Secrets in Summer

Back on shore, she dried herself as well as she could, pulled her clothes over her damp bathing suit, and took a moment to comb her hair. Not far from her, a boy and girl lay together on a blanket, kissing and whispering and giggling. She thought of Willow. She had to remember that was not her business.

She ambled home, smiling at the people she passed, swinging her book bag, humming a children’s song. Inside, she poured a glass of wine and zapped leftovers from the picnic in the microwave, put it all on a tray, and carried it out to her garden. It was six thirty and the sun was still high in the sky. Birds sang from high in the trees. Over at the Brueckners’, the three boys were playing in the sprinkler, screaming with glee.

Nash called. She curled up on her sofa and they talked about their day. It was so comforting to hear his voice, to make him laugh, to soften her own voice and flirt over the phone.



Gradually the island filled with people rushing to escape the heat of the mainland, walk the golden beaches, swim in the ocean, and shop in the marvelous boutiques. Darcy did two story times a day, answered emails, attended staff meetings, and cataloged the new books. Most books were cataloged on the mainland by CLAMS, aka the appropriately named Cape Libraries Automated Materials Sharing, and arrived on the island ready to shelve, but there were always exceptions, especially with self-published children’s books. When a staff member had an emergency, Darcy took over the circulation desk upstairs, and she dutifully and happily attended the necessary posh gala fundraisers. It was good to wear a gorgeous dress and lots of bling and mingle with the beautiful people while waiters offered her champagne and scallops wrapped in bacon. She saw people she hadn’t seen for nine months and caught up on their news—who was pregnant, who had broken a leg skiing, who had bought a villa in Tuscany.

Sunday, she and Nash met friends at the beach. That evening Darcy and Nash showered and glammed up for an art opening at the Artists Association of Nantucket. The place was packed, both downstairs and upstairs. The art was wonderful, landscapes and seascapes and abstracts and sculpture and jewelry, a sumptuous display of what the talented islanders had done over the winter. Small red dots indicating “sold” were everywhere.

Nash stopped to talk to a friend. Darcy slipped upstairs, wineglass in hand, to look at the new pieces; but as always, she met friends, and spent more time talking than looking at the art.

She was in the corner, studying a landscape, when a man behind her said hello.

She turned. It was Clive Rush. Handsome Clive Rush, in a navy blazer that set off his tan and made his fabulous smile flash.

Well, hello, sailor, Darcy thought in her best Mae West inner self. She was glad she was wearing her long turquoise skirt with its thigh-high split and her nearly sheer white sleeveless blouse. “Hi, Clive. Where’s Mimi?”

He laughed, as if he had been confronted with this defense mechanism before. “She’s downstairs, surrounded by admirers, and drinking far too much wine.”

“At her age, I don’t think there is such a thing as too much wine.”

“I like this landscape,” Clive said, gesturing toward a painting of a salt marsh with a small wooden bridge over water. “But I can’t place it.”

“It’s Madaket Harbor, near the marina. On the western end of the island. Mr. Rogers had a house out there.”

“Mr. Rogers? There’s someone I haven’t thought of for a long time. My mother made me watch him when I was a child. She thought it would calm me down.”

“And did it?” She smiled, looking up at him. He certainly was pleasant to look at.

“I believe it did. Before I forget, next Tuesday night the Musical Arts Society is hosting a pianist who’s performing an interesting mix of classical and contemporary. I’m going to take Mimi and we wonder if you’d like to go with us.”

Darcy paused. There was that “we wonder,” so would this be considered a date? Or could she tell Nash she was accompanying a darling older woman and her grandson? Should she even worry about what Nash thought? They hadn’t talked about dating each other exclusively. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good. I’ll tell Mimi. She’ll be thrilled.”

“Why don’t you both come for dinner before,” Darcy offered on the spur of the moment. “I’ll make something light so we can get to the concert on time.”

“Great. How’s six o’clock?”

“Perfect.”

They smiled at each other, and the temperature in the room seemed to shoot up about a hundred degrees.

Clive said, “I’d better check on Mimi. It was nice bumping into you tonight.”

“Me, too,” Darcy said. That makes no sense, but at least she spoke in English. Fireworks were exploding in her mind, not to mention her body. Probably Mimi told Clive to invite her. Or he wanted to have someone help maneuver his grandmother up the hill and into the Congregational Church with all its steps.

Or maybe he liked her. She wasn’t making all that electricity by herself.

She walked on to gaze at a seascape for fifteen minutes, trying to sort out her thoughts, which weren’t thoughts so much as feelings—lust, mostly. A large male hand slid around her waist, tugging her out of her daze.

“Oh!” Darcy cried, startled.

“You must like that seascape, you’ve been staring at it so long.” Nash kept his hand on her waist as he checked out the upstairs for more friends.

“I do like it,” Darcy said. “Do you?”

He took the time to study it. “Yeah, I do. It’s a good depiction of the ocean during a nor’easter. I wouldn’t mind having that in my house, looking at it every day.”

“I know. It’s complicated, with lots of movement.”

“Well, don’t like it too much,” Nash told her. He pointed to the round red dot next to the painting that indicated it was sold.

“Ah, well…” Darcy pretended to pout.

Nash pulled her closer to him. “Don’t worry. Whenever we get a good storm, I’ll drive you out to the beach to watch. We’ll take off our shoes and run in the waves.”

“Well, there’s proof you belong on the island. Everyone I know goes crazy when a storm hits.”

“I go crazy when I look at you,” Nash said.

Darcy gazed up at Nash for a few moments, speechless with pleasure at his words. Did he mean what he said? If he did, what did that tell her?

“Time for dinner?” Nash asked.

“It would be time for something else if we weren’t in public,” Darcy told him.

“Be good. We’ve got reservations.”

Nash took her hand so he wouldn’t lose her as they threaded their way through the crowd. He held her hand as they stepped outside, turned right, and walked to Fifty-Six Union, one of their favorite restaurants. His hand was big and warm and callused from carpentry work, and she liked that roughness against her own smooth skin. She shivered to recall the feel of those hands on her naked body.

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