Girls of Summer

by Nancy Thayer

  Soon she was a successful businesswoman, just like all the whaling wives who had run Petticoat Row back when Nantucket was a whaling town.

  At the same time, Juliet and Theo were in high school, and their bodies developed, and their personalities changed. They were often sarcastic, secretive, and cranky. Juliet was tight with her clique of girlfriends and she was either with them or on the phone with them, but she still made good grades and was usually good-natured.

  Theo was not so easy. His best friend from preschool, Atticus Barnes, had been a good, smart, levelheaded kid, and Lisa liked having him around the house. But when the boys started ninth grade, Atticus stopped coming around so often, and when he did, he was sullen and preoccupied. Rumors went around that Atticus was doing pot and maybe more. Lisa worried that he would be a bad influence on Theo, and in a way, she was right.

  For years, even though he thought he was hiding it, Theo had a crush on Beth Whitney, a pretty girl whose mother had died when Beth was three. Of course—it was always the way of things, wasn’t it?—Beth and Atticus started going together. Damn, Lisa thought at first, but later, after chatting with other mothers in the grocery store and during football games, she changed her mind. The other mothers thought it was wonderful that Atticus had a girlfriend. Now he would cheer up.

  But Atticus didn’t cheer up. The summer he was seventeen, he committed suicide with an overdose of OxyContin. His parents found a letter on his desk at home, telling them he couldn’t go on. Telling them where they could find him, at a lonely spot on the moors. Telling them he was always cold. Asking them to bury him in his down comforter.

  It was a terrible time for Paula and Ed Barnes, for Theo, for Beth, and for the entire community. At the celebration of Atticus’s life, Lisa had approached Mack Whitney, Beth’s father. She didn’t know him well. He was ten years younger than she was, a well-liked island man who had married his high school sweetheart, Marla. A carpenter who specialized in renovating older houses, he had a sterling reputation for honesty and excellent work. When they were only twenty-one, Marla gave birth to a daughter, the lovely Beth. Three years later, cancer took Marla’s life and left Mack a widower.

  Now this, the suicide of the boy Beth was going with.

  Lisa wanted to say something to Mack, but words were so hollow. “Mack. I just wanted to say hello. This is so sad. I don’t know if you know, but Theo was a good friend of Atticus and of Beth.”

  “Yes,” Mack replied, staring straight ahead. “Yes, I knew that. The three were over at our house a lot. Atticus could be really funny.”

  “I know,” Lisa agreed. She almost felt the sorrow steaming off the tall, broad-shouldered man beside her, and she wondered how much sadness he could carry. First his wife, and now his daughter’s boyfriend. She had never gotten to know Mack, partly because she was busy with her shop, but also because she knew how many women his age, and younger, single and divorced, had tried to help him after Marla died. Lisa’s friend Rachel, who knew everyone and everything, had laughed about the casserole brigade that had swarmed around Mack that first year. No woman had seemed to interest him, and as the years passed, Mack developed the reputation of a man who was obsessed with his work. He did show up for any function involving his daughter, and Beth got good grades in school, was always well dressed, and appeared to be a happy, normal girl.

  Now and then a rumor would speed around the gossip circuit like an electrical flash that Mack had been sighted in a restaurant with some summer woman, but another sighting with the same woman never occurred. The few times Lisa had run into him, he had seemed content, but reserved.

  “I just want you to know that Beth is welcome at our house, anytime.”

  “That would be great, Lisa,” Mack said. “Beth likes Theo a lot, and she worships Juliet.”

  “She worships Juliet?” Lisa echoed.

  Mack looked down at Lisa and grinned. When he smiled like that, he was so handsome he made every cell in her body perk up. When had she seen him smile, really smile, before?

  “Yeah, she probably admires Juliet for all the things that drive you mad,” Mack said. “The way she dresses, not quite Goth, not quite camo, but definitely cool. And attending MIT? She’s a legend. And the three ear piercings, and the tattoo.”

  “You know about the tattoo?”

  Mack was still smiling. “Sure. Lots of girls saw it when they showered in gym. All the boys want to see it, but as far as I can tell, no guys have.”

  “Good thing,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes. “It’s on her bum.”

  “Do you know what it says?” Mack asked.

  “I do. Do you?”

  “No. Beth wouldn’t tell me. Is it a heart saying ‘Luke Bryan’?”

  “No. It’s a heart saying, ‘Stephen Hawking.’ ”

  Mack threw back his head and laughed. Quickly, he quieted. “Well, that was unexpected. And totally inappropriate here.”

  Lisa gave him a guilty smile. “Sorry. But I’m sure the Barneses won’t begrudge you a laugh, not even here.”

  Mack looked at Lisa, and she met his eyes, and for a few moments, no one said anything. God, Lisa thought, I’m crushing on a man ten years younger than I am.

  Forcing herself to drop her eyes, she said, “I should go.”

  Mack nodded. “It was nice talking to you.”

  Lisa walked away, toward the clutch of kids standing together, all of them sagging with misery. Theo was there, and Beth was by his side, and Theo’s gaze was fixed on Beth as if afraid she’d disappear if he looked away.

  From the moment he found out about Atticus’s suicide, Theo mourned his friend and hated himself for not helping him, somehow. Lisa arranged for him to see a therapist—many of the students saw therapists that summer to learn how to deal with their shock and sorrow. One of their own, one of their best, had died. Theo learned to channel his grief and his natural excess of energy into body boarding and surfing. Lisa thought that while surfing Theo felt he had some small control over the incomprehensible world. He left at the end of the summer to attend the University of California at San Diego. Lisa knew he had chosen that college because it was near excellent surfing, and she both loved and hated that Theo surfed. It was dangerous. But plain old life was dangerous, too.

  Her parents, only in their early seventies, were increasingly hampered with health problems. They moved to an assisted living facility on the Cape. Lisa visited them as often as she could, but she saw with each visit how they were failing. Her mother had Alzheimer’s and died a year to the day she left the island, and Lisa’s father passed on only a few months later. Much of the money her parents got when they sold their Nantucket home had gone into a down payment at the assisted living facility, but Lisa inherited a healthy chunk of money, and never before had money made her so sad.

  Juliet was attending MIT because she was such a natural with math and computers. Theo was in California. Lisa became obsessed with her work. She loved the camaraderie of the shop and the gorgeous college girls who worked in June, July, and August. She enjoyed her customers—most of them—and each day the shop was filled with gossip and laughter. If she suggested a dress or a sweater that someone bought, Lisa was as pleased as if she’d won a game. She started carrying jewelry and accessories.

  When she turned fifty, a group of her women friends threw a party for her.

  “You lucky duck,” Helen North said. “You look fabulous and your children are off at college. Time for romance!”

  Lisa laughed and shook her head. “Oh, Helen, it’s too late for me. All the single men my age, if there are any single men my age, want to date thirty-year-olds.”

  “Try a dating site,” Rachel suggested.

  “I don’t have the time,” Lisa quickly countered. “Or the interest.”

  The weeks and months passed. Lisa discovered she was often exhausted from working all day, all week,
for even though she was closed on Sundays except in the summer, she had paperwork to catch up on, stock to unpack or return. Finally, with trepidation, she hired another woman to help her year-round, Betsy Mason, new to the island and with a background in retail. Betsy had just turned thirty, and she was a crisp, practical, savvy young woman, and her cheerful presence brightened Lisa’s life.

  Juliet graduated from MIT and immediately took a job with a tech company in Cambridge. She came home for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a week or two in the summer, but she always brought her computer with her. Theo loved San Diego, surfing as often as he could, only coming home once for a few days at Christmas.

  Her life had changed again, like a car moving so smoothly onto a different path she’d hardly noticed it happening.

  Early one evening she sat at the dining room table scrolling through her home computer, idly reading Facebook and Instagram posts, a glass of wine by her side. It was May, the beginning of the island’s real spring. She was fifty-six years old. And alone.

  She admitted to herself that she was lonely for the companionship of a man. She had plenty of women friends, some who were divorced or widowed. She often went out to dinner or to plays with them. She spoke to men at the Rotary or chamber of commerce events, but no one there interested her or showed interest in her.

  Well, ha! Who would want her? Ever, or especially now?

  “Stop it,” she said to herself—she often spoke aloud to herself, and why not? “Don’t be maudlin. You’re healthy and well-off. You have two healthy happy children, and your life is good. You have nothing to complain about!”

  Then the dining room ceiling fell on her head.

  three

  Not the entire ceiling, just a few fragments of plaster. But more was to come because the previous week Nantucket had experienced one of its gale force storms with whipping rain that went on for hours. Looking up, Lisa saw that rain had slithered from the upper edge of the fireplace chimney into her dining room, making wet spots and entire tunnels as if upside-down moles had burrowed all around the ceiling. It had to be fixed and she knew she couldn’t do it herself.

  During the almost thirty years she’d lived here, she’d taken the best care she could of her children. She’d spent time choosing organic vegetables and making “real” meals instead of pizza every day. She’d attended swim meets, school plays, and basketball games. She’d volunteered at the school library. She’d kept the house clean, comfortable, and welcoming. She’d placed flowers on the table and electric candles in the windows during the winter. The furniture was well-polished, she built glowing fires in the living room fireplace, and her beautiful garden was filled with herbs and flowers.

  But she hadn’t taken note of the casual, extensive, sneaky deterioration of the house. When part of the ceiling fell on her head, exposing the wooden staves above, she knew she had to pay attention to the house or it would continue to fall apart.

  She took up a pad and a pen and, feeling quite industrious, went through the house, looking at what needed doing. All of the “lights,” the rectangular glass panes at the top of most of the ancient interior doors, rattled, not just when the door was opened or closed, but also when wild winds blew and drafts whistled through the house. They’d been that way for years. It was just part of the house. Many things rattled in an old house.

  Now she knew they must be re-caulked, or something like that. She couldn’t repair the dining room ceiling, but she could fix the lights. She googled a few sites and learned what to do. It seemed easy. The next day, she went to Marine Home Center and bought a tube of white caulking. She tied her dark hair back like Rosie the Riveter. She got out her stepladder—aluminum and light enough to carry, but strong enough to hold her—and climbed up to attempt to apply caulking in a nice straight smooth line along the base of the lights.

  It was like trying to get a perfect stripe of toothpaste from the tube. Sometimes the caulk squirted and then exploded out. When she tried to spread it evenly with her fingernail, she smeared it onto the glass.

  She was only making it worse.

  She climbed down from the stepladder and sat on the floor and wept.

  “I’m fifty-six years old,” she said aloud. After all, there was no one there to hear her.

  “I should sell this house. It’s far too big for one person. I could buy a new house with crisp white paint on the woodwork.” She was beginning to perk up. She usually did when she had a conversation with herself.

  “I could sell my business, move off-island, buy a sweet charming place on the Cape, and have money left over for adventures. I could go on a cruise!” She nodded to herself approvingly.

  Rising easily—yoga practice once a week—she stood and paced the room, thinking.

  “Why would I want to go on a cruise? I get motion sick,” she reminded herself.

  “And I love this house. Someday I hope to have grandchildren running up and down the stairs. I love the island. I love my friends. I love my shop.”

  She looked out the window. It was May. Her tulips were in bloom and her daffodils were on the brink of blooming.

  “I have the money to fix the place up,” she reasoned. “I should fix this place up!” Her gloom evaporated. Ideas blossomed. She found her phone in the kitchen and called Rachel.

  When Rachel answered, Lisa said, “I need the name of a carpenter, or a contractor, or a painter. I need major repairs on my ceiling.”

  “Good evening to you, too!” Rachel laughed. “What’s brought this on?”

  “The dining room ceiling fell on my head.”

  “What?”

  “Well, just about a square foot, but the rest of it is bulging with water and I’m afraid it will collapse any moment. Plus, I’ve decided to have a lot of repairs done. Give this house a little love.”

  “Okay, let me think. You don’t want just anyone. Plus, lots of guys won’t even consider working for you because your place is so old. If you solve one problem, you’ll find fifty others. You need someone responsible—what about Mack Whitney?”

  “I think I know him.”

  “Of course you do,” Rachel said. “His daughter, Beth, is Theo’s age. She was the girl whose boyfriend committed suicide in high school seven years ago.”

  “Oh, of course. Gosh, how could I forget—Theo used to hang out with Beth because she was dating Atticus. For a while they were all so close, the three Musketeers, and then…Atticus died. Poor boy. Poor girl. The whole town was in mourning.” Lisa hesitated. “I made Theo see a therapist.”

  “Yeah, lots of kids saw therapists after that.”

  “True. And we, well, Theo, sort of lost touch with Beth. She was in Theo’s grade, but after Atticus, they didn’t run with the same crowd. How is Beth? Have you seen her?”

  “I have. She finished high school, went off to college, but she’s back on-island now, I think. She’s a smart girl, but she’s had some rough times. She lost Atticus, plus you know her mother died when Beth was practically a baby.”

  “I remember that. What was her name?”

  “Marla. Poor little Beth. Mack never remarried.”

  “That’s right. He was always so nice. Gosh, now that it’s all coming back to me, I remember wishing I could talk with him about being a single parent but I never suggested we have a drink or anything because he’s so good-looking and I didn’t want to seem to be flirting with him.”

  “You were the only woman in town who wasn’t.” Rachel laughed. “Friends would phone me in a romantic seizure if he so much as nodded at them.”

  “And he never remarried?”

  “No. He concentrated on his work and his daughter. Never missed a recital or a soccer game. But I know he’s a hard worker and a good guy. And he’s a restoration carpenter so he won’t want to tear your house down and build a new palace. He won’t cheat you.”

  “You’
ve sold me. I just hope he’s got some time to take on a new client.”

  “If he doesn’t, call me back. I’ll put on my thinking cap.”

  “Great! Let’s talk later, meet for lunch or a movie.” Lisa clicked off, hurrying to find Mack Whitney’s phone number in the short fat town directory. Last year the cover shot was of all the firemen together. This year, it was of all the post office employees. She spotted Robin and Vilma and Tita, and smiled at them. Warmth surged through her. This island was her home, and suddenly she was filled with excitement at the thought of restoring her beloved old house to its former glory, or at least to some semblance of sturdiness and beauty.

  She found Mack Whitney’s number and called, certain she’d get voicemail. When a low, pleasant voice said, “Hello,” she was, for a moment, startled. People didn’t often answer their phones these days.

  “Oh, hi, um, I’m Lisa Hawley. My friend Rachel McEleny recommended you because my house is so old and the dining room ceiling just fell on my head.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course. It didn’t all fall. But it will need to be replaced or repaired, and now that I’m really paying attention, I can see lots of big and small problems. The house was built in 1840, and I’ve tried to keep up with it, but I have a clothing shop on Main Street and that’s taken all my time. I guess I’ve neglected the house.”

  “So you need a restoration carpenter.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Why don’t I come take a look?”

  “Great! When?”

  “I’ve got free time tomorrow, around noon.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “See you then.”

  “Wait—my address is—”

  “I know your house.”

  “Oh, well, good. Fine. Thanks!”

  Lisa tapped off and stood very still, thrilled and a bit frightened at what she’d started happening in her mild, safe life.

  * * *