by Nancy Thayer
For a long moment, Lisa was quiet. “Wow,” she said softly when she could get her breath.
“I’m glad we’re having this discussion,” Erich said. “I was dreading it. I don’t want to be cruel, Lisa, and I did love you, but people change. You’ve changed the most. Be honest with me now. If I asked you to take the kids to your parents, toss your toothbrush in your bag, and fly to London tonight, would you do it?”
Stunned, she didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“You see? You’re just another overweight mom stuck in the sticks, living off my money and not earning it, frankly. I don’t think you really even like sex. You were willing in college, I’ll admit that, and you were such a novice, it was fun. But once you had your children, you were done. I want to be with someone sexy, uninhibited, enthusiastic, who’s willing to let me do whatever I want.”
“Erich, stop.” Her heart sped up. Quietly, she said, “It sounds like you have a…a mistress.”
“I think of her as a lover.”
“I suppose she speaks several languages.”
“As a matter of fact, she does. She’s half Iranian, half Spanish.” Erich sighed. “Look, Lisa, we had a good run. You can’t help being the way you are. Let’s be adults and move on.”
Lisa held tight to her dignity so she could respond in a cool, rational, sophisticated way. “Yes, let’s.”
Juliet was eleven, Theo was nine. Lisa was forty.
two
In the divorce, Erich Hawley gave Lisa full custody and legal assurance of generous child support and college tuition. The wonderful old house with a large yard on a quiet street in the heart of Nantucket was already in her name.
Lisa gave Erich his freedom, and he took it, vanishing to Europe and Asia and who knew what other countries.
For a few years, she tried to pass on the news of their father’s important life to her children, but when it became obvious that Erich had no time for any kind of relationship with his children, she stopped trying. She was hurt that Erich had no interest in his children, their children, but more than that, worst of all, it broke her heart for Juliet and Theo to have no father in their lives. In an emergency, of course, she could always call on her mother and father, but that wasn’t really the same. She faithfully attended ballet recitals, swim meets, school plays, soccer games. She called every Saturday night “Movie Night,” and ate pizza with them while they watched Shrek or Stuart Little or Harry Potter movies. She traveled off-island with them to Boston to see The Nutcracker at Christmas, and several times she took them to New York to see a Broadway show and the Guggenheim (they’d loved the spiral ramp) and the Empire State Building. They spent Christmas and Thanksgiving and the children’s birthdays with her parents, and Juliet and Theo seemed happy, or at least not emotionally ruined by the lack of an attentive father.
It was Lisa who was emotionally ruined. In the very beginning of the divorce, she was too busy to face the pain and humiliation that lay in her heart. As time passed, and the children seemed cheerful and stable, as she painted Juliet’s bedroom lavender and papered Theo’s room with Luke Skywalker and Chewbacca, her own feelings began to emerge, slowly, insistently, and then all in a rush, suddenly, like water bursting a dam.
She had not been enough. She hadn’t been beautiful enough or exciting enough or cosmopolitan at all. She’d never thoroughly mastered French, she could never in a million years look like Audrey Hepburn, and after she had kids, she’d missed as many social events as she could, wanting simply to be at home.
What had she been thinking to marry Erich? What had possessed him to marry her? She’d been sure she’d loved him, and certain that he’d loved her. Brilliant Erich didn’t make a mistake in choosing her…she’d simply been less than he thought she was.
Revelation after revelation bloomed from her heart like storm clouds, darkening her view. She was short—well, five foot five. She could pinch more than an inch of fat. She was smart, but not smart enough, not driven—when she resigned from the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Karen Weninger took her place and within a year published an entire book on Mary Cassatt.
And more, and worse, while she’d been married to Erich, some of her close hometown friends had moved away. Rachel, her best friend forever, was still on the island, and even though she worked with her husband in a local legal firm, she always had time to talk to Lisa. Often they went out for a girls-only drinks and dinner.
Her parents still loved her, and thank God for them. More important, they doted on their grandchildren and often asked one or both of them to come for the weekend, staying overnight. Lisa knew her parents expected her to get out there, to go to parties and really anywhere that single men might be.
She couldn’t do it. Even the thought of flirting with a man was terrifying. She spent her free nights alone in her house with a romantic comedy on the television and a bowl of popcorn in her lap. And she knew very well that the salt on the popcorn would make her bloated, but she ate it anyway, defiantly.
“You’re getting fat,” Rachel said, one evening when she forced Lisa to join her for dinner at a quiet restaurant.
“Thanks. Thanks very much.” Lisa thought she’d hidden her weight beneath a loose summer dress, but Rachel had been her best friend forever. There was very little she could hide from Rachel.
“Stop it. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m worried about you, Lisa.” The waiter approached. Lisa waved him away. “It’s been what, two years now, and your social life is limited to your parents, your children, and me.”
Lisa lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m content with that.”
“No, you’re not. I think you’re afraid.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Lisa shot back. She concentrated on stirring her cocktail with its small ridiculous umbrella. “I’ve been dumped, completely. My ex-husband doesn’t even want to see our children—as if they have no worth to him.” Tears welled in Lisa’s eyes, so she picked up her cocktail, removed the damn umbrella, and tossed the whole drink down her throat. “I know I don’t.”
“Oh, dear Lord, we’ve been over this a hundred thousand times. Erich’s an asshole. He’s a narcissist, he’s not capable of loving.”
“He was very—” Lisa began.
Rachel interrupted. “He was a con man. He thought he could make you his puppet, and when that didn’t work, he dismissed you and went on to another act. But, Lisa, you are more than what Erich thought of you. So much more.” Rachel reached over and took Lisa’s hand. “Honey, so many of your friends want to see you. I know you’ve been invited to join book clubs, and you should, and you should also show up at parties. Summer’s almost here. Think of the beach parties we’ll have.”
Sulkily, Lisa said, “I can’t go to a party alone.”
Rachel lost her patience. “Oh for God’s sake.” She dropped Lisa’s hand. “Of course you can. Or go with Buddy and me. You’ve got to start dating again.”
Lisa shook her head. “I’m not ready to date.”
“It’s been two years.”
“I’m not ready.”
“You should see a therapist. Even take anti-depressants. You’re so gloomy, you’re depressing me.”
Lisa lost her temper. “Rachel, you’re a good friend to put up with me. But you need to stop this. Please believe me, I have no interest in men. None.” She didn’t share her deepest thought, her greatest fear: that no one would be interested in her.
“All right, then,” Rachel said. “At least get a job.”
* * *
—
There are times in our lives when we would simply sink beneath the waves of our sorrows, the tides of our fears, and drown in our own misery, if it weren’t for our friends. Later, Lisa would realize just how amazing Rachel had been, what a loyal, generous, loving friend, to stick with Lisa when she was in her most unattractive and pathetic moods, to coax her ba
ck out of the bleak cave of her darkness into the light.
Lisa owned her home free and clear, and Erich’s child support paid for the necessities, so Lisa didn’t need to work, and she knew that in this she was fortunate. But she also realized what Rachel had said was right: She needed to get a job.
Nantucket had several fine art galleries, and the Nantucket Whaling Museum and the Atheneum had some valuable paintings, but Lisa felt sad when she remembered her days at the women’s museum in Washington. She’d been happy there, and optimistic, young and part of the world.
But now, forty-two years old, divorced and dumpy—because even if she didn’t look totally dumpy, she certainly had been dumped—right now it often took courage for her to leave the house. During their last few meetings to discuss the divorce, Erich had told her he had come to realize she could never be glamorous. That she had fooled him in college, being pretty enough to seem like she could become beautiful and sophisticated. Instead, she became dowdy and provincial. Those words did not vanish from her mind or her heart. They were there when she looked in the mirror. They were there when she dried herself after a bath. They were there when she walked down Main Street, hiding her eyes behind sunglasses. She was terrified that she’d see pity in the eyes of the people she’d known as a child. A glance from a man made her heart flap with fright.
It took all of her courage to apply for a job. One evening in Lisa’s living room, when Rachel had dropped by for a drink and the children were bonded to their one hour of watching TV, Rachel told her that Vestments, the year-round women’s clothing store owned by Vesta Mahone, needed a new sales clerk.
“You’d love working there,” Rachel insisted. “Playing with all those gorgeous clothes.”
“They are gorgeous clothes,” Lisa agreed. “I’m not sure I have the right…qualities…to work there.”
“What are you talking about?” Rachel put her glass down on the table so hard it almost shattered. “Honest to God, Lisa, sometimes I get so angry with you! And you know what else, you make me tired. You are so feeble, so pathetic, and you were never that way before your divorce. Did Erich abuse you? Did he hit you?”
“Of course not.” Lisa tried to laugh. “I’m sorry if I seem—”
“STOP IT!” Rachel yelled. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry. Stop whining. Lisa, you know what? You aren’t the person you used to be. I miss you, the real you.”
Lisa nodded. “I get that. I think the divorce pulled the rug out from under me, Rachel. It was the last thing I was expecting. It made me feel…inferior.”
“Fine, but that divorce was two years ago. Look. I think you should see someone.”
Lisa laughed, almost hysterically. “I am so not ready to date.”
“I meant a therapist.” Rachel was adamant. “I think you should take that job at Vestments and start seeing a therapist.”
Lisa shook her head. “If I see a therapist, everyone on the island will know I’ve got emotional problems.”
Rachel snapped, “For God’s sake, Lisa, everyone on this island has emotional problems!”
“But I will apply for the Vestments job. I like Vesta, and I could use the extra money.”
“Yeah, to get yourself a decent haircut,” Rachel said.
* * *
—
Vesta Mahone was young and ambitious. With her great explosion of curly red hair and her tiny little body, she was unmistakable in any group. She’d grown up chic and savvy in Montclair, New Jersey, gone to the New York School of Design, and was intuitive and clever.
Vesta was frank when she hired Lisa. “You’re perfect. You’ll pull in the older shopper.”
“I’m forty-two, Vesta,” Lisa said.
“I know. That’s what I meant. The older shopper.”
Lisa privately doubted that anyone over thirty would want the clothes with fringes, sequins, ruffles, and chains that Vesta sold, and they probably wouldn’t wear the skirts and dresses that stopped five inches above the knee and plunged deeply in the neckline. But Vesta sold a range of clothing, including silk dresses and cashmere sweaters that Lisa wished she could afford, and all ages of women flocked to her store. Vestments was a success.
Slowly, Lisa came back to life. The sensuous pleasure of fabrics reawakened her. Cashmere as light as a snowflake. Silk, cool and liquid. She’d forgotten how a color, say fuchsia, could make one woman look sallow but make another woman blaze.
Lisa watched. She learned. At night, instead of weeping at a romantic movie on TV while her children slept, she pored over fashion magazines. She studied pictures of the women at the Nantucket galas. She bought a small notebook and began making lists of who wore what and how old they were and how wealthy. Before long, she’d made a collection of information, this time about fashion and fabrics. In the evenings, after dinner, she sat at the dining room table with her children. They did their homework; she did hers. She liked making one-of-a-kind books by taking a thick loose-leaf notebook and covering it with fabric, then making a matching bookmark. She made an album of cuttings from magazines and newspapers, glue-sticking in photos of celebrities and writing her thoughts about their clothes in the margins. Juliet and Theo loved having her there at the table with them, all three of them with their heads bent over their work, murmuring to themselves about square roots or Revolutionary soldiers or sarongs.
Maybe those were her best years, when everyone in her house was busy and happy.
* * *
—
One November morning, a quiet time at Vestments, Lisa was straightening the clothing in the racks. Vesta was doing the window. Her mannequin wore low-slung camo pants, a cashmere sweater that stopped at the midriff, and cargo boots.
“That’s insane,” Lisa said.
“That’s the look these days,” Vesta told her.
“Women want to have their torsos exposed to the cold air?”
“Lisa, my target clientele aren’t exactly hiking through the Arctic.”
“Well, they aren’t shopping here, either,” Lisa countered. Vesta was ten years younger than Lisa and hooking up with an ever-changing cast of almost-perfect men. When Lisa had started working at Vestments, she’d been impressed by the younger woman’s confidence. Now, two years later, Lisa was confident herself. “Listen to me,” she said to Vesta’s firmly straightened back, “I’ve been doing the research. I know the people on the island and what they wear. I know the parties they’ll have over the holidays. Women want to be sexy and gorgeous, but not…slutty. Slutty works fine for some of the summer people but winter is different.”
“My clothes are not slutty.” Vesta turned away from the front window and faced Lisa.
“Look.” Lisa went behind the counter, picked up her large bag, and pulled one of her notebooks out. “Here’s what I think you should sell.”
Vesta looked. She made a humming noise. “Interesting, but, Lisa, we should have ordered them months ago. You know that.”
“I do. And I did. Before you blow a gasket, I want you to know I used my own charge card. I have them at home. That’s how certain I am. What can you lose by trying?”
“What are you trying to do? Take over the shop?”
Lisa smiled. “No. Just part of it.”
Vesta put her hands on her hips. “You crazy bitch,” she said. “Okay. Let’s give it a try.”
* * *
—
The next few years were so busy Lisa thought she lived on coffee. Her choices of clothing sold out as fast as the store could hang them on the rack. The shop filled all the hours of her day and most of her dreams, and several times a year she went into New York with Vesta on buying trips.
One day, Vesta announced that she had finally met the man of her dreams. She was going to get married and move to Arizona. She was closing her shop. Lisa was stunned. Now that both her children were teenagers, they were j
ust plain more expensive. They required braces, Doc Martens shoes with a special tread, class trips to New York City, computers, and videogames. It was her paycheck that paid for these extras, and she was glad to do it. But now what?
She called Rachel, so possessed with anxiety that her teeth were chattering. “What am I going to do?”
“Start your own shop,” Rachel said calmly.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She’d been divorced from Erich for years, and yet the insecurity he had somehow subtly slipped into her mind still ruled her thoughts, her heart, her very self. When she looked in the mirror or sat at her computer, she was afraid she didn’t look right, couldn’t think right.
“Lisa. You are raising two fine children who are almost off to college. They will have lives of their own. Your work in the shop has proven you know what women want. Vesta’s customers and your customers will keep coming. They know you and they respect your taste. By now, you know all about the financial side of the business as well as the public side. You can do this. You really can.”
“I really can,” Lisa repeated like a mantra. Rachel believed in her, and that made Lisa believe she could do this.
And she discovered that she really could.
With huge helpings of encouragement from Rachel and her other friends, Lisa negotiated with the owner of the building to take over the rent, and changed the name of the shop to Sail, which was very Nantucket and had all the letters of Lisa’s name plus a hint of the enticing word sale. She held a grand champagne opening right in the middle of July and started off with a whopping profit. She hired college girls to help her in the summer, and after a few months of driving herself insane, she hired an accountant to do the books, because she did know how to keep the books, but she couldn’t be in two places at one time. She was at her best buying clothes and matching them to her customers, a talent that had started when she was a child, making outfits for her dolls.