Moon Shell Beach: A Novel (11 page)

FOURTEEN

W
hile the movers carried in Lexi’s handsome furniture, Clare knelt by her window, hiding her face behind a curtain as she scanned the scene on the street below. She didn’t want to seem curious. Or, Heaven forbid, fascinated, like some witless troll with nothing better to do than ogle the royalty. But she
was
fascinated, which made her so mad at herself she wanted to fling herself out the window onto the cobblestones.

At home that evening, after dinner, as they sat in companionable silence in the living room, Clare put her finger in her book to mark her place and told Jesse Lexi needed some carpentry work done in her new shop.

Jesse lounged on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table, engrossed in a handheld Nintendo DS electronic game. “I already have a job.”

“It’s April, Jesse,” Clare reminded him. “You can take a few hours off whenever you want.”

“Fine,” Jesse grumbled, not looking up from his game.

Over the next
week, whenever Clare went into her shop, she heard sounds of shoving and dragging from next door. Lexi was obviously getting her furniture in place. Clare considered knocking on the connecting door to ask if she’d like some help, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do that. Instead, she used her emotional energy as fuel while she cleaned up all the paperwork she’d let pile up on her desk.

A storm battered the Northeast, sending gale-force winds that stopped all ferries and planes to the island and kept everyone indoors. Clare spent the time folding the flats she’d ordered into handsome gift boxes. Usually her assistant, Marlene, helped her with this rather tedious work, but Marlene was down with the flu. Plump, uncomplicated Marlene was a great worker and a compulsive chatterer, currently obsessed with
Dancing with the Stars.
Whenever she had the opportunity, she’d regale Clare with descriptions of the dancers’ costumes or intricate steps. Clare was sorry Marlene didn’t feel well, but she was relieved not to have her there chattering away. Clare was quite content to sit in the quiet packaging room, a cup of cocoa by her side, folding and fixing Tab A into Slot B. Slowly the table grew with towers of handsome green boxes. She didn’t even play a CD. She was too busy listening to the noises coming from the other side of the wall.

On the fourth day Clare heard the phone ring in Lexi’s apartment. She heard Lexi’s muffled voice as she spoke. Clare wondered who Lexi was talking with. An island person? Maybe her brother?

Maybe a museum curator or the conductor of a European orchestra.

You are going insane,
Clare told herself.
Just call her.
But somehow she couldn’t pick up the phone.

By Sunday afternoon the storm was over, the air was clear, and Clare was restless. Jesse had gone fishing in Maine with two buddies. Penny and her husband and baby had gone off-island to visit his brother and family.

She’d already started a rich beef stew simmering. It would be ready tonight for her to share with her father, and there was another depressing thought, being alone with her father. Clare had asked him to go with her to church that morning, but he’d refused, and she’d asked him if he wanted to attend the afternoon concert, and he’d refused. He was still in his pajamas and robe and it was two in the afternoon. Sometimes Clare felt as if she was in charge of a very large, very sulky child.

She could watch a DVD, or read one of the novels she’d brought home from the library. She wouldn’t play around with chocolate today. She always tried to take Sunday completely off from work. She could clean out her closet—she’d been meaning to do that for
years
—

The phone rang. She nearly broke her neck getting to it.

Lexi said, “Clare? Hi, listen, I know this is very last moment, but I wonder if you’d like to go to the concert with me.”

Clare hesitated.

“It’s at four o’clock.”

The thought of walking into the concert with Lexi made Clare feel just a little, well, actually,
glamorous.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like to go.”

“Cool! I’ll meet you at the bottom of Main Street.”

Clare pulled out a crimson velvet shirt to wear with her jeans and added the garnet earrings she’d been saving for “good”—an occasion that so far hadn’t arrived. All the red made her dark hair seem glossier, made her skin glow—or perhaps it wasn’t the garnets that made her eyes as full of spice and mystery as her homemade chocolates.

FIFTEEN

W
hen you’re a six-foot-tall female, there’s no way to be invisible. Lexi had certainly tried. Life with Ed had taught her to stand up straight, wear high heels, and flaunt her height and her skinny body, but here on Nantucket, Lexi panicked at the thought of walking into a crowded room. She’d stand out, as she always had, like a flamingo in a crowd of penguins.

Still, something in her, something she understood was probably perverse but had been bred into her probably defective genes, made her dress for the concert in her tightest, lowest-cut jeans, pink Uggs, a tight little pink cashmere sweater, and a leather jacket with brass studs on the cuffs, collar, and waist. She added her big fat diamond ear studs for the hell of it. She was who she was, and she had returned to Nantucket because she loved the island and everyone could just deal with it.

At least she was trying to think that way as she stood with Clare at the end of Winter Street, watching people walk through the wrought-iron gates and up the brick sidewalk to the dignified, forthright brick building that had been, long ago, the island school. Now it was the Egan Institute of Maritime Studies, with a collection of historical seascapes on the walls of the large assembly room used for concerts, lectures, and meetings.

Clare leaned close to Lexi and whispered, “Before we go in, can I say something?”

Lexi clenched her fists. “What?”

“You might want to take some deep breaths. You’re hyperventilating.”

Lexi glared at Clare, who looked as comely, wholesome, and natural as an apple. In comparison, Lexi felt like Carmen Miranda with an entire basket of bananas on her head. “I’m not hyperventilating. I have a slight cold.”

Clare looked irritated. She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Look, Lexi. I know you’re nervous about seeing everyone again.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Well, you should be. It was a very big deal when you eloped with Ed Hardin. It was like you went off with, oh, I don’t know, Osama bin Laden.”

“Ed wasn’t that bad.”

“That’s highly debatable, but we don’t have time for that now. The point I’m trying to make is that we’ve all changed. Not just the kids we went to school with, but everyone. Like Penny—she never even spoke to me in high school, but now she’s my best friend.”

Lexi flinched. “Lucky you.”

“Yes, lucky me. And it didn’t happen overnight, believe me. We hadn’t seen each other for years, not until I burned my hand when I was just starting up my business. I went to the ER and she was the nurse there, and she was so calm and confident; all those qualities she’d had in high school were just what anyone would want in a nurse, and I brought her chocolates later to thank her for…”

Lexi started walking. “It’s lovely for me, hearing about your new best friend, but I don’t want to be late for the concert.”

“Fine. But get ready. People will stare. People will whisper. Remember, it’s April. We don’t have much to entertain us. My advice is, smile at people and say hello and forget high school and start fresh. Give everyone a chance.”

“I intend to!”

“Then stop gritting your teeth and clenching your jaw and flaring your nostrils like some racehorse being dragged into a barn full of mules.”

Lexi stopped walking. “That’s how I look?”

“That’s how you’ve always looked when you’re out in public.”

Lexi cast a desperate glance up at the heavens.

“Oh, cut it out,” Clare chided. “This isn’t surgery you’re facing. Loosen up a bit. Think of something funny. Remember when Amber and Spring did karaoke night?”

Lexi smiled at the memory. She shook her arms out and stamped her feet and tossed her head. “Right. Okay, I’m ready now. Thanks.”

The ticket table
was at the front of the building, where the stage was also located. Clare’s lecture and Lexi’s fidgeting had made them almost late, and as they gave the pretty teenage girl their ten dollars, they saw that the room was completely filled. The only empty seats left were either in the back row, or the front, and everyone was staring at them. The thought of all those eyes on her for the next hour gave Lexi the heebie-jeebies. “Back,” she said tersely to Clare.

Lexi didn’t feel like a flamingo now, she felt like a chicken, with the eyes of one hundred slavering foxes following her as she and Clare hurried to the last row and sat down. The few people who turned to mouth hello to Clare performed classic double takes when they spotted Lexi. In row after row heads bent to those next to them as the community went into a whisper-fest.

Patricia Moody, the chorus conductor, walked onto the stage and began her few announcements. The audience settled down. The concert began.

The program was an upbeat mixture of Gilbert and Sullivan, Broadway show tunes, and Cole Porter. As Lexi listened, she scanned the chorus for familiar faces. It took her brain a moment to adjust for the passing of the past ten years. Age, weight, wrinkles, gray hair, and glasses transfigured many of the older folk, while those who had been just kids when Lexi left now wore a look of authority and, in some cases, exhaustion. Lexi understood. Life was expensive here. People her age had to work two jobs to get by, and most of them lived with their parents because summer rents were impossibly high. Clare still lived with her father, and Lexi bet that when Jesse married Clare, he’d move into her parents’ home. It was a nice, big old house with room enough for everyone. She spotted the Barbie Dolls in the front row of the audience. Amber Young and Spring Macmillan weren’t related by blood, but in high school they’d been inseparable, rah-rah, gum-chewing cheerleaders who’d never been especially nice to Lexi—or especially mean, either. She was surprised at how pleased she was simply to see them again.

Old Marvin Meriweather was still singing. His rich baritone had been corrugated with age so that his voice vibrated like a galloping elephant’s. Of course, Patricia Moody would not have asked Marvin to leave the chorus. That would have been too cruel, and this ensemble was about the community as much as it was about music.

Now Caitlin, whom Lexi and Clare had secretly nicknamed Queen of Sluts even before she dumped Adam to marry Corby Turner, opened her bright red lips and shrieked out a solo so truly off-key that a shiver of vengeful pleasure went down Lexi’s spine. Clare elbowed her in the ribs. They exchanged glances and simultaneously bit their lips to keep from laughing. Seated here in the back row, they could see similar movements going on with the rest of the audience. In the front row, old Harsh Marsh dug a handkerchief out of her purse and noisily blew her nose. The only individual in the room who seemed to thrill to Caitlin’s warbling was Patricia Moody, Caitlin’s proud mother.

Or maybe Caitlin’s mother knew what she was doing, because after two more songs from the entire ensemble, the program ended with the audience applauding heartily. Whatever else was wrong with their lives, at least they hadn’t made fools of themselves.

When the applause died down, Patricia Moody said, “Please join us for refreshments,” and the crowd rose, glad to stretch and greet their neighbors to agree this had been the best concert ever, and, a kind of buzz swept the room, wasn’t that Lexi Laney
Hardin
back there with Clare Hart?

“Let’s go,” Lexi hissed at Clare.

“No way. You are going to run this gauntlet, sport. You need to get it over with.” As Clare spoke, she nodded and waved at friends in the audience.

Lexi grabbed her arm. “Then look at me,” she hissed. “Talk to me. Pretend we’re discussing something fascinating.”

Clare linked her arm through Lexi’s. “Okay, come on. Let’s go get some hot apple cider. Close your mouth, you look like an idiot. Hmm, hot apple cider. What about apple cider chocolates? Not for the spring and summer, but maybe next fall? I might play around with that idea. Lexi, loosen up. They’re not going to murder you.”

“No, but they’ll snub me. Or insult me.”

“Then suck it up.
You
chose to come back here. Smile, or I’ll pinch you.”

Clare would, too. Lexi grinned and somehow managed not to trip over her own feet as Clare maneuvered her through the throng into the back room where the refreshments were set out. They joined the crowd reaching for cups, napkins, and cookies, then squeezed their way to the side of the room where they stood for a moment pretending to study an oil painting of Nantucket harbor in the whaling era.

“My goodness.” The voice slicing through the air next to them was as familiar as an old nightmare. Harsh Marsh approached, older now, thinner, in a puce wool suit Lexi could have sworn she wore back when Lexi was in her sophomore English class. “If it isn’t Lexi Laney. What causes you to grace our humble town?”

Lexi raised her chin defiantly. Was she imagining a sudden hush in the room? From the look on HM’s face, it was obvious the older woman was eager to use her old powers to intimidate and judge. Lexi couldn’t remember anyone ever liking HM. Gosh, maybe Lexi and HM could form their own club.

Clare kicked Lexi in the shin.

Lexi took a deep breath. “I’ve moved back to the island. I’m opening my own clothing shop. I’m divorced now, and I’m starting my life over, and this is the place I want to be.”

Whispers flitted through the crowd.

HM looked smug. “The island’s changed.”

Lexi looked smug back. “So have I. Ten years changes everyone. Are you
still
teaching?”

HM’s mouth went prune-shape, always a bad sign.

“I like your jacket,” a high sweet voice rang out. “I think it’s quite felicitous to the eye.”

A girl approached Lexi. Perhaps ten years old, her curly red hair framed an elfin face sprinkled with freckles. Behind tortoiseshell glasses, a pair of astute blue eyes gleamed. The girl wore cargo pants and a white sweater.

“Thank you,” Lexi said. “I like your glasses.”

The girl beamed. “They provide a useful contradiction to my name.
Jewel
. My mother was addicted to her music when she was pregnant with me. It could be worse. I could be named Snoop Dogg.”

Lexi laughed, genuinely entertained. “What’s your mother’s name?”

Jewel rolled her eyes. “Bonnie Frost. My father’s name is Tristram Chandler.”

“Hey, I knew a Bonnie Lott in high school. And Tris Chandler was a friend of my brother’s.” Lexi smiled, remembering. “He was really cute.”

Jewel nodded. “He’s still cute. Also, he’s available, if you’re interested.”

Startled and amused, Lexi faked a cough to hide a smile.

“My parents are divorced,” Jewel explained coolly. “My mother has married again. My stepfather’s name is Ken Frost. They have a new baby, a little boy. His name is Franklin Frost. Frankie for short.”

“It must be fun, having a baby around.”

“Sometimes.” Jewel shrugged, so blasé. “I often find him a bit truculent.” She changed the subject. “And are you Lexi Laney?”

“I am.” It seemed only polite to offer her hand to Jewel in a polite handshake.

“I’ve heard about you,” Jewel said cryptically.

“Is my daughter bothering you?” Bonnie Frost squeezed her way through the crowd. She wore her long chestnut curls caught up with combs to show off the enormous diamond studs in her ears. She was slightly plump with new baby weight and sleepless nights had brushed shadows under her eyes, but she was absolutely lovely. A baby—it must be the truculent one—lay in a kind of sling across Bonnie’s body. “Oh, hi, Lexi, I heard you were back.” Before Lexi could reply, the baby let out a long glass-shattering wail. Bonnie looked desperate. “I’ve got to go before everyone here kills me. Sorry about the noise,” she apologized over the air-raid siren of her son’s voice. “Nice to see you, Lexi. Jewel, honey, come on.”

Bonnie grabbed Jewel’s hand and towed her swiftly from the room. Jewel threw Lexi a see-what-I-mean look over her shoulder. Lexi waved at Jewel.

“Lexi Laney!” Patricia Moody, the choir director, put her hands on Lexi’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I saw a picture of you last year in the
Globe
. You were at
Madame Butterfly.
Was it fabulous?”

Gradually the platters of brownies and small sandwiches set out on the long table emptied. A volunteer unplugged the heavy coffee urn and carried it off to the kitchen. People checked their watches or allowed themselves to be dragged away by fussy children. But the room was still fairly crowded when a teenage boy exploded in, his face glowing from exertion and excitement.

“Hey, parts of a Nantucket boat have washed up in Maine!”

“A Nantucket boat?” Marvin Meriweather’s voice trembled. “I was down at Tris Chandler’s boatyard just last week. Just gabbing, you know. He said he was going north this week, taking a boat up to a customer in Maine. I wonder if…”

“Nonsense!” Patricia Moody snapped. “Tris is an excellent sailor. It wouldn’t be Tris.”

“I don’t know. These spring storms can come up so suddenly.” Amber Young looked genuinely worried.

“Let’s not be silly now,” Harsh Marsh commanded. “We don’t know that it was Tris’s boat. No point getting upset for nothing.”

Slowly, reassuring one another, the crowd dispersed, filing out of the building into the cool light of late afternoon.