Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (10 page)

“Yes. Hi. I’m Marina Warren. I’m renting here for six months, and a friend of Jim Fox told me you all might need some help.”

“Oh,
you’re
the woman renting Jim’s cottage! Welcome. I’m Sheila Lester. And we’re
so
glad you’re here. Half our volunteers haven’t shown up, but who can blame them on a heavenly day like this. I’m sure they’re all out swimming or fishing or working in their gardens.” She chuckled.

Sheila Lester wore her salt-and-pepper hair short and spiky. Above her coral tee shirt she wore a black cord with one deep turquoise bead that accentuated the clear turquoise of her eyes. Marina liked her at once.

“Well, I can come as often as you’d like,” Marina said.

“That’s swell. Now, let me show you the ropes. Although, as I’m sure you can tell, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist. Basically, you grab a box and sort the books, putting them on whichever table they belong.”

On large white sheets of cardboard, written in enormous red letters, were the categories: Fiction, Nonfiction, Cookbooks, Gardening, Mysteries, Children, and Nantucket.

“Take that corner,” Sheila suggested, pointing to a tower of brown boxes.

Marina set to work. The closest table was already piled with books, so she shoved them aside to make room for a few piles of her own. Soon she was moving around the room, placing the books in their categories. The other volunteers were all older than Marina, but they were pleasant and funny, and it felt good, to be part of this productive, literate group. Before she knew it, it was noon.

“Lunchtime, everyone,” Sheila announced. “Thank you all for coming. See you tomorrow morning.”

Marina lingered by the “Nantucket” table. “I wonder, could I buy a few of these now?”

“If you want, just borrow them,” Sheila told her. “Bring them back when you return—you are coming back, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Marina told her. She gathered five books up in her arms. As she walked out of the library, she took a moment to stand on the wide front steps and consider the day. On either side of her, in the shade of the overhang, people sat talking into their cell phones. In the Atheneum garden, people lolled on benches, reading books, eating ice-cream cones, and watching their children swing from the sturdy crabapple trees. At the corner of the street, three women in bright sundresses stood chatting.

Crossing the street from the post office came a woman with hair in a French braid, like Dara wore hers. She was pushing a stroller with a fat baby in it.

Marina clutched her books to her chest, but the arrow of envy
had already struck her heart. She knew she could recover from the divorce, and even from the loss of her best friend, but it would take her a long time to resign herself to childlessness.

A light touch on her shoulder broke her away from her thoughts. She turned to see Sheila Lester there.

“Want to have lunch?” the other woman asked.

“Oh. Sure!”

“I’ve only got an hour,” Sheila said. “Let’s go over to the Fog.”

At the restaurant, they settled into a booth, leaned toward each other over the table, and began to chat. Marina gave Sheila a very condensed account of her past, but rather than get mired in the mud of Dara, Gerry, and the divorce, she turned the conversation back to Sheila. Over salads with walnuts and cranberries, Sheila told her about her own work.

“I make lightship baskets. Do you know about lightships?”

“Not a thing,” Marina admitted. “Tell me.”

“Lightships were floating lighthouses in the nineteenth century, stationed at certain places around the island to warn passing ships of dangerous shoals so they didn’t get lost in the fog and run aground. Crews stayed out in the lightships for six months at a time. Needless to say they didn’t have television, so they did craft work. Some made sailor’s valentines, intricate little combinations of shells put together to form a pretty picture. Some made lightship baskets, which involved lots of patient weaving of canes.” She held up her own basket, which she carried as a purse.

“It must take patience to make one,” Marina said.

“It does,” Sheila agreed. “You might want to give it a try. I teach classes and give individual lessons, too.”

“I’ll think about it,” Marina told her. “Patience isn’t really my strong suit.”

After lunch, they went their separate ways. Marina gave herself a gold star for making a friend and not whining and moaning about her pathetic past year. There was a kind of tranquillity about the other woman that Marina felt terribly appealing. It was rather like the calm that Jim Fox radiated. Both people paid attention to her when they talked. They weren’t looking over her shoulder for something better.

Back in her cottage, Marina spread the books out on the coffee
table, loving the way the covers brightened the room. The one on découpage had such a gorgeous cover of blue hydrangea that she propped it on the table like a painting.

She checked her calendar. Determined not to spend her life hiding away weeping, she had gone through the arts and entertainment section of the newspaper and scheduled events in throughout the week. She would absolutely go to them, every single one. And now that Sheila had reminded her of all the museums on the island, she would add those to the mix.

And of course, she reminded herself, there was the island itself. She hadn’t been swimming yet. She studied her calendar. It read: Book sale. Swimming. Theater.

The closest beach was Jetties, which would be a long walk from her cottage. She decided to rent a bike. She changed into her bathing suit, slipped a tee shirt over it and slid her feet into flip-flops, and filled a bag with a bottle of water, a towel, a paperback novel, and sunblock. As she sauntered down the sidewalk back toward town and the bike shops, she realized she was relaxed in a way she hadn’t been for years. She kept thinking of that turquoise bead Sheila wore. She wanted one just like that.

She rented a bike at Young’s Bicycle Shop, hopped on, and headed toward the beach. She hadn’t been on a bike in years, but after a few wobbly moments, she found herself pedaling with ease, and feeling surprisingly graceful and pleased with herself.

At the Jetties, she locked her bike in the parking lot and carried her beach bag along as she clomped down the boardwalk to the sand. The afternoon was brilliant, the sun dazzling on the water, the beach crowded with swimmers and sun lovers. She spread out her towel, anchored it with her beach bag, and strolled toward the water.

During her college days she and Christie had swam here, and Marina remembered now how the beach at the Jetties was broad and shallow. She waded far out and swam, stiffly at first, and then surrendering to the slow-rocking waves. She’d forgotten how impossible it was to think while swimming—the ocean engaged all her senses. She floated for a long time, kicking her feet, loving the warm sun on her face.

Wading back up to the beach, she felt luxuriously tired and
relaxed. She gathered up her things and biked back to the cottage. She showered and dressed, pleased to see that she’d gotten a little tan, a nice little glow. This was a good day! She’d done some volunteer work, made a friend, learned about the island, and had a refreshing swim.

She tucked her paperback into her purse, and set off walking into town. She would find a bench in the library garden and read until six or so, when she’d have a drink and dinner on the patio at the Boarding House, and then she’d stroll around town until the play began.

She was happy, she realized. She was here, and alive, and happy. And that was a lot to be grateful for.

Thursday night, Lily sat in the back row of the theater, scribbling as fast as she could, listing the names of all the people she’d just seen at the gallery opening on Old South Wharf. She’d clicked quite a few photos with her digital camera, and she thought most of them would be usable. The problem was, some of the people she knew from seeing them at other parties or openings, and they assumed Lily knew their names, so she hadn’t double-checked for fear of insulting them. Now she jotted down reminders of who they might be and where in the past six weeks she might have seen them.

People were filing into the little makeshift auditorium here in the basement of the Methodist church. The seats were banked, and she always sat in the corner in the back, where she could see everyone. She disliked being solo at any event, although she did enjoy the looks people shot her as she sat engrossed with her tablet and pen. Maybe they imagined she was from a city newspaper.

Something caught her eye. She saw
that woman
, the renter, walk in. She was slender, delicate, and terribly chic in a long-sleeved black tee, pencil-legged black pants, and high black heels. Her straight blond hair was held with a simple clip at the back of her neck. That was a great look, sophisticated without fuss, easily elegant. Surely the woman was too stylish, too severe, for her father. He was a margarita at a clambake. This woman looked like a martini at the opera.

And what am I? Lily wondered, sneering down at her flowered peach sundress with its ruffled skirt. I’m a hopeless Shirley Temple, she decided, a too-sweet drink garnished with sucky little pieces of fruit. She’d worn this dress in high school, for heaven’s sake. But she knew it would be hot in the theater, and her wardrobe was so limited, she had to recycle everything. Plus, she’d be bored in simple clothes. Deep in her heart she longed to wear flashy, fabulous, look-at-me clothing and jewelry. Perhaps, with both her sisters back, Lily could keep a little more of her paycheck for clothing and give a bit less of it to her father for food and utilities. She’d never really sat down with her father to talk about it. She’d always just offered money, and he’d taken it. But of course, if she didn’t live at home, she’d have to pay rent and buy her own groceries; she knew that. She didn’t really know whether she was helping her father or costing him money. He paid the insurance on the Old Clunker … 

The houselights dimmed. The stage lights came up. Lily turned her attention to the play.

Friday morning, Lily took a glass of iced tea and headed up the steep stairs at the back of the house to the attic.

“Hey, kid!” Abbie stuck her head up into the attic heat. “What are you doing up here?”

“Oh, I’m kind of messing around with some old clothes,” Lily told her. “I need more things to wear to all my events, and I think there are some of Mom’s clothes up here.”

Abbie came up the stairs and stood in the middle of the attic with her hands on her hips. “Good God. There’s tons of
everything
up here. What a mess.” Her eye fell on a batik cotton bedspread in swirls of turquoise and blue. “Oh, my gosh. Mom threw that over the old chaise in their bedroom to hide all the rips and stains from poor old Rover. This can definitely go to Take It or Leave It.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Lily advised absentmindedly. She was pawing through hanging wardrobes.

“Well, do you want it? I can’t see it ever fitting in with your décor.”

“I don’t want it,” Lily answered. “I’m changing my style. No more yellow butterflies and daisy sundresses. I want something black.”

“That sounds very Goth. I thought that was a teenage phase.”

“Not Goth, silly. Sophisticated.” Narrowing her eyes at her sister, she snapped, “Stop smirking!
I
can be sophisticated!”

“Of course you can,” Abbie replied without a touch of condescension in her voice.

Lily unzipped a quilted wardrobe and reached in. “Ugh. Grandmom’s old fur coat. Why are we saving it?”

“Because,” Abbie replied, her words muffled as she bent over a box, “this family is psychotically anal. We can’t seem to throw away anything. For example! Our old Scrabble game.”

“Great. Bring it downstairs. We can play it some rainy night.”

“No, we
can’t
, because don’t you remember? Some of the letters are missing. We just stuck it up here because what, we thought it would magically reproduce the letters? God, we’re a strange family.”

“No, Abbie, we thought we’d use those letters for some kind of game, scavenger hunts or spy games or something.”

“Well, it’s going to the dump!” Abbie added it to the pile of discards.

Lily knelt down next to a chest full of stuffed animals. “I suppose some of these should go, too. I mean, we can save some for our children—I want to save my dolls for my children—but some of these are just mangy and gross.” She held up an elongated rabbit with a ripped ear and a missing eye. “I don’t even remember this guy, do you?”

Abbie glanced over. “Nope. Dump it.”

It was really nice, having Abbie’s company up here in the gloomy attic. Lily loved her father, but she’d been lonely for the companionship her sisters provided. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she’d been especially lonely for Abbie. Of course it was because when Lily was seven and their mother died, it had been Abbie who stepped into the maternal role. Lily understood that. She’d talked to counselors and therapists, she’d read books. But she wasn’t
dependent
on Abbie. Abbie had been gone for almost two years, after all. And Lily was making her own way in life. It was just that with Abbie around, Lily felt … well, less lonely.