It’s five thirty in the afternoon a few days later; Richie is in the bathroom shaving before he has to go to work. Kimber is sitting on the bed, still in her bikini, sandy from the beach, her skin golden from the sun, her hair newly dyed flamingo pink, which is actually quite flattering. Kimber watches Richie swipe clean strokes through the shaving cream with his chin lifted just so and she blurts it out.
“I love you.”
Richie’s head jerks a bit—he’s lucky he doesn’t cut himself—and his eyes meet hers in the mirror. Uh-oh, Grace thinks. Is it too much too soon? Kimber is always pushing the envelope. But then Richie sets down his razor and, with half a face of shaving cream, kisses Kimber. “I’m so in love with you,” he says. “Maybe more in love than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Way to double-down, Richie! Grace thinks.
That night, very late, when Richie comes to bed, Kimber says, “You know what I think we should do tomorrow? Go see your place. The children have been asking where you live when you’re not here.” She scratches her fingernails lightly down Richie’s chest. “And I have to admit, I’m curious too.”
Richie seizes up. “My place is really small,” he says. “A dump, actually. I wouldn’t want the kids to see it, because I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.”
Kimber waves a hand. “They won’t care—they’re kids. We’ll just swing by and poke our heads in before we go to Fortieth Pole tomorrow. You said Cliff Road? That’s on our way.”
“Not a good idea,” Richie says. “My landlady, Mrs. Felix, said no visitors.”
“We won’t even set foot inside, and we’ll stay two minutes,” Kimber says. “The children just want to see—”
“Kimber, no.” Richie’s voice is sharp. Kimber waits a beat, then sits up in bed.
“I just think it’s weird that we’re in love and I’ve never seen where you live. It’s…suspicious. And after what I’ve been through with Craig, I just have to ask—is there something going on between you and Mrs. Felix? Or was there?”
“No!” Richie says.
“Then I guess I don’t understand why—”
“Because I don’t have a place to live,” Richie says. “There is no Mrs. Felix. I made her up. I lied to you because I didn’t want you to think I was pathetic and I lied to Lizbet so I could get this job, which I desperately need.”
“What?” Kimber says. “Where were you living, then, before you moved in here?”
“The break room,” Richie says. “And my car.”
“Your car?” Kimber says. The look on her face is one of naked horror and Grace can’t blame her. Who lives in his car? A hobo? This is it, Grace thinks. This is the end of the cute romance.
“I need to save money,” Richie says. “I’m in so much debt, Kimber. The divorce carpet-bombed me financially. And I thought if you knew I didn’t have a place to live, you would think I was using you so I could live in the suite.”
Kimber’s eyes shut for a moment, then fly open. “I asked you to stay overnight in the suite and you said no. I practically had to beg you.”
“I would never want you to think I had ulterior motives,” Richie says. “That’s why I was so hesitant to start this relationship. It wasn’t you—you’re beautiful and fun and spontaneous and a terrific mother, bringing your kids here for the summer instead of shipping them off to camp or keeping them holed up in the city. It was that I’m homeless—my ex-wife took the house in Connecticut and I gave up my apartment when I moved here. You can do so much better than me, Kimber.”
This is probably not untrue, Grace thinks.
“I don’t want to do better,” Kimber says. “I don’t need a rich man. I had one of those and he ditched me for the nanny! I need a man who loves me and who won’t leave me.”
“I won’t leave you,” Richie says. “Someone would have to physically drag me away from you at gunpoint.”
This is probably not untrue either, Grace thinks. Nor unlikely.
August 15, 2022
From: Xavier Darling ([email protected])
To: Employees of the Hotel Nantucket
Good morning, team—
I’m pleased to be spreading the wealth again this week and awarding the thousand-dollar bonus to Adam Wasserman-Ramirez. A guest of the hotel sang (wink-wink) Adam’s praises for his showmanship at the piano during the wine-and-cheese hour. He indulged the guest’s wishes with a rendition of “Let It Go” that the guest said “gave me goose bumps.”
Well done, Adam! Here’s hoping you don’t leave us for the Great White Way!
XD
Adam deserves the bonus, Lizbet thinks. He plays the piano for the guests after his shift is over, purely for the joy of it. But the thing is, every member of her staff deserves the bonus. Every week. She hopes Xavier will see that once he comes to visit.
Her phone dings with a text and she has the same Pavlovian response to the sound that she’s had for weeks: Mario?
But the text isn’t from Mario. It’s from JJ. I’m taking tomorrow night off. Can we talk?
Lizbet inhales, exhales, takes a sip of her coffee.
Fine, she says. I’ll meet you at the spot at 8.
Lizbet and JJ’s spot is the Proprietors on India Street. On Saturday nights in the off-season, the bartender, Tenacious Leigh, would save them the two stools at the end of the bar. Lizbet hasn’t set foot in Proprietors in months, and although she’s ambivalent about meeting JJ (it’s a meeting, not a date, she tells herself), she feels only joy when she strolls down the brick sidewalk to the white clapboard house, built in 1800, and opens the lipstick-red door.
Hello, old friend, she thinks. The restaurant’s interior is one of her very favorites. There are refurbished wide-plank floors, exposed brick, Edison pendant lights, and a long, white-oak bar with a pressed-tin front. On the walls hang displays of mismatched china and a collection of antique door escutcheons; on the tables are mason jars filled with Nantucket wildflowers and flour-sack napkins with sage-green stripes. Lizbet almost left the Proprietors out of the Blue Book because she never wants the bar to become a place that’s three-deep with tourists ordering Cape Codders. In the end, she tucked it into the fine-dining section, calling it “eclectic,” a place for people who want a “thoughtful dining experience and the most creative cocktails on the island.”
Lizbet has arrived before JJ on purpose. She waves at Leigh, embraces her across the bar, then orders her usual, a cocktail called Celery, Man, which is made with mescal joven (Lizbet has, quite intentionally, not touched tequila in months either) and celery syrup with a white-peppercorn rim. It’s a savory cocktail, which she prefers to sweet (sorry, Heartbreaker). Lizbet relishes the first ice-cold sip. She has missed this place.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Leigh asks.
Lizbet shrugs. “Maybe.”
Leigh cocks an eyebrow—and the very next second she breaks into a smile. “Look what the cat dragged in! It’s just like old times. Can I get you the usual, Chef?”
“Please,” JJ says.
Lizbet stands and greets him with a hug as though he’s an old friend from high school. He takes the opportunity to squeeze Lizbet tight and she inhales his scent—boy fresh from the shower, Ivory soap, wintergreen aftershave, a lingering hint of the cigarette he smoked on his way here.
When she pulls away, he says, “You look gorgeous, Libby. I don’t think I’ve seen that dress before.”
“You haven’t.” Lizbet is wearing a red crinkled-cotton sundress—short, to show off her legs—and her nude wedges.