by Nancy Thayer
The conversation—vivid, colorful, fanned with laughter—darts around the table like hummingbirds. Clementine’s guests exchange tales of friends who got in trouble for stupid pranks in college, and everyone’s laughing. Maggie remains as remote and expressionless as a mannequin although she can’t help noticing that Cameron’s eyes are on her every time she’s across the table from him, bending down to offer another steak of swordfish or filet mignon.
Most of the guests are sailors, although some prefer sport fishing. They compare locations where they’ve sailed in all corners of the world, two of the men becoming heated as they argue over the waters off Australia and those off California.
“Don’t you have a rather famous race here?” Cameron asks. “With a cup …”
“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” a man, thick-tongued from too much liquor, agrees. “It’s the, the, the …”
“God, who knows,” Clementine cackles from the head of the table. “So many races …” She’s had, perhaps, too much to drink.
“It’s almost on the tip of my tongue,” a woman in black silk says, tapping her lip.
When no one else names the race, Maggie, standing at attention near the sideboard, provides it: “The Opera House Cup.”
“Right! Right! I was just going to say that!” the drunk bellows.
“Waitress.” Clementine’s voice is as heavy as lead. “We’re ready for our salads.”
Flushing, Maggie begins to clear the table of the dinner plates. Clementine knows her name but wanted to put Maggie in her place, and Maggie feels strongly that Clementine succeeded. Maggie can’t wait for this evening to end.
As the partygoers bend to their salads, Maggie and Artie clear the buffet of the heavy serving dishes. Maggie slips back into the kitchen to help Greta load the dishwasher and deal with leftovers. Then it’s time to clear. Maggie follows Artie back out into the dining room. They swoop around the table, silently removing the salad plates. Artie pours more champagne, while Maggie returns to the kitchen for the final course.
From the oven, Greta takes an enormous, glorious Baked Alaska, its swirls and tips of meringue browned to a delicate caramel. With delicate concentration, Greta and Maggie maneuver the concoction from its baking tray to the silver platter. This is no ordinary dessert. The cake base is Greta’s own recipe, rich, dark chocolate laden with liqueur. Peaked and glossy, it’s a work of art.
Artie twists the top of a bottle of Courvoisier and pours it over the golden dome. Greta lights a match and touches the brandy floating in the platter, and the dessert ignites.
“Is that too heavy for you?” Artie asks as Maggie lifts it in both hands. “Would you like me to carry it?”
“I’m fine.”
Artie holds the door wide, and with ceremonial solemnity, Maggie goes through, carrying the flaming Baked Alaska before her like a servant making an offering to a monarch.
Around the table, all ten people are flushed from alcohol and food. At the sight of the blazing dessert, they stir, becoming more animated, exclaiming, turning toward her, pushing their chairs back expectantly.
As she carries in the Baked Alaska, Maggie’s aware of all the eyes at the table on her. She forces back a smug smile. The radiance of the flames makes her face glow, she knows from having watched others carry in these desserts. She feels more like a queen than a waitress, more like a goddess presenting an offering, and perhaps she strolls a bit more slowly, making her walk a bit sensual, as she approaches Clementine.
“Give it to me!” Clearly exasperated with Maggie capturing the spotlight, Clementine stands up, reaches out, and jerks the fiery platter out of Maggie’s hands with such force that Maggie, on her sexy stilettos, falls backward with a cry.
She lands in Cameron Chadwick’s lap.
Her arms flail as she tries to regain her balance. Cameron brings his own powerful right arm behind her back to stabilize her. With his help, she struggles to sit up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders briefly for support.
For a moment, she faces him, her white-shirt-clad breasts brushing the elegant black and white of his tuxedo shirt and jacket. For a moment, her dark blue eyes meet his hazel ones. He puts his hands on her waist to steady her. Maggie knows her cheeks are blushing from the heat between them.
“Oh,” she says, wriggling to get her feet firmly planted on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
Cameron Chadwick says quietly, looking at her, “I’m not.”
There’s no graceful way to maneuver off a man’s lap at a dinner table, especially when the man’s hands are cupping her waist. Maggie thinks she might burst into flame herself.
“You clumsy idiot!” Clementine scolds. She plunks the Baked Alaska down on the table, her eyes shooting spikes at Maggie, so irritated at having such disgraceful behavior by the help at her dinner party that she doesn’t notice that the hem of her gauzy sleeve has swept through the flames and caught fire.
“Clementine!” one of the women screams.
Maggie, terrified for the hostess, seizes a glass of water and throws it at Clementine’s arm, soaking the material and extinguishing the fire.
Clementine shrieks. “Are you insane?”
Chaos erupts. Artie and Greta race from the kitchen to see what has gone wrong. Two of the male guests are blowing on the flames of the Baked Alaska, while one of the women has left the table to find her cell phone to snap photos.
“It’s all right,” Artie tells the group. “The flames will burn down by themselves. Look. They’re going out.”
“She set me on fire!” Clementine cries, pointing at Maggie.
Maggie, at last stable on both feet, draws herself up straight and tall. “No, you did that. I put the fire out.”
“She’s right, you know,” Cameron tells Clementine.
“Well, you shouldn’t have served a flaming dessert,” Clementine snaps, on the verge of tears.
“It was what you asked for,” Maggie reminds Clementine, who’s trembling with anger.
“Here now,” Greta says calmly. “Everything is quite all right. Maggie, please return to the kitchen. You have all those dishes to do.”
Maggie’s jaw falls open at this—Greta has never spoken to her this way, as if she were a foolish servant. In the next instant she understands the wisdom of Greta’s words; it’s a way of Greta taking charge, a way for Greta to punish Maggie for whatever it is Clementine thinks Maggie has done, so that Clementine will be appeased.
Nevertheless, it hurts her dignity. Maggie stalks off toward the kitchen, tears of humiliation in her eyes. Behind her, she hears Greta helping Clementine assess the damage to her garment while Artie takes charge of the dessert, cutting it, setting it onto the antique china plates, spooning brandy over it. In the kitchen, Maggie leans against the wall, her head buzzing and her heart sinking into her stomach. She’s more upset than she would normally be, because of that handsome Chadwick man. Why did she have to land in his lap?
Why had that sensation of desire passed between them?
Shaking her head brusquely to whisk off her thoughts, Maggie strides to the sink and begins to do the dishes.
Later, the party moves back into the living room to engage in an uproarious game of charades that has them staggering, collapsing with laughter. Maggie sets out bowls of nuts, cookies, and macaroons, then discreetly clears the dining room table. Artie brings out several bottles of champagne, uncorked and ready in deep cushions of ice in buckets and places them on various tables, ready to pour.
The clock strikes twelve.
Greta and Artie exchange quick kisses. Immediately, kindly, they wish Maggie, “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” Maggie replies.
“Let’s each have a glass of champagne.” Artie finds three clean flutes, pours, and hands them around. “Here’s to a prosperous new year.”
They clink glasses together and drink. The champagne is delicious. Maggie leans against the kitchen counter, relaxing, savoring the liquid sliding down her throat. She closes h
er eyes, resting.
“Aside from the fireworks, it went well, don’t you think?” Greta asks. Her face is shiny with perspiration, and her short white hair lies limp against her skull.
“Your food certainly disappeared,” Maggie says. “Clean plates all around.”
“Yes,” Artie agrees. “Probably one of your best efforts, Greta.”
Greta pinkens with pleasure. “Not many scraps, that’s true, and very little to pack up and take home. Maggie, would you like any of the salad? There’s plenty of that left.”
“Sure. I’ll put some in a plastic bag.”
The kitchen door flies open and in strolls Cameron. He’s undone his black bow tie, which hangs on either side of his shirt collar, which he’s opened as well. His blond hair sticks out in all directions, as if he’s been rubbing it with a balloon.
“Hello, everyone.” His smile is debonair, charming. “That was a magnificent meal. I’d love to meet the chef.”
Blushing, Greta says, “I’m Greta White.”
“Cameron Chadwick.” He shakes her outstretched hand. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”
Greta’s so pleased she practically curtsies. “Oh, well, thank you.”
Cameron turns to Artie. “And thank you, sir, for being such a splendid bartender. I’m happy to report that you’ve gotten all of us most thoroughly plastered. As we should be on New Year’s Eve.”
“You’re welcome,” Artie says.
Maggie stands paralyzed, captured in his courtly spell.
“I’d like to ask a favor, if I may.” He steps closer to Maggie. “I need a little walk in the cool air. Could I appeal to your kindness and ask you to join me?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maggie’s dumbfounded, and so are the Whites. This man actually glows, as the strong kitchen light hits his blond hair, and the gold and diamond studs in his pleated snowy white shirt. He looks like one of the natural aristocrats of the world, and Maggie feels, in comparison, clumsy, a peasant.
Awkwardly, she chokes out an excuse. “I need to help Greta—”
“Nonsense!” Greta cuts in, her eyes bulging. “We’re almost through here, Maggie. You go on and have a nice little walk, you deserve it.”
Artie’s head bobs enthusiastically. “We’ve got everything under control.”
“But—” Maggie can hardly breathe. “Your friends—”
“They won’t miss me,” Cameron assures her. “They’re embroiled in a battle of charades.”
Maggie’s forgotten how to move. She stutters, “It’s cold out—your coat—”
Greta volunteers, “The Melroses always keep a few coats hanging on the hooks in the back hall by the door to the garage.”
“There you are, then,” Cameron says.
Maggie finds an ancient good black wool dress coat. Cameron puts on an L.L.Bean canvas hunting jacket in loden green. He turns up the corduroy collar and, finding a navy blue Red Sox baseball cap, slips that over his pale hair. He opens a door and they go out to the brick patio off the kitchen.
The air is cold but almost eerily calm, not a breath of wind. The grass, nearly black in the moonlight, lies as still as a quilt.
“Which way do we go to get down to the ocean?” Cameron inquires. “I realize that if I walked straight out from the house I’d fall off the edge and roll down the bluff. Even drunk, I’d rather not do that.”
“There’s a walk behind all the houses along here. It leads to a brick sidewalk down to Codfish Park, and then it’s only a short distance to the water.”
She sets off walking over the cold grass toward the edge of the bluff, purposely skirting the long rectangle of light falling onto the lawn from the living room so no one in the party will see them.
“Slow down!” Cameron slips his arm through hers, pulling her close. “You might be able to see in the dark, but I sure can’t.”
“Sorry. I know this area by heart.” His slender body moving next to her sends her heart tripping in her chest.
“You do, do you? How so?” Cameron’s voice is calm, conversational.
As they walk, the Melroses’ huge house seems to retreat into the distance on a sea of darkness. The seductive whispering of the waves sounds stronger here on the edge of the cliff.
“I grew up on the island,” Maggie tells him. She wishes she’d worn a hat. The moist wind teases strands of her hair out of the chignon, corkscrewing them into spirals that dance around her face.
“You did?” He sounds as fascinated and curious as if she’d said she grew up on another planet. “Did you go to school here? I can imagine you walking barefoot on the beach, your beautiful crazy hair blowing every which way.”
“Careful here.” She sounds more stern than she means to, but his compliment flusters her. His presence flusters her. “It’s odd about the public footpath. It runs along the very edge of the land from the village of ’Sconset out to the Sankaty lighthouse. Or it did, until several storms tore off great hunks of the cliff.” She’s so nervous, she’s babbling. “This is on the side of the island that isn’t supposed to erode, but Mother Nature changed her mind, I guess. So the footpath has been moving closer and closer to the houses.”
“The yards are huge,” Cameron observes, “but is the footpath open in the summer when people are living in their homes?”
“Yes, legally it’s still open then. I always hate to use it, though. It seems intrusive to walk through someone’s yard when they’re having a quiet game of croquet or a cookout. But a lot of people like to walk here in the summer for precisely that reason, to catch a glimpse of the kind of people who can afford to pay millions for a house they’ll use only a few weeks of the year.”
“So is one of these bluff houses yours?”
Maggie bursts out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“Would I be serving dinner on New Year’s Eve if my family owned a multimillion-dollar house?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Cameron replies. “Maybe. I mean, why not help a friend?”
The cliff falls off sharply, a tangle of wild roses and beach grass holding the dirt to the cliff face. In the dark it would be easy to step too close to the edge.
“Watch out,” Maggie warns. “One more yard and we’ll be okay.” With a sigh, she admits, “I did live in ’Sconset for a while, but not up here with an ocean view.”
“Show me.”
She doesn’t speak until they’ve come off the dirt footpath and onto a narrow lane between small, picturesque cottages, all of their windows dark. “During the last century, the Nantucket fishing families used to come out here to fish for cod. They built these little shelters low to the ground so they could throw their nets over the roofs to mend them. Now, of course, they’re all summer homes.” She pauses. “You should see these in the summer. Instead of nets, millions of tiny pink roses climb all over the roofs. This is my favorite place, with the little patio. There’s always an orange tabby curled up on one of the benches.”
“So where’s your house?” Cameron persists.
“We’re almost there.”
They walk down the brick sidewalk from Front Street to Codfish Lane. “This is steep enough to sled on!” Cameron says, clutching Maggie close to his side.
At the bottom of the hill, Maggie turns left, leading him back along the narrow lane. On one side the bluff rises steeply. “In the summer, this is covered with Queen Anne’s lace and all kinds of wildflowers.”
On the other side of the lane lie ten modest cottages, closed up and tucked away for the winter. Maggie stops in front of one.
“This is it.”
“Huh. It’s small.”
“Yes. And you can’t see the charm of it in the winter. My mom always had window boxes full of flowers, and roses climbing over the roof. She was divorced, and my father disappeared, and so the three of us, Mom, and me, and my brother, Ben, lived here until I was eleven. Then she married Thaddeus Ramsdale, and we all moved to his place on the Polpis Road.�
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“Thaddeus Ramsdale. That’s quite a moniker.”
“True. He lives up to it.”
Arm in arm they pass down the lane, turn a corner, walk one short block, and there, on the other side of the street, lies the beach, stretching out to the surging water. Their footsteps make crunching noises as they tramp over the frozen sand. Moonlight illuminates the white curls of foam edging each wave and riding the crest of the lazy, leaden ones rolling in behind. Somewhere in the distance, the darkness of ocean blurs with the darkness of sky.
Cameron bends down, stretches his fingertips out, and dips his hand in the ocean. “As cold as our water in Maine.”
“You’re from Maine?” Not certain what this walk is really about, Maggie hasn’t wanted to pry.
“My family has a home in Camden. But I live in Manhattan.” Shaking cold beads of water off his hand, he dries it on the outside of his coat. He’s so close to her she can see his eyes, even in the dim light. He looks earnest, and the attraction between them is so strong she thinks it could alter the rise and fall of the waves.
“You’re Clementine’s date, right?”
“I’m Clementine’s friend.”
Sternly, she says, “We should go back. They’ll wonder where you are.”
They tread over the beach, their feet sinking in the sand, until they come to the solid level of the street.
“I’m here tonight,” Cameron continues, as if they’ve been discussing this without interruption, “because Clementine broke up with her latest boyfriend and needed a date for the evening. I’ve known Clementine since preschool. Our mothers are friends.”