Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (19 page)

Abbie loved this time of the day. Loved the soothing tumble of the water into the bathtub and the restful scents of baby shampoo and soap. Loved wrapping Harry in a big, warm, soft towel, holding him on her lap as she rubbed his hair dry. Loved helping him into his pajamas—covered with running horses—and hearing his bare feet pad against the floor as he went into his bedroom. Harry knelt in front of his bookshelf to choose a book.

Abbie called down the stairs. “Harry’s ready for his book.”

She waited at the top of the stairs as Howell came hobbling up, one hand on the banister, the other holding on to his crutch. It seemed entirely natural for him, when he got to the top of the stairs, to put his arm around her shoulders for support. They went into Harry’s room, Abbie aware of the living warmth of Howell all up and down, next to her side. He was taller than she was, and she was tall.

Harry was on the far side of the room, intently scanning books, his back to them. When they got to Harry’s bed, Howell kept his arm around Abbie’s shoulders. He looked down at her face. He didn’t speak. He was close enough to kiss. The physical attraction between them was undeniable. She allowed the connection to last for a few moments, then pulled away.

She knelt next to the little boy. “Harry? Have you found your book yet?”

“This one.” Harry held up a book with horses on the cover.

Howell said, “Abbie, stay for a while.”

“I can’t.” She met his glance. “Really, I can’t. I have another babysitting job.”

“Then tomorrow night?”

“I don’t know,” she said.
What was he asking her, really?
She hugged the little boy and kissed his sweet-smelling head. “Good night, Harry! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Harry hugged her tight. “Good night, Abbie.”

She fled down the stairs and out of the house.

Emma’s days had developed a routine.

She spent her mornings taking dictation from a fragile woman who wanted to write her memoirs but was too afflicted with arthritis to type on a keyboard or hold a pen. Francine had been an administrative assistant for the chief financial officer of an international insurance company, and her memories were rife with tales of office politics, confrontations, and executive backstabbings that she recounted in a rambling, emotional rush of words. Emma couldn’t imagine that this memoir would ever be published, but she could tell that the struggle to remember and to relate brought meaning to Francine’s days.

After Francine, Emma had a free hour for an early lunch. She returned home, swooped hurriedly around the kitchen, putting together a meal in the Crock-Pot or concocting potato salad or rice salad or macaroni and cheese, something to be eaten with fresh fish if their father had some, or cold cuts. She and her sisters had made a list of the necessary chores to keep their house running smoothly. Because Abbie often worked late out at the Parkers’, Emma took on the duty of organizing the family dinners. Abbie went to the grocery store twice a week, at six in the morning, before it got crowded, for in the summers it was always so crowded it was difficult to find a place to park. That left the general housework to Lily, who had agreed she’d vacuum, dust, clean the bathrooms, and mop the
kitchen floor once a week, whenever she had some free time. Their plan seemed to be working, so far.

At one, Emma went to read to Millicent Bracebridge. She’d gotten into the habit of doubling the batch of homemade treats she made for her family and taking some with her to the Bracebridge house. Chocolate chip cookies. Lemon squares. Blueberry scones. She pretended they were for Millicent, and the old woman did enjoy them, but really they were for Spencer, who often stopped by for lunch.

Today a steady Noah’s Ark rain drummed down. Emma stepped into the Bracebridge front hall, set her umbrella in the stand, and hung her raincoat on the antique coatrack.

“Hello!” she called, hurrying into the living room.

“Who is it?” The older woman raised her head off her chest. Her voice was rusty.

“It’s me, Mrs. Bracebridge. Emma Fox. Here to read to you. And I’ve brought some oatmeal cookies.” She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “It’s cold in here today. Why don’t I make a fire?”

“That would be very nice.”

“Well, then, let me check to be sure the flue’s open …” Emma had gotten into the habit of enumerating her actions as she performed them, for Millicent’s sake.
She
would want any relative stranger moving around her home while she was unable to see what exactly they were doing, to do the same for her. “All right, now. There’s plenty of kindling in the box, but I think I’ll need some old newspaper …”

“There’s a pile in the pantry for recycling,” Millicent told her.

“Great. I’ll go get it. And I’ll put water on for tea.”

As she walked down the long hall to the kitchen, Emma felt as if she were in an eccentric sort of museum on a Sunday evening. Outside the pouring rain droned down the windows, keeping all the rooms in a dim gray gloom. Portraits of long-deceased Bracebridge ancestors glowered down at Emma as she went, clearly disapproving of everything they saw. The dish towels hanging in the kitchen were old and thin and embroidered long ago by Millicent or her mother. The old Blue Willow dishes rested on an antique cupboard just as they had for decades, and even the teakettle Emma filled with water seemed ancient.

Returning to the living room, she screwed the papers up into
long rolls and stuffed them under the grate, arranged the kindling in a pyramid, and lit a match. The fire flared up and caught, and Emma dropped some split logs on top.

“My, that’s just what the doctor ordered,” Millicent said. “Wheel me closer, would you, please?”

Emma obeyed. “You must be cold in that light dress. Let me get you a sweater or a shawl.”

“I think that would be a good idea. Thank you.”

Finally it was all organized, shawl, tea, fire, and cookies on a plate. Emma fetched the Agatha Christie from the bookcase.

“Spencer probably won’t come today,” Millicent said sadly. “Not in this rain.”

“That’s all right,” Emma told her. “We’re at a really good spot in the book, and what could be more perfect weather than this for reading Agatha Christie!”

She curled up on the sofa, opened the book to the marked page, and began to read.

“Hello!”

The front door slammed and Spencer arrived, shaking water off his raincoat and stamping his feet.

“What a day!” He dropped his coat over the back of a chair and crossed the room to kiss his grandmother. Today he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, a blue blazer. “Hello, Grams. You’ve got a fire. Clever girl. Hello, Emma.”

“Emma has brought you oatmeal cookies today,” Millicent said.

Emma blushed. “They’re for you, Mrs. Bracebridge.”

The older woman snorted.

“Well, if they’re not for you, then I’ll just eat them all,” Spencer said. Reaching over, he lifted the cookies off the thin china plate his grandmother was holding. “Yum. Good.”

Mrs. Bracebridge touched the plate with her fingers. “Did you take
my
cookies?”

“No, I took
my
cookies.” He threw himself into a chair. “Since Emma made them all for me.”

“Impudent!” Mrs. Bracebridge scolded, but she smiled in spite of herself. Almost anything Spencer did pleased her.

“Is there enough tea for me, Emma?”

Emma poured him a cup. By now, she knew how he liked it,
without milk or sugar. When she leaned forward to hand it to him, their fingers touched, and Spencer smiled at her. She felt herself blush again.

“Listen, Grams, I have a proposition for you. The NHA is organizing a show about sailor’s valentines and other shellwork. You’ve got so many good pieces here. Would you consider loaning them to the museum for their exhibition?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Bracebridge shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Some of them are very valuable, you know. Very old.”

“That’s why we want to exhibit them. It is the NHA, Grams.”

“Would they be in cases?”

“Behind glass? Probably. I’ll have to check with the curator of the exhibit.” He sipped his tea and continued, “Really, Grams, you ought to think about giving some of this stuff to the historical association. Especially since you can’t even see it.”

“I think your mother expects me to bequeath it to her. She’ll want to sell it.”

“Is that what Gramps would want you to do? You know how much he loved Nantucket. And come on, Mom’s got plenty of money.”

Mrs. Bracebridge cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should discuss family matters later.”

“Sure,” Spencer agreed easily. “But think about loaning us the shell work, okay?”

“Dear child, I almost always do whatever you ask, don’t I?”

“You do, I know. I just wish your treasures were available for the public to see.”

“You have always been entirely too enchanted by the island,” Mrs. Bracebridge told him with a sniff.

“I suppose that’s true.” He reached over and patted her hand. “But so have you. Tell me I’m not right.” When his grandmother smiled, he said, “And by the way. I’m giving a lecture at the Whaling Museum next Tuesday. Why don’t you have Emma bring you?”

“Oh,” Emma said, blushing. “Won’t your mother want to take Mrs. Bracebridge?”

Both Spencer and his grandmother laughed as if she’d said something witty.

“The only things my mother likes about this island are the tennis and the cocktail parties,” Spencer explained.

“Yes, my daughter-in-law is not a history buff,” Mrs. Bracebridge said. “Funny that you’re so connected to it, Spencer.”

“I’m rebelling,” he joked. He stood up. “I’ve got to get back. Emma, thanks for the cookies, they were yummy.” Leaning over, he kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “So, ladies, it’s a date for next Tuesday, right?”

Flustered, Emma stuttered, “Well, well, I–I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“Please come. There’s going to be a little reception afterward.”

Suddenly Mrs. Bracebridge began to tremble. “I hate being observed in my wheelchair!”

“Too bad. I want you to attend my talk.”

“I won’t be able to
see
you.”

“You’ll be able to hear me. And I want you to hear all the applause. Don’t even think you’re getting out of this, Grams.” Grabbing up his raincoat, Spencer pulled it on and hurried out the door.

“What an impertinent young man he can be sometimes!” Mrs. Bracebridge sniffed.

“He really loves you,” Emma assured her. “He wants to show off for you.”

“He wants to show off for
you
,” her employer said.

Truthfully, Emma objected, “Oh, I hardly think—”

“This is not the first lecture my grandson has ever given. But it’s the first he’s ever insisted I attend, with my companion. You’re a smart young woman. Connect the dots.”

Emma rose to put another log on the fire. She told herself that was what caused her burning cheeks.

Sitting back on the sofa, she picked up the book. “Shall I continue reading?”

“Of course. But first, did the wretched child really eat all the cookies, or did he leave me some?”

Emma put three cookies on her employer’s plate. Then she settled in to read.

Could life get more complicated? She liked being busy, but this was ridiculous.

She’d spent all day finishing up her articles for this week’s issue of the magazine. She’d told Eartha that on Saturdays she couldn’t work because that was the day she had to get everything in, but even so, she’d barely made the deadline. Then she’d biked home, and that was another complication, the fact that the Old Clunker that had been basically hers for the past few years had to be shared with Abbie and Emma. Her sisters had complained about the way she cleaned the house, so she’d traded jobs with Abbie. She’d thought she’d like this better—she’d hated scrubbing the bathroom and the toilets.

But going to the grocery store was, truthfully, like parachuting straight into hell. The parking lot was full,
of course
, and she’d had to drive around waiting for a place to open up and then inside the store you couldn’t move for the sea of shopping carts. And how much fun was it, lugging groceries for four adults out to the car and then into the house?