The Girls of Tonsil Lake (13 page)

Vin didn’t miss a beat. “Andie, you’re such a bitch.”

Jean

Sometimes I am so ridiculous. I didn’t want David to come to my book-signing at the island store, but when he said he couldn’t come to Maine this weekend, it hurt my feelings.

We haven’t seen each other for two weeks, although I’ve written him four letters and he’s written me two and we’ve talked every day. We haven’t been apart for this long since his early days with the company, when his superiors thought nothing of sending him away for weeks on end.

It’s so different being apart now than it was then. I can remember preparing his favorite dinner no matter what time his flight was due in, sending the kids to Andie’s or Suzanne’s for the night, and meeting him at the door in something sexy. Although I never wrapped myself in plastic wrap or aluminum foil the way I’ve read about, I wore about everything else. I’d fly into his arms like a love-starved woman—which I was—and we’d invariably have a long evening of good food and even better sex.

I don’t think I’d fly into his arms now, though a part of me would be very glad to see him. I’m ready for some sex, and he’s the only one I want to have it with, but there’s no sense of urgency.

It’s as though this sojourn has given me a look inside myself, a closer look than I’ve ever taken, and what I’ve seen is a murky impression of David’s wife, the kids’ mother and grandmother, and the strong one of the Tonsil Lake girls. Surely there is more to me than that.

It was David’s wife who always flew into his arms when he came home, near tears with the relief of having him back. I think Jean stood back a little, wondering if he was really glad to be home, wondering if he’d been unfaithful again and terrified of finding out, wondering what she would do if she ever didn’t have him.

Here on the island, I am Jean. I am going to a book-signing this afternoon in a gauzy white dress that feels heavenly, with silver and blue jewelry that is warm against my skin, and as scared to death as I was the first time. But now I am scared for myself, not that I will disappoint or embarrass anyone else.

My kids went through a time in junior high school when they were very uncomfortable with what I did. They didn’t want to answer the leering questions about how their mother researched love scenes or did she pose for those lurid book covers. I told them just to tell everyone she didn’t do anything different; she stayed home and kept house and drove in carpools, and that is what they did.

At a dinner party once, I learned that none of David’s associates knew about the books when I mentioned one in passing. After they knew, they were curious—respectfully so at that—but I demurred talking about it. I’d seen the look in David’s blue eyes and knew the pride he’d professed to have in me was only lip service. He’d been ashamed to tell his friends what I did.

That left one of those scars that never completely heal over.

But today, walking by myself on the path that leads to the island village, I will not think about that. I will not care about it. I am going to sign the books I have put my heart and soul into writing.

Because that’s who I am. Jean O’Toole, romance novelist.

Vin

“What if we’ve done the wrong thing?” I stood with my hand on the ornate handle of the bookstore door. “What if she never talks to us again? What if this makes her stomach worse?”

Andie shrugged. “We’ll tell her it was all my fault. She expects such things of me and, besides, I owe her one for sending you that damned book.”

“We won’t find out any younger.” Suzanne opened the door.

It was a madhouse. Islanders and tourists were all over the bookstore and spilling into the coffee bar next door.

“Oh, Vin, isn’t this wonderful?” Meg inched around a cluster of customers to greet us. “She’s so gracious, and we’ve already sold out of every book of hers in the store, including the ones I special ordered. She’s up there signing bookmarks, bookplates, and napkins from the coffee bar. Plus, she’s recommending all kinds of books to everyone and they’re buying them. The flowers you sent are just beautiful. The people from the
Voice
are here now.”

“She sold out?” asked a male voice.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry. But she’ll sign a bookplate for you.” Meg beamed past my shoulder and I exchanged grins with Andie and Suzanne.

“That’s okay.” He walked past us. “I have a copy already.”

We followed, skulking along in his wake. Jean was talking to the reporter, her face and voice animated. I was so happy for her I could feel tears burning at the backs of my eyes. I heard Suzanne sniff behind me and knew I wasn’t alone in that.

The man in front of us spoke. “Excuse me. Could I get this signed?”

Jean’s cry of “David!” brought the whole store to a standstill.

A moment later, the
Voice
photographer was snapping pictures of the most passionate reunion the island had seen since the end of the Vietnam War, when Lucas’s brother Zeke had come home minus one eye. His eighteen-year-old wife had met him at the wharf.

“This is our boat that you’ve bought for us,” Maggie told him. “It will support our family and it’s a good place for a second honeymoon, especially since you shipped out before we got to have a first.”

Zeke swept his bride into his arms and carried her onto the boat. The picture still hangs in various places on the Island, including Lucas’s office.

Once they figured out this was another happy occasion, the occupants of the store burst into applause, and we joined them.

I felt an arm come around my waist and looked up at Lucas. “If that’s not her husband,” he murmured in my ear, the vibration of his voice tickling, “the island’s got the biggest soap opera on its hands since that one filmed a storyline here in the eighties. We all came to a standstill at one o’clock every day to watch it.”

I laughed. “No such luck, he’s her husband. For almost thirty years. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

The men shook hands, but David kept his arm around Jean the whole time.

“I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it this weekend,” said Lucas.

“No, I wasn’t coming because Jeannie never wants me to come to her signings. Then Andie gets on the phone and says”—he raised his voice into a falsetto—“‘Jesus Christ, David, when are you going to stop listening to what she says and listen to what she means?’ After that, I knew I was in trouble no matter what I did, so I figured I’d rather be in trouble with Jean than without her.” He brushed a kiss over the top of her head.

Jean gave the three of us a mock threatening look. “I thought I told you not to come, either.”

“It was Andie’s fault,” said Suzanne instantly.

“She made us do it,” I added, sounding as righteous as I could.

“Well, to punish you, I’ll cook dinner,” said Jean, “even though it’s not my night.”

We all beamed at each other, and I’m sure my expression was as self-congratulatory as Andie’s and Suzanne’s. This was our Jean. The nurturer had only needed her self-confidence restored a bit.

“After this, the star’s going to cook?” Lucas looked around at the people still milling throughout the store. “Doesn’t sound right to me. How about if everyone comes over to my house about six and we’ll have lobster?”

He didn’t understand; the star
wanted
to cook.

Then I looked at Jean’s face. No, she didn’t, and who did we think we were? I could feel my cheeks burning.
Jesus Christ, when are you going to stop listening to what she says and listen to what she means?

“That sounds great,” said David. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Sure can. You can walk right down to the market with me and help me choose the screamers. You any good on the grill? We could do some steaks, too. Have us a real saint-and-sinner supper. We can buy salads from the deli and put them onto real dishes, and no one will know we didn’t slave all afternoon over them.”

David’s smile went from Jean around to the three of us. “Work for you?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “We’ll bring the wine and the scintillating company. Will that do?”

“Perfect,” said Lucas.

We watched shamelessly as David and Jean exchanged a lingering kiss. Then the men left the store.

“I don’t know about this,” said Suzanne.

Andie frowned at her. “Don’t know about what?”

“Jean and Vin both have dates. Back in high school, we wouldn’t have dreamed of encroaching on their privacy. We’d have sat at home and been afraid our social lives were over forever.” She sounded so serious, then her shadowed brown eyes lit with laughter and she grinned at Jean and me. “Too bad for you two we’re not in high school anymore.”

Chapter Eight

Andie

We were all going to wear dresses we’d bought on the island, shapeless floaty things that were slit thigh-high on the sides. We were quiet as we got ready, and I wondered if our slumber party atmosphere had ended with David’s arrival. Even though I’d teased Suzanne about it, I’d loved it, too, that camaraderie that seems to exist only between women.

But now David was here. He would sleep in Jean’s room tonight, so none of us could barge in and sit on her bed to talk or borrow clothes because she was the only one who kept up with her laundry.

In the morning, would he suggest that Jean go home with him? Would she go? It would still be fun with only the three of us, but not the same. We would miss her steadying presence, her unexpectedly wicked sense of humor, the tapping of her fingertips on her laptop at all times of the day and night.

We would miss her cooking, too—her meals were the only palatable ones we ate here in the house—but that didn’t matter. I hoped she knew that didn’t matter.

We met in the kitchen in varying stages of readiness. Suzanne was pulling her hair into a high, sideways ponytail and I was still looking for the thongs that protected my feet from the rocks on the paths when Jean said, “Oh, poop, we forgot.”

Vin looked up from where she was kneeling before the wine rack. “Forgot what?”

“The question of the day. We haven’t had it. Whose turn is it?”

“Mine.” Vin was still for a moment, her hand on the edge of the counter for balance. Finally, she straightened, bringing two bottles of wine up with her. She turned so that her eyes met ours in turn. “Do you think people actually get second chances, or do you think if your first chance runs out you’re just out of luck?”

We all had to think about that one. Suzanne braided her ponytail then combed it loose with her fingers. Jean lay on the kitchen floor with her hands behind her head and did crunches in brand new white eyelet underwear from a boutique on the island. I counted for her.

“I think we all get second chances,” said Suzanne. “And thirds and fourths, if that’s what it takes. What we do with those chances”—her laugh was soft and self-deprecating—“that’s another story altogether.” For a moment, she looked sad, her pink-tipped fingers flashing as she braided her ponytail again. “And you just keep hoping and praying you have one more. That’s all you can do.”

“I don’t know,” said Jean, coming to a panting stop. “Sometimes I think you have only one, but different people’s chances come at different times. I don’t believe a chance ends because something bad happens…because you get a crummy deal. You just have to hold your cards close to the vest sometimes and play conservatively until the luck of the draw comes your way again.” She frowned and I could tell she wasn’t completely happy with what she’d said. “But you have to work hard at the game. You can’t just wait for the good cards; you have to look for them.”

“Andie?” said Vin.

I looked down at my chest, at Jean’s too-thin face, and thought of Paul and Jake, and said, “Yes, I believe in second chances.”

Vin smiled, and there was a lightness in the expression that made her appear younger, almost happy again. “I do, too.”

Jean

The men had laid a fire on the beach. After we all ate far too much steak, lobster, rice, salad, and cake, we walked down to the ring of stones surrounded by folded blankets and unopened bags of marshmallows.

David and I left for a walk almost immediately, a blanket tossed over his shoulder.

“It’s nice here,” he said, looking around in the star-studded darkness. “You won’t want to come home.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I gave him a teasing look. “You’re still going to be there, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

When we’d gained enough distance from the others that we could no longer hear the words in their voices, we moved to a grassy, protected area and spread the blanket.

I sat down, arranging the fluttery skirt of my dress. “Do you want me to come home now?”

David lay on his back and pulled me down on top of him, not at all concerned about my dress, unless it was with how he was going to get it off of me. “No.”

His hands were moving, gliding, finding all the places he knew so well. Did I mention a lack of urgency earlier? I lied.

“No?” I spoke between kisses, my voice hitching in my throat.

“No.”

Then I couldn’t think any more for a while. Although there are many things about being fifty-one that aren’t as good as they were ten, twenty, and thirty years ago, sex isn’t one of them. It deserved all of my attention and I was glad to give it.

It was only when we lay sated and sweating, my head in its accustomed place on his shoulder, that I said again, “No?”

“When I retired,” he said, “I thought I couldn’t wait. Remember how we’d planned for it all those years before? And we did the things we intended, I guess. We’ve traveled a little, made plans to travel more, and God knows I’ve played golf.”

He sighed, his fingers stroking up and down my arm. “We got Kelly married and the nest emptied except for the boxes of dolls, trophies, and baseball gloves in the attic.”

His fingers continued up and down in a light, sweet caress that made me turn my lips to his shoulder. I loved this man so.

“And I hate it,” he went on heavily.

I stopped all movement, gazing up at him in the starlight.

“I hate not having a purpose when I get up in the morning. The only thing in my entire life that’s still okay is you. There with coffee first thing in the morning; there at your computer when I come in from outside or, up for air from the television; there for the kids when they need something.” He leered at me and squeezed my shoulder. “There for the best imaginable sex and some we couldn’t have imagined twenty years ago.”