Nantucket Blue

Forty





“FIRST OF ALL, thank you so much for meeting me,” I said to Paul Morgan. I’d called him right from the annex, and he’d agreed to meet with me the next morning before my flight. We were sitting in the living room of his house on Union Street. It had wooden floors and a mix of antique furniture and modern things. There were some paintings of boats on the walls, framed nautical charts, and also the kind of unexpected things that Nina would’ve picked out. A bright red rocking chair. A poster from a theater festival in France. The guy had style. Mom would like this place, I thought. I scanned the mantelpiece for pictures of a wife and family, but only saw people who looked like friends. I think it was safe to say that Paul Morgan was single.

“Oh, I’m happy to do it,” Paul said. “My schedule on Nantucket is very open.”

“Well, I really appreciate it. I know your time is valuable.” I was remembering what George said about being polite. He told me how important it was to make the interviewees comfortable so that they’ll reveal their own stories, hand them over like the keys to their house. George said that a lot of journalists were jerks in the way that they tried to get information. They tried to catch people off guard and make them uncomfortable, but George’s philosophy was the opposite.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to record this,” I said, and pressed the screen of my iPad. The chair I sat in was so big that I needed to sit on the very edge of it for my feet to touch the ground.

“I don’t mind a bit,” he said, laughing a little. “I’ve got nothing to hide. So, you’re writing a book about Boaty Carmichael?”

“No, I’m not,” I said. My brow furrowed. He thought that this was some kind of school project. “George Gust the journalist is.”

“George Gust the journalist?”

“He writes for The New York Times and The New Yorker,” I said. George had only been published once in The New Yorker, but it sounded so impressive to me. “The book is being published by Random House. It will be out in the spring.” Paul Morgan nodded, making the “I’m impressed” frown. “I’m his intern,” I continued, “and he thought since you were a special friend of my mother’s that it would be okay if I interviewed you.” I watched his face closely as I said “special friend.” Sure enough, his eyes twinkled. More on this later, I thought. Even if I didn’t come back to Nantucket, it didn’t mean I couldn’t arrange a meeting with Paul and Mom somewhere else. In Boston, maybe.

“Well, what would you like to know?” he asked, and clapped his hands once.

“I guess I’d like to know about any particularly fond memories of Boaty.”

“Well, let’s see. I met Boaty the summer after college. I’ve been coming here all my life, but it was Boaty’s first summer on the island. After a month, he knew everyone. He was very charming. My own mother had a crush on him. I remember him bringing her a birthday present, and forget it, it’s like he was already building his campaign. He had her vote for life.”

“What was the present?”

“A bottle of Oil of Olay!” he said, as if he were realizing for the first time how funny that was. We both laughed. “He was kind of a hick when I first met him, but, boy, he got savvy fast.”

And we were off. Paul settled back in his chair and spoke of a sailing trip they went on, and how Boaty made the best ham-and-pickle sandwich in the world by slipping potato chips under white bread slathered with yellow mustard, and the bonfire beach parties that lasted until dawn. George was right. People liked to talk. I looked at the grandfather clock. An hour had gone by, and with the exception of a few questions asking Paul to elaborate or “tell me more about that,” I’d hardly been able to get a word in. It was almost time for me to go. I wasn’t sure I’d gotten anything out of him that we’d be able to use, but my plane was leaving in a few hours and I needed to wrap it up.

“Thank you so much,” I said at the first awkward silence. “This was very helpful.” I closed my notebook and shut off my iPad.

“So,” Paul said, gripping the edges of his armchair, “your mother and father must be so proud of you, an intern for a journalist and you’re not even out of high school. Are they planning on visiting you?”

“I’m trying to convince my mother,” I said. “But they won’t come together. They’re divorced.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said.

“It happens, I guess.”

“If your mother visits, I’d love to take you two out to dinner.”

“I’ll pass along the message.”

He smiled at me warmly as he stood from his chair and walked me to the door. I trailed him through the kitchen with the speckled floor and the old-fashioned-looking sink. Blue and white dishes were stacked on open shelves. Lemon-yellow curtains billowed in the breeze. I could definitely see Mom in this kitchen, if she would only give it a chance.

“Oh, here’s a detail you might like,” he said. “Everyone thought Boaty got his nickname because he loved boats so much.”

“Yeah, there’s a story that as a toddler he made a boat out of a laundry basket and insisted on sleeping in it,” I said. Paul opened the front door and we stepped onto the porch into the perfect Nantucket morning—warm, breezy, sweet-smelling.

“That may be true,” Paul Morgan said, “but that’s not how he got his name.”

“Oh. How’d he get it?”

“His little brother gave it to him. He had a big birthmark in the shape of a boat, on his lower back.” I smiled and made a note in my notebook. This was exactly the kind of detail that George was after. I’d succeeded after all!

“You look just like your mother when you smile,” he said. “I bet you’re a real heartbreaker.”

You have no idea, I thought as I shook his hand and thanked him one last time. You have no idea.