Moon Shell Beach: A Novel Part 5

SEVEN.

2007.

When the phone rang, Clare was idly doing the breakfast dishes, gazing from the kitchen window to the end of the yard, where two bird feeders stood, their platforms heaped with sunflower seeds and cracked corn. The cardinal couple was there, the vivid male eating while the duller female perched on the rim, keeping watch. It was April, a s.h.i.+mmery quicksilver month, with days of wind and rain interrupted by long, surprisingly warm twilights and a come-hither sun winking promises as it set.

"h.e.l.lo?" She clamped the handset between her shoulder and ear, leaving her hands free to finish scrubbing the skillet. Even if, during the rest of the day, her father forgot to eat, she knew she'd started him off well with a stack of bacon, a huge pile of cheesy eggs, and thickly b.u.t.tered rye toast.

Penny's voice exploded over the air waves. "Scoop, honey! Big scoop!"

Clare grinned. "What? Has the Little Genius started walking?"

"Stop it." In the background, Penny's baby boy was making the funny guzzling noises he made when he nursed. "This is so not about babies. And it's going to make your eyes pop, I promise. But you have to come over to hear about it."

"Tell me now. Pleeeeese? You know you want to." The large handsome blue jay she'd privately named Johnny Depp swooped down, claiming the bird feeder, and the cardinal couple flew off in a flash of red.

"No way. I want to see your face when you hear this."

Clare hesitated.

"Are you still there?" Penny demanded.

"Yeah, just thinking. How about this. I'll come over for coffee this afternoon. Four-ish. I'll bring some clam chowder and corn bread and salad for dinner tonight."

"You're an angel." Little Mike let out a wail. "Oops. Burp time. See you later."

Clare moved around the kitchen, mixing the corn bread, enough for Penny and her father. Since her mother's death last fall, her father had become even more vague and forgetful. Retired from teaching high school English, he was sixty-two years old and lost in sorrow. On good days he stayed in his study, researching and writing his book on island mythology, but on bad days he roamed the house, restless in his loneliness and misery, forgetting to shave, dress properly, or eat sensibly. Clare had become the one to nurture him.

She put a batch in the oven, set the timer, then raced upstairs to take a quick shower and dress. Sweet Hart's was closed for two more weeks, so she had time to play around with a new recipe. Jesse would be working today, custom building cabinets for a gazillion-dollar new house, and he might come by for dinner and a video tonight, but even if he did, she could slop around in these jeans and the comfy blue cashmere pullover she'd bought on sale two Januarys ago at Murray's Toggery. It had been washed so many times it felt like satin, and it set off her dark eyes and short, tousled brown hair.

She slid her feet into her felt clogs, clomped down the stairs, and entered the kitchen just as the buzzer sounded. A heavenly b.u.t.tery aroma filled the air. She took the corn bread out of the oven and was stacking various cartons into a straw tote when the phone rang again.

"Hey, babe."

Clare rolled her eyes at the sound of that "babe." She continually asked Jesse not to call her babe. It was such an anonymous, generalized designation. Any woman could be babe. And for Jesse, countless women had been. Perhaps that was the price Clare had to pay for being in love with such a handsome man. "Hey, Jesse, what's up?"

"Just wanted to say good morning." A chorus of hammer falls and whining saws created background music to his voice.

"Good morning, sweetie." Clare curled up in an ancient wooden captain's chair at the end of the kitchen table, pulled her knees up to her chest, and leaned into the sound of his voice. She could envision Jesse at work in his flannel s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and work boots, his thick blond hair tied back in a ponytail with some old rubber band. Perhaps by now-the crew started work early-he'd have warmed up and tossed off the flannel s.h.i.+rt. So he'd be wearing only an old white short-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt. She thought of the muscles in his arms, the lean stretch of his torso.

"How's your father?"

His thoughtfulness warmed her. "Better, I think. He's showered and dressed in clean clothes. I fixed him a big fat breakfast."

"Yum. I wish someone would fix me a big fat breakfast."

When we're married, I'll make you breakfast every day, Clare thought. But she didn't want to seem eager. She wanted him to be the one to push to set the wedding date. So she kept it light. "How about a big fat dinner tonight?"

Jesse made a kind of purring noise in his throat. "Sounds good."

"And I might have some gossip."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Penny phoned. I'm going over later for coffee. She said she's got a major scoop."

Jesse snorted. "On this island in April? Not likely."

"Wait and see."

"What's for dinner?" Jesse asked. "Talk s.e.xy to me, baby."

Clare smiled. "What about a nice juicy steak with fried potatoes and onions and a big salad to keep us healthy?"

"Sounds great. And just the kind of thing to provide me with a little extra energy for...other activities."

Clare closed her eyes, soaking in the s.e.xiness of his voice. Through the phone she heard someone yell.

"Hey, babe, I gotta go. I'll see you tonight. Sixish."

"See you then."

"I love you," Jesse spoke quietly. He'd been ragged on too many times by his friends for being mushy.

"Love you." Clare smiled. She tried not to be the one to say "I love you" first. It always lifted her heart, made her feel more secure, when Jesse said "I love you" without any kind of prompting.

EIGHT.

On an ordinary April day, the blue and white Hy-Line catamaran sped toward Nantucket Island. Lexi leaned on the rail, letting the wind whip her hair against her cheeks, not minding the cold damp las.h.i.+ng. She was returning home.

Her heart raced as the boat skipped over the waves. Two weeks ago she'd made a quick trip to the island to find a building to rent and also to see how she liked being back on Nantucket again. It had felt absolutely right, and the building was a dream come true. She'd negotiated the rental agreement by mail and e-mail and now here she was, with the keys to her new home on Commercial Wharf in her pocket. She hadn't called her parents or Clare yet. She wanted them back in her life again, but first, she simply wanted to be on Nantucket.

In the distance, a gray smudge on the horizon indicated the presence of land. Lexi laughed out loud. How had she managed to live without her island? Only now was she grasping how much she had missed Main Street at Christmas, Daffodil Weekend, and the crowds packing the bleachers at the football games. She remembered loving the island for its sun-drenched beaches and bright surging waters, yes, but more than that, she loved it because it was a small town. She loved that babies were born in the Nantucket Cottage Hospital tucked away near the Old Mill, and that those who died rested in the cemetery on a street aptly named Prospect Hill, with its gentle reminder that those still between birth and death might want to take a moment to consider their afterlife prospects and adjust their actions accordingly. She loved it that the island had no malls or McDonald's. She loved it that the only movie house open in the nine months of the off-season was the Starlight, and she was sorry the new owners had changed the name from the Gaslight, which had always provided the youngest males something to joke about. She loved it that one of the busiest streets in town curved past a pond where a community of spoiled mallards and a few marauding herring gulls lived, and when more people crowded onto the island with their cars, the town put up a sign: Duck Crossing. Please Drive Carefully. As far as she knew, not one duck had been killed on that busy curve. She loved that women had always been influential on this island-all that history she'd yawned over in school now meant something to her.

The ferry slowed, gliding into the boat basin on the sheltered side of the island. She saw the white spire of the Congregational church rising above the village sheltering along the sh.o.r.e, and the stubby white Brant Point lighthouse, and the curve of Children's Beach. She saw, in the distance, the golden blur of Moon Sh.e.l.l Beach.

The ferry b.u.mped gently against the pilings. Chains sang as they were slung and fastened while ramps were dropped into place, and the pa.s.sengers filed off the boat, onto sh.o.r.e.

Lexi stepped onto the island. Her new Range Rover would arrive on the big, slow car ferry at eleven-thirty. She'd pick it up then.

She tugged her cashmere cap down over her blond hair and wrapped her scarf around her face, nestling her chin and mouth down inside for warmth. Instead of going right to her building, she took a detour along Water Street, up past the library and post office, and down Main Street. Even after all her years away, she could make this walk blindfolded. On an April Monday, many businesses were closed, but the lights were on in the post office. An old man limped down the sidewalk, accompanied by an extremely fat bulldog that was almost dancing in its attempt to keep its paws off the cold bricks. Could that be Marvin Merriweather? Could he have aged so much? The dog did look like Moses. The pair disappeared inside the Hub before Lexi could make up her mind.

Across the street, a woman with a baby in a Bjorn and a three-year-old child clutching her hand struggled up the path to the children's library. South Water Street was a row of dark, silent buildings. The Dreamland Theater was boarded up for the winter. The various T-s.h.i.+rt shops and art galleries were closed but Fog Island, a restaurant new to Lexi, had a light on far in the back and a sign stating they would be open at eleven-thirty, for lunch.

She hurried on through the Grand Union parking lot, past Old South Wharf where a few private fis.h.i.+ng boats berthed along the pier rocked and bounced in the slos.h.i.+ng seas, and finally she walked out on Commercial Wharf and stood in front of the building for which she had just signed a three-year lease.

A two-story wooden structure, it was s.h.i.+ngled and gray and as square and forthright as a Puritan with its white trim and granite stoop. It was a duplex, with fifteen hundred feet of open s.p.a.ce on ground level, and another fifteen hundred feet on the second floor, where she would make her new home.

It was ironic-and perhaps some kind of omen?-that Clare Hart's chocolate shop occupied the s.p.a.ce next to Lexi's.

She would call Clare soon. She would.

But for now she just turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, entering her new s.p.a.ce. Her new s.p.a.ce. The floors were hardwood, sanded and stained golden, and polyurethaned against damage. The walls were a white plasterboard, pitted with holes because the last occupant had been an antiques dealer who'd had mirrors, oil paintings, and several display cabinets nailed to the walls. Lexi walked the length of the room, envisioning changes. Dressing rooms at the back, with full-length mirrors, little benches, and doors or curtains for privacy. Racks for the clothing would hang along the two side walls, and she'd display the jewelry in two gla.s.s cases along the middle aisle, where she'd keep the cash register and shopping bags.

She had very little money left-she'd had to sell the good stuff in order to start her new life. When she divorced Ed, she discovered that before their marriage, she'd witlessly signed a prenuptial agreement Ed's lawyers had drawn up, an ironclad doc.u.ment that left her with no alimony, no a.s.sets whatsoever, except for the clothes and some of the jewelry.

But that was all right, that was fine. She felt rejuvenated, ready to roll. The depression she had muddled in like a gluey swamp had dissolved the moment she told Ed she wanted a divorce. With the divorce she changed her last name back to Laney. Every day since then, she had felt stronger, braver, and more complete. She knew what she loved, and she knew what she was good at, and she knew what she wanted to do. She was free of Ed and that bizarre mistake of a life. She was clear, large, and in charge. She wanted to run a fabulous little boutique that would make every woman who walked in the door feel special.

So, she needed to find a carpenter right away. Not a contractor-this wasn't a big job. But someone good at designing and envisioning s.p.a.ce as well as sawing and pounding nails.

She needed to get her new apartment at least minimally furnished so she could eat and sleep. Unwinding her scarf as she went, Lexi climbed up the stairs at the back of the building. She paused on the landing to unlock the door, then stepped inside her new home. This was an amazing, spectacular place. Oh, it was tiny and bland compared to the homes she'd lived in for the past decade, but this place was hers, hers alone, and that made it a palace.

It was one long room with golden floors, white walls, and the best view in the universe, windows looking out over the dancing blue waters of the harbor, the town pier, and the low rise of buildings along the opposite sh.o.r.e. No one lived here in the winter-the cost of heat would be prohibitive-but she knew she'd survive the cold spring and luxuriate in the summer.

The bathroom and kitchenette were at the back of the building. She opened the cupboards, which were bare. She had to go to the grocery store-no problem, with the Grand Union just a short walk away. The moving van was scheduled to come tomorrow.

Now was the moment she'd been both longing for and dreading. Lexi opened her cell phone. She'd already programmed in the number. She hit the b.u.t.ton. Her heart raced as she heard the phone ring.

"h.e.l.lo?"

It took a moment for her to recognize her brother's voice. "Adam! What are you doing there?"

NINE.

Penny and her husband lived in a small cottage on a rutted dirt road out in Tom Nevers Head near the eastern tip of the island. Clare arrived to find Penny curled up on the sofa, nursing her gigantic baby. In high school, copper-haired, muscular, sensible Penny had been field hockey captain, star of the swim team, working summers as a lifeguard, so it was no surprise that her square-headed baby looked like a miniature quarterback.

Clare unloaded the chowder and salad, then made them both mugs of hot chocolate-chocolate was, Penny informed her, okay for nursing mothers. Clare allowed herself a moment of yearning pleasure as she gazed down at the baby, with his sweet bald head, then she kicked off her clogs, settled in a chair, and tucked her feet under her.

"Okay"-she blew on her hot chocolate to cool it-"spill."

Penny paused dramatically, enjoying her moment of power, before announcing, "Lexi's come back."

"Get out!" Clare almost slopped her cocoa out of its mug.

"It's true. Mom heard it from Rhoda Rollins, the receptionist at Paul's real estate agency. And there's more. Big more. Lexi's opening a boutique, and guess where it's going to be."

Clare's eyes widened. "No."

"Yes."

Clare looked stunned. "I knew that s.p.a.ce was for rent. But I never saw anyone looking at it."

"She was here the weekend you went shopping in Boston."

"Holy s.h.i.+t."

"I know." With practiced ease, Penny brought Mikey to a sitting position on her knees and patted his back gently. "You haven't been in touch with Lexi?"

Clare ran her finger over the plaid pattern in the chair cover. "Oh, after she left, I got a few letters. I never wrote her back. Which, I hasten to add, was not my fault. Her letters were always postmarked from some exotic spot in Europe." Sipping her hot chocolate, she reflected a moment, then admitted, "To be honest, I didn't want to get back in touch. She made me feel like what she'd called me, a provincial peasant with no ambitions."

"I'd say starting your own chocolate business is pretty ambitious," Penny argued loyally.

"Yeah, but Lexi was long gone by the time I opened the shop. First, I had to slave away for years, saving money. While I was up to my elbows in loans and hard work, Lexi was swanning around like a princess, showing up in newspapers and magazines, remember? 'Ed Hardin's wife in Oscar de la Renta at the opening of the Met.'"

"I wonder what happened."

"What do you mean?"

"Why is she moving back here?"

"Well, you know they got divorced."

Penny s.h.i.+fted her heavy sleeping baby to her other arm. "I didn't know that, actually. I haven't exactly been tracking her career."

Clare blushed. "I haven't, either! I just read about it when I was in line at the Stop and Shop. It was in one of the tabloids. Must have been a slow news day, no real celebrity divorces."

Penny thought for a moment. A registered nurse, she'd worked at the hospital before marrying Mike Stockwell, a contractor so square-shouldered and bulky he looked like Penny's brother. She'd left the hospital to be a stay-at-home mom. Penny liked to do things slowly and thoroughly. "She must have missed the island. Since she's coming back here. She must have missed you. You were her best friend. And gosh, you must have missed her."

"Truthfully? I really don't know, Penny. I guess I miss who she used to be when we were kids."

Penny grinned. "I'll bet she'll have some tales to tell. All the traveling she's done. The people she's met."

"You're a.s.suming she'll want to spend time with us. The island peasants."

"Come on, give her a chance."

"If she wants to be friends again, why didn't she tell me she was moving back here?"

Calmly Penny suggested, "Maybe she was afraid of the reception she'd get."