The Love Season (17 page)

It was practically legend, the way that Daniel Knox had stormed into their lives. He appeared one night in July, a busy Friday night, around nine thirty. Marguerite, Candace, and Porter had just settled down on the west
banquette to dinner. There were still a few tables lingering over dessert; this was usual. What was unusual was the man who approached from the bar, a full drink in his hand, and pulled out the fourth seat, the seat next to Candace, and said, “I know I’m being awfully forward, but—”

Candace looked up and said, “Oh! Hello.”

Marguerite and Porter exchanged glances. Candace received a lot of attention from men. Drinks were sent to the table all the time. A few men waited at the bar until Candace rose from dinner; they thought they could trap her there, like an insect in their web. The men were usually older, graying, wealthy; some had accents. They were all full of promises, of ideas; they had a big boat, a big house, a big party the following night. Would Candace join them? Sometimes the answer was yes, and a few nights later Marguerite and Porter would hear about the big boat, the big house, the big party—but most of the time the answer was no. No one had ever been bold enough to approach the table. It was the chef’s table, the owner’s table. Marguerite ate after everyone was finished for a reason. She wanted a modicum of privacy, at least as much as she afforded her guests. She would never have sat down at one of
their
tables uninvited. The way Candace said, “Oh! Hello,” however, made both Marguerite and Porter think that this man with the dark blond hair and the untrimmed beard was someone Candace knew. When the man sat down, Candace fumbled with the introduction.

“This is Marguerite Beale, the chef/owner, and my brother Porter Harris. And Marguerite, Porter, this is—”

“Daniel,” he said. “Daniel Knox.” They shook hands over and around their drinks.

Candace laughed nervously and said, “And my name is Candace Harris.”

“I know,” Daniel said.

“You’re the man I see when I’m running, right?” she said. “Down at—”

“The Beach Club,” Daniel said. “Yes. I own it. I bought it five years ago.”

“Aha!” Porter said. He could talk to anyone, given a foothold. “So you’re the chap who made all the changes.”

“Capital improvements,” Daniel said.

“You raised the dues, I hear.”

“Had to.”

“You must not be very popular,” Porter said.

“More popular than one might think,” Daniel said. “The place looks a hell of a lot better. You should come see it sometime.”

“I’d love to,” Porter said.

Francesca approached the table with three appetizer plates. “You have a fourth?” she said. Her voice barely concealed her annoyance; serving Marguerite was her last duty before tipping out.

Marguerite shook her head ever so slightly and tried to send Francesca a distress signal.
We don’t know who this man is or where he came from
.

“Oh no,” Daniel said. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Candace put a hand on his arm. “Stay,” she said. “We’d love it.” She looked to Marguerite.

“We’d love it,” Marguerite said, though nothing was further from the truth. “A fourth! Francesca, would you ask Lance to bring Mr. Knox another drink. Scotch, is it?”

“Scotch,” Daniel said. “But really, I have a full one here—”

“And a bottle of the 1974 Louis Jadot cabernet from the cellar. Two bottles.”

“Well,” Porter said. “Daisy is pulling out the big guns tonight.”

Francesca nodded, then swept away from the table. She was back a second later with another plate of the wild mushroom ravioli and the Scotch and the wine.

“More bread?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” Marguerite said. She smiled wickedly at Porter and nudged his foot under the table. Together they made sure that Daniel Knox always had a full scotch as well as one waiting, and a full glass of wine.
Drink
, they encouraged him.
Drink!
Daniel Knox talked about the Beach Club; then he talked about living in New York, trading petroleum futures, his retirement at age thirty. Candace seemed interested. She was good at that; she practiced patience all day long at the Chamber of Commerce, fielding phone call after phone call of people asking if there was a bridge to Nantucket. Daniel asked what Candace did for work, she told him, he asked about her running, and she talked about the New York Marathon.
This year for sure
.

By the time the entrées arrived, Daniel Knox was intoxicated. He slurred his words, he stared at his swordfish woefully, and Marguerite knew he was done for. He didn’t eat a single bite. Candace chattered along; Porter talked about Nantucket as it was in the fifties when he first started coming there; Marguerite watched over Candace’s shoulder as the kitchen was cleaned and closed up for the night. The conversation proceeded as if Daniel Knox weren’t there—and a few seconds later, he wasn’t. He excused himself for the men’s room. Porter chuckled as he filled Daniel’s wineglass for the tenth time.

“You two are awful,” Candace said; then she smiled.

“Don’t I know it,” Marguerite said. “I’m sure he’s not used to the likes of us.”

“He seems like a nice man,” Candace said.

“Does he?” Marguerite said.

“Yes!” Candace said, peeved now. “I’m going to check on him.”

It took ten days for Daniel to resurface and ask Candace out on a date. He made a hearty campaign for Ship’s Inn or the Club Car; he even offered to cook himself, in the small apartment behind the Beach Club where he lived. Candace sweetly declined.
I like to eat at Les Parapluies
, she said.
Sorry. That’s what I like
.

And so Marguerite fed Candace and a very reluctant Daniel Knox at the regular seven thirty seating, just like everyone else. Cedar-planked salmon and potatoes Anna. Daniel Knox, despite the fact that he drank almost nothing and did not take his eyes off Candace, cleaned his plate. The following morning, Candace cornered Marguerite in the kitchen.

“Daniel wants to know what you put in our food,” she said. “He swears it made him fall in love.” Candace kissed Marguerite on both cheeks. “So whatever it was, thank you.”

They came in together a lot that summer, though some nights they took sandwiches to the beach, or they went to the movies, or they attended a party thrown by one of the Beach Club members. At first Candace referred to Daniel as “the man I’m dating,” and Porter and Marguerite followed her lead. “Daniel Knox,” they said, when people asked who he was. “The man Candace is dating.” Candace still came to the restaurant without Daniel, though less and less frequently. Marguerite asked, as casually as possible, if things were getting serious. Candace would smile and tilt her head. “Serious?” She was being coy and it drove Marguerite mad. The one time Marguerite tried to talk about it with Porter, they ended up arguing, which almost never happened. It was late at night, they were at Marguerite’s house on Quince Street. Marguerite was sitting at her dressing table, unpinning her hair. Porter lay in bed reading a biography of John Singer Sargent.

“Candace is acting strangely,” Marguerite said. “When I ask her about Daniel, I can’t get a straight answer.”

“I think that’s probably a good sign,” Porter said. “They’re falling in love.”

“Falling in love is a good thing?” Marguerite asked.

“It was for us,” Porter said. He laid his book down on his chest. “Come here.”

Marguerite spun on her stool. “I don’t think Daniel is right for your sister.”

“Because you don’t like him.”

“I do like him.”

“Oh, Daisy, you do not. But then I suspect you wouldn’t like anyone Candace dated. You’re more protective than a mother.”

“I’m not protective.”

“Okay, then, you’re jealous.”

“Jealous? You’ve
got
to be kidding.”

“Right,” Porter said. “Why should you be jealous? You have me.”

“It’s just not like her to be so secretive,” Marguerite said. “Your sister and I tell each other everything. And now there’s this…thing, this big thing, that she won’t talk about.”

“Probably because she senses that you don’t really want to hear about Daniel. Because you don’t like Daniel. Because you’re jealous.”

“Please shut up,” Marguerite said. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“You brought it up,” Porter said. “And I’m certain you don’t want my advice, but if I were you, I’d get used to the idea of Candace and Daniel together. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if they got married.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Porter.”

“I heard her call him her boyfriend.”

“You did not.”

“I did. ‘My boyfriend, Daniel Knox.’ ”

“You’re just saying that to annoy me.”

“I am not. You have to face the facts, Daisy. She’s not going to belong to us forever.”

Marguerite had not responded. She’d sat at the dressing table, looking at her reflection in the mirror, lost in thought. Porter called her to bed twice, then gave up and turned off the light.

That conversation had disturbed her deeply, but why? Why shouldn’t Candace and Daniel be happy? Why shouldn’t they get married? Was Marguerite being overly protective?
Was
she jealous? Was Candace keeping Marguerite at arm’s length, or was Marguerite pushing Candace away by not accepting Daniel? Because the fact of the matter was, Marguerite
didn’t
like Daniel. She was afraid of him, and she couldn’t stifle a growing sense of resentment.

In the fall, once Porter left, Candace came into the restaurant to eat with Marguerite, and Daniel would plant himself on one of the benches outside the Dreamland Theater across the street, thinking they wouldn’t see him among the movie crowds. It was weird, wasn’t it? Daniel was stalking Candace. But no, Candace said, he was just waiting there so he could walk her home. Why didn’t she just call him, then, when she was finished dinner? Why did Daniel have to be a spy, a silent, unwelcome witness to the most intimate moments of Candace and Marguerite’s friendship? Daniel had come into their lives to whisk Candace away. Soon enough, Marguerite thought, she would be gone.

Matters weren’t helped by the fact that, in the spring, Porter announced he was taking a trip to Japan. Four years he had promised Marguerite a spring trip, and four years he had backed out. Now he was off to Japan. For work, he said. Research about how the Orient influenced the art of Claude Monet.

Marguerite asked him if he was going alone.

“Alone?” he said, and right then she knew the answer was no. There was a pause. “Actually, no. I’m going with colleagues.”

“Colleagues?”

“One colleague. From the department. An expert on Japanese art.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, actually,” Porter said. “Professor Strickland. A real battle-ax.”

A real battle-ax
? Marguerite thought. Like Corsage Woman? Like Overbite Woman? She felt helpless with rage; she trembled with jealousy. This was the last straw; he was daring her to confront him. Would she be brave enough? Angry enough? No. She couldn’t. She was seething but paralyzed. She confronted Candace instead, over a pot of Darjeeling tea and a plate of macaroons.

“Your brother is off to Kyoto with a woman from his department. Teahouses, he said, pagodas, bridges, gardens. It’s like a mystery, he claims, trying to locate Japanese artists who would have been contemporaries of Claude Monet. It all sounds very scholarly, but I’m being an idiot, right? Traveling with one woman alone. He’s telling me something without coming right out and telling me.”

Candace quietly munched and sipped. She agreed to do some detective work, find out what she could about Professor Strickland. “I’m the first one to condemn my brother,” Candace said. “But this could be for real. She could be eighty years old for all we know. I have a hard time believing he would go on vacation with anyone but you. All the way to Japan?”

“It’s not like him,” Marguerite said.

“Not like him at all,” Candace said. “His vacation is Nantucket. It’s you. The rest of the year is work, work, work. This trip is work.”

“Right,” Marguerite said.

The second part of the conversation took place in the middle of town. Candace called Marguerite from the Chamber and said, “I found out who she is. I’m coming to you.”