Beachcombers (15 page)

Lily laughed. "I saw a falling star. At the Quaker graveyard. With Jason."

Emma sat up straight. "Get out! You were with Jason?"

Lily shifted nervously. "I hope you don't care, Abbie."

Abbie shrugged. "Why would I care?"

"Because he brought you home from the airport. I thought maybe--"

"Honey," Abbie said, "Jason is way too young for me. I like older men."

"Oh, really?" Emma turned her attention toward her older sister. "Since when?"

Abbie blushed and fiddled with her cup. "Oh, it's nothing. It's stupid. I just--it's not even worth talking about."

"It absolutely is worth talking about. Look at you! You're as red as a tomato!"

Why did they always do this, Lily thought. Why did her two sisters always find each other so interesting that Lily could be having sex with Brad Pitt on the kitchen table and they wouldn't even notice?

"It's just--this Howell Parker? Whose son I'm taking care of in the afternoons? He's--he's just amazing, really. So fascinating, and nice, and so loving with his little boy."

"I can't even believe what I'm hearing," Emma said. "Abbie, you have more sense than to get mixed up with a married man!"

"I know, Emma. But his wife is a bitch--"

"His wife.
His wife
!"

"And she's never there, she's always in New York working, and he's hurt his ankle."

"Are you kidding me?" Emma crossed her arms over her chest, leaned back in her chair, and glared at Abbie. "Abbie, don't do this. He is married. He is off-limits. He loves another woman. He loves the mother of that cute little boy. What are you even thinking?"

Abbie frowned and sighed. "I know. You're right."

"Is he trying to get you into bed?" Emma demanded.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's very proper. But Emma, there's this connection
between
us ..."

Lily heard footsteps coming up the back porch, and then someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," she called. Would it be Jason? Who else could it be on a Sunday morning?

Marina Warren opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. "Good morning. How nice to see all you girls together!"

25

Marina

T
his wasn't the bravest thing she'd ever done, Marina thought as she smiled at the three startled women, but it might turn out to be one of the stupidest. In her past life, in her work for the ad agency, she'd walked into a room full of strangers dozens of times and turned them all into friends, or at least into clients. She'd faced disgruntled businessmen and skeptical retailers and calmly, assuredly, worked with them to ease their doubts.

But she'd had something to offer them--an ad, a selection of graphic designs, a catchy slogan about their own product. Here she had only herself.

They knew who she was, still she introduced herself. "I'm Marina Warren. I'm renting your cottage for the summer."

Now it was their turn to say something. She paused. For a moment--silence.

And then the tallest daughter, the one with the feathery cap of brown curls, stood up and came toward Marina, her hand outstretched. "Hi, Marina. I'm Abbie. It's nice to meet you."

"I'm Emma." A slender woman with curly hair, adorable freckles, and big hazel eyes turned in her chair and offered her hand. "Won't you join us for coffee?"

"I'd love to." Marina chose the chair farthest from Lily, who sat scowling at the far end of the table. "Hi, Lily." She said to the others, "I met Lily the other night."

"Oh?" Abbie set a mug in front of Marina and moved the cream and sugar bowl her way. "We hadn't heard. But we have such crazy schedules in the summer we often don't see each other for days, at least not to talk."

"Yes, your father told me about your company. Nantucket Mermaids. Clever. What sorts of jobs are you doing?"

Another pause. Abbie and Emma exchanged glances that telegraphed clearly their surprise at this announcement that their father had been talking about them to this stranger.

Then Emma spoke. "I'm taking dictation in the morning and chauffeuring around a bunch of kids in the late afternoon. The job I like the best is reading to Millicent Bracebridge. She's an elderly lady with a house crammed with valuable Nantucket antiques, but she's got macular degeneration. Sometimes I read to her. Sometimes I listen to her talk about the past. It's a pleasant job."

"And I'm doing some data entry for a couple who are trying to combine business with vacation. And taking care of a little boy in the afternoons." Suddenly, Abbie glowed. "He's the most darling little boy. His mother, a divorce lawyer, is usually back in New York. His father's working on some kind of scientific report. Harry's a shy little kid."

"And you work for the magazine, don't you, Lily?" Marina faced Lily with a friendly smile.

"Yes, but I didn't get the job through Nantucket Mermaids," Lily clarified. "I've had that job for a year now. It's not temporary. It's year-round."

Abbie asked Marina, "Do you work?"

"Oh, boy, I used to. For the past ten years I ran an ad agency slash graphic design business with my husband. Now he's my ex-husband and I've sold my share of the agency to him." From the periphery of her vision, she saw Emma's eyes flicker with interest. "That's why I'm here. I worked here for three summers back during my college days and loved it. Now I'm giving myself space to decide what to do, how to get my life back on course, or rather, channeled in a new course. I'm trying to be positive. To think creatively. This seems like a good place for that."

Emma leaned toward her. "I lost my job recently. I worked for an investment firm in Boston. I lost my job and all my savings."

"That is really tough," Marina commiserated.

Emma nodded. "And my fiance dumped me."

"Well," Marina countered with a sardonic smile, "my husband left me for my best friend."

Emma's face brightened. "Get out."

"It's true." Marina laughed and held up her hand. "High five."

Emma slapped Marina's hand. "Glad to know you."

Lily objected, "But that's not funny! How can you two be so silly about it?"

Emma grimaced. "I've been miserable about it. I
am
miserable about it. So it's a novel experience to laugh about it. Do you mind?"

Lily bit her lip, confused. She didn't like this woman being here in their home.

Marina pushed back her chair. "Anyway, I just came up here to invite you all to dinner some night."

All three daughters gawked at her, confusion on two faces, resistance on Lily's.

"Your father's told me how hard you're all working, and I thought you might enjoy coming home to a nice, big home-cooked meal."

"That would be great," Abbie said. "What night?"

"What night is good for all three of you?" Marina asked. "I'm pretty open."

Abbie rose and walked over to a small desk in a kitchen nook. She took a calendar down from the wall and carried it back. "So far, I've got babysitting jobs on Wednesday and Friday. And Emma, you have jobs then, too. So Thursday might be good. Lily, do you have anything on Thursday?"

"I don't know," Lily muttered. "I'll have to check my calendar."

Abbie said, "Check it now."

"It's upstairs in my purse."

"We can wait," Emma told her.

Lily glared at Marina. "Is Dad going to be there?"

"I hope so."

Abbie looked from Marina to Lily and back to Marina. "Ah. Are you dating our father?"

Marina smiled. "We're friends."

"Check your calendar, Lily," Emma said.

Lily flounced out of the kitchen.

Marina waited for a few beats in case the sisters had anything helpful to say, like:
Our baby sister is a bit of a spoiled brat.
But they didn't take the opportunity to talk about her now that she was out of the room, and Marina liked them for that.

"Any suggestions on what I should serve?" Marina turned the conversation toward food. "I know you're very clever with Crock-Pot meals." Once again Abbie and Emma exchanged glances at this revelation that their father had shared so many details about his daughters. "Are any of you vegetarian? I've bought a little grill. I thought you might like steaks."

"God, I'd love a steak," Abbie said.

"Me, too," Emma agreed. "Steak has sort of been out of my budget."

"Then steak it shall be," Marina said, pleased to know she could offer Jim's daughters something good to anticipate.

Lily still hadn't returned. Marina tapped her watch. "I'm sorry, but I've got to go. I'm having a private lesson with Sheila Lester, making a lightship basket."

"That's very cool!" Emma said. "Sheila's the best."

Marina went to the door. "Thanks for the coffee. I'll see you Thursday night."

"And we'll come down and tell you whether Lily can come," Abbie said.

"Oh, your father can tell me," Marina told them casually, looking over her shoulder with a smile.

Marina biked over to Sheila Lester's house, her thoughts churning as she replayed the meeting with the three daughters. She'd liked Abbie right away, and thought Abbie had liked her. Well, Abbie seemed the most adult of the three, and she was the oldest. Emma had seemed distant until the moment Marina announced that her husband had left her for her best friend and then they had bonded a bit. Emma was more reserved than Abbie, but perhaps she would become a real friend. They had so much in common. Emma had also been unlucky in love. Well, what woman--what human?--hadn't?

The studio where Sheila Lester made her lightship baskets was set at the back of her property, a large, airy, one-roomed space full of light and fragrant with the spicy aroma of wood and cane. Shelves along the walls held molds and bases of all different sizes and shapes, and slabs and slices of wood were piled on the floor. Marina was surprised to see all the machinery in the shop. Sheila took her around, introducing her to the machines, explaining their function.

"Drill, to drill the pilot hole in the base. Router. To route the base. Sander. Lathe. Everything needs to be done to the most minute detail. And done right the first time around. You have to pay attention.
Focus.
Be mindful."

"Sounds very Zen," Marina said.

"It is very Zen," Sheila told her. "Compare the various baskets. Some are round. Some are oval. Some are small, some large. Take your time to decide what kind of basket you want to make. Then you can select your wood for the base."

As Marina studied the completed lightship baskets, Sheila returned to the one she was working on, fastened to its weaving stand. With careful, slow, even motions, she wove a thin strip of cane in and out of the vertical staves, pressing down gently with a little packing tool to be sure the cane was firmly in place.

Marina stood next to Sheila, mesmerized by the other woman's unhurried, methodical movements.

"It looks like slow, deliberate work," Marina observed.

"Right," Sheila agreed. "It requires total attention."

"I think I can actually feel my pulse slowing."

Sheila laughed. "You know they say they teach basket weaving in mental institutions? There's got to be a reason for that!"

Marina turned back to the baskets and considered. She didn't want to make one that was too big--she might grow frustrated or overwhelmed by such a task. She decided to make a small basket with a round base.

"Good," Sheila told her. "Now choose the wood you'd like to have for the base." She directed Marina toward a pile of wooden slices, some with grains in intricate swirls, others with rings.

"I'd like this one," Marina decided. "It's almost paisley."

Sheila instructed her as she placed a round template on paper and drew an outline with a pencil. Sheila placed the wood on the table saw base and carefully cut the wood out. She patiently held it against the lathe to sand and smooth the edge, then moved it to the router table to carve out a small channel in the base.

"Now," she told Marina, "you can varnish it."

Sheila returned to her weaving stand. Marina sat on a stool at the other end of the long table with a brush and a can of varnish and her round piece of wood. As she spread the varnish on, the wood's grain shone out.

"Oh, wow, Sheila." Marina held up the round base. "It's got such an intricate pattern."

"Yes. Each piece of wood has its own spirit. We call what you're doing 'bringing out the life of the wood.'"

Marina smiled to herself. Each piece of wood had its own spirit? How irrational.

And yet, as she worked, her round piece of wood seemed to glow as if it were lit from within. As if, somehow, it held a message that was hers alone, because she had chosen it.