Nantucket Sisters (29 page)

“Okay,” she sniffles. “I’ll wait.” Gazing up at him, she strokes his cheek. “Oh, Cameron, I wish I could do more to help you.”

“You can.” He smiles and holds her away from him. “Glam yourself up for tonight so the senior partners will fall over with amazement when they’re reminded what a babe you are. They’ll think: If that man’s smart enough to attract
her
, he’s smart enough to be given the biggest, fattest accounts.”

“Okay, then, boss,” she says, standing up. “I’m off to the shower.” She calls over her shoulder as she leaves the room, “Would you listen for the babysitter? She should get here around nine.”

Emily wears four-inch black Manolo Blahniks and a simple black dress that suggests she’s not wearing underwear. She pulls her long blond hair away from her face into a high ponytail fastened with a diamond clip. She spends half an hour on her eye shadow, liner, and mascara, giving a smoky, mysterious look to her blue eyes.

“You look sexy as hell,” Cameron says when he sees her.

“You clean up nicely yourself,” she tells him. He always looks good in his tux.

When they enter the party at the restaurant, they’re aware of all eyes turning to take them in, this sophisticated, gorgeous, fortunate pair. A waiter offers champagne, one of Cameron’s bosses comes up to them, and a moment later, the boss’s wife approaches.

Cornelia Endicott is not young, but she’s powerful, and she wears her power like a crown.

“Darling.” They air kiss.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Cornelia says, taking Emily’s arm and leading her off to a quiet spot in the room.

Three other wives gather around Emily like a coven of fabulously perfumed, extremely wealthy witches. They chatter at Emily, praising her clothes, asking about her darling daughter. They’ve been trying for the last two years to entice Emily onto the board of their favorite charity, which raises money for the squirrel monkeys of Peru. Emily knows very well from watching her mother’s life that this means Emily—as the novice, the beginner—will have to do all the work of running the annual gala. In the past she’s gently refused, pleading the necessary duties of mothering a toddler, but Serena is four now, in preschool, and besides, Emily could easily hire a fulltime nanny.

Over Cornelia’s shoulder, Emily spots Cameron. He’s been cornered, too, by a petite young woman with a sweet face and curly black hair and a voluptuous body that reminds Emily of Maggie. Jessica Beckett, that’s her name. Her dress is red, sparkling with sequins,
off the rack, but stylish. She must be a junior executive. She’s new, smart, and very lovely. She’s certainly captured Cameron’s attention. His eyes fasten on her face with ardor, and as Emily watches, Cameron puts his hand on her shoulder.
So what
, Emily thinks, but then the girl places her hand on top of Cameron’s, her entire little body in its sequined dress yearning up toward him. If they are not already having an affair, they want to.

“What do you think?” Cornelia asks Emily, moving her face right into Emily’s line of vision, moving in close, doing what people call violating personal space.

Emily has no idea what they’re talking about.

“I’d co-chair it with you,” another wife offers. “I did it last year, so I know the ropes. Plus I’ve got files and files on florists, bands, venues …”

Emily acquiesces. “Yes. I’d be glad to do it.” She’s joining the herd, she thinks. She must do this to keep her child safe.

On this crisp January night, a yellow moon rides high in the sky, and the stars are precisely etched in the black sky. Maggie reads Heather one more story before kissing her good night. Quietly she showers, changes clothes, and tiptoes down the stairs to the living room, where Frances and Clarice are watching television.

“I’ll be back. Call if you need me,” she tells them.

Tyler has rented a low-ceilinged cottage on Darling Street. Maggie’s been at his house before, often, while Frances and Clarice babysit Heather.

She parks her car on Fair Street and walks in the moonlight down the narrow lane, so narrow only one car can pass at a time. When she knocks on the cottage door, Tyler opens it at once. He pulls her in, slams the door, holds her tight. “I missed you today.”

“I missed you.”

“Want wine?”

“Want you.”

They climb the steep stairs to the bedroom. Already the windowsills and tabletops are covered: books everywhere, rocks, shells, bits of beach glass, and driftwood. Heather’s artwork is taped to the walls.

Quickly they discard their clothing and slide into bed. Tyler’s long body is hot, hers still bearing the winter chill.

Afterward, they lie side by side, catching their breath, her back curled against his chest and belly and groin, his arm over her waist.

Tyler says, “I have something to tell you.”

“Okay.” Her heart flips around like a newly caught fish. She and Tyler have been quite sensible in spite of, perhaps because of, their nearly insane physical passion for one another. They’ve taken the time to learn about each other again. They both want to live on the island forever. They both want families. In all their conversations, the topic of marriage sits in the room with them like a purring cat, patient on a cushion.

She feels his chest swell as he takes in a deep breath. “Maggie, I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. I want—”

“Oh, Tyler.” Tears well in her eyes. She rolls over to face him, she wants to kiss him.

“Wait,” he says. “We might have a problem.”

“Oh, God.” Maggie closes her eyes, clenching her whole body in anticipation. He’s been married before. He has a child. He has five children. He has a disease. He’s—

“Maggie, I have money.”

“What?” The words don’t make sense to her.

“I have a lot of money.”

Warily, she asks, “How much?”

“Well, I guess you’d say I’m well-off.”

She sits straight up in bed. “Tyler, how can that be? Your mother—Clary Able—they don’t have any money! I know them!”

“True. But my father does.”

Maggie studies Tyler suspiciously. “Go on.”

“Dad works in Silicon Valley. He’s made what you could call a fortune in the last ten years. He’s already set up a couple of trusts for me and any children I might have, plus he’s been generous over the years, giving me cash and stocks and so on.”

Pulling the sheet up to her chest, Maggie scoots backward to the edge of the bed, pulling her legs under her. “Tyler, why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because you’re not always rational on the subject of wealthy people.”

“Oh, come on—” She’s annoyed by Tyler’s comment.

“Maggie—”

“Okay, maybe I am a bit
unbalanced
on the subject, but, God, Tyler, you’ve seen what’s happening to this island, it’s being ripped open to provide swimming pools and squash courts for people who spend less than two weeks here, it’s—”

Tyler interrupts. “Let’s return to the more simple subject of you and me.”

Maggie tosses her head. “It’s not so simple anymore, is it?”

“Look. I’m not disgustingly rich. I’m comfortable. I have enough, for example, so we could buy a house.”

“I own a house,” Maggie reminds him. “I own the farm.”

“Yes, well, shall we live there with your mother and Clarice and our children? Wouldn’t you find it a little crowded?”

“You know what?” Maggie begins to pull her clothes on. “I have to leave.”

“Maggie.”

Sitting on the blanket chest, she laces up her boots.

“Maggie, come on. Don’t act this way.”

“I’m not
acting
any way, Tyler.” She stands up so suddenly she nearly knocks him with her elbow. “I’m confused. I need to—honestly, I don’t know what I need to do.”

“Are you coming back?” Sliding out of bed, he pulls on his trousers.

“I don’t know.” Tears sting her eyes. “Tyler, I love you. But—but now I don’t know what to think.”

“Well, for one thing, you can understand that wealthy people aren’t bad just because they have bigger bank accounts.”

“I know that.” Maggie’s brow furrows. “But money changed Ben. And Emily Porter, my first true best friend, was going to marry Ben, she loves Ben, but then Cameron Chadwick came along with his money and she married him. Really, Tyler, I
hate
this.”

“Do you hate me?” Tyler asks simply.

Maggie forces herself to take a deep breath. “Tyler, I could never hate you.” She touches his face, and her anger vanishes.

He takes her hand and leads her to the bed. They sit side by side as Maggie calms down.

“You know how to be poor and good,” Tyler says quietly. “Do you think you could be wealthy and good?”

Humbled by his question, Maggie bows her head. “I’m not sure I’m good at all, Tyler.”

Tyler’s smile is gentle. “Why not, Maggie? Because you slept with a guy and got pregnant? Come on.”

“My one-night stand.” Maggie snorts and glances at Tyler. “What an idiot I was.”

Tyler leans against the footboard, listening. Maggie leans against the headboard, her feet touching Tyler, grounding her.

“He came on strong. I honestly believed he was in love with me,” Maggie says very quietly. “I still can’t believe how deluded I was. How naïve.”

“Maybe he was an expert con artist.”

“Or I was gullible. I wanted to believe it,” Maggie murmurs.

“Was
he
rich?” Tyler softly questions.

Maggie sniffs. “Yeah. Yeah, he was, Dr. Freud.” She smiles wryly. “The money didn’t matter, but his manners … he was
smooth
. I was a fool.”

Tyler gives Maggie a few more minutes of silence. He says, “And then?”

Maggie looks up. Her face tearstained, she meets his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, and then what happened?” Tyler’s energy is intense, urging her toward a realization.

Maggie wipes her eyes with the cuffs of her sweater. “You mean Heather. Yes, then I had Heather, and all that came before was insignificant. I do love her with all my heart. You’re right, I know what you’re thinking, I’ve thought it before, too, that I have to accept what happened because through that muddle I found such joy. My little girl.” She looks at Tyler, suddenly frowning. “But you, Tyler? How do you feel about Heather?”

Tyler leans forward and grasps Maggie’s ankle, causing her to glance up at him. “What if I adopted her?”

The simple question takes her breath away. “You’d do that?”

“Maggie, love of my life, I would be honored to do that.”

“She’s another man’s child.”

“She’s Heather. She’s a small girl with golden curls and your deep blue gypsy eyes. She’s as quick as a whip, as silly as a puppy, as sweet as ice cream.”

Maggie thinks her heart is going to break wide open. Her chest swells with all the love in her heart, and her throat aches with all the words she’s too overwhelmed to speak.

“So you’d like it if I adopted her?” Tyler asks.

Tears rain down Maggie’s face, spilling onto her sweater, onto the bed, onto her hands, onto Tyler’s hands.

“So you’ll marry me?” Tyler asks.

She throws herself at this man, she lunges at him with such huge affection, such an explosion of joy, that she knocks them both backward on the bed. She kisses him all over his face and neck, saying, “Yes. Yes.
Yes
,” and Tyler is laughing and kissing her back and then they are hugging tightly, as if they’ll never ever let each other go.

“Cameron, honey?” Emily coos. “Wake up, honey. We need to talk.”

She couldn’t say this to him last night, because she fell asleep before he returned home from whatever “business meeting” he was having. Today he’ll wake, dress, and be out the door for work without having his coffee. Emily’s set a mental alarm clock to wake early. She needs to know.

Cameron lies flat on his stomach, rumbling the thunderous snore of a man in a deep sleep. Not even the aroma of the cup of coffee Emily sets on the bedside table wakes him.

She gently jiggles his shoulder.

“What?” His voice is muffled, his eyes still closed.

Sweetly, she whispers, “Cameron, please wake up and talk to me.”

He mutters something unintelligible and flips his head the other way so she can’t see his face.

Emily settles at the end of the bed, leaning against the carved mahogany footboard, folding her legs up so her knees almost touch her chin. She’s wearing a white tee shirt and white underwear, her hair is mussed, her face bare of makeup.

“This is truly the only time I’ll be able to talk with you,” she says in a normal speaking voice. “Serena is still asleep, so she won’t interrupt us. You seldom come home for dinner anymore. On weekends, we’re always rushing to take Serena to see your parents or
mine. The nights we do see each other we’re always at one of your necessary corporate parties.” If the government can filibuster, so can she. “I don’t know how to reach you anymore, Cameron, I don’t know how to find a space of time when you and I can talk about anything.”

Cameron slowly rolls over and sits up. He opens his bleary eyes. “Are you all right?”

“My health is good, if that’s what you mean.”

“And Serena?”

“She’s fine.”