Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (50 page)

Lily didn’t know if that was enough of a love for her. Paris had been a revelation, and the few weeks she spent with Eartha in New York had been confusing, challenging, and exciting. She knew she needed to spend some time living and working in New York before deciding to settle down with Jason. And perhaps Jason would decide that Lily didn’t love him enough. It was a chance she had to take. She was learning—slowly, with lots of anxiety and trepidation—that she could do pretty well on her own.

But today wasn’t about Lily. It was about Marina and Lily’s father.

Marina had been drinking champagne for the past hour, trying to calm down. She was so happy, and the day was so absolutely dazzling, she was afraid she’d cry, just right out
blubber
, with joy.

They had decided—they had
all
decided, for the girls were probably at least as interested in the ceremony as their father—to have the wedding on the beach. The girls had helped her choose this drop-dead-gorgeous, form-fitting, ivory silk sarong. On her feet were the thinnest of white leather sandals. Her hair was adorned with a glittering tiara the three girls had made for her out of seashells and beads.

And the girls looked stunning, all of them together in their coordinating sea colors. It was hard to look at them and not burst into tears.

In just a month, Emma was going to have a baby. Emma had asked Marina to babysit four afternoons a week, while she worked with Millicent. In her secret heart of hearts, Marina sometimes thought she was more excited about Emma’s baby than about her own wedding, but of course she’d never say such a thing to Jim.

And now that Abbie was living with Howell, there had been several occasions when they’d asked Marina to stay with Harry so they could go out to dinner or a movie, and of course all of them, Howell, Abbie, and Harry, came to dinner often. Marina was learning how to create healthy food that was fun to eat, as well as the
cookies and cupcakes she decorated for each season. Harry was gaining some much-needed weight, and Marina thought that just a few ounces could be attributed to her culinary creations. In a funny way, Marina was becoming a grandmother without ever having been a mother.

Lily was the one daughter with whom Marina still felt uncomfortable. They didn’t quite “get” each other yet. But Marina had come a long way to achieving Lily’s approval by having the clothes she’d put in storage shipped to the island. She’d invited Lily to join her as she unpacked all her horribly expensive, black designer suits. Lily had almost drooled on them, and she had screamed with joy when Marina told Lily they were all for her. They hardly had to be altered at all, and Lily looked fabulous in them.

Now they were all waiting for her. Jim, Spencer, Jason, and Howell went down the boardwalk to the beach, where the minister stood waiting in his white robe, the breeze playing with the hem. Marina’s bridesmaids, Lily, Emma, and Abbie, were on the deck, all huddled together down at little Harry’s level, giving him moral support for his trip down the aisle as the ring bearer. Their skirts billowed around them in a lovely flurry of blues.

Marina stepped outside.

“Marina!” Harry called. “Look! Bill is going to help me walk down the aisle!”

“Why, what a clever idea,” Marina told him. “Harry, I’m so proud of you.”

“I can hold his leash in my left hand and the rings in my right hand!” Harry assured her.

“Perfect.” Marina nodded to the three sisters, who lined up for the procession. Here we are, Marina thought, four women, one little boy, and a dog. Perhaps an unusual wedding procession, but after all, there were so many kinds of weddings on this earth, and so many kinds of families.

The guitarist began to play Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The congregation rose. They turned, looking so expectantly—so happily!—toward Marina, who lifted her head, smiled radiantly, and followed her family down the aisle toward the beach. As she walked, she could see, just behind the altar, the wide blue ocean sparkling in the sun.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank: Karol Lindquist, lightship basket virtuoso, for the many things she teaches; Libby Oldham, who knows about Nantucket history; Dionis Gauvin, who knows about fashion; Tricia Patterson, who knows about everything; Josh Thayer and Sam Wilde Forbes, who make me proud and make me laugh; Adeline and Ellias Forbes, who make my heart do cartwheels; David Gillum and Neil Forbes, beloved of those I love—I love you, too. Thank you, my friends, for being there, and Charley, for being here.

I also want to thank Meg Ruley, for her guidance, acumen, and friendship. Enormous thanks to those at Ballantine: Junessa Viloria, Kim Hovey, Katie Rudkin, Sarina Evans, Libby McGuire, and Gina Centrello, and especially that goddess of editing, Linda Marrow.

Random House Reader’s Circle:
What made you write this story?

Nancy Thayer: The ideas for my books all come from deep within my heart and my life. In many ways,
Beachcombers
is about dealing with loss—of a parent, or like Marina, of a husband and best friend, or of an important job, income, and fiancé. We all face loss. Sometimes loss makes you dig deep into yourself to find what you never realized was there.

My mother was ninety-one and failing when I started writing Beachcombers. My sister, Martha, a nurse, visited my mother in her nursing home every day. When she was younger, my mother had worked for the development department of a hospital; she was capable and logical. She loved music and reading above all things. One time when I was a teenager, she was driving a car and I was sitting next to her, in the front seat. She had the radio on, playing classical music, when suddenly, Mother said, with joy, “Nancy, look at those birds!” She pointed to the sky. “It looks like they’re flying in time to the music!” Then she drove the car into a tree. (We weren’t hurt.) In some ways, my character Danielle is like how my mother was, loving, but often forgetting us because she’s hearing other music.

My sister often called from the Kansas City nursing facility to talk with me here in Nantucket. Mother, Martha, and I discussed so many memories. Later, while driving away from the nursing home, my sister would call and we’d talk about other memories of our mother. I knew we would be losing her soon. I began to wonder what it must be like to lose your mother when you are still very young, and that was the germ of Beachcombers.

RHRC
: In Beachcombers, you delve into four very different female perspectives. Did you find any one woman harder to write than the others?

NT
: Lily was the hardest character for me to write, not because she wasn’t like me, but because she was so very much like I was when I was in my twenties. True, I was the oldest of three children, so I did a lot of nurturing and caretaking like Abbie. I’d once lived in Kansas City, been divorced, and started my life over on Nantucket like Marina. I was practical, hardworking, and history-loving like Emma.

But when I was young, I was so Lily. I desperately wanted to leave Wichita, Kansas, where I grew up. I wanted to live in Paris or New York City. My best friend and I were going to run away, wear black turtlenecks, recite our poetry in coffee houses, and have mad affairs with dangerous men. If I had met Eartha when I was Lily’s age, I would have been her servant in a flash. When I look back at myself in my late teens and early twenties, I see someone who didn’t care a fig for keeping house or being on time and responsible. I wanted glamour, bright lights, sexy clothes, martinis! (Kansas was a dry state; I’d never had a martini.)

Knowing my past, when I wrote Beachcombers, it was hard for me to give Lily a break, because she was so much like I had been: kind of an idiot. Or are we all idiots at twenty?

RHRC
: Do you begin writing with an idea of your characters in mind or do you allow them to evolve as the story progresses?

NT
: I always start with characters in mind, and also a kind of theme, like loss, or as in Summer House, generations of family, or how friendships change over time. The characters definitely evolve as I write. They become more fully formed, more definitely themselves. In fact, they take over. Sometimes I have to stop typing and say aloud to my empty study, “I really can’t allow you to say that in print!” I am incapable of sitting and plotting in advance. I either type, or I go for a walk, and things shift in my brain. I want to say, “Well, why didn’t you tell me this in the first place!” Or I phone my daughter, Samantha Wilde, also a published novelist, and ask something like, “Should Joe marry Helen?” Sam will say, “Duh, no, Mom, he’s going to marry Sarah.” And I’ll say, “Oh! I had no idea,” but I know instantly she’s right, and I hang up the phone and go back to work.

Writing is a mystery, and when it works well, a delight. When it doesn’t work well, it goes into the shredder.

RHRC
: Reading your novels always makes me want to visit Nantucket. Does the beauty and nature of Nantucket inspire your creativity while writing?

NT: I usually take a walk every day when I’m writing, often an adventure in the winter, but I love the ocean in the winter. It’s so dramatic! The white surf pounds. The air sparkles. On Great Point, I walk near harbor seals wallowing in the sand, oinking like pigs from eating so many fish. Once my husband and I saw a group of enormous grey seals with their gorilla bodies and black horse heads hanging out next to the shore like a bunch of adolescent gangsters. They were fascinated by us. We studied them. They studied us. They kind of flirted with us. I’m pretty sure they thought we were funny looking. Or maybe delicious looking. It was thrilling. And terrifying. We didn’t go any closer. Even the sweet little harbor seals bite. So much of such incomprehensible difference so near to us every day—that shakes the doldrums out of me and stirs me up.

Also, the town of Nantucket is exquisitely beautiful, the houses mostly old and shingled, with small gardens hidden behind hedges or picket fences. Many of the houses are named, with signs called quarter boards above the door. On Fair Street sits Fairy Tale, Fair Isle, and Fair Thee Well. Door knockers are mermaids, or whale tails, or scallop shells. Many houses have “widows’ walks” where women whose husbands were off at sea watched for approaching ships. Window boxes spill with flowers in most seasons. Walking around Main Street and over to India Street where our magnificent Greek Revival library stands and over to the Episcopal church with its Tiffany stained-glass window is always inspiring. And if I stop in at Even Keel for a mocha latte and one of their chocolate cakes, then I’m exhilarated.

I believe that sometimes you just have to go somewhere else. Perhaps you’ve had a tremendous loss and you’re sad. Or you’ve worked very hard and you’re exhausted. Or everything is great, but still, something’s missing and you can’t figure it out. Nantucket is thirty miles out at sea. You have to fly or take a boat to get here. Here, you’re surrounded by water. Here, no chains stores, no Dunkin Donuts or ToysЯUs, and if you rent a car, you can’t go faster than 25 mph on the narrow roads. History is everywhere; you walk on the cobblestones brought over from England hundreds of years ago. Nature is everywhere. And it isn’t only sweet. If you don’t watch out, a gull will swoop down and steal your sandwich right off your picnic blanket.

I’ve seen people come here for a week and leave changed. I’ve met groups of women who reunite here from all over the country in the autumn to rent a cottage, walk in the sand or on the moors, eat lobster dripping with butter or fresh sweet scallops, and talk all day and much of the night. They go home recharged for the year. I know the nature and beauty of the island changes people. I’ve heard them talk about it.

RHRC:
Why do you think the relationships between sisters are so complex and complicated?

NT:
I think relationships between any two human beings are complex and complicated. But with sisters, you’ve got emotional memories of the intense past to color everything that happens in the present. Children get labeled, even unintentionally, not just by their parents, but by the children themselves. “The Smart One,” “The Baby,” “The Favorite,” “The Shy One.” When we grow up, those roles lurk in our unconscious, shadowing our present behavior.