Summer Secrets (15 page)

Even with the champagne. I’m not drunk. Brooks has been drinking all evening, first a glass of champagne, then endless glasses of scotch, but he’s not drunk either. I have had three, maybe four glasses of champagne, and I will not have any more. I won’t mess this up, don’t want to do anything I either won’t remember or will need to forget.

Jason and the AA meetings already seem very far away. The prospect of my having a problem with drinking seems very far away. If I had a problem, I wouldn’t be able to stop after three or four glasses, and I have absolutely no desire to have any more.

This, right here, right now, feels more real to me than anything in my life these past few months, this family. These girls have each other, have a loving father, and my pain at having been excluded from this is only assuaged by the fact that I have it now.

I have it now.

“Come help me with the washing up,” says Julia, and I obediently follow her into the kitchen, grabbing a dish towel as we stand next to each other at the sink.

“I still can’t get over it,” she says, handing me a sudsy bowl, which I stare at before handing back with a laugh.

“You have to wash the soap all off,” I say, laughing only because the reason I dry rather than ever, ever wash is because I have no patience and am always being told off for not washing off the soap.

“I hate washing,” she grumbles, taking back the bowl. “I always dry. I just want to get it all done as quickly as possible, so everything’s always soapy.”

“I’m the same way,” I say. “Surprisingly.”

“What else?” She is delighted, suddenly holding out her hand. “Look! We have the same hands. Isn’t that weird?”

“It is. But I don’t know how similar we are. You seem … I don’t know. Much more together than me. You’re, what, three years younger? Four? But already you have a self-possession I never had.”

“Are you kidding?” She turns to me, aghast. “You’re completely confident! For starters you just flew in, not knowing anyone, and already, in one night, you feel like you totally belong. You don’t have any anxiety, or fear—”

I sputter. “I was so terrified when I got to the airport I practically couldn’t walk.”

“It didn’t show.”

I pause before deciding to ask about her sister. “I have a question. What’s Ellie like? Are the two of you close?”

Julia turns to check we are alone, lowering her voice. “I love her, of course. She’s my sister, and if ever she was in trouble I’d be the first one there to help her, but … we’re very different.”

“I can see that.”

“You have to understand it’s all insecurity on her part. Not that I’m not insecure, but she covers it by being cool and superior, when she isn’t actually like that at all. We have different mothers, you know that, right? My mom was with my dad for most of my life, and by the time they split up I was an adult; it didn’t have the same impact. Ellie’s mom and my dad split up when she was a baby. Her mom had lived here, on Nantucket, before moving to Boston after the split. Ellie was always here for summers, and I think of her as my sister, not half or anything like that, but I recognize she’s very different from me. Her mom’s…” She lowers her voice still more. “Difficult.”

“What kind of difficult?”

Julia checks that no one is coming into the room. “Her mother was a big social climber. Huge. I’m not supposed to know this, but she was totally from the wrong side of the tracks. She thought my dad had fortunes, didn’t realize it was all tied up in trusts, and I guess by the time she discovered she wasn’t going to be living a life of luxury with homes on Nantucket and in Boston and on St. Barth’s, it was time to leave.”

“She sounds ruthless. Ellie was a baby, you said?”

“Yes. And the mother, Lily, was on a mission to find another wealthy husband. She found one almost immediately, so Ellie was whisked into this life of luxury, but I know deep down she’s terrified people might discover she doesn’t actually deserve it.”

“It sounds like the dream life.”

“Ellie got lavished with everything she wanted, except love and attention. Except when she was here. Lily’s now on her fifth husband. Every time she gets married she focuses all her attention on the man, nothing on her child, or the children that came after Ellie. Ellie always used to say when she was with her mom she felt unwanted. Pretty much the only place she felt safe, and loved, was here with my dad.”

I think about my own childhood. “I can definitely relate to the feeling unwanted,” I say.

“I’m sorry. The awful thing is the older she gets, the more like her mom she is. I mean, not here so much. When she’s here she’s usually able to let go of the superficial shit. My dad would give her such a hard time if she turned up filled with airs and graces, but she’s married to a banker, and they have this huge life with a huge house in New York, and, like Lily, it’s all about seeing and being seen at the right functions. She has a closet that, I’m not kidding, is bigger than my bedroom here.”

I turn and look at the kitchen, this house that she is staying in for the summer, that she stays in every summer, and I know that even though every fiber in my body is recoiling at what I’m hearing about Ellie, I also know she can’t be all bad, not if she stays here.

This house is cozy, and worn, and comfortable. The kitchen hasn’t been redone in at least thirty years. The table is scrubbed with years of use; cookbooks fill the shelves on either side of the range, and not one looks like it was printed after 1984.

This is not a house that a precious princess would stay in unless she has a very different side.

“Yet she loves it here,” I say, turning back to Julia and taking a plate.

“She does. Which is bizarre because she’s never walked into a hotel room without complaining and asking for an upgrade. Let me tell you, it’s Four Seasons all the way for her. But that’s also her insecurity. Strip away the armor and she’s incredibly loyal. And strong. And a doer. She never talks about doing stuff, she just gets it done.”

“That’s good to hear. I have to be honest, she’s so pretty it completely intimidates me. And she’s been kind of … cool with me.”

“That’s Ellie. She always takes time to trust people. But once she’s won over, she’s yours for life. And it’s worth it.”

“Good to know.” I smile at her, wondering how on earth I am ever going to manage to win Ellie over, because right now it doesn’t seem like she trusts me at all.

Aidan walks in, brandishing a bottle of whiskey. “Who’ll crack open this bottle with me? Julia? Cat?”

Julia makes a face. “I hate whiskey.”

“I’m fine,” I say, because the truth is I have never particularly liked whisky either. “Although if you were talking vodka, that would be another story entirely.”

His face falls. “Well, that’s no fun. The only other person who’ll drink it is Brooks, and last time he finished the entire bottle himself.” His face lights up. “Tell you what! How about we go to Ropewalk for a drink instead?” He checks his watch. “Come on, Cat! We’ll show you a bit of what we call nightlife here on Nantucket!”

I don’t want to be the killjoy here, but I realize I am suddenly exhausted. The emotion of the day, the travel, the time difference, all of it has caught up with me, and I am so tired I can hardly speak.

“Ah, but you’re suffering from the jet lag.” Aidan’s voice is all concern. “Here, give me that cloth and I’ll finish up the drying. You go and get yourself off to bed. We’ll do the nightlife tomorrow. Maybe everyone will come to the restaurant for dinner, then we young’uns will go out after?”

“That sounds great. Thank you.” After hugging everyone good night, I walk down the path, stopping only to breathe in the night air, letting myself into the guest cottage and trying not to think of what time it must be in England right now.

Thirteen

I sleep the sleep of the dead. A sleep so deep that when I wake up I have absolutely no idea where I am. I lie for a while, blinking, drifting back into consciousness before remembering the events of the day before.

My family. The dinner. The laughter. The feeling of belonging. Champagne. I remember there was champagne. Oh God. It must have led to something bad, but as I lie quietly playing over the events, searching for some embarrassing thing I must have said or done, I realize there was nothing.

Shame is not here to greet me at the start of this beautiful new day.

I didn’t draw the blinds, and light is streaming through onto the bed. I sit up slightly and look down to the water, as a feeling of absolute happiness washes over me.

I have found my place in the world.

Bounding out of bed, into the shower, I brush my teeth, discard all my clothes, and resolve to go shopping today. I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a simple white T-shirt, sliding my feet into flat Indian sandals, and pull my hair into a ponytail, literally bouncing out the guest cottage and up the garden path.

*   *   *

“Where is everyone?” I was expecting the house to be filled, as it was last night, with people, with noise, with coffee, but it is spectacularly quiet.

Brooks, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee, holds a hand to his lips. “All sleeping.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “What time is it?”

“Six a.m.”

“Six a.m.!” I yelp, then apologize again. “I thought it was practically lunchtime.”

“It probably is where you come from.” He smiles. “I’m up at this time a lot. One of the problems of old age—you stop sleeping. I figure this is my peaceful time. I make myself coffee, then go for a walk.”

“Oh God! I’m so sorry!” I start to back out of the room. “I didn’t mean to disturb your peaceful time. I’ll go. Sorry.”

“Stop! I’m thrilled you’re up. I barely spoke to you last night with everyone here. How about you grab yourself a cup of coffee and come on my walk with me?” He gestures to the coffeepot on the counter, and I help myself, pouring into one of the carry cups I find in a cupboard.

“Will I be okay in these shoes?” I point out the flimsy sandals, thinking I really ought to go back and put on sneakers.

“We’ll do an amble today. And we’ll take it slow. You’ll be fine.”

*   *   *

I am, as it turns out, fine. It helps that I don’t have to do much of the talking. Brooks is a wonderful storyteller. He tells me stories of his childhood, his parents, his life. He fills in all the blanks.

After a while he asks about me, but I’m not used to telling stories about my life, nor downloading my r
é
sum
é
, as it were, so I tell him a little, with an uncomfortable shrug, and turn the subject back to him. It’s not that I don’t want him to know me, I do, but there’s so much I want to know about him.

I feel like my brain is a computer, trying to slot all the pieces together, and it still feels surreal, that I have this father, this family, and if I can get all the pieces straight, figure out how they do in fact all fit together, then I will know how I belong, and I so, so want to belong. I want to be just like them.

Brooks (and a part of me so badly wants to call him Dad, although even as I think this I picture Ellie’s eyes narrowing in disdain, and I know it’s too early, realize it might never be comfortable for me to call him Dad) offers to drive me around and show off the island.

We get home, I grab my purse and climb into the big old wagon, and we take off, down to Sconset, then all the way to the other end of the island, to Madaket, where we park the car and walk, marveling at the prettiness of the fishing boats bobbing on the water.

We head back to Main Street, and he drops me off, disappearing round the corner to do some errands while I take pictures of the old wagon selling gorgeous bunches of huge hydrangeas and roses on the corner, the shops that are far more enticing than Oxford Street could ever even hope to be.

I take careful note of what everyone is wearing. I worry my chameleon tendencies display a lack of sense of self, that I am always willing and able to change myself into whoever I need to be. I marvel at people like Poppy, who is always herself, who dresses only ever to please herself, who never feels the need to change her clothes or hair or voice in order to fit in.

Clearly this London girl does not fit in here, not yet, and I am desperate to do so. Part of my romanticizing my life includes the false assumption that if I look right, then I will
be
right. Despite the twenty-nine years of experience proving otherwise, I still naively believe that this might actually be true.

I find shorts and strappy white tank tops in one of the tourist shops, and colorful tunics a little farther down the road that I know are perfect, pink and green, orange and turquoise, shimmery beads glinting sunlight around the neckline. I find white cutoff cargo pants that are almost exactly like the ones Ellie was wearing yesterday, and exotic leather sandals that have tiny gold and turquoise starfish sprinkled all over them.

In London I wear makeup. A lot. I have always loved makeup, loved the way it can transform a blank canvas into a thing of beauty. I do not think I have ever left my house in my adult life without a full face of makeup. With makeup, I can be very attractive. People have said pretty, although that has always been hard for me to believe. Ellie is pretty. I am not. Without makeup I detest what I look like. I have always been terrified of the morning after the night before, largely because I am convinced that should whoever I am with see me without the benefit of artfully applied eye shadow and contour-creating blusher, he will shrink in horror at my plain face.

But no one here wears makeup, or at least not makeup that is noticeable. They hide their unmade-up eyes behind sunglasses, and I find a cheap pair of excellent Ray-Ban copies in a store next to the bike shop down by the water. I almost laugh as I put them on, already wearing one of the new tanks and the new flip-flops.

If you didn’t know better, if you didn’t hear me speak, you would look at me and think that I belong here. You would think that I had been here all my life. And indeed, within a few short days, I feel as at home as if I had been born here.

*   *   *

The days pass, sleepy when everyone is out at work or at the beach, doing what they normally do, and riotous when they are all here at the house, crammed in, everyone jumping in to lend a hand with cooking, cleaning up, setting tables.