpenter. We’ve been dating for a couple of months. He’s fun and he likes the same things I do. We kayak together, hike around the island, do some bird watching.”
“He’s awfully good-looking.”
“What, you wear field glasses when you look out the window?” Darcy pretended indignation.
“I didn’t need binoculars to see the build of the man.”
They both laughed. Darcy sipped her margarita. Muffler strolled lazily over the lawn, waving his long luxuriant black tail.
“Meet Muffler,” Darcy said. “When he purrs, you’ll know why he got that name.”
Muffler jumped into Mimi’s lap and stared up at her, waiting for the proper adoration. Mimi complied, stroking his long, silky black fur and complimenting him. After a few minutes of this, he turned around and settled in her lap. Purring.
“We were talking about men,” Mimi gently reminded Darcy.
Darcy took another sip of her drink and wondered if it was too strong. She didn’t feel buzzed, like she did when she was out at the Box with friends, dancing and tossing back tequila slammers all evening. Instead, a calm flowed through her, as if she were in yoga class on a really good day.
“It sucked—” she began, catching herself for using that word.
Mimi grinned. “I use that word myself.”
“Good. Thank you. Okay, well, it sucked, being dumped—divorced—when my husband had an affair with another woman. Autumn. His new wife’s name is Autumn. She’s beautiful and sensual—”
“You’re beautiful,” Mimi interrupted.
Darcy snorted. “Maybe, but I’m cerebral, not sensual. Boyz told me Autumn is all about pleasure, enjoying the moment, not living in books half the time. But anyway, it’s done. It hurt, I was ashamed, I was lost, and then my darling grandmother Penny died shortly after the divorce. She had been my Rock of Gibraltar. I really did feel forlorn. Pathetic, I know. Anyway, Penny left me this house, and it seemed the only choice was to take what fate gave me. All that Eastern wisdom, let go, surrender, go with the flow…” Darcy’s throat closed up.
“Have a nut.” Mimi handed the bowl to her.
Darcy chose a cashew and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t need to cry anymore,” she said thoughtfully. The cashew was salty. She took another sip of her drink. “I’m over that. I’ve made peace with my life. Look what I’ve been given—this wonderful house; this amazing garden; this glorious island; meaningful, absorbing work; some true-blue friends—how could I ask for more?” Before Mimi could say it, she added, “I don’t need a husband. I don’t even want a husband. I’ve gotten used to living alone, and it suits me. I’m not sure I could deal with a man messing up my life.”
Mimi’s face was tender when she said, “You’re so young. Too young to go without love. I’m sure you can get all the sex you need, you’re such a gorgeous girl. But sex combined with love is something of an entirely different magnitude. It would be a shame for you to miss that.”
Darcy dropped her eyes, shifting uncomfortably on her chair.
Mimi laughed. “It’s odd, isn’t it, listening to an old crow like me talking about sex. No one wants to believe their parents ever had sex, and certainly not their grandparents.”
“It is different, sharing these thoughts with…an older woman. I couldn’t have talked with my grandmother like this, and we were very close. You’re much more open than other women your age are. When I talk with my friends, usually when we’re drinking—” Darcy held up her glass like a visual aid—“any sex talk is funny. We laugh like maniacs when we talk about sex. You’re being rather…solemn. Anyway,” Darcy continued, almost defensively, “sex is not what I mean when I say I don’t need a man messing up my life.”
Suddenly, a man walked through the rose-covered arbor into the yard. Darcy hoped he hadn’t overheard their conversation.
It was Clive, all casual and relaxed, carrying a bag of groceries. “Sorry to bother you, but have you kidnapped my grandmother?”
Darcy took a few seconds t
o recover from the sheer sight of the man. He was so brawny, so male. “Yes,” Darcy told him, her face serious. “She’s my hostage, and I won’t release her until she finishes her margarita.”
“Clive!” Mimi called. “Come join us.”
“Yes, please do. I’ll get you a glass.” Darcy stood too quickly and swayed, catching the table to steady herself.
Clive grinned. “How many margaritas have you had?”
Darcy smiled back, feeling a bit tipsy. “It’s her fault,” she said childishly.
Clive laughed. “It always is. Believe me, I know.”
He bent over to kiss Mimi on her cheek. “You are incorrigible.”
“Would you like one?” Darcy asked, holding up the pitcher.
“Thank you, no.”
“Don’t be such a stick,” Mimi told him. “Sit down and join us for a while.”
“Do you have any beer?” he asked.
“Absolutely.”
Darcy hurried into the kitchen. First, she drank a glass of water. Standing at the kitchen window, she quickly surveyed Boyz’s yard—no car, no people. Whew. How hideous would it be if they’d overheard her conversation with Mimi? She filled her glass again and prepared a glass of water for Mimi. She put a triangle of Brie and some crackers on a board. She grabbed a Whale’s Tale Pale Ale and went outside, opening the door with a bump of her hip. She went down the steps and across the grassy yard.
She set a glass of water next to Mimi and settled in her chair. She smiled at Clive. And knew her cheeks were flushed and hoped really hard that he thought it was the alcohol.
“Clive,” Mimi prompted, “tell Darcy what you’re doing this summer.”
He rolled his eyes. “I apologize for my grandmother’s bossiness. I won’t sue you for kidnapping her, I’ll pay you.”
“You are a terrible grandchild,” Mimi said. “Anyway, it’s not like it’s top secret code encryption you’re working on up there in your aerie.”
Aerie. Many people would call it an attic. Darcy had been through the house; she knew the layout. From his aerie, Clive could see down into his yard and hers and Boyz’s, too.
Clive said, “I’m writing a book about the blues.”
“As in music?”
“Right.”
“Are you a musician?”
“A mediocre musician. But I’m a good musicologist.”
“He has a PhD!” Mimi bragged.
“I take her with me everywhere,” Clive said, rolling his eyes.
“Do you teach? Write?”
“Both. I teach the history of music and other topics at B.U. Music and the brain, our perception and reaction to music, the physics of sound, sacred music, the development of instruments—”
“And he’s writing a book about the blues!” Mimi interjected.
“Mimi, we told her that already.” Clive didn’t scold her. His tone of voice was simply informational. But Darcy understood—Mimi wasn’t tipsy, but she was sliding that way. To Darcy, Clive said, “I should tell you, because Mimi certainly won’t, that she takes a number of medications to help with her blood pressure and arrhythmia. Alcohol interferes with their efficiency.”
“Got it,” Darcy said.
“My doctor says I’m allowed two drinks a day,” Mimi reminded him.
An engine roared on the other side of the hedge. Car doors slammed and a family—Boyz’s family—exploded into their yard.
“Get your towel and swimming suit!” Autumn called. “Toss it on the line.”
Mimi raised her eyebrows at the noise. “I guess we can’t talk about sex anymore. I wouldn’t want to be overheard.”
“Oh, no, Mimi, have you been talking about sex again?” Clive teased.
“Yes,” Darcy said quickly. “We’ve been discussing the sex of flowers. Did you know that the Arisaema triphyllum can change sex over the years? It can be both male and female.” She waved airily toward the garden, as if that particular plant was growing there, which it wasn’t.
“Of course.” Clive chugged his beer and set it on the table. “Time for you to go home, Mimi.”
She didn’t protest. He helped Mimi to her feet and kept an arm through hers as they slowly progressed over the lawn and beneath the arbor.
“We’ll talk more another time,” Mimi said. “And thank you for our chat and for the drinks.”
They were all laughing as they went their separate ways. Darcy brought the things in from the garden, made a tomato sandwich for her dinner, fed Muffler, and settled in the living room with a book.
Muffler jumped lightly to the arm of the sofa. He stared at Darcy persistently. He didn’t want more food, or he’d walk down her legs and over her torso until he reached her face. He was making some kind of point, though.
“I know,” Darcy said, stroking his head. “It’s nice, sometimes, to have other people around.”
Muffler turned around three times and curled up in her lap.
7
Sunday, the library was closed. Darcy slipped into a bathing suit, a light cotton long-sleeved shirt for protection from the sun, and flip-flops. She was ready when Nash showed up in his red truck. They drove to Cisco beach and bounced along west until they found their usual list of suspects. Jordan and her husband, Lyle, were there with their toddler, Kiks. Lars and Angelica Stone and their toddler, Packer. The Driscolls with their newlywed hands all over each other. The Folgers, with a waddling pregnant Dee-Dee.
The guys surfed; the women tended the temporary nest, spreading blankets, putting up beach umbrellas so the children wouldn’t get too much sun, setting out the food. It was kind of tribal. Nash and Darcy weren’t the only unmarried couple. Missy and Paul had been seeing each other for three years, and Gage Wharton brought a different woman every week.
The day was clear, hot, and perfect for swimming. What wind there was came from the southwest in slight gusts, not enough to blow sand or even ruffle the blankets and towels they sat on. Darcy braced herself for the shock of cold, raced into the water, and swam fast and far, enjoying the stretch and strength of her muscles. She flipped over and floated, soaking in the sun blazing down on her. All thoughts were washed away by the waves. What a wonderful life she led! She silently sent a prayer of gratitude to the heavens and to her grandmother.
Suddenly, something grabbed her and pulled her under. She wrestled around, surfaced, and gasped. And looked into Nash’s blue eyes.
“Surprised?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.
Considering he did this at least once every time they went swimming, the truthful answer was no, Darcy was kind of expecting it. “You rat.”
He pulled her close to him. They treaded water together, their bodies slippery, their legs touching as they scissored in and out. He kissed Darcy, who kissed him back, and they sank, broke apart, surfacing and gulping air.
Nash’s sandy hair was plastered to his head.
“You look like a seal,” Darcy teased.
“You look like a siren. One of those who lured Ulysses.”
Darcy laughed and splashed water in his face. Nash had a habit of saying sweet things at unromantic times, never when they were in bed together. What did this mean? She would never understand men.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Race you to the shore.” Nash dove away from her for a head start.
They always had enormous quantities of food—cold curried chicken; egg salad; potato salad; pasta with olives, roasted red peppers, and eggplant; couscous; ham and cheese and pesto on focaccia; and always chips and salsa and guacamole. Most of the men drank beer; the women, iced tea. After lunch, the children fell asleep, so the moms left the kids with their dads and the women went for a long walk down the beach.
They ambled along, discussing the week’s gossip, what they were going to wear to the next gala, why Gage didn’t have a date today and who he would show up with next week. The beach was crowded with people reading in beach chairs, girls sunning on beach towels with their bikini ties undone,
kids building sand castles or beachcombing.
Suddenly, Darcy’s mind did a kind of jump.
She spotted Willow a few yards ahead. Boyz’s stepdaughter, Willow. Darcy was sure. She had never met the girl, but she’d seen her several times from her windows. She looked like her mother, red haired, curvaceous, and virtuously—and unusually for her age group—clad in a one-piece bathing suit.
She was with a boy Darcy knew, Logan Smith, and Darcy literally stopped in her tracks. What the hell was she doing with Logan? Willow was fourteen; he was eighteen. He was an island kid, one of the bad boys—handsome and awesomely cool—but he was trouble.
Logan was leading Willow away from the water toward a shady hideaway between two high sand dunes. Darcy bent over, pretending to find an interesting shell, and watched the couple. Logan pressed Willow up against the dune, stroked her hair away from her face, and kissed her tenderly. Logan had been in the court report any number of times for misdemeanors—DUI, possession of pot, fighting, disturbing the peace—but he was an island boy, and the island wanted him to get through his awkward phase and become a good man. Now he had his hands on Willow’s breasts, and he was pressing his hips against hers. And he was eighteen and she was fourteen.
It was none of Darcy’s business, right?
Willow was not her child. Darcy knew nothing about her. Maybe Willow was already more sexually active than Darcy imagined. Still, she didn’t like what she saw. And she had overheard Autumn tell Otto that Willow was naïve….
So what were her options? Stomp through the sand with a stern librarian face and separate them? Forget about it? Forget about it, Darcy decided. What was that saying: Not my circus, not my monkeys.
Darcy sprinted to catch up with her group. While she’d dawdled, she missed the big news: Missy was pregnant. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry Paul, even though they lived together. She’d seen too many divorces—her parents, her friends—she was afraid to marry. The women all chimed in with their opinions, and Darcy forgot Willow.