Nantucket Blue

Thirty-two





“WHAT’S THIS?” I asked, the next afternoon. Liz and I were in the kitchen. I was staring at a neat little package wrapped up sweetly in pink tissue paper. It was tied with a strand of lace. Liz and I were relaxing after a long morning. All the beds were made, all the toilets had been wiped clean, and all the wicker wastebaskets emptied.

“Early birthday present,” Liz said. “Go on, now. Open it.”

“Liz, you didn’t have to,” I said. “My birthday isn’t until Tuesday.”

“Open the damn present,” she said, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. Gavin wandered into the kitchen with a stack of mail.

“Something came for you, Cricket,” he said, handing me a fat manila envelope with my name and the inn’s address written in my father’s familiar chicken scrawl.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Gavin, did you know that it’s Cricket’s birthday next week?” Liz said. “She’s going to be eighteen years old.”

“Is that so?” Gavin said. “I’ll have to make a cake. Chocolate with a raspberry filling okay?”

“Yum. Thanks, Gavin,” I said as I worked at the knot of lace that was binding my gift. Gavin turned on the teakettle and sorted through his bills, not knowing how relieved I was that I was going to have a birthday cake—a chocolate one, with raspberry filling! I needed something to replace the tradition Jules and I had started five years ago.

Ever since Jules came to Rosewood, we did pajama birthdays. On our birthdays, Jules and I always brought each other waffles with strawberries and whipped cream in bed. And the breakfast tray was always adorned with Lulu, a stuffed pig we’d bought when Nina took us to FAO Schwarz in New York.

We were way past the age of stuffed animals, and neither of us was a stuffed animal kind of girl, but we both loved this pig. There was only one left in the store, and we’d fought over who would get to buy her, or “adopt” her, as Jules insisted. Nina suggested we split the cost and have joint custody. So every birthday we traded her back and forth. Whoever had Lulu in her possession had to take care of her and give the other “mother” monthly reports on her well-being. Lulu has thrived this spring, Jules had written in one note. She continues to be fuzzy and friendly and has developed a passion for Bruce Springsteen.

Lulu has experienced her first crush, I wrote to Jules the next year. On a stuffed giraffe in our attic. He’s a little old for her, I think, but these sorts of urges are natural in a young pig.

The teakettle whistled. Gavin poured the water and dunked the teabag.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Liz said, using kitchen sheers to cut the ribbon.

“I love watching people receive gifts,” Gavin said as he blew on his tea. It was some weird medicinal tea, and its bitter aroma filled the room. “Go on, open it.”

Very slowly, I unwrapped the tissue paper, which smelled faintly like perfume, and lifted up a delicate, minuscule black lace thong.

I crumpled it in my hand, hiding it from Gavin. Liz squealed with glee.

“You set me up, Liz,” Gavin said, shielding his eyes and walking back into the living room. “That’s not nice.”

“Didn’t want to rob an old man of a thrill,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

“Liz!” My face was burning up. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Do I have to explain?” she asked, cackling. “Don’t act like such an innocent. We share a wall. A very thin wall. I know what you’re up to at night, and I can’t stand the thought of you shagging in your cotton knickers.”

“How do you know I wear cotton underwear?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, what do you wear, then?” Liz asked. I stared at the table. The only underwear I owned were cotton. Mrs. Levander told us other materials led to yeast infections. “Just as I thought. Well, not anymore. Cotton knickers are for little girls, and you, my dear, are about to become a woman.”