Jim and I had agreed – it was his idea, but I knew he was right, darn it – that we should not get sucked into Nancy and Bob Green’s marital problems. Which meant that I was not, under any circumstances, to tell Nancy that the wedding planner she was so impressed with was also the home wrecker who had destroyed her marriage.
If you think this was easy, think again. Nancy and I had been very best friends since we sat side by side in Sister Mary Dolores’s third grade class at St. Basil’s Grammar School. If you do the math – not that I’m suggesting you do – that comes out to more than 40 years of inseparable friendship.
And there is no way I’m telling you what “more than 40 years” means. Nancy and I have shared just about everything with each other. Even boyfriends. (Not at the same time, though.) And I bet she knows more about me than even Jim does. Plus, she can read my face like an open book. (Not large print, either.)
So I knew that the only way I could keep my mouth shut about Tiffani was to avoid Nancy as much as possible. Which would just about kill me.
And I had to make it very clear the next time we spoke – though I knew her feelings would be hurt – that planning Jenny’s wedding did not include her. Period. No discussion.
So I didn’t call Nancy the following morning to gab about the wedding show. And to fill her in on our trip to Nantucket this coming weekend.
I didn’t call Claire or Mary Alice either, as I didn’t trust myself – that is, my big fat mouth – to not slip and say that I’d actually met the woman who was breaking up Nancy’s marriage. I wasn’t sure what their reaction would be if they found out Tiffani was Jenny and Mark’s wedding planner, and I wasn’t taking any chances that they’d use that good old Catholic guilt to encourage me to tell Nancy the truth.
Fortunately, there were many household chores available to divert me. And if all else failed, I could come up with a few new “suggestions” for our Honey-Don’t list, the brilliant idea I came up with a few months ago when we were in the middle of our moving crisis. The Honey-Don’t list is the direct opposite of all those lists wives have made for their husbands for years – rake the leaves, clean out the gutters, etc. etc. The Honey-Don’t list is composed of things we don’t want our life partner to do.
To be fair, Jim and I each contribute to the list, then pick a random thing from each other’s list that we want the other one to refrain from on a particular day. Works like a charm.
You should try it yourself sometime. And the rewards for good behavior can be well worth the effort.
I congratulated myself (silently) that I’d gotten through all of Sunday without spilling the beans about Tiffani. Now, if I could just keep it going till we left for Nantucket on Friday morning, I’d give myself a gold star.
Maybe, a 14k gold star. On a 14k gold necklace. That kind of incentive always motivates me.
You should try that sometime, too.
Monday morning, Jim was out of the house bright and early to interview the first selectman for the “State of the Town” column he writes for our weekly newspaper, The Fairport News. Fortunately, he’d made a pot of coffee before he left. I hate to admit this, but he does make better coffee than I do.
Jenny e-mailed me that she’d made reservations for all of us to take the 8:00 a.m. fast ferry Friday morning from Hyannis, Massachusetts, to Nantucket. I yawned at the very thought. Hyannis is a four-hour drive north on I-95 and east on Route 195 from Connecticut, assuming that we hit no traffic jams on our way through Providence, Rhode Island.
Yuck. I’d probably end up sleeping in my traveling clothes the night before, because I knew Jim would never spring for a hotel room in Hyannis on Thursday night. That meant we’d have to be in our car and on the road no later than 4 a.m. Friday morning. Maybe, even earlier.
Oh, well. It would all be worth it, once we got to Nantucket.
It was time for me to check out the Grey Gull Inn webpage and see where we’d be staying for the weekend.
As my computer screen sprang to life, I grabbed another cup of coffee. I was careful not to put my cup too close to the computer, though. I could hear Jim warning me against the hazards of liquid too close to the keyboard. Although he was the only one who’d actually spilled anything there. Which necessitated our having to buy a new computer.
I may tell you about that some other time.
Anyway, after checking my e-mail, I typed in the Grey Gull Inn website address. Oh, my gosh. The place was gorgeous, and what a perfect location – right in the center of town, close to historic Main Street, Nantucket’s primary shopping district. I was in heaven.
I clicked on “History of Nantucket” and discovered that the entire island is designated as a National Historic Landmark. I never knew that before. “Nantucket is affectionately referred to as ‘The Little Grey Lady of the Sea’,” the website informed me, “because of its many grey- shingled buildings and frequent fog. The island is 14 miles long by 3.5 miles wide, and is 27 miles out to sea. Nantucket is 30 miles south of Cape Cod, and has a year-round population of approximately 10,000. The population increases to about 50,000 during the summer months, which is Nantucket’s peak tourist season. It was the whaling capital of the world from the mid-1700s to the late 1830s, and was made famous by Herman Melville in his classic novel, Moby Dick.”
I made a mental note to go back and read that book again sometime. “More than 800 houses on Nantucket were built before the American Civil War, including what is now The Grey Gull Inn. The inn was built in 1825 by Nathaniel Grey, a whaling captain, as a gift to his new bride, Charity. Tragically, soon after the couple moved into the house, Charity was found dead at the bottom of the house’s circular staircase. An inquest determined her death was a tragic accident. Captain Grey never recovered from the shock of his young wife’s death, and legend has it that he continues to live in the house, searching in vain for his bride. The building was converted in the 1980s to a 10-bedroom inn. The current owners are siblings JoAnn and Skip Wallace, who are direct descendants of Captain Nate, as he was known in the family. They completely refurbished the structure in 2006, adding a new wing to the inn with six more guest room suites.” Wow. What a story. And poor Charity.
I clicked on the photos of the inn and discovered that the addition has been so carefully done that it blended seamlessly into the older part of the building. There was also a picture of the circular staircase where Charity met her death.
I scrolled down the inn’s website and discovered that it had a full- service gourmet restaurant, and one of the most notable wine lists on the island.
“This is going to be great, girls,” I said to the dogs. “What a fabulous place.”
I was rewarded by a yawn from Ethel and a reproachful look from Lucy.
I continued reading. “Out of consideration for any guests who may have allergies, the Grey Gull Inn has a firm ‘No Pets’ policy. However, we are happy to provide a customized basket of treats for you to share with your animal friends when you return home.”
What a bummer. Maybe we could renegotiate that for the wedding. If we decided on the Grey Gull Inn. Otherwise, there must be pet-friendly places on Nantucket. No way the girls would be left behind in Fairport.
“I’m sorry, Lucy. You can’t come with us this time. But a basket of b-i-s-c-u-i-t-s is a good deal, right?” Of course, that would depend on how big, and full, the treat basket really was.
Then I scrolled down to accommodation rates and almost had a heart attack. The smaller rooms were $295 a night, and the rates went up from there. Tiffani must think we were loaded with money to suggest a place like this.
I was ready to log off and think about the best way to break the news to Jim that we’d be dipping into our bank account big-time when I saw the magic words, “Special Deals” at the bottom of the website.
“Fall is a wonderful time to be on Nantucket,” I read. “The crowds have left, and the weather is still beautiful. We’re pleased to offer special
‘Fall for Nantucket’ pack
ages, at 50 percent off our usual rates, until November 1. We look forward to seeing you soon. Your hosts, JoAnn and Skip Wallace.”
Before I logged off the computer to take a shower, I sent Jenny a quick e-mail. “Hi honey. Just checked the Grey Gull Inn website and it looks fabulous. Except that we can’t bring the dogs. Maybe Mary Alice will take them again, the way she did when the house was on the market last spring.”
I frowned. Not a great idea, especially if Mary Alice wasn’t being invited to the wedding. Oh, well. Maybe once we were on Nantucket, Jenny and Mark would decide to increase the guest list.
Not that I would suggest that, since I never interfere in my children’s lives. Despite what you may have been told.
Chapter 13
I can keep a secret. It’s not my fault if
I talk to myself and other people hear me.
“Are you sure you don’t mind watching the dogs for a few days?” I asked Mary Alice as I struggled to bring two dogs crates into her immaculate kitchen. “Where should I put these? I want them to be out of the way.”
“Let me take one, Carol,” said Mary Alice, relieving me of half my cumbersome burden. “I know your back has a tendency to go when you lift something heavy. You don’t have time to visit the chiropractor before you leave for Nantucket tomorrow morning.”
Being a nurse, even though she’s semi-retired, Mary Alice has very definite opinions (mostly negative) on the value of what she refers to as “voodoo medicine,” which includes natural healing, acupuncture, and chiropractics.
“I thought you didn’t believe in chiropractors,” I said.
“I don’t,” she said. “But you do. And if you think they help, who am I to judge?”
Good point. Maybe I could apply Mary Alice’s theory to my own life, should I ever be accused (unfairly, no doubt) of being judgmental.
“I hope taking care of Lucy and Ethel isn’t too much trouble for you,” I said. Although I had no idea what I’d do if she said it was. Jim and I have never boarded the dogs in a kennel, even one operated by our veterinarian.
“Don’t be silly, Carol,” Mary Alice said. “I love having the dogs here. And Lucy and Ethel have already made themselves at home.”
That part was definitely true. Once their crates were in the assigned corner, both dogs had checked them out, recognized a familiar smell, and curled up, snuggled against each other, to take a nap.
“You’ll feed the dogs in their crates, won’t you?” I asked Mary Alice. “Lucy has a tendency to eat Ethel’s food once she’s finished her own, so they should be separated at mealtimes.”
“Carol, don’t worry. I’ve done this before, remember? I’m looking forward to having the girls here for a few days. It gets lonely sometimes, living in this condo all by myself. I realize that the older I get, the more I talk to myself. With Lucy and Ethel here, I can talk to them instead. As long as they promise not to tell you what I’ve said.”
I immediately felt guilty. “It never dawned on me that you could feel lonely, living here all by yourself,” I said. “Truthfully, I’ve often envied you. I’ve fantasized sometimes about putting a piece of mail down on the kitchen table, leaving the room, and when I come back, not finding it buried under Jim’s clutter. Which I have to move in order to get to my mail. Which will inevitably lead to an argument.”
This is one of our Honey-Don’t list’s recurring themes: “Thou shalt not move or touch in any way anything that belongs to the other person. For any reason, whatsoever.”
“Just once, I wish Jim would pick up after himself, and not leave his papers all over the house.”
“You know the saying about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence, Carol,” said Mary Alice, gesturing to me with a tea kettle in her hand. “Do you have time for a quick cup of tea?”
I didn’t have any time to spare – I tend to put off packing a suitcase to the very last minute – but I didn’t want to hurt Mary Alice’s feelings by dropping off the dogs and scurrying home. After all, she was doing me a huge favor.
But I also knew that the longer I stayed at her condo, the more likely it was that I’d spill the beans about the wedding planner’s identity, and then Nancy would find out, and … well, let’s just say things could get ugly.
“Sure,” I heard myself say. “Tea would be great. But I can only stay a few more minutes.”
“The water’s already hot,” Mary Alice reassured me. “And I have something I’m just dying to tell you.”
What a coincidence. I have something I’m just dying to tell you, too. But I can’t.
I didn’t really say that, of course.
“Let me get my laptop computer,” Mary Alice said. “I’ll be right back.”
Her laptop computer? This was getting weird. Mary Alice’s resistance to using a computer was an ongoing joke among our group.
“Do you mind making the tea for us?” Mary Alice called to me from her bedroom. “I want to have the laptop all booted up and ready for you to look at the webpage, and it’s taking me a little time to log on. Oh, wait. Finally, here it is.
“Sometimes this computer is so slow,” Mary Alice said, returning to the kitchen and carefully placing the laptop on the table opposite me. “Last year, I would’ve worried I’d done something wrong. Maybe even broken it. But now I know better.”
“When did you learn how to use a computer?” I asked her. “Do you mean I can actually add you to my e-mail contact list after all these years? I’m proud of you.”
“The Fairport Senior Center has lots of wonderful classes, Carol,” Mary Alice informed me. “Dealing with computer phobia – that’s what our teacher called it – is apparently very common among people our age. Especially women. After all, you had Jim to help you. I don’t have anybody.”
I refrained from commenting that Jim’s attempt to teach me how to use the computer almost brought us to a divorce lawyer. Let Mary Alice have her fantasies.
“Are you ready?” Mary Alice asked me.
“I’m ready. I even put my glasses on,” I said, trying not to be impatient. “Show me, for Pete’s sake.”
“Ta dah!” said Mary Alice, sliding the computer around so I could see the screen. It was a picture of Mary Alice, with a big smile on her face. “Is this your screen saver?” I asked, clearly confused. “I remember this picture from our open house last spring.”
“You’re not looking closely, Carol,” Mary Alice said. “Check out the top of the page.”
I squinted at the website address. Holy cow. It was Dream Dates! “Did you register on an Internet dating service?” I asked. “Are you nuts?”
When I saw the hurt look cross my friend’s face, I immediately regretted my flippant remark. Once again, my mouth was operating without an input from my brain.
“I mean, well, I’m surprised you did this,” I said. “Is it safe? How do you know that you won’t get hooked up with some nutcase?”
Oops. You did it again. Shut up, Carol, and let Mary Alice talk.
“For your information, Carol,” Mary Alice said in an icy tone, “Dream Dates is a highly respected and secure website. It’s the number one source for online dating for people over fifty. Nancy researched it very carefully before we registered.”
“You mean Nancy posted a profile, too?” Actually, the more I thought about it, this behavior was much more characteristic of Nancy than Mary Alice.
“Of course she did,” Mary Alice said. “This was her idea, but she didn’t want to try it alone. So we both did it.
“It’s not easy to write a profile of yourself, Carol,” Mary Alice continued. “First you have to come up with a catchy user name, something to catch a browser’s attention. Then you have to write a banner headline that describes yourself a little more. And then comes a short personal profile. It’s sort of like writing a resume, but a lot shorter and punchier. The site only allows a maximum of a hundred words. And then you have to post a photo of yourself. Do you think the one I picked is a good one?”
I was reeling. This was so uncharacteristic of my shy, proper friend. “I don’t know how to react to this, Mary Alice,” I said.
“I hoped you’d be proud of me,” Mary Alice retorted. “This is a big step for me, and I’m glad Nancy talked me into it. I’ve been a widow for over twenty years, and I’ve been alone ever since. And I’m not working regular hours at the hospital anymore, so I don’t have the chance to interact with other people as much. You don’t know what that’s like, Carol – to be lonely.”
I realized this was the second time this morning that Mary Alice had told me she was lonely. I needed to support her, not criticize her.
I covered her hands with my own and gave them a squeeze. “I’m sorry I reacted the way I did,” I said. “I want you to be happy. I guess I’ve been too preoccupied with my own problems to notice what you’ve been going through. When did you register and post this information? Have there been any responses?”
“We just did this yesterday,” Mary Alice admitted. “But I have to confess, I’ve become obsessed with checking the site to see if anyone is interested. So far, there’ve been no responses. But the website suggests waiting at least a week, and then, if no one has responded, rewriting the profile. I’m thinking positive thoughts. We’ll see.”
“I hope you get lots of responses, and meet some really nice men,” I said. “And if you need someone to play the ‘father’ role, and check someone out before a date, I’ll loan you Jim. He’s had lots of experience intimidating Jenny’s dates, and he’s good at it.”
Mary Alice laughed. “I don’t think I need a father figure at my age, but you never know. I’ll keep your offer in mind!”
Chapter 14
No use crying over spilled milk or straying husbands.
As soon the Steamship Authority fast ferry left the dock in Hyannis, bound for Nantucket, I could feel my grumpiness start to evaporate.
And boy, was I ever grumpy. I hadn’t slept in my clothes the night before, but I felt like I had. My face and hands felt grimy. To tell the truth, my whole body felt grimy. I needed another shower, and a long nap.
Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) Page 6