No Beach Like Nantucket

by Grace Palmer

  “Are you going to say something?” he asked softly.

  “I’m not sure what you would like me to say, Oliver,” she replied curtly. She felt that ice queen tide rising in her throat. Lash out at him. Send him away. She resisted the temptation—for now.

  “You’re right. There’s no reason for you to make this easy on me.” She could see the knot ride down his throat as he swallowed hard. “I guess I should start with an apology.” He looked up at her. Those green eyes shimmered. His fingers clasped and unclasped in front of him now, so long and lithe. “I am scared, Eliza.”

  Her jaw fell open. She’d been so quick to dismiss Brent’s assessment of the situation. What did her kid brother know about love?

  “What is there to be scared of?” she whispered. “It’s just us.”

  “‘Us’ is exactly what frightens me. I’m … I’m living out my dream right now. This—” he swept a hand around the hotel room to mean the tour, the attention, the crowds, the adoration—“this is everything I ever wanted.” He paused, looked at her, swallowed again. “But it means nothing without you. And I think I’m realizing that I can’t have both. So I want you to know this: I choose you. I choose you ten times out of ten. I’m sorry.”

  She softened. Melted. He must have seen it, because he came over to her and wrapped her hands in his. Her eyes were tearing up, she noticed, no matter how hard she tried to stop the tears. She knew she ought to press deeper. It was clear that Oliver had things he was struggling with. Even if this was a fragile peace, though, that was what she wanted.

  “Do you mean it?” she asked.

  He bent down, pressing his forehead against hers. “I mean it,” he echoed. “I mean it.”

  Fragile or not, this was the peace she needed. She closed her eyes and kissed him.

  27

  Mae

  Saturday evening.

  It was the loveliest evening that Mae had had in a long time. “You look ravishing,” Dominic said when she’d met him downstairs in the foyer to the inn.

  “Oh, thank you.” To her surprise, she blushed. Lord have mercy—blushing at his first words to her! Was she sixty-two or twenty-six? “You look very nice yourself.”

  He did a mock bow. “Dressed in my Sunday finest. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t the faintest idea how one is meant to dress for a sunset cruise. I thought about wearing my swimming trunks beneath my slacks.”

  Mae giggled—honest to goodness giggled. Then she took his offered elbow and they went on their way.

  They made their way to the docks and met the captain, a kindly older gentleman named Harvey who looked every bit the part of a sailor—grizzled gray beard, sun-weathered skin, a strong handshake. He escorted them on board, showed them to the bow, and then made his way back to the wheel.

  On the bow was a delightful little spread of cheeses, crackers, fruits, and a bottle of champagne on ice, along with a pair of glasses for the two of them. Dominic popped the bottle expertly as the boat pushed off from its moorings and they made their way out towards the setting sun.

  The angle of the rays on the water painted everything the most glorious orange. Mae had seen a thousand Nantucket sunsets in her lifetime, and yet this one was as good as any of them. Clear blue sky behind them, fading ahead into a purple so deep one could dive into it.

  “Nature is an artist, isn’t she?” Dominic murmured as he poured them each a glass of bubbly.

  “She most certainly is.”

  He added, “And a bit of a showoff, I think.” He pointed off to the starboard side of the ship, where a pod of dolphins was frolicking in the warmth of the evening waters.

  Mae laughed. “Perhaps a little bit over the top,” she said. “But I’m not complaining!”

  “Nor am I. A lovely evening with a lovely woman—what is there to complain about?” He raised his champagne to hers. The rims of their glasses kissed with a soft tink. “To you, Mae Benson, and your endless patience with my eccentricities.”

  “You give me too much credit sometimes, Dominic O’Kelley. After all, you pay me to put up with you.” She smiled mischievously as he looked at her slack-jawed for a second. Then he realized he was teasing him, threw his head back, and laughed. Even his laugh sounded Irish. She loved it.

  She took a sip of her champagne. It was cool, crisp, and refreshing. That, plus a bite of a chocolate-covered strawberry, was all she needed to set her mind at ease. Dominic was absolutely right—it was a beautiful evening. She had nothing to worry about.

  After all: life was meant to be enjoyed, wasn’t it?

  An hour passed by at a pace so meandering that neither of them noticed the seconds slipping away like waves on the shore. They talked about everything and nothing, and sometimes they didn’t talk at all. The captain, Harvey, stayed behind the wheel at the rear of the ship, piloting them expertly through the gentle waves, so that there was never a bump or a spill of the champagne.

  One glass became two glasses became a third. Mae found herself buzzing pleasantly. Dominic’s eyes were reflecting the last of the setting sun as he told her about the latest updates in the novel he’d been working on for the better part of a year.

  “Sounds like you’re almost there,” she said.

  “So close and yet so far. I do find that the ending almost always writes itself, though.”

  “Is that so?” She loved hearing about his experience as a writer. It always seemed so foreign to her, that he spent each day of his life imagining people and places that had never existed before. She couldn’t imagine what it was like to close one’s eyes and be transported to a world of one’s own making. She had always been a here-and-now person, a feet-on-the-ground person. Dominic was anything but that. He was a dreamer, and when he spoke of his dreams, he made her feel them along with him. It was a gift unlike any other.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Sometimes, there is just a certain way that things go. The world falls into place in exactly the right pattern. It is beautiful, in my opinion, when everything is exactly where it is meant to be.” He blinked, and when he reopened his eyes, they seemed somehow more serious. Mae felt a shiver run down her spine, like a blast of cool Irish air had come out of nowhere. “Like now, for instance,” he finished gently. He paused and then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out to touch her hand where it rested on the ship next to him. “Right now, it feels to me as though everything is exactly where it is meant to be.”

  This was it. The moment she had longed for and feared all at once. She could almost sense him offering his heart up to her. She knew what he wanted her to say. Say yes. Say you feel as I do. Say that you care for me the way I care for you. At their age, those words didn’t always need to be said. They hummed in the air, all the more powerful for being unspoken.

  Dominic’s eyes searched hers. They were not fearful, though it was obvious that he had put himself in a vulnerable position. They were patient, kind, and understanding. All the things she loved in him.

  When she didn’t answer, he glanced down for a moment, then back up. “I wanted to tell you something, Mae,” he said. The waves were slapping gently against the hull of the boat. The sun had almost disappeared, too, and the first starlight was beginning to pierce through the night veil. “I made you a gift of sorts. A bit of a selfish one, but one that I hope you’ll understand.”

  Mae was a little confused at this turn of events. She watched as he reached into the small backpack he’d brought along with him and retrieved something from inside. “Here,” he said, offering a rectangular package to her. It was hefty and wrapped in brown paper. “Open it.”

  She hesitated and looked at him. He smiled and nodded again. “Go on then. It’s for you.”

  “All right,” she whispered. She tried to keep her fingers from shaking as she tore off the brown paper.

  Inside was a book. A galley copy of a book, actually, according to the stamped inscription on the first page. The cover was blank, but when she turned the pages, she saw on the third one a title ink
ed in the middle. “‘A Rose in Nantucket,’” she read out loud. “‘A Novel, by Dominic O’Kelley.’ Oh, that is a beautiful title!”

  Dominic was still smiling gently. “Turn the page.”

  She frowned and did as he said. When she saw what was written on the next page, she gasped. It was a dedication. To her.

  “For Mae,” she read. “Without whom my life would be utterly bereft of beauty.” She looked up at him. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Oh, Dominic. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

  He understood at once. His face didn’t betray it, but she saw the shade of his eyes falter. His gaze fell to his hands, which were clasped in his lap. “It is too much,” he said softly, still not looking at her. “I should have known. I am terribly sorry.”

  Mae didn’t know what to say. This horrible, beautiful, heartbreaking, perfect and perfectly wrong moment was everything she had longed for and feared for so many months now. It was love, hers for the taking, if she wanted it.

  But it was too real. Too serious. Too much.

  As much as she wanted to reach out and take Dominic’s hand, she found herself faltering at the critical moment.

  She was not yet ready for love.

  “Dominic …” she began, but he shook his head sadly.

  “I am terribly sorry,” he said again. He was looking at her levelly this time. Not angry or devastated, but merely sad, as one would be to see that a creature had wrecked one’s garden in the nighttime. Or that a baby bird you’d been watching grow up through the window had suddenly left the nest without saying goodbye. The sadness of loss that didn’t wound as much as it just left part of you missing something you never knew you had come to rely upon.

  “Dominic, I—” But he just shook his head again and she fell silent once more.

  “I’m going to take a business trip,” he said quietly. “I expect to be gone for perhaps six weeks. If I may be so bold, I would like to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything,” she said at once through a throat that felt choked and tight. “Anything at all.”

  “Will you save my room?”

  She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak anymore. A tear had escaped from her eye and trickled down her cheek.

  He smiled at her. His eyes were inscrutable behind his glasses now that the sun had finally set. “Thank you, Mae.” That was all he said.

  He was gone by the morning.

  Part III

  Six Weeks Later

  28

  Sara

  Monday night.

  After months of boring idleness, there suddenly weren’t enough hours in the day. Six weeks had gone by in the blink of an eye. But Sara’s task list had grown longer, not shorter.

  Who knew that opening a restaurant would require so much work? Well, she had. But still, it was one thing to say she was going to open her own place, and a whole other thing to do it.

  She’d picked out a site for it—a former steakhouse and bar with beautiful bones that was badly in need of a facelift. It had come at a good price, which she was able to afford thanks to Mom’s generous offer of Dad’s life insurance money. While they were signing over the paperwork for the mortgage application, Sara had felt a twinge of guilt. Mom must’ve sensed this, because she laid her hand on Sara’s knee, smiled, and said, “He would’ve loved to be here with you.”

  That little sentence had made Sara’s heart swell. She felt deep down in her soul that her mom was right. Dad would’ve loved this, would’ve supported this, would’ve been down at the restaurant night and day working to get the place up and running in time for her scheduled opening at the end of June. He might not’ve been here anymore, but Brent was, and her little brother was doing his darndest to help.

  In the process, however, he and Sara were getting pretty close to strangling each other.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to leave the tools out like that?” he said when he arrived. He pointed at the buzz saw, which was lying on its side on a worktable, sharp blade exposed.

  “What’s the big deal?” Sara said, annoyed. She wiped some sweat off her forehead. The A/C unit wasn’t in working order yet, so it was “hotter than hell and half of Georgia,” as her dad would’ve said. Though, now that she thought about it, she was reasonably sure he’d never been to Georgia.

  “Someone could get hurt,” he pointed out.

  “‘Someone’ oughta watch where they’re going, then,” she fired back. He rolled his eyes, a habit she despised. “Anyway, nice of you to show up,” she continued. “Can you give me a hand moving this thing?” She jabbed the paintbrush she was holding in the direction of the cherrywood bar top, which had been propped against a wall while it awaited installation.

  “Apologies for the lateness, boss. Say, did my paycheck get lost in the mail?” he snarled sarcastically. “Oh wait—I’m not getting paid jack for this. I get here when I can, Sara.”

  “You volunteered, you know.”

  “I volunteered to help, not to get yelled at every time I set foot in the dang place. It wasn’t like I was just dying for an unpaid job.”

  Sara exhaled angrily through her teeth. “Just shut up and help me move this thing. I have to get a coat on the wall now so it can dry in time for a second coat in the morning.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe I’m not ‘volunteering’ for that particular task.”

  She threw her paintbrush in the bucket. “You’re acting like a child. Are you serious right now?”

  “Are you?” he snapped back immediately. “I don’t have a problem helping you, Sara, but the least you can do is treat me with a little respect.”

  “Who has time for respect? I don’t have time for respect! Paint doesn’t care about respect!”

  “That sounds like a personal problem.”

  “Well, it’s your problem now! Now, for the last time, are you going to help me or not?”

  He huffed. “I oughta just leave you to deal with it by yourself.”

  She resisted the desire to roll her own eyes this time. They were standing in the guts of her empty restaurant, fists clenched like two boxers entering the ring. But bickering like schoolchildren wasn’t going to get anything done faster. So Sara sucked up her pride and said, “I’m sorry. I’ll put the saw away. Will you please help me?”

  Brent slumped over and shook his head tiredly. He looked worn, which made sense, given all the things he was juggling right now. But, much to his credit, he set down his bag and came over to help her wrestle the bar top into a different resting place.

  When they were done, they dusted their hands and eyed each other.

  “God, I would love a beer,” he mumbled. It was his form of brokering peace between them.

  “I need something stronger than that.”

  They both laughed exhaustedly. Brent might have been joking, but Sara sure wasn’t. And it wasn’t even the work of the restaurant that was driving her to crave a stiff drink. It was the reason she was here in the first place.

  To put a word on it: men.

  “Ugh, men”—a common Sara refrain over the years—didn’t even do justice to how she was feeling these days. The problem was that, every time Sara closed her eyes, she pictured Gavin and Russell staring balefully at her. They both had looks on their faces like, You really gonna do this?

  And, no matter how badly she wanted to deny it, she had to admit—but only to herself, never to anyone else—that she was motivated in large part by spite for the two men who’d put her in this position in the first place.

  She knew darn well that that wasn’t really a fair assessment. Gavin was a jerk and Russell was—well, Russell hadn’t actually done a thing wrong. So why was she so mad at him? He’d moved on, as he’d clearly shown her at the bar two months ago. She should do the same.

  But she blamed them both all the same. It was childish to do so, it was stupid, and it was irresponsibly directed towards others when she was the one who’d made the choices she made. And yet, she coul
dn’t stop herself. When she was sweating her butt off while painting or working the buzz saw at high noon in this stuffy shell of a building, she thought about Gavin sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and she got right back to work. Teeth clenched, hair tied back, fire in her heart.

  She was doing this for her, yeah. But she was also doing this because screw them, right?

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  Brent looked up at her, surprised. “What day is today?”

  “Monday, June—uh, June 14th. Why?”

  He whistled. “Because I will forever remember this day as the first and only time I’ve ever heard you apologize.”

  She flicked paint at his head in response. He ducked, chortling.

  “First and last time. I’m gonna get back to work.”

  She turned to go back to painting the trim on the lower part of the wall, but Brent grabbed her by the shoulder. “You doing okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, shrugging him off. “Peachy.”

  He grabbed her again. “Really?”

  “Really,” she said firmly.

  “Because sometimes it’s nice to have someone ask you that. Even if you’re not gonna tell them the truth.”

  “Whatever you say, B.”

  “I know you’re anxious about all this. It’s a big thing you’re doing. But I believe in you. And if it feels like too much sometimes, you know you can talk to me, okay?”

  Sara softened. He was just trying to be nice to her. She didn’t have many people like that left in her life. She knew she needed to do a better job of hanging onto the ones she still did have. “I know. I’m just—yeah, anxious is a good word. I want this to work.”