How did people manage to stay faithful to one person all their lives? Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the seat and contemplated the lives of her summer neighbors. Mimi was widowed. Clive was divorced, and happily divorced, it seemed. Boyz was divorced and married to Autumn who had been divorced. Willow was not Boyz’s daughter. Autumn clearly enjoyed flirting with and having sex with other men, yet even after Boyz found out, even after he knew there was a chance Autumn was pregnant with another man’s child, Boyz loved Autumn. He stayed with her. Well, Boyz had also propositioned Darcy. Only those two knew the rules of their relationship. Otto was clearly unfaithful to Susan; and if Susan knew, she seemed too overwhelmed to care. Was that the cure for giving a damn about your mate’s infidelities—simple exhaustion?
Well, Darcy was simply exhausted now, exhausted and despairing. She put the key in the ignition and drove back to her home. Her home, where she lived alone, with a cat.
23
When her alarm clock chirped on Tuesday morning, Darcy automatically shut it off and forced herself from her bed. She was exhausted, listless, even after having a day off. But she wasn’t going to call in sick and lie around all day in a puddle of self-pity. She would put on a bright summer dress and go to her second home and be around books and people who loved books.
She almost changed her mind when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a one-hundred-year-old woman. Make that a one-hundred-year-old troll. She hadn’t really slept for the past two nights. She’d spent yesterday watching romantic movies while she ate Cheetos and ice cream. She hadn’t combed her hair or brushed her teeth yesterday and Sunday night’s mascara and eyeliner had migrated to different sections of her face, most of it ending up in bizarre patterns just below her eyes. Her hair was limp.
“Gawd,” she said to herself in the mirror. “Aren’t you a treat for the eyes.”
She trudged around the house, feeling slightly hungover, but she hadn’t drunk alcohol, so this was an emotional hangover, not easily cured with aspirin and ginger ale. Darcy made herself a cup of strong coffee and carried it back to the bathroom. She took a long shower. After that, she was almost her normal self, except for the sadness that had lodged itself in her center like a heavy stone.
Nash.
So quickly he had moved on. As if it had been only lust and fun between him and Darcy. As if she were so replaceable.
“Stop it!” she ordered herself.
Muffler meowed stridently in return.
“You’re right,” she told the cat. “It’s you and me, babe.”
She stepped into her prettiest, pinkest, girly-girlest dress and brushed her hair thoroughly and tied it back with a pink grosgrain ribbon. At work, she forced herself to hum show tunes as she tapped away at the computer, and when one of the librarians impulsively invited her to go to Fog Island for lunch, she agreed. The sunny, windless day was perfect for the beach, which meant Darcy and Monica got a table without waiting in line. Monica was a second-generation native, meaning her parents had been born on the island, so she knew all sorts of hometown gossip, and, more than that, she knew who was voting for what on the special town warrant coming out in October. Darcy listened, laughing, for Monica had a salty way of expressing herself. As they walked back to the library, Darcy emotionally recharged and reconnected to the island. Her island.
After work, she pulled on her Speedo and walked down to the Jetties for a long, lazy swim. Floating idly, she heard the ferries’ horns as they entered and exited the harbor. She heard children laughing and smelled hot dogs and hamburgers from the concession stand. Wading back in the shallows of the beach, she saw three brightly colored beach umbrellas, like a painting of a summer paradise. Painted in watercolor, of course, she joked to herself.
By the time she walked home, she was nicely tired out, ready for a drink and a shower and later a book and maybe a long talk with Jordan. Jordan might have wonderful news, like news that Kate was a traveling nurse just transferred to Seattle. Darcy smiled at herself, but all day long she had been covering her sadness with a gloss of pretend happiness, and she was drained by the effort.
She entered her house, kicked off her shoes, and walked barefoot into the kitchen. On the counter, the answering machine for her landline blinked. She couldn’t hold it back—her heart leaped with hope.
She hit the play button. “You have one message. Message one.”
“Darcy. Could I stop by after work? Around eight?”
Darcy froze. Nash’s voice. She replayed the message, staring down at her small electronic messenger with her hands clasped at her breast like a silly Victorian maiden gazing at a valentine.