“And he’s writing a book about the blues!” Mimi interjected.
“Mimi, we told her that already.” Clive didn’t scold her. His tone of voice was simply informational. But Darcy understood—Mimi wasn’t tipsy, but she was sliding that way. To Darcy, Clive said, “I should tell you, because Mimi certainly won’t, that she takes a number of medications to help with her blood pressure and arrhythmia. Alcohol interferes with their efficiency.”
“Got it,” Darcy said.
“My doctor says I’m allowed two drinks a day,” Mimi reminded him.
An engine roared on the other side of the hedge. Car doors slammed and a family—Boyz’s family—exploded into their yard.
“Get your towel and swimming suit!” Autumn called. “Toss it on the line.”
Mimi raised her eyebrows at the noise. “I guess we can’t talk about sex anymore. I wouldn’t want to be overheard.”
“Oh, no, Mimi, have you been talking about sex again?” Clive teased.
“Yes,” Darcy said quickly. “We’ve been discussing the sex of flowers. Did you know that the Arisaema triphyllum can change sex over the years? It can be both male and female.” She waved airily toward the garden, as if that particular plant was growing there, which it wasn’t.
“Of course.” Clive chugged his beer and set it on the table. “Time for you to go home, Mimi.”
She didn’t protest. He helped Mimi to her feet and kept an arm through hers as they slowly progressed over the lawn and beneath the arbor.
“We’ll talk more another time,” Mimi said. “And thank you for our chat and for the drinks.”
They were all laughing as they went their separate ways. Darcy brought the things in from the garden, made a tomato sandwich for her dinner, fed Muffler, and settled in the living room with a book.
Muffler jumped lightly to the arm of the sofa. He stared at Darcy persistently. He didn’t want more food, or he’d walk down her legs and over her torso until he reached her face. He was making some kind of point, though.
“I know,” Darcy said, stroking his head. “It’s nice, sometimes, to have other people around.”
Muffler turned around three times and curled up in her lap.
7
Sunday, the library was closed. Darcy slipped into a bathing suit, a light cotton long-sleeved shirt for protection from the sun, and flip-flops. She was ready when Nash showed up in his red truck. They drove to Cisco beach and bounced along west until they found their usual list of suspects. Jordan and her husband, Lyle, were there with their toddler, Kiks. Lars and Angelica Stone and their toddler, Packer. The Driscolls with their newlywed hands all over each other. The Folgers, with a waddling pregnant Dee-Dee.
The guys surfed; the women tended the temporary nest, spreading blankets, putting up beach umbrellas so the children wouldn’t get too much sun, setting out the food. It was kind of tribal. Nash and Darcy weren’t the only unmarried couple. Missy and Paul had been seeing each other for three years, and Gage Wharton brought a different woman every week.
The day was clear, hot, and perfect for swimming. What wind there was came from the southwest in slight gusts, not enough to blow sand or even ruffle the blankets and towels they sat on. Darcy braced herself for the shock of cold, raced into the water, and swam fast and far, enjoying the stretch and strength of her muscles. She flipped over and floated, soaking in the sun blazing down on her. All thoughts were washed away by the waves. What a wonderful life she led! She silently sent a prayer of gratitude to the heavens and to her grandmother.
Suddenly, something grabbed her and pulled her under. She wrestled around, surfaced, and gasped. And looked into Nash’s blue eyes.
“Surprised?” he asked, looking pleased with himself.
Considering he did this at least once every time they went swimming, the truthful answer was no, Darcy was kind of expecting it. “You rat.”
He pulled her close to him. They treaded water together, their bodies slippery, their legs touching as they scissored in and out. He kissed Darcy, who kissed him back, and they sank, broke apart, surfacing and gulping air.
Nash’s sandy hair was plastered to his head.
“You look like a seal,” Darcy teased.
“You look like a siren. One of those who lured Ulysses.”
Darcy laughed and splashed water in his face. Nash had a habit of saying sweet things at unromantic times, never when they were in bed together. What did this mean? She would never understand men.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Race you to the shore.” Nash dove away from her for a head start.
They always had enormous quantities of food—cold curried chicken; egg salad; potato salad; pasta with olives, roasted red peppers, and eggplant; couscous; ham and cheese and pesto on focaccia; and always chips and salsa and guacamole. Most of the men drank beer; the women, iced tea. After lunch, the children fell asleep, so the moms left the kids with their dads and the women went for a long walk down the beach.
They ambled along, discussing the week’s gossip, what they were going to wear to the next gala, why Gage didn’t have a date today and who he would show up with next week. The beach was crowded with people reading in beach chairs, girls sunning on beach towels with their bikini ties undone, kids building sand castles or beachcombing.
Suddenly, Darcy’s mind did a kind of jump.
She spotted Willow a few yards ahead. Boyz’s stepdaughter, Willow. Darcy was sure. She had never met the girl, but she’d seen her several times from her windows. She looked like her mother, red haired, curvaceous, and virtuously—and unusually for her age group—clad in a one-piece bathing suit.
She was with a boy Darcy knew, Logan Smith, and Darcy literally stopped in her tracks. What the hell was she doing with Logan? Willow was fourteen; he was eighteen. He was an island kid, one of the bad boys—handsome and awesomely cool—but he was trouble.
Logan was leading Willow away from the water toward a shady hideaway between two high sand dunes. Darcy bent over, pretending to find an interesting shell, and watched the couple. Logan pressed Willow up against the dune, stroked her hair away from her face, and kissed her tenderly. Logan had been in the court report any number of times for misdemeanors—DUI, possession of pot, fighting, disturbing the peace—but he was an island boy, and the island wanted him to get through his awkward phase and become a good man. Now he had his hands on Willow’s breasts, and he was pressing his hips against hers. And he was eighteen and she was fourteen.
It was none of Darcy’s business, right?
Willow was not her child. Darcy knew nothing about her. Maybe Willow was already more sexually active than Darcy imagined. Still, she didn’t like what she saw. And she had overheard Autumn tell Otto that Willow was na?ve….