Secrets in Summer(18)

But now that he was here, next door, where she could hear him and see him, she was fascinated. Was he happy with Autumn? Did he allow clients to paw her while he got thoroughly drunk?

What was he doing on Nantucket, anyway? Had he broken away from his family?

Obviously, she would run into them one way or another. Nantucket was a small island, a small town. She couldn’t hide from them and she refused to change her life because of their presence. She made a plan, short and simple: When she met Boyz or Autumn on the street, Darcy would smile, say hello, and briskly walk away. She was busy, she had her own life, she had no desire to linger and chat.

And that was all she would allow herself to think about him, because she really was busy. She took a quick shower and dressed, spooned up some yogurt with fresh blueberries, and drank her coffee, idly scrolling on her cell phone for news and weather. She picked up her book bag and laptop, and left for work.

It was a wonderful day. The air smelled sweet, slightly scented with salt and sea. The bushes and flowers gleamed as if they’d been recently polished. Fair Street was a charming old lane, narrow, one-way, with historic houses separated from the brick sidewalks by small, complicated, cleverly planned gardens.

It was such a pleasure to walk past these houses. Some had clever door knockers or American flags flying above the doors. Some had window boxes spilling over with fresh-faced pansies. In one, next to a large blue and white vase, sat a Siamese cat, as still as a work of art, except for her turquoise eyes, which watched Darcy carefully as she passed.

As she turned on to Main Street, she saw shopkeepers arranging their window displays and preparing to open. It was breezy now, but the weather channels predicted a fine, clear, windless afternoon. Nantucket year-rounders were obsessed with the weather. June, July and August were the months when shopkeepers made the money that would support them through the winter. Cloudy, windy, and rainy days brought the most foot traffic into town because then people couldn’t go to the beach. But too many cloudy, windy days made everyone cranky. The beautiful golden beaches, the gentle surf, the warm sun was why people came. The beaches were all open to the public, free, and most of them had lifeguards. This was not the case on most beaches along the East Coast.

On mornings like this, the library was busy, too. Readers rushed in to stock up for the week. The office of the director of the Children’s Library where Beverly and Darcy worked was on the ground floor, in a small room tucked in next to the gallery. Later in the day, the gallery was the venue for story times, and Margery Trott taught wildly popular movement, dance, and yoga for children here as well. Darcy couldn’t get to her office without going through the gallery, so a couple of extra hours of quiet were worth gold in the summer.

Darcy imagined every librarian in the world enjoyed the same smug tingle when he or she inserted the key into the lock of a door that opened a closed library. It was sort of like opening a new book you’ve been longing to read. That anticipation. Darcy would also admit to a momentary rush of pride and satisfaction. She’d been trusted with the keys to the doors of this grand, historic library. Okay, three other people had, too, and their custodian was often here before or after the library opened and closed, but still. Still. She felt like some mythic superwoman who possessed the secrets to opening the treasure chest.

It was silent inside. From where Darcy stood, she could go up the stairs to the children’s library and cross the hall to the adult library, and she did that often. She sometimes even climbed the second flight of stairs to the Great Hall, just to be there, alone with all those books and computers and historic oil paintings and the secluded areas with fat comfy armchairs. A female figurehead from an old whaling ship stood in the corner of the small stage at the far end of the room. Sometimes a librarian dressed the figurehead in a Christmas stocking cap or a wreath of flowers.

Today Darcy headed right down the stairs to her office. The library’s basement, like many of the buildings in town, was half in, half above ground. It had its own entrance, and plenty of windows.

Light streamed in as Darcy woke her computer and scanned the various piles and folders on her desk. Summer was always crazy busy on the island, when their winter population of sixteen thousand exploded to sixty thousand. All the nonprofit organizations held at least one fabulous fundraising event—super-glam auctions for items donated by generous supporters held in four-star restaurants. Concerts by popular rock groups or classical musicians, depending on the taste of the benefactors. Nights of dining and dancing under the stars. Cocktail parties in the houses of the dazzlingly rich and famous. The island had just had its annual wine, book, and film festivals, each event with its own superstars to tempt the public to attend.