by Nancy Thayer
She was on her knees among a row of tomato plants when she heard someone speak her name. Shading her eyes with her hand, she looked up. Spencer Bracebridge stood there, looking like a GQ ad in his white flannels and blue blazer.
"I thought that was you," Spencer said. "You're really a jack of all trades, aren't you?"
Emma felt awkward as she squatted there in the dirt in her shorts and tee shirt and long-billed scalloper's cap. There was something a little too Lord of the Manor and Peasant Girl in the moment to suit her. She stood up, stretching to release the tightness of her back.
"I prefer Jacqueline of all trades," she quipped. "How are you, Spencer?"
"I'm good. And I'm working right now, too, actually. The Prestons have agreed to hold a fund-raiser for the historical association here at the end of the summer and we're going over the details."
"Cool." Something in the way Spencer looked at Emma made her tingle. But what was she thinking? She was sweaty and had dirt smeared on her clothes and probably on her face, too.
"Actually, I was out on the deck and saw you and I just wanted to, um, come out to say hello."
"Well," Emma said. "Hello." She couldn't stop smiling at him. She told herself that he was undoubtedly used to women gawking at him.
Spencer seemed slightly tongue-tied. "Um, it's getting hot."
"It certainly is." His shyness was turning her shy, too.
"Did I ever tell you how grateful I am that you brought my grandmother to my talk?"
"Oh, well, I was glad to do it." Emma thought Spencer was sort of leaning toward her. Was he attracted to her? He did come to lunch every day at Mrs. Bracebridge's. His eyes were so warm on her face.
Spencer touched her arm. "She really likes you, and believe me, she doesn't like everyone. And she and my mother act like a pair of wet cats with each other."
Emma laughed. "They're both strong-willed women."
"I know. You're so great with them. I really ..." Spencer paused. "I wonder if you'd ever like to ... Well, you probably just ..."
Was he trying to ask her out? The heat between them was not all caused by the sun. Emma leaned closer to him.
"Spencer?" From the deck, a woman called. "Lunch is served!"
"Oh. Damn. I've got to go," Spencer said. He became formal again. "It was so nice to see you here, Emma."
"Nice to see you, too."
"Emma--" He hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I wanted to tell you--if you ever have to choose between doing what my mother says and what my grandmother says, choose my grandmother. Or if that's a problem, call me. I want you to know you can always call me."
So that was it. He had only come out to talk to her as an employer giving her instructions. Emma pulled away from his hand. "Good to know, Spencer. I've got to get back to work." She turned her back on him and knelt back down among the tomato plants.
"Okay, well, see you tomorrow," Spencer said.
Emma focused her energy on the weeds, working fast and hard. Hadn't she learned her lesson with wealthy boys? What was she thinking! Imagining that Spencer Bracebridge was interested in her. Really.
By the time she'd finished the vegetable garden, she was trembling with fatigue.
Marcia loped up next to her. "Wow, Emma, you are one maniac weeder. I want all the hours you can give me. Come sit in the shade and drink a lemonade with me and Brian."
Emma rose and followed Marcia out to the truck. Brian was already there, hauling his tee shirt off, exposing his tanned, muscular chest. The three of them sat on the bed of the truck, drinking cold bottles of lemonade from the cooler.
"Brian's got something to celebrate," Marcia announced.
"Really?" Emma arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
Brian rolled his shoulders and groaned. "Oh, come on, Marsh, give me a break."
"But, Brian, it's a big deal!" Marcia protested.
"No, it's not a big deal," Brian insisted.
Emma laughed. "Can you at least tell me what isn't a big deal?"
"Brian got his Mass plumber's license."
"Congratulations, Brian," Emma said.
"It's no big deal," Brian grumbled.
"Yes, it is," Marcia insisted, aiming her words at Emma. "Now Brian can take over from Dad. Dad only likes to do the little jobs for the people he's always known. Brian can take on some big fat new jobs for the new trophy houses."
"That's great, Brian," Emma said.
Brian grinned at her. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin. "It is, actually. I'm making a ton of money. I've bought a piece of property out in Dionis, and before long I'm going to build myself a trophy house of my own."
"Then you'll need a wife to fill it with kids," Marcia told her brother, and winked at Emma.
32
Lily
Lily had no idea where she was. The bed, the room, the very smell of the air, were all unfamiliar to her. She shut her eyes tight and took a moment to listen to her body. Nope. She wasn't hungover. She hadn't passed out at a party. She'd only done that once, anyway, back in college, and once was enough; she'd never let herself get that drunk again.
But where was she?
She opened her eyes. She was facing a plain brown wall. No pictures. She smelled a dampness in the air, a kind of basement smell ... and then, in a rush, it all came back to her.
She was in Jason's apartment. She was in bed with Jason.
Last night rolled past her in a blur of memory. She'd attended two cocktail parties, and a concert. Jason had been waiting for her in his truck after the concert, just as he'd promised.
He'd stepped out of the cab and come around to open the door for her, a gentlemanly touch that pleased Lily.
He'd been smug. "I've got a surprise for you."
He'd driven them over to Wild Rose Drive and parked in front of an old, three-story shingled house. This close to town, all the parking places on the street were filled, but he steered his truck into the driveway of the house, turned off the ignition, and came around to open the truck door. He took her by the hand and led her to the back of the house, in through a door, and down a set of steps, where he unlocked a door.
"My year-round apartment!" he announced.
Lily had stepped inside. "I don't understand."
Jason strode through the room, turning on lights. The apartment was small, basically a living room with a galley kitchen attached, and a boxlike bedroom with the world's smallest shower-stall bathroom. It was furnished scantily--a bed, a futon for a sofa, an ancient and obviously wobbly table.
"I just rented this!" Jason waved his arms triumphantly.
"In the summer? It must cost a fortune."
"Mrs. Fischer's a friend of my mother's. Her husband died a month ago, and she wanted to have someone in the house she can trust. They used to use this place for their grandchildren, but they're all grown. She gave me a great deal on the rent."
"But you don't have to pay rent at your parents' house," Lily pointed out.
Jason came toward her, smiling. "True. But there's no privacy in my parents' house. You're not the kind of woman I want to keep--seeing--in a pickup truck. You deserve a palace, Lily. Until I can afford that, I can at least offer this." He took her hand and pulled her into the bedroom. "The sheets are brand-new. And I washed them."
Lily sank down on the bed. A wooden chest stood at one end of the room. Curtains with sailboats on them spanned the high, narrow windows.
"I haven't had time to fix it up yet," Jason said. "And I want to paint over this gross brown, too. But for now--my parents gave me the bed from our guest room. It's hardly been used at all." A pair of candles stood on the chest. Jason lit them. He left the room, returning with two flutes and a bottle of champagne. "Let's celebrate."
She didn't even need the champagne to feel intoxicated. It was enough to have Jason next to her. It was ambrosia to know that he cared enough about her to rent his own apartment.
Now, next to her, Jason snored gently. He'd hooked one of his legs over hers and his body warmth almost
disguised the chill of the basement walls. Lily shifted onto her back and checked her watch. It was after eight, but this was the one morning of the week when she didn't have to hurry. Except she did have a lot to write up. Last week had been filled with activities, and it would take some time and concentration to be sure the right names were matched with the people she'd photographed.
Plus, she had some serious atonement to do with her sisters. Emma didn't seem too upset about Lily forgetting to go to the grocery store, but yesterday Abbie had turned into a drama queen, storming past Lily, head high, not speaking. Having Abbie back home wasn't the unmitigated pleasure Lily had anticipated.
What a confusing summer it was turning out to be! Emma was sad, Abbie was huffy, and the Playhouse was inhabited by a woman with designs on their father. And Jason--oh, this thing with Jason was happening so fast! He had rented an apartment just because of her! Last night when they were making love, he had told her he loved her, and she had told him she loved him. And she did. But she didn't want to get serious yet, not so soon. And not--she allowed herself to be brutally honest in her secret thoughts--not with a man who could only afford a basement apartment. She wanted to live in a house on the cliff, a house like Eartha's. Thank heavens for Eartha, she was the only part of the summer that came close to matching Lily's dreams.
Her thoughts made her restless. She slithered out of bed and slipped into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, Jason was still sleeping. She wrote him a note and tiptoed out of his apartment and up the stairs to the street.
The morning air was fresh, the sky bright blue. As she strolled along the narrow lanes and over cobblestone streets to her own home, she fished her cell phone out of her bag and listened to her voice mail.
Invitations to a few more events--good.
A snippy message from Abbie: No milk in the house. God, you are such a spoiled brat. Ouch. Lily would have to go to the store today.
Then, Eartha's raspy voice: Honey, some friends of mine just arrived on their yacht and want me to come to dinner tonight. Wanna go with me? You might like their son.
Oh my God, Lily thought! Her heart leapt. Dinner on a yacht? With Eartha and a man Lily might like? As she walked, she clicked in Eartha's number and agreed to meet her employer at Straight Wharf at six.
When she walked into her house, the only sound Lily heard was the vacuum running upstairs. That would be Abbie. Lily rushed through the house, grabbed the grocery list off the refrigerator door and the keys off the hook by the back door, and hurried out to the car. At the Stop&Shop, she filled the cart so full she could scarcely push the damn heavy thing. When she got home, Abbie was gone, and so was everyone else. Hurriedly she put away the groceries. She raced up to the bathroom--she had to admit, it was awfully nice that Abbie had washed the towels and put out fresh ones--showered and washed her hair, then slipped on shorts and a tee shirt and grabbed up her digital camera and her laptop. She grabbed a banana and a Diet Coke for her breakfast and went out to the patio. She linked her camera to her computer and downloaded the photos while she ate, then opened her notebook and began to write.
The phone rang, breaking her concentration.
"Hey, Lily." Jason's voice was rumbly, warm, and masculine. "Why'd you leave? You should have woken me. I wanted to take you out to breakfast."
"Oh, Jason, I'm sorry, but I had to get home and go to the grocery store. If I didn't, Abbie would absolutely detonate."
Jason laughed. "How about lunch, then?"
"I can't. I've got to write up a bunch of stuff for the magazine. I should have done it last night, but you--distracted me."
"Can I take you out to dinner?"
"Oh, Jason, I'm sorry. I've got another event." It was only a white lie, Lily told herself. And God knew, dinner on a yacht certainly ranked as an event for her.
"Damn. I won't get to see you at all today?"
She closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment to envision his mouth, his lips, his hands, his body ... "But I'll come over tonight," she promised. "As soon as I can. And I'll spend the night."
33
Marina
Sunday evening, Marina settled out beneath the apple tree with a glass of wine and the Sunday papers. She'd had a good day. She'd gone to church, and chatted with people at coffee hour, had a pleasant lunch at the Boarding House, then spent a few hours in Sheila's studio working on her lightship basket. In the late afternoon, she'd gone for a swim, and now she was showered and pleasantly relaxed.
And she'd only thought about Jim seventy-five or eighty times.
She'd been aware all day that Jim was around. All morning he'd hammered away, repairing the steps at the front of the house. Later, she'd heard Abbie and Jim talking and laughing as they washed the windows.
Now she couldn't help noticing that Jim's red truck was parked in the driveway. Maybe another woman had picked him up in her car. Well, good luck to her, whoever she was. Jim was a gorgeous man, but he seemed emotionally imprisoned by his daughters. She'd considered not sitting outside, because she didn't want to seem to be telegraphing her availability to Jim, if he happened to be watching from the house. But she'd rented the cottage. She wasn't going to hide inside, as if she'd done something wrong. It was cool there, so pleasant.
She took her time reading the papers and sipping her wine. She heard the door slam on Foxes' house, but didn't allow herself to observe who was coming or going.
At least, she decided, if she was obsessed with Jim, that was better than being obsessed with Gerry and Dara and their baby. Which was due any minute, she thought.
The light was fading from the sky as Marina folded the newspapers and carried them into the house and the recycling box. She decided to have a sinfully big bowl of ice cream for dinner--surely she could allow herself to indulge after a day of biking and swimming. She curled up on the sofa with a novel, but by ten her eyes were closing, so she climbed the loft to bed and fell asleep at once.
She woke at eleven. The moment her eyes snapped open, she knew she was doomed for one of her insomniac nights. She went down the ladder to the main room, picked up her novel, and settled in for a long read. She had nowhere she had to be tomorrow, she reminded herself. She could sleep all day if she wanted to. At least she knew enough by now not to lie in the dark with her eyes closed--that would guarantee that her obsession with Gerry and Dara, and now, Jim Fox, would buzz through her thoughts like a plague of mosquitoes.
The novel was a page-turner mystery by a writer she enjoyed. She yawned and stretched out on the sofa, feeling cozy in the circle of light cast by the reading lamp.
Someone knocked on her door.
"Marina? It's Jim."
She was wearing only her nightgown, a little bit of emerald silk which was held up by two thin straps and ended at her thighs. She thought about going up to the loft to find her wrapper, but decided the hell with that. If he was going to come here at this hour, he could take her as he found her.
She opened the door. She'd forgotten how handsome he was.
"I saw your light come on." Jim wore a white tee shirt and baggy khaki shorts and he smelled like soap. "I can't sleep. I thought perhaps you couldn't sleep, either." He was leaning toward her, as if expecting to walk in.
The tug between them was powerful, but she didn't want to seem eager. "I'm reading."
He put his hand on the doorjamb. "Marina, I want to talk to you."
"You don't have to explain anything, Jim."
"For Christ's sake, Marina!" Jim growled. He stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her hard, crushing her lips, pressing her head back, forcing his body against her.
She tightened her arms around his neck and lifted herself against him.
Holding her to him, Jim entered the cottage, slamming the door shut with his foot, and he half walked, half carried her to the sofa. He kissed her mouth, he clutched her hair with his hands as he kissed her neck and collarbone.
Then, abruptly, he pulled away. He held her from him wit
h both hands on her shoulders.
"I want to talk to you," he said. "I need to tell you some things."
"You don't have to," she protested. "I'm sorry if I rushed you, I--"
"Listen to me," Jim insisted. "Listen."
Marina shifted slightly away from him and turned so that she could sit with crossed legs, facing him. "I'm listening."
He took hold of her hands. "I've been trying to figure out how to say this." He cleared his throat. "I've decided that you are like music to me. You know how you go along, busy with life, and then one day you turn on the radio and a song hits you and your whole body responds, your heart and soul and body, and you think--why have I been living without that? How have I been living without that? I need that every day in my life."
Astonished, Marina said, "That's quite a compliment."
"It's not a compliment. It's not a line to get you into bed. It's the truth. It's a fact. Ever since you came to the cottage to see about renting it, I've wanted to be with you. The moment I saw you, it was as if I knew everything I needed to know about you. But I wasn't thinking about your side, about you knowing everything you need to know about me." Now he dropped her hands and turned away. "I haven't told anyone this before."
Marina held her breath. She could sense his struggling.
"I was having an affair when my wife died." He clenched his fists. "She drowned. I don't know, I'll never know, if Danielle found out and that's why she committed suicide. If it was suicide. The autopsy showed she'd taken an overdose of her medication. Perhaps she just made a mistake. Sometimes ... sometimes she thought she could swim forever." He ran his hand over his face, then continued. "Danielle always had emotional troubles. She tried everything, psychiatrists, medications, exercise, super blue-green algae--but it all got worse and worse for her. She was difficult to live with. She was difficult for herself to live with. And she had this spiritual side. Or maybe I should call it mystical. She wasn't happy here. She often talked about being there. And all I can hope is that she's there now. She loved our daughters with all her heart, but it just wasn't enough."