Summer Harbor

by Susan Wilson

  Once the mast was in place, Grainger stayed behind to rig it. Mack had to work the afternoon shift at Linda’s.

  “Do you want me to stay and help?” Kiley was standing on the dock. It was low tide, so she stood above him, looking down.

  He was on the boat, his bare toes clenching against the floor-boards of the cockpit. Looking up into her eyes, Grainger could read the anguish in them; her fear that she was about to hurt him was so plainly written there. Her silent desire that, no matter what, they were still friends.

  They were. He just needed to keep it platonic, to continue to pretend exactly as he had been all summer that his love was harmless.

  For a moment he weighed the consequences of speaking his true feelings to her right then and there.

  “Really, Grainger, I’ll stay and help.”

  “No, Blithe. Catch a ride home with Mack. I’ll see you at the club tonight.” He turned away quickly so that she couldn’t see the emotion threatening his reserve.

  It was late by the time Kiley reached the gate of the Yacht Club. The boys were already there on the deck, cans of soda in hand, leaning against the wall, side by side but not speaking. Grainger had come alone, almost not going at all. He and Mack watched Kiley as she came along the asphalt path, her sandal heels making a little gritty sound against the sand that lay on the path like salt on a pretzel. Dressed in her white dress, her dark blue cardigan tied around her waist, Kiley looked beautiful, more beautiful than ever in Grainger’s eyes. Mack pushed away from the wall to greet her, and Grainger walked away.

  Inside, Don Henley was singing about summer. A few couples were already dancing; most were still arrayed along the edges of the room, no one sitting on the musty-cushioned fake bamboo furniture. Grainger wondered absently why the Yacht Club kept holding these “socials” for the kids. No one ever looked like they had a good time. Kids preferred their own dark fun, and he knew that several of the kids still in high school were dribbling stolen nips of bourbon or rum into their Coke cans. Others were making use of the empty dressing rooms. Every family had a locked cabana, and a determined teenager could always filch the key to it. The cabanas were only four by five and primarily taken up with a bench and hooks, but kids still managed to use them for privacy.

  Grainger thumbed through the LPs as if desperately interested in them. He was acutely aware of Mack and Kiley as they went out onto the half-empty dance floor and began to move with the heavy beat. Then Kiley stopped dancing and leaned into Mack’s ear. They both looked at him. Grainger kept to his feigned interest in the records.

  “Let’s go to the beach.” Kiley was at Grainger’s elbow.

  Grainger shrugged. “You guys go. I’m not in the mood.”

  Mack stood on his other side. “Man, you have to go with us. We won’t let you say no.”

  “Won’t let me, huh? Since when are you—”

  “Grainger, please. We have to talk.” Kiley lay one hand on his sleeve. He wore one of Conor MacKenzie’s cast-off button-down shirts, a tie from the lost and found knotted tightly against his throat. Gently Grainger removed her hand, holding on to it for a moment, then let go. “All right.”

  Ducking the less-than-eagle-eyed post–cocktail-hour chap-erones, they went through the back hallway and out the unalarmed emergency door. This late in the season, full dark had already come on, with only a trickle of daylight left in the western sky. A sliver of moon hung over the sea, stars punctuating the black sky in a seemingly random arrangement. The breeze was lively and newly cool, jangling the halyards against the masts in the crowded summer harbor. In front of them, invisible but audible, were the constant waves rolling onto the beach.

  It seemed suddenly important to pretend for a moment that they were only out here for the usual swim. Kiley dropped her sweater on the sand and stripped off the sleeveless dress, then shivered in the breeze. Neither boy moved to join her as she walked to the water’s edge. They sat side by side on the damp sand and said nothing. Grainger had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like jealousy.

  “Kiley.” Mack called to her to come sit beside them. In the darkness they were visible only as two white shirts, Kiley’s white dress on the damp, cold sand between them.

  Kiley moved up the beach to stand in front of them, her arms folded against herself, either from nervousness or chill. “Grainger, Mack and I have to tell you something. Mack and I…”

  “Save it, Blithe. It would take a blind man not to see what’s going on here.” Grainger stood up and yanked at the tie around his neck. “I wish you both the best.” He tried hard to make his tone match his words.

  “Grainger, are you sure you’re all right with this?” Mack was standing up now, on the other side of him.

  He put a hand on Mack’s shoulder, then his other on Kiley’s. “What’s not to be all right about?” He pulled both of them close, but his face was inclined to Kiley. He breathed in deeply of her scent, a lively mixture of lemon and powder. As soon as he had drawn them close, Grainger let them go. Without another word, he turned around and went back into the building, hoping that they would be fooled by his act.

  Inside, Grainger grabbed the hand of one of the Doublemints and pulled her out onto the dance floor. Over her head, he saw Mack and Kiley come in, arm in arm. After a moment, they took the dance floor. He was unable to prevent himself from watching Mack and Kiley dance. Mack bobbed up and down, but Kiley used the music, arching her back, raising her arms over her head in graceful motion. Then Conor MacKenzie broke off from his group and went over to them. He gave his brother a good-natured slug before bussing Kiley on the cheek. Grainger turned his partner so that he could no longer see them.

  At the end of the song, Grainger walked out of the club and back to the beach. The breeze was stronger now, and the incessant din of halyards disturbed the silence. Grainger pounded across the sand, dropping his clothes before plunging into the cold water. He stayed under until his chest felt as if it would burst. That night he began to stay in his father’s motel room.

  The breeze the next morning was down to six knots, so they returned to the shipyard to sail Blithe Spirit to her permanent mooring in Hawke’s Cove harbor. Grainger was waiting for them as Mack and Kiley walked side by side along the wooden pier to where the boat was tied up. In one hand he held Kiley’s blue cardigan.

  “Where’d you find that?”

  “On the beach.” He gave it to her, neatly folded. “It was almost in the water.”

  “I’m so glad you found it; it’s my favorite.” Kiley tied it around her waist. “Thanks for bringing it with you.”

  Grainger looked away from her, his gray-blue eyes on the boat. “You shouldn’t be so careless with your favorite things.”

  They christened her with a rare glass bottle of Coke. “Hail to thee, Blithe Spirit!” they chorused, and Kiley swung the Coke bottle against her prow. Nothing happened. Grainger took the eight-ounce bottle out of her hand and, kneeling on the pier, swung it like a bat. The bottle shattered and they looked aghast at the sticky brown fluid running down her bow. Hastily, Mack grabbed a hose and sprayed the hull off with fresh water.

  As if they were his students out for a lesson, Grainger handed Mack and Kiley each a life jacket. He was the last to board, casting off the ropes and then sitting in the stern to man the tiller as Mack raised her gaff-rigged sail.

  As the most experienced sailor of the three, Grainger called the orders, keeping his hands on the tiller and the mainsheet. Mack, the least experienced, made fast the peak and throat halyards once the sail was in place. The wind gently pushed them away from the dock, and they easily threaded their way out between the other boats making for the opening of Great Harbor.

  Grainger felt like they had the proverbial elephant in the living room. Mack and Kiley kept their boat shoes well apart, the sail effectively keeping them from each other’s sight. Grainger kept his eyes on some point in the middle distance, but from his vantage point could see both of them. Once out of the harbor, they tacked.
As her patched sail took the wind, Mack moved over to sit beside Kiley on the high side of Blithe Spirit. They let their knees bump, but kept their hands to themselves.

  The three spoke only of the boat, proud of themselves for rescuing her, proud to have done so as quickly and as cheaply as they had. But it was a flat victory. All the joy of the moment was tarnished by the change in their friendship. If they had still been as before, this would have been a jolly expedition. Instead, they spoke of Blithe Spirit as if she were their child, their only source of conversation.

  Maybe it would have been easier if he’d gotten mad and fought with them, Grainger thought. But he didn’t. And this adherence to polite neutrality was maddening. He wanted to stand up and scream at them, but what words could he say that would describe half of what he was feeling?

  “So, Grain, how was the Doublemint? Which one were you with?” They were halfway around the point before Kiley asked the question.

  Grainger adjusted the tiller slightly. “Emily.”

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “It was just a dance. She’s okay.”

  “Are you going to take her out?”

  “Why? Do you want to double-date?”

  Kiley wiped spray from the varnished rail. “Maybe. Sure.”

  Mack stretched and casually dropped his hand to her bare knee. His fingers gently squeezed it.

  Was this a newly possessive gesture? Hadn’t they always leaned on one another? Grainger studied the horizon, trying not to look at Mack’s easy familiarity, aware that he’d no longer have that harmless intimacy with Kiley.

  “Prepare to jibe.” Grainger stood up, one leg cocked against the tiller, his hands on the mainsheet.

  “Let me do it, Grainger.” Mack crept over Kiley’s legs to stand beside Grainger.

  Grainger shrugged and gave up the post to Mack.

  Mack let go of the sheets too quickly, and the sail flapped and the boom swung. Kiley ducked, nearly banging heads with Grainger. Mack recovered the mainsheet, gripped the tiller with white-knuckle intensity, and began to bring things back under control.

  “It’s been a while.” He looked sheepish, and Kiley smiled at him as if she thought him charming.

  Grainger drummed his fingers on the side of the boat and said nothing. Fortunately, the wind was gentle. In rougher seas, Mack’s carelessness might have been disastrous, and they all knew it.

  Their maiden voyage went off with a minimum of fuss, and they rounded the tip of the peninsula within an hour. At that point they had to tack. Mack gave up the helm to Grainger without a word. Grainger made the maneuver easily, deftly handling tiller and sheet, ducking nonchalantly as the boom swung. He hoped Kiley would make a comparison.

  Kiley crept out onto the bow to snag the mooring’s pickup. Grainger luffed the mainsail at exactly the right moment to shoot the mooring, bringing them to a slow glide, and Kiley caught it on the first try. They took a long time putting things away, making sure all the lines were properly coiled, the sail lashed to the boom correctly so that it would raise easily next trip. They lovingly wiped down the salt from her varnish, slid the crutch under the boom, and made sure everything was Bristol fashion.

  Kiley rowed the three of them to shore, facing the other two as they sat side by side on the stern seat of the small rowboat, Mack looking port and Grainger gazing starboard. He couldn’t look at Kiley for fear she would see his anguish. Behind them Blithe Spirit swung into the wind, tethered by her lines. Suddenly Grainger knew that he had to separate from them, that this pretense that everything was fine would be impossible to maintain.

  • • •

  Even dipped lavishly with drawn butter, the lobster tasted flat. From where he sat, Grainger could see Will, laughing with some new friends, and Kiley, still next to Conor, deep in conversation. So be it. Just like Mack, Conor was more Kiley’s type. Conor was a doctor like his father; Will had said Kiley was a nurse practitioner. Nice match. Nowadays, Conor only occasionally reminded Grainger of Mack. Surely, as she talked with Conor, she saw something of her true love in the face of his brother.

  Pilot sagged by Grainger’s feet, sated with scraps. The fireworks would begin in a few minutes, the bonfire was already blazing, but Grainger couldn’t make himself stay any longer.

  “Let’s go home, boy.”

  Pilot cocked his head.

  Sixteen

  “I hear that your parents are selling up.” Conor grabbed the untaken table and set his plate down.

  Kiley looked back at Grainger, but he was gone. She caught sight of him sitting with a crowd at a distant table. She set her plate beside Conor’s. “It’s too much for them.”

  “And you don’t have any interest in keeping it?”

  “No. I can’t.” Kiley wondered if everyone she ran into was going to keep asking her the same question. She needed some surefire response to keep the rest of the questions at bay. “The truth is, I can’t afford it even if they gave it to me. I find myself unexpectedly unemployed.” The word unemployed had so little to do with the sad fact of Doc John’s death. “My boss was killed and his patients are being transferred to another doctor who has a full staff.” There, it was out. It would take a little practice not to choke on the words, but they were said.

  “Are you a nurse?”

  “Nurse practitioner, pediatrics.”

  “Good for you.” Conor was vaguely condescending, as so many of the docs were. Not quite one of us, a little better than a nurse.

  “You’re a doctor like your dad?”

  “Not quite. I’m a gastroenterologist in a six-man practice. Six-person, rather.” Conor expertly split open the thorax of the lobster. “I practice in Great Harbor.”

  She listened to Conor talk about his practice and the difficulties of being over half an hour from the nearest hospital, and how two of his partners were threatening to form their own group. Kiley began to relax, confident the conversation was safely away from her. As soon as Conor had come up to her, she’d been fighting panic. What if Will walked over just then? What would she do? How would she introduce him to Conor? Would Conor’s face show sudden puzzlement, then mental calisthenics as he tried to fit Will into what he knew of Kiley, “doing the math,” as the saying went? As she was certain Grainger had.

  Conor took a breath. “So what are you going to do? About a job, I mean.”

  “I’m thinking I might apply to work in a PICU.” Kiley took a mouthful of steamer.

  “You might find it terribly stressful after so many years in an office.”

  “I could use the challenge.”

  “Do you want me to check it out at our hospital? We have a small unit; maybe there’s a spot.”

  “I don’t want to move, Conor, but thank you.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s holding you?”

  “My parents. My commitments.”

  “Husband?”

  “No.” Shields up. “What about you? I mean, are you married?”

  “Once. It didn’t last past medical school.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Conor arranged his empty lobster shells neatly and picked up his corn. “My parents would love to see you. They’re just over there. Finish up and I’ll bring you over.”

  Kiley followed Conor’s pointing finger to see a group of older Covers sitting in web-and-aluminum lawn chairs. She recognized Dr. MacKenzie only by his lifelong uniform of plaid shirt and khaki trousers. Mrs. MacKenzie had grown stout, and her once lush brown hair was steel gray and permed into a mass of tiny curls. Although Kiley hadn’t seen them since that last summer, she remembered with awful clarity the last time she had. “That’s okay, Conor. Maybe another time. I need to get home.”

  “Why? The fireworks haven’t even started. You can’t seriously think of going before they do.”

  Kiley picked up the biscuit off her plate. She looked over and saw that Grainger was no longer at the table with the crowd. Trying not to look like she was looking for someone special, she gla
nced around. It was full dark and she couldn’t see Grainger, or Will, anywhere. Suddenly the first rocket went up, exploding into a chrysanthemum of purple and white. In the dazzle she saw Grainger walking to his truck, the wirehaired mutt on his heels.

  “See, it’s too late to leave now. Come on.” Conor stood up, his paper plate in one hand, the other extended to her. “They’d love to see you.”

  The boom of a second firework split the air. Kiley jumped. In the flash she saw Will sitting on a blanket, surrounded by boys and girls. He gazed heavenward, his mouth open in delight, having a good time.

  “Kiley, they’d love to see you.” Did he think that if he repeated it enough, she’d capitulate?

  She closed her eyes. “I’d love to, Mack, but I can’t.” A flush crept up her cheeks as she realized what she’d said. “Conor, I mean.”

  Conor smiled at her, his face illuminated by the next green-and-red burst. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to press. Another time.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good. And I will make some inquiries about jobs.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Conor dumped his plate into a barrel. “Kiley, I want to.”

  “Who were the kids you were with?” The traffic leaving the beach was heavy and Kiley drove slowly.

  “Just some of the kids that played softball with us. Molly, Andrew, and Catherine. Some others.”

  “Are they year-round or summer?”

  “I guess year-round. They knew each other from school.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing big.” Will drummed a rhythm on the dashboard. “What did you talk about?”

  “With whom?” After Conor, Kiley had moved through the crowd, speaking to several old acquaintances.

  “That guy you were sitting with.”

  “Sex and drugs, of course.” Kiley pulled into the driveway. “See, it’s not so hard.”

  “Mom!” Will slapped his forehead in feigned exasperation. “Talk is talk. What do you say to people you just meet? Nothing heavy.”