Summer Harbor (9 page)

“Yeah.”

If Will had hoped for elaboration, he was disappointed. “How come you didn’t say anything to her that night, about our having met?”

“Don’t know. Probably for the same reason you didn’t.”

“It was just awkward.”

“So you haven’t told her about your lessons?”

“Not yet.”

Grainger kept silent the remainder of the drive, and Will could think of nothing else to say.

When they got as far as the Yacht Club, Grainger pulled into the parking lot. “You can manage the rest of the way, I’m sure.”

Will climbed down from the truck, tucked the plastic bag under his arm, and came around to stand beside the driver’s side. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Egan.”

“Come back Friday. The weather’s due to clear out late tonight, and it’s predicted to be clear with light wind. We’ll put what you learn between now and then into practice.” Grainger put the truck into reverse. “And, Will…”

“Yes?”

“Tell your mother.”

“Tell her what?” For a moment, Will thought Grainger meant to give him a message to take to his mother.

“Tell her about the lessons.” Grainger backed away and then pulled onto the main road with a crunch of gravel.

Will stood gripping the bag of books, staring after the truck, Pilot’s muzzle poking out of the open rear window. Somehow, this laconic man didn’t seem like the sort of guy his mother would have had as a boyfriend. Her dates were almost always pale, balding, slightly rumpled businessmen, medical salesmen mostly. She called them “nice chaps.” They talked a lot, about work, or sports, or politics. His mother said she liked them because she didn’t have to work hard at these dates. “Just wind them up and off they go, yapping away about themselves, and I don’t have to do a thing. They go away thinking they’ve had a great time, and I get a nice meal and a little adult companionship.” She’d laughed when she said this to a friend over coffee, unaware of Will’s eavesdropping. “It’s a good thing I’m not interested in a long-term relationship; I don’t have the energy to work hard at these things.” Will had been too young to understand that he was the reason she had little desire to pursue a relationship.

Now he was older and ready to leave, and he wondered what she would do without him. Would she, finally, have the energy?

Will walked along the bluff road. The rain came down in a steady drizzle, but the air had warmed enough to make it almost pleasant and the visibility had improved. Below the bluff, a motorboat ground its way toward the harbor. On the horizon he could pick out two boats heading out to the fishing grounds. It wouldn’t become a beach day, but that was all right. He’d spend the rest of the day on the porch reading these books. He’d go back on Friday and surprise Grainger with his studiousness. After all, he’d had plenty of practice pleasing teachers. And, above all, Will wanted to please Grainger Egan.

After Will had gone out on his soggy run, Kiley lingered on the porch, her arms folded against the damp morning air. She couldn’t shake the image of Will jumping off the top step, exactly as Grainger and Mack had time and again. The rain began to sheet down hard, and Kiley went back into the house. Gray morning light softened the bright primary colors of the kitchen; the yellow walls and the wooden floor, painted long ago in big blue and red squares, faded to muted tones in the dim light. Kiley flicked on the overhead light and poured water into the coffeemaker.

The little blue jar had been pushed to one side of the oval table, and she pulled it back into the center. Imagine that jar still sitting on the shelf in the pantry all these years. With its deeply chipped lip and general uselessness, why hadn’t anyone tossed it? It must have been saved simply out of the inertia of a familiar sight. No one could possibly know its significance to her.

•   •   •

“These are for you.” Mack held a little blue jar with a bunch of field daisies crammed into its wide mouth. The stems had been clipped very short and the effect was of a bursting white-and-yellow corsage.

She’d been sitting on the porch rail, waiting for the boys. Mack arrived first, handing her the improvised bouquet as he might have handed her a book or a half of his sandwich.
These are for you.
Slightly gruff, self-conscious. Kiley took the jar and sniffed the daisies for scent, as if the bouquet had been long-stemmed roses. “Thanks.” Had he meant this as a joke? Should she take this seriously? She went for the slightly amused. “So, what’s up with this?”

“Nothing. Just the field on Bailey’s Farm Road was filled with them. I thought that you might like them.” His voice was half muffled by a faked yawn. “You being a girl and all.”

“Right.” The comfort level righted itself like a gimballed lantern on a boat.

They sat on the rail, the blue jar of flowers between them, waiting for Grainger to arrive from his morning at the Yacht Club.

“Don’t say anything to Grainger. Okay? He’ll bug me about it.”

“Okay.” The comfort level tilted a degree. Kiley was glad that the flowers were between them, acting as a nominal barrier. If she had moved it, and put out her hand, Kiley knew that everything would change. Neither spoke, feigning an interest in the horizon. Grainger came up behind them, startling them both.

One of them—Kiley was unsure if it was Mack or herself—knocked the little jar of daisies off the porch rail and onto the stones; a piece of the lip broke off and the water drained out onto the ground.

•   •   •

Kiley now ran a forefinger gently along the broken edge of the blue jar. As usual, her finger was ragged with hangnails and she self-consciously nibbled at the skin. Some women cherished their hands, coddling them with weekly manicures and rubber gloves. It seemed the height of vanity to Kiley; she preferred to clip her nails short and use whatever hand lotion was on sale.

She picked up the blue jar and carried it to the growing collection of sentimental items. Toby Reynolds was due to stop by early this morning to see how she was doing, probably to hurry the process along. All he saw was the fat commission this place would provide him. All he knew was the rarity of such a place being on the market. As if conjured by her thoughts, his Lexus crunched the oyster shells in the driveway, proclaiming his arrival.

She hadn’t met Toby face-to-face yet, and unfairly imagined a powder blue leisure suit on an overweight, slightly sweaty man with a toupee. Of course, Toby was none of these things. Tall, slim, impeccably dressed in Hawke’s Cove casual garb of pleated Dockers and a polo shirt, Toby extended a smooth, dry, manicured, and ringless hand to Kiley. Instantly, she felt underdressed in the cutoffs and yesterday’s T-shirt she’d thrown on to send Will off.

“Ms. Harris, a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Kiley, please. Come in. What a miserable day.” Was she speaking of the weather, which still pissed down with no sign of letting up, or the fact that Toby was here to relentlessly discuss this process of selling the house? “Where should we start?”

“Oh, I’ve already looked around. Your mother sent me a key.”

Partially relieved not to have to take this stranger on a sentimental journey, at the same time, she was annoyed with her mother for having allowed the invasion. “Okay. Well then, let’s go into the kitchen. I’ve got a pot of coffee on.”

“None for me, thanks.”

While Toby highlighted some of his concerns about the house, Kiley poured herself a cup, taking her time adding sugar and milk, glad to have her back to him for a minute.

“The roof might or might not be a problem. It’s conceivable that, given the value of the house, buyers won’t blink at having to reroof. In fact, it’s possible that they’ll pop the roof off and create a third floor with a widow’s walk. Lots of buyers look at these places as footprints: they’re ready, willing, and rich enough to renovate or even dismantle to create the perfect house with the perfect view.”

“Dismantle? You mean tear it down?” As she set it down, a little coffee from Kiley’s mug sloshed onto the bare wood table. She grabbed a paper towel. “What are you talking about?”

“Now, I’m not saying that anyone would do that; I’m just saying it’s being done all over the place.”

“And I’m saying that I will not sell to anyone with that idea in mind.” Kiley sat down.

“You could be restricting a really good offer.”

“Do you have such an offer on the table?”

Toby shook his head. “No. But it could happen. You should be aware of it.”

“Then why the hell am I going through all this…” She flailed a hand around to catch the word. “…all this effort if, in the end, everything ends up hauled away to the landfill?”

“Look, Kiley, I’m only suggesting that someone might be more interested in the location than the building.”

“Isn’t this house in the historic district?”

Toby’s ruddy skin deepened in color. “No. The historic district ends at Seaview Avenue. Incorporating the houses on the bluff is still in the planning stages; so far no one has gotten the paperwork together. Which is another good thing for you. Purchasers can, within reason, do whatever they want, without that layer of interference.”

“Toby.” Kiley reached out to touch Toby’s lightly furred arm, to secure his full attention. “Promise me you won’t sell to anyone with plans to change it.”

“I can’t do that. If that’s what you want, you’ll have to find another agent.” Toby didn’t move his arm from under Kiley’s hand.

“Maybe I will.” Kiley removed her hand, letting it drop to her lap.

Toby stood up; his chair scraped against the wood floor. “Tell me something, Kiley. If you haven’t been in this house in umpteen years and have no interest in being here, why do you care what happens to it?”

Kiley got up and stepped to the back door, pressing her hand against it. “Because I love it.” She held the door open as if letting out a cat.

“You’re talking about sentiment, which isn’t a practical consideration in these things. It only stands in the way of progress.” Toby hesitated on the back steps. “Think of your son. The more money we can get for this place, the better off he’ll be.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your mother told me why she’s selling. That’s a very fine use of the investment quality of real estate, good planning. Using the money to put your son through college.”

“My mother had no business telling you that.”

“I make it my business to know why people want to sell. It helps me help them.”

“Altruistically, I’m sure.”

“No. It’s my living.” Toby strode to his car and yanked open the door, then turned back to face Kiley. “Think about what we’ve talked about. Don’t do anything yet. Call me.”

If it hadn’t been a light screen door, the slam would have been much more satisfying.

The phone ringing from the front room exacerbated Kiley’s annoyance and she wished that she’d brought the answering machine from home. Maybe she’d just let the stupid thing ring. But the momentary irritation fell away as she realized that only her parents would call her here; and, right now, this minute, she had to convince them to change agents.

“Kiley? Kiley Harris? This is Emily Fitzgibbons, née Claridge. Do you remember me?”

Oh, yes, Kiley remembered Emily Claridge, and her twin sister, Missy. “Oh, Emily. Of course I do.”

Kiley had stood on her porch, chewing her lips in grumpy disappointment. Mack and Grainger were heading over to Great Harbor to see about a mast, and she was stuck having lunch with the Claridge sisters. Missy and Emily. Mrs. Claridge was her mother’s best friend in Hawke’s Cove. The two families often did things together, but the girls had grown up without becoming friends. Her mother wouldn’t hear of her bowing out of the planned luncheon.

In an allusion to their twindom, Missy and Emily, always in that order, were referred to as the “Doublemints” behind their backs. When they were little, their mother always dressed them the same, a habit that had continued to their teens, as if they felt a certain safety in keeping the outside world confused as to their individual identities.

The Claridge twins never needed anyone else. They were each other’s perfect companions, and anyone else was extraneous. The three girls were polite to one another, played nicely together when their parents played bridge, but they had never shared a meaningful conversation any more than they shared their toys.

For years Kiley had been forced into these little “girls” luncheons, her mother insistent that she have proper girlfriends in Hawke’s Cove. Yet, in the same way that the Doublemints hadn’t needed anyone else, Kiley hadn’t needed them. She had her boys.

Today as they worked on
Blithe Spirit
’s hull, Kiley had complained to Mack and Grainger over the sound of the electic sanders. “I’m being forced to have lunch with the Doublemints.”

“That’s the price you have to pay, Blithe, for being so popular among your own kind.”

“Shut up, Mack.”

“Make me.”

They were making such good progress on the boat that Kiley was loath to give up even an hour of work. They’d cleaned the barnacles and algae off the hull, and were nearly done with the sanding. After much debate, the boys had decided to patch the hole with fiberglass. The best way would be to replace the boards, but they didn’t have the expertise to do that job. After that repair was made, they’d start painting and varnishing and polishing the brightwork.

The boys dropped her off at her home on their way to Great Harbor to look at the mast. Kiley waved good-bye, looking as if she were going to her own execution.

Lydia was standing in the doorway. “Do you want me to drive you?”

“No. I’ll walk.”

“You can clean up and put on something more respectable than those.” Her mother’s gesture toward her paint-dust covered cutoffs was eloquent in its disapproval.

Once changed into bermuda shorts and crisp white blouse, Kiley went out by the back door, avoiding her mother on the phone with her father back in Southton. This would be a quick visit; sandwiches, a glass of lemonade, two cookies, and off to snag another half hour with the sander before her tennis lesson at three.

The bluff road ran behind the Claridges’ house, so the view from it was undistracted by traffic. Today the sky and the sea matched in faded blue. Like so many of the Hawke’s Cove summerhouses, this one was named:
Sans Souci,
“without care.” Missy and Emily were slouched on the white Adirondack chairs set up on the lawn, still in their tennis dresses, racquets propped against the sides of their chairs, reminding Kiley of Ralph Lauren’s advertisements in the
New York Times Magazine.
Poster girls for the preppy look. Seeing Kiley come through the garden gate set in the carefully trimmed privet hedge, the pair waved her over.

Around egg salad sandwiches, the chat was gossipy and centered on their own interests. They’d had a great doubles game this morning, creaming the Eastlakes. Did you hear that our father was going to buy a new boat, a thirty-six-foot yawl this time? Custom-made. The old boat wasn’t nearly as fast as this new one will be. Daddy was going to christen it, can you stand it,
Miss Emily
, a pun on our names. Missy and Emily took turns speaking, like actors in a play. First one let it drop that they were both heading for Wellesley. Then the other described the difficulty in choosing between Wellesley and Vassar. Once they’d entertained each other with the tale of their heroic debate, one finally asked Kiley where she was going in the fall.

“Smith. A foregone conclusion in my family.” Her mother was a Smithie, and her mother before her. But it suited Kiley, partly because of the family tradition, partly because she liked the college’s emphasis on nurturing strong women. She might major in art, or maybe philosophy. Everyone she knew who went off to college inevitably changed majors, so she’d wait to see what was out there before declaring her intentions to the world.

“We were accepted there.”

A vaguely dismissive gesture from the other. “We wanted to be closer to a major city.”

“So, where are your two friends going?”

The question surprised Kiley. Generally Mack and Grainger were not a topic for this pair. Of course they knew them from a distance, Mack as a newcomer to the club, and Grainger a familiar face from the kiddies’ sailing school; but until now they’d never shown any interest in them, any more than they took an interest in any of the other year-rounders of the Cove.