Secrets in Summer

“I have a—boyfriend, let’s call him. Nash Forester.”


“The one with the red pickup truck,” Mimi said knowingly. When Darcy showed her surprise, she smiled. “I sit by the window and gaze out at the street. So sue me.”

“Right. Nash is a carpenter. We’ve been dating for a couple of months. He’s fun and he likes the same things I do. We kayak together, hike around the island, do some bird watching.”

“He’s awfully good-looking.”

“What, you wear field glasses when you look out the window?” Darcy pretended indignation.

“I didn’t need binoculars to see the build of the man.”

They both laughed. Darcy sipped her margarita. Muffler strolled lazily over the lawn, waving his long luxuriant black tail.

“Meet Muffler,” Darcy said. “When he purrs, you’ll know why he got that name.”

Muffler jumped into Mimi’s lap and stared up at her, waiting for the proper adoration. Mimi complied, stroking his long, silky black fur and complimenting him. After a few minutes of this, he turned around and settled in her lap. Purring.

“We were talking about men,” Mimi gently reminded Darcy.

Darcy took another sip of her drink and wondered if it was too strong. She didn’t feel buzzed, like she did when she was out at the Box with friends, dancing and tossing back tequila slammers all evening. Instead, a calm flowed through her, as if she were in yoga class on a really good day.

“It sucked—” she began, catching herself for using that word.

Mimi grinned. “I use that word myself.”

“Good. Thank you. Okay, well, it sucked, being dumped—divorced—when my husband had an affair with another woman. Autumn. His new wife’s name is Autumn. She’s beautiful and sensual—”

“You’re beautiful,” Mimi interrupted.

Darcy snorted. “Maybe, but I’m cerebral, not sensual. Boyz told me Autumn is all about pleasure, enjoying the moment, not living in books half the time. But anyway, it’s done. It hurt, I was ashamed, I was lost, and then my darling grandmother Penny died shortly after the divorce. She had been my Rock of Gibraltar. I really did feel forlorn. Pathetic, I know. Anyway, Penny left me this house, and it seemed the only choice was to take what fate gave me. All that Eastern wisdom, let go, surrender, go with the flow…” Darcy’s throat closed up.

“Have a nut.” Mimi handed the bowl to her.

Darcy chose a cashew and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t need to cry anymore,” she said thoughtfully. The cashew was salty. She took another sip of her drink. “I’m over that. I’ve made peace with my life. Look what I’ve been given—this wonderful house; this amazing garden; this glorious island; meaningful, absorbing work; some true-blue friends—how could I ask for more?” Before Mimi could say it, she added, “I don’t need a husband. I don’t even want a husband. I’ve gotten used to living alone, and it suits me. I’m not sure I could deal with a man messing up my life.”

Mimi’s face was tender when she said, “You’re so young. Too young to go without love. I’m sure you can get all the sex you need, you’re such a gorgeous girl. But sex combined with love is something of an entirely different magnitude. It would be a shame for you to miss that.”

Darcy dropped her eyes, shifting uncomfortably on her chair.

Mimi laughed. “It’s odd, isn’t it, listening to an old crow like me talking about sex. No one wants to believe their parents ever had sex, and certainly not their grandparents.”

“It is different, sharing these thoughts with…an older woman. I couldn’t have talked with my grandmother like this, and we were very close. You’re much more open than other women your age are. When I talk with my friends, usually when we’re drinking—” Darcy held up her glass like a visual aid—“any sex talk is funny. We laugh like maniacs when we talk about sex. You’re being rather…solemn. Anyway,” Darcy continued, almost defensively, “sex is not what I mean when I say I don’t need a man messing up my life.”

Suddenly, a man walked through the rose-covered arbor into the yard. Darcy hoped he hadn’t overheard their conversation.

It was Clive, all casual and relaxed, carrying a bag of groceries. “Sorry to bother you, but have you kidnapped my grandmother?”

Darcy took a few seconds to recover from the sheer sight of the man. He was so brawny, so male. “Yes,” Darcy told him, her face serious. “She’s my hostage, and I won’t release her until she finishes her margarita.”

“Clive!” Mimi called. “Come join us.”

“Yes, please do. I’ll get you a glass.” Darcy stood too quickly and swayed, catching the table to steady herself.

Clive grinned. “How many margaritas have you had?”

Darcy smiled back, feeling a bit tipsy. “It’s her fault,” she said childishly.

Clive laughed. “It always is. Believe me, I know.”

He bent over to kiss Mimi on her cheek. “You are incorrigible.”

“Would you like one?” Darcy asked, holding up the pitcher.

“Thank you, no.”

“Don’t be such a stick,” Mimi told him. “Sit down and join us for a while.”

“Do you have any beer?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

Darcy hurried into the kitchen. First, she drank a glass of water. Standing at the kitchen window, she quickly surveyed Boyz’s yard—no car, no people. Whew. How hideous would it be if they’d overheard her conversation with Mimi? She filled her glass again and prepared a glass of water for Mimi. She put a triangle of Brie and some crackers on a board. She grabbed a Whale’s Tale Pale Ale and went outside, opening the door with a bump of her hip. She went down the steps and across the grassy yard.

She set a glass of water next to Mimi and settled in her chair. She smiled at Clive. And knew her cheeks were flushed and hoped really hard that he thought it was the alcohol.

“Clive,” Mimi prompted, “tell Darcy what you’re doing this summer.”

He rolled his eyes. “I apologize for my grandmother’s bossiness. I won’t sue you for kidnapping her, I’ll pay you.”

“You are a terrible grandchild,” Mimi said. “Anyway, it’s not like it’s top secret code encryption you’re working on up there in your aerie.”

Aerie. Many people would call it an attic. Darcy had been through the house; she knew the layout. From his aerie, Clive could see down into his yard and hers and Boyz’s, too.

Clive said, “I’m writing a book about the blues.”

“As in music?”

“Right.”

“Are you a musician?”

“A mediocre musician. But I’m a good musicologist.”

“He has a PhD!” Mimi bragged.

“I take her with me everywhere,” Clive said, rolling his eyes.

“Do you teach? Write?”

“Both. I teach the history of music and other topics at B.U. Music and the brain, our perception and reaction to music, the physics of sound, sacred music, the development of instruments—”

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