Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (66 page)

The Hoopers arrived fully dressed for the day in matching floral shirts and white cotton slacks and sneakers.

“Why, isn’t this just the ticket!” Jenna Hooper exclaimed, actually clapping her hands at the sight of the kitchen table. “I swear, I want to take a picture. Harold, would you get the camera?”

Harold obligingly went back and fetched the camera. By the time he’d returned, taken some photos, and settled into a place at
the table, the muffins were ready. Carley served them fruit cups, coffee, orange juice, and muffins, all the while chatting with them about the island and asking them about Oklahoma. Then the ancient Munsens came slowly toddling in, clad as if on their way to church, and Carley quickly moved to assist them as they wavered and wobbled and finally creakily subsided into chairs.

As Carley was serving them breakfast, Brie and Candy wandered in, still in their robes, which, since it was summer, were brief and diaphanous.
Oh, dear
, Carley thought.
Should I have established a dress code? Should I have put up a sign stating in no uncertain terms that guests were to come to the table dressed for the day?
Would her older guests take offense at the informality of her younger guests?

“Please introduce yourselves,” Carley asked as she bustled about getting the young women’s breakfasts.

To her relief, everyone spoke cordially and when the Hoopers said they were here on their honeymoon, Brie and Candy cooed like doves.

“Oh, your honeymoon, how romantic!”

“Look, you’ve got your camera, let me take a picture of the two of you here at the table,” Candy offered.

Carley wished she’d thought to do that herself, and tucked the thought away for the future.

“Maybe we’ll come here someday for our honeymoons,” Brie said wistfully.

“Oh, are you engaged?” Jenna Hooper asked.

“I wish.” Candy looked at her friend with despairing eyes. “We don’t even have boyfriends. And we’re
twenty-three
!”

To Carley’s surprise, ancient Mrs. Munsen spoke up, telling the girls not to be in a hurry, it was better to marry late than early, and the Hoopers joined in, to regale them with stories about their disastrous early marriages, and old Mr. Munsen croaked with pride that he hadn’t gotten married until he was thirty-seven, and they’d been married fifty-one years! Carley refilled the coffee cups, passed around the muffins again, and listened with wonder as her guests talked. They were all eating everything they could get their hands
on, and they seemed absolutely happy. Margaret came in for breakfast, and stayed to gaze at the resplendent young women in pastel. Carley wished Cisco would wake and come down. She’d enjoy watching Brie and Candy, too.

“I’ll tell you what,” Harold Hooper said. “You are two fine-looking fillies. But you won’t get a man’s attention just by looking good.”

“That’s right,” Jenna Hooper agreed with a fervent nod of her head.

“No, you have to
do
something,” Harold continued. “Men might like to look at you, but if you want them to find you of interest, you’ve got to be doing something they like doing.”

“Like what?” Brie asked.

“Well,” Jenna informed them with a cunning smile, “I met Harold when I was taking skeet-shooting lessons.”

“Oh, that’s terrible!” Candy looked horrified. “All those poor little skeet! I could never do that.”

A Vesuvian rumbling erupted from the Hoopers’ end of the table. For a moment Carley was ready to punch 911.

“Har-har-har!” Harold Hooper chortled and shook with laughter, his face turning red.

“He’s all right,” Jenna hastened to assure Carley. “That’s just his way.” To Brie and Candy, she said soothingly, “Honey, skeets are just clay targets. They’re not live birds.”

“Oh, okay. So is that where you met Mr. Hooper?”

“It is. Please understand, I wasn’t out there trying to hook a man. I grew up in Oklahoma; I possess a rifle and a revolver. I don’t shoot birds but in my time I have been known to shoot a rattler who was aiming to bite my horse. But I got so busy in my first marriage, raising my children and all, that when my first husband died, and my kids had left home, I wanted to get back to my old self. Perhaps get another horse. So I went out skeet shooting to get my aim back. You have to aim right well the first time if you’re trying to kill a rattler.”

Brie and Candy were mesmerized. “And you met Mr. Hooper?” Brie repeated.

“I did.” Jenna’s eyes twinkled. “And he’s got lots of
horses.
”

The young women’s heads whipped toward Carley. “Is there a skeet-shooting range on the island?”

“There is a target practice range somewhere around, but I don’t think it’s open to the public. Anyway, no one comes to the island to shoot. They come for the water sports.”

“But we don’t own a boat.”

“Have you ever tried a kayak?” Carley pulled out some brochures. “Or you could go down to the wharves to see if you can join a charter going out to sport fish and learn to cast. Lots of men love fishing.”

“Super!” Brie jumped up from the table, followed by Candy. “Thanks, you guys, you’re the best!”

“Let us know what happens,” Harold Hooper called as the young women ran out the door.

A few moments later, the Hoopers went off for the day and the Munsens left with their grandchildren. Carley was buzzed as she tidied up the kitchen. Everyone had gotten along so well! It had been like having a little party. And what if Brie or Candy met someone? The front garden with its sweeping view of the ocean would be the perfect place for a summer wedding …

• • • • •

Carley was dusting the living room when she heard a knock on the door and then Wyatt stuck his head in.

“Hey, Carley.”

“Wyatt!”

He wore tennis whites and his wavy hair was damp, his face blazing with tan. “I don’t want to interrupt—”

“You’re not—”

“I just wondered how it’s going. Your Seashell Inn.”

“So far? It’s
great
!” She tossed down her dust cloth. “Want some lemonade?”

“I could use a long cool glass of water.”

She led him to the kitchen, got out a glass and ice, ran the faucet, and handed him the drink.

His fingers lingered on hers. His eyes lingered on her face. Confused, she said, “Want a cherry blackberry croissant? Made fresh today?”

“No thanks. I’ve got to go to the office.”

“Like that?”

Wyatt laughed. “You know we’ve got a shower, and I always keep a set of fresh clothes at the office. I was just walking back from the court and thought I’d look in. So everything’s going okay?”

“The guests are wonderful, so far. Actually, some of them are so
much fun, or so
wise
. They all love their rooms and their breakfasts and teas.”

“How do the girls like it?”

“Of course everyone adores Margaret, so she’s in heaven. Cisco, not so much. I’m trying to convince her to do some housework in return for pay, and she’s having a difficult time with it.”

“I can understand that. She’s an adolescent.” Tilting back his head, he drank his water. “Maybe the girls would like to go out sailing someday.”

“I’m sure they’d love it, Wyatt.”

“You, too, I mean.”

Was he blushing? Perhaps in this light, his tan glowed like a burn. “I don’t have much free time.”

“You need to give yourself a break, Carley. You can’t work all the time.”

“You’re right. And I’d love to go sailing.”

“Good. I’ll call you when the weather looks cooperative.”

He moved toward Carley, tall, tanned, so male, so athletic. Hot from playing in the sun, his body radiated heat as he neared Carley.

He set his glass on the counter next to her. Leaning forward, he kissed her cheek lightly. “Thanks for the water.” His voice was strangely hoarse. “Tell the girls hello.”

Then he turned and headed out the door, leaving Carley warmed and slightly flustered.

The days tumbled over her, guests arriving, guests leaving, guests asking for directions, more towels, more coffee, just one more muffin.

It was a custom at many of the charming Nantucket inns to give the guest rooms names instead of numbers. Some were historic names: Starbuck, Macy, Folger, Swain, Chase. Coffin was one of the most respected names, but understandably many guests didn’t want to sleep in a room with that appellation. Some inns used nautical terms: Anchor, Mast, Sail, Bow.

Carley had consulted with her girls, and they had decided to use the names of shells: Scallop, Moon, and Angel’s Wing. Carley had small, gilt-trimmed quarter boards made and nailed to the doors of the three rooms, an expensive but elegant touch, she thought. When she and Maria were together, cleaning the rooms, preparing them for new guests, Carley would call, “Scallop needs fresh hand soaps,” or “The Carters phoned to ask whether they left their iPod in Moon.” The names seemed mystical to her, as if the very words brought with them the wild salt and strange spice of the sea into the perfect chambers where her guests slept. At some moments, when she opened the door for a new guest, she’d hear them—always the woman—give a little gasp as she stepped into the room. “Oh,” she’d say, “oh, look.” And Carley would allow herself a smug smile. She had created a magical miniature universe for her guests, everything aquamarine and crisp white, scrolled like shells, as clean as if scoured by the waves. Here on the curtains and towels were mermaids and sea horses. Lamp bases were filled with sand and tiny starfish, sand dollars, sea glass. The sheets, expensive cotton, embroidered thickly and stretched taut beneath the palest blue blanket, welcomed the visitor to rest, to dream. In these three rooms, you could float anywhere.

Every morning Carley would rise at five, pull on shorts and a tee and flip-flops, and tiptoe down the back stairs to the kitchen. She’d been plotting, the night before, just which new recipe to use—cranberry-blueberry muffins, or beach plum–strawberry croissants. She always squeezed fresh oranges for the juice. Most days she slipped out to the garden to gather a few flowers for the center of the table. She loved seeing the faces of her guests when they entered the kitchen. The first morning, they looked surprised, curious. The second morning, they looked
eager
.

One day a middle-aged couple, the Awtreys from Indiana, checked in, both of them looking nearly desperate with weariness. They scarcely spoke to Carley. They didn’t touch each other. They entered their room with slumped shoulders, as if their luggage was almost too heavy to bear. They didn’t show for her complimentary afternoon tea.

The next morning, when they came up for breakfast, they were different. Lighter. Brighter. And very much
together
. They chatted with the other guests, ate Carley’s food with gusto, and shot each other shy and affectionate glances, like a newly courting couple. Later, as Carley cleaned the kitchen, she hummed to herself. She thought: my sister might save lives, but
I
save
marriages
. And, she thought, laughing, perhaps I also save a few people’s sanity.

Rain, Carley learned, was her enemy. And it rained a lot. If you were interested in Nantucket history, you could spend hours at the Whaling Museum or any of the other museums. You could shop in any of the fabulous shops on the island. You could relax in Carley’s comfortable living room and read a book or play a board game. That was about it for wild entertainment on the island. Nantucket was at its best on sunny days.

Long stretches of sunny days could be busy, too. Everyone needed more towels, beach towels, towels for showering, for their hair. Did Carley have some sunblock they could borrow? They’d left the beach bag Carley had provided at the beach, could they have another one? Many of her guests had trouble reading the maps included in the Chamber of Commerce guides.

She sat down at the computer and typed out:

How to Get to the Whaling Museum from 9 1/2 Mitchell Avenue
.

Turn left from our driveway. Walk two blocks until you come to the cobblestone lane going downhill. Go down the hill and turn right on South Beach Street. Walk five blocks. You will pass the Beachside Hotel. Continue walking three long blocks. You will be at Steamboat Wharf. Turn right. The Whaling Museum is a large brick building
.

She wrote similar guides for the library, other museums, restaurants, the movie theater. She printed them out in a large font and put them in the guest rooms and living room. Still, she got phone calls: “We’re in town. How do we get back?”

Margaret seemed to enjoy the guests. When she wasn’t at day camp, she stuck by Carley as if glued to her, willingly ran little errands,
helped Carley mix the batter for the tea scones, and rode out to Bartlett’s to choose the best fresh fruit. Perhaps, Carley thought, Margaret spent too much time with her. She didn’t run down to play at Molly’s as often as she used to. But the B&B was a novelty; she thought Margaret would be bored with it by the end of the summer.

Cisco was more difficult. Carley had made a deal with Cisco: since Maria was busy keeping the guest rooms clean, Carley would pay Cisco to vacuum and dust her room and Margaret’s. Many of her friends made money babysitting; when school started, Cisco would need money for clothes. Cisco had to work only one hour a week. Cisco agreed, but she
hated
cleaning. She didn’t do a good job, and she became more and more sour about it.

What could she do? What should she do? Carley hardly had time to think about Cisco. She kept the accounts and paid bills and took reservations and answered phone calls and solved problems and bought groceries and made afternoon tea and scones or crumpets or tarts and went through the house late at night, being certain that everything was locked and secure, and fell into bed exhausted. She greeted the guests and anticipated their needs and answered their questions and enjoyed their pleasure in her home.

But she could understand how Cisco would be bored and unhappy.

One evening, Carley sat on Cisco’s bed. “You’re having a tough time.”

Cisco cocked her head and retorted accusingly, “You’re having fun.”

“Well, Cisco, I’m running a business. I have to act pleasant.”