Nantucket Sisters (17 page)

“Here now,” Greta says calmly. “Everything is quite all right. Maggie, please return to the kitchen. You have all those dishes to do.”

Maggie’s jaw falls open at this—Greta has never spoken to her this way, as if she were a foolish servant. In the next instant she understands the wisdom of Greta’s words; it’s a way of Greta taking charge, a way for Greta to punish Maggie for whatever it is Clementine thinks Maggie has done, so that Clementine will be appeased.

Nevertheless, it hurts her dignity. Maggie stalks off toward the kitchen, tears of humiliation in her eyes. Behind her, she hears Greta helping Clementine assess the damage to her garment while Artie takes charge of the dessert, cutting it, setting it onto the antique china plates, spooning brandy over it. In the kitchen, Maggie leans against the wall, her head buzzing and her heart sinking into her stomach. She’s more upset than she would normally be, because of that handsome Chadwick man.
Why
did she have to land in his lap?

Why had that sensation of desire passed between them?

Shaking her head brusquely to whisk off her thoughts, Maggie strides to the sink and begins to do the dishes.

Later, the party moves back into the living room to engage in an uproarious game of charades that has them staggering, collapsing with laughter. Maggie sets out bowls of nuts, cookies, and macaroons, then discreetly clears the dining room table. Artie brings out several bottles of champagne, uncorked and ready in deep cushions of ice in buckets and places them on various tables, ready to pour.

The clock strikes twelve.

Greta and Artie exchange quick kisses. Immediately, kindly, they wish Maggie, “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” Maggie replies.

“Let’s each have a glass of champagne.” Artie finds three clean flutes, pours, and hands them around. “Here’s to a prosperous new year.”

They clink glasses together and drink. The champagne is delicious. Maggie leans against the kitchen counter, relaxing, savoring the liquid sliding down her throat. She closes her eyes, resting.

“Aside from the fireworks, it went well, don’t you think?” Greta asks. Her face is shiny with perspiration, and her short white hair lies limp against her skull.

“Your food certainly disappeared,” Maggie says. “Clean plates all around.”

“Yes,” Artie agrees. “Probably one of your best efforts, Greta.”

Greta pinkens with pleasure. “Not many scraps, that’s true, and very little to pack up and take home. Maggie, would you like any of the salad? There’s plenty of that left.”

“Sure. I’ll put some in a plastic bag.”

The kitchen door flies open and in strolls Cameron. He’s undone his black bow tie, which hangs on either side of his shirt collar, which he’s opened as well. His blond hair sticks out in all directions, as if he’s been rubbing it with a balloon.

“Hello, everyone.” His smile is debonair, charming. “That was a magnificent meal. I’d love to meet the chef.”

Blushing, Greta says, “I’m Greta White.”

“Cameron Chadwick.” He shakes her outstretched hand. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more.”

Greta’s so pleased she practically curtsies. “Oh, well, thank you.”

Cameron turns to Artie. “And thank you, sir, for being such a splendid bartender. I’m happy to report that you’ve gotten all of us most thoroughly plastered. As we should be on New Year’s Eve.”

“You’re welcome,” Artie says.

Maggie stands paralyzed, captured in his courtly spell.

“I’d like to ask a favor, if I may.” He steps closer to Maggie. “I need a little walk in the cool air. Could I appeal to your kindness and ask you to join me?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Maggie’s dumbfounded, and so are the Whites. This man actually glows, as the strong kitchen light hits his blond hair, and the gold and diamond studs in his pleated snowy white shirt. He looks like one of the natural aristocrats of the world, and Maggie feels, in comparison, clumsy, a peasant.

Awkwardly, she chokes out an excuse. “I need to help Greta—”

“Nonsense!” Greta cuts in, her eyes bulging. “We’re almost through here, Maggie. You go on and have a nice little walk, you deserve it.”

Artie’s head bobs enthusiastically. “We’ve got everything under control.”

“But—” Maggie can hardly breathe. “Your friends—”

“They won’t miss me,” Cameron assures her. “They’re embroiled in a battle of charades.”

Maggie’s forgotten how to move. She stutters, “It’s cold out—your coat—”

Greta volunteers, “The Melroses always keep a few coats hanging on the hooks in the back hall by the door to the garage.”

“There you are, then,” Cameron says.

Maggie finds an ancient good black wool dress coat. Cameron puts on an L.L.Bean canvas hunting jacket in loden green. He turns up the corduroy collar and, finding a navy blue Red Sox baseball cap, slips that over his pale hair. He opens a door and they go out to the brick patio off the kitchen.

The air is cold but almost eerily calm, not a breath of wind. The grass, nearly black in the moonlight, lies as still as a quilt.

“Which way do we go to get down to the ocean?” Cameron inquires. “I realize that if I walked straight out from the house I’d fall off the edge and roll down the bluff. Even drunk, I’d rather not do that.”

“There’s a walk behind all the houses along here. It leads to a brick sidewalk down to Codfish Park, and then it’s only a short distance to the water.”

She sets off walking over the cold grass toward the edge of the bluff, purposely skirting the long rectangle of light falling onto the lawn from the living room so no one in the party will see them.

“Slow down!” Cameron slips his arm through hers, pulling her close. “You might be able to see in the dark, but I sure can’t.”

“Sorry. I know this area by heart.” His slender body moving next to her sends her heart tripping in her chest.

“You do, do you? How so?” Cameron’s voice is calm, conversational.

As they walk, the Melroses’ huge house seems to retreat into the distance on a sea of darkness. The seductive whispering of the waves sounds stronger here on the edge of the cliff.

“I grew up on the island,” Maggie tells him. She wishes she’d worn a hat. The moist wind teases strands of her hair out of the chignon, corkscrewing them into spirals that dance around her face.

“You did?” He sounds as fascinated and curious as if she’d said she grew up on another planet. “Did you go to school here? I can imagine
you walking barefoot on the beach, your beautiful crazy hair blowing every which way.”

“Careful here.” She sounds more stern than she means to, but his compliment flusters her. His
presence
flusters her. “It’s odd about the public footpath. It runs along the very edge of the land from the village of ’Sconset out to the Sankaty lighthouse. Or it did, until several storms tore off great hunks of the cliff.” She’s so nervous, she’s babbling. “This is on the side of the island that isn’t supposed to erode, but Mother Nature changed her mind, I guess. So the footpath has been moving closer and closer to the houses.”

“The yards are huge,” Cameron observes, “but is the footpath open in the summer when people are living in their homes?”

“Yes, legally it’s still open then. I always hate to use it, though. It seems intrusive to walk through someone’s yard when they’re having a quiet game of croquet or a cookout. But a lot of people like to walk here in the summer for precisely that reason, to catch a glimpse of the kind of people who can afford to pay millions for a house they’ll use only a few weeks of the year.”

“So is one of these bluff houses yours?”

Maggie bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Would I be serving dinner on New Year’s Eve if my family owned a multimillion-dollar house?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Cameron replies. “Maybe. I mean, why not help a friend?”

The cliff falls off sharply, a tangle of wild roses and beach grass holding the dirt to the cliff face. In the dark it would be easy to step too close to the edge.

“Watch out,” Maggie warns. “One more yard and we’ll be okay.” With a sigh, she admits, “I did live in ’Sconset for a while, but not up here with an ocean view.”

“Show me.”

She doesn’t speak until they’ve come off the dirt footpath and onto a narrow lane between small, picturesque cottages, all of their windows dark. “During the last century, the Nantucket fishing families used to come out here to fish for cod. They built these little shelters low to the ground so they could throw their nets over the roofs to mend them. Now, of course, they’re all summer homes.” She pauses. “You should see these in the summer. Instead of nets, millions of tiny pink roses climb all over the roofs. This is my favorite place, with the little patio. There’s always an orange tabby curled up on one of the benches.”

“So where’s your house?” Cameron persists.

“We’re almost there.”

They walk down the brick sidewalk from Front Street to Codfish Lane. “This is steep enough to sled on!” Cameron says, clutching Maggie close to his side.

At the bottom of the hill, Maggie turns left, leading him back along the narrow lane. On one side the bluff rises steeply. “In the summer, this is covered with Queen Anne’s lace and all kinds of wildflowers.”

On the other side of the lane lie ten modest cottages, closed up and tucked away for the winter. Maggie stops in front of one.

“This is it.”

“Huh. It’s small.”

“Yes. And you can’t see the charm of it in the winter. My mom always had window boxes full of flowers, and roses climbing over the roof. She was divorced, and my father disappeared, and so the three of us, Mom, and me, and my brother, Ben, lived here until I was eleven. Then she married Thaddeus Ramsdale, and we all moved to his place on the Polpis Road.”

“Thaddeus Ramsdale. That’s quite a moniker.”

“True. He lives up to it.”

Arm in arm they pass down the lane, turn a corner, walk one
short block, and there, on the other side of the street, lies the beach, stretching out to the surging water. Their footsteps make crunching noises as they tramp over the frozen sand. Moonlight illuminates the white curls of foam edging each wave and riding the crest of the lazy, leaden ones rolling in behind. Somewhere in the distance, the darkness of ocean blurs with the darkness of sky.

Cameron bends down, stretches his fingertips out, and dips his hand in the ocean. “As cold as our water in Maine.”

“You’re from Maine?” Not certain what this walk is really about, Maggie hasn’t wanted to pry.

“My family has a home in Camden. But I live in Manhattan.” Shaking cold beads of water off his hand, he dries it on the outside of his coat. He’s so close to her she can see his eyes, even in the dim light. He looks earnest, and the attraction between them is so strong she thinks it could alter the rise and fall of the waves.

“You’re Clementine’s date, right?”

“I’m Clementine’s
friend
.”

Sternly, she says, “We should go back. They’ll wonder where you are.”

They tread over the beach, their feet sinking in the sand, until they come to the solid level of the street.

“I’m here tonight,” Cameron continues, as if they’ve been discussing this without interruption, “because Clementine broke up with her latest boyfriend and needed a date for the evening. I’ve known Clementine since preschool. Our mothers are friends.”

He’s from another world, Maggie tells herself. She walks faster. They reach the top of the hill and find their way along the unlighted lane between the cottages.

“I was available for this party because I’m not attached to anyone presently,” Cameron clarifies. “I work on Wall Street, for a brokerage firm. I shout into phones and squint at computers all day, have too many scotches with the guys after work, and collapse with Chinese
takeout at night. I was more than ready to come to the island for some fresh air.”

“I hope you enjoyed yourself,” Maggie says formally.

Cameron catches her hand. “I’m enjoying myself right now.”

Maggie starts to pull away.

“Stop. Please.”

She stops. They stand on the cliff, facing each other, the winter wind buffeting them, their eyes catching moonlight.

Cameron says, “May I ask you a personal question?”

Warily, she answers, “Sure.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She can hardly breathe. “No.”

He gazes at her face. “How is that possible?”

Proudly, Maggie lifts her chin. “I work very hard. When I don’t work, I read. I don’t have time for men.”

His eyes meet hers. His breath puffs into the air between them, so near she can smell liquor. “I wonder whether you could ever make time for me?”

This can’t be real
, Maggie tells herself. Carelessly, she says, “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Leaning down, he brings his mouth to hers. Their lips are cold from the night air, and then warm. They press against one another, but their coats are bulky and cumbersome between them.

Maggie draws away. “I have to go back to the house.” She walks so quickly she’s almost running.

Cameron follows without speaking. All along the bluff path the dark mansions loom up like mountains, until they see the Melrose house shining like a ship in the night.

Stillness waits in the kitchen. The Whites and all their pans and bowls have left, and all the appliances and counters gleam. From the door into the rest of the house come noises of an increasingly raucous New Year’s Eve celebration. Someone has turned on the television,
and music is blasting away, and while they listen, laughter explodes from the living room.

Maggie says, “You should get back to the party.”

“Yes, all right.” Cameron starts to take her hand, then stops. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

He has no idea how brave Maggie feels when she says, “I—I would like that. I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay, then. I’m staying here at Clementine’s—” Hurriedly, he adds, “
Not
in her room. I’ll catch some sleep, call you tomorrow, and you pick me up. How does that sound?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she says.

“I’ll walk you to your car.” Cameron takes her hand now, drawing them together.