Nash’s low mellow voice: “Hey, Darcy, I’m still at the site. We’re going to take advantage of the light and work until eight, so, as much as I’d like to, I’m not going to stop by for a drink tonight. I’ll go home, hit the shower, eat a microwaved something, and go to bed. Hope you had a good day.”
Jordan was next. “Darcy, a bunch of us are going out to Cisco this Sunday for an all-day picnic. Want to come and bring Nash? And a potluck something? Let me know. Kisses from Kiks and from me, too.”
The rest were junk calls from telemarketers. Darcy erased them.
Outside, the sun was sinking, turning the sky into a Crayola box of colors. She was hungry, but she didn’t feel like cooking, so she carried her wine and a bowl of mixed nuts out to her garden. It was still, no breeze ruffling the leaves, and no voices from any side of her hedges. She strolled around the perimeter, studying the flowers. Her Knock Out rosebush needed to be deadheaded, but she could do that tomorrow morning before she set off for the library. For now, she put the nuts and her wine on the patio table and sank onto her lounger and let her head fall back. It was quiet, the only sound the twittering of the birds high up in the trees. She allowed herself to relax, go limp, and breathe deeply. For a few moments she sort of blurred into the past. It was as if Penny were just out of sight at the other end of the garden, humming as she cut back the pansies and violets so new blooms would come. Darcy wanted to be a grandmother someday. If she could still be here, in this house, and she had her own granddaughter visiting…that would be heaven on earth.
She dozed a while and woke to find that darkness had fallen. Somehow a short nap outside was twice as refreshing as any sleep inside. Muffler had joined her and was curled in a silky fat ball of black fur on Darcy’s legs. For a while, she gazed at the sky, spotting Venus and several constellations. From the three houses around her—Mimi’s, Boyz’s, and Susan’s—golden lights beamed. Occasionally people would flicker past or voices would drift from the windows. Her stomach growled. She decided to make herself a scrambled egg sandwich.
“Come on, old friend,” she said to her cat. “Let’s go in.”
Muffler stretched and yawned, making it clear that he’d go when he got good and ready. Darcy stroked his satiny head and moved her legs. He jumped lithely to his feet and they went into the house for the night.
6
Thursday evening after a light dinner, Darcy walked to St. Paul’s Church, a handsome stone building only a few blocks from her home. The Women’s Chorus of Nantucket was having its rehearsal there tonight. Usually the concerts were only twice a year, once at Christmas, once at Easter, but this year a notable and cherished woman “had gone aloft” and the women wanted to perform a tribute to her when the year-rounders and the summer people who knew her could attend. The Women’s Chorus was not a professional group, but for amateurs they were pretty good. They were not performing for a month, but summer schedules were so wacky for everyone, they had to meet when everyone could.
Their indomitable leader, Beth O’Malley, had chosen songs that reflected the passion of Sylvia Marks, islander, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and ardent birder. She led the Sunday morning bird walks for twenty-five years, wrote a book on the birds of Nantucket complete with her notes and photos, and inspired generations of young and old to appreciate the mysterious creatures that flew around the island. So the program consisted of songs about birds, especially songs that they knew Sylvia would enjoy. “Blackbird” by the Beatles, “Yellow Bird” by Chris Isaak, and “Rockin’ Robin” by Bobby Day were in pretty good shape. Today they concentrated on an old dreamy favorite, “Skylark,” written by Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael in 1941, and performed by singers from Ella Fitzgerald to k.d. lang. It sounded best when it was smooth, silky, languorous, and as a group, they hadn’t achieved anything near smooth. Beth was wondering if this should be sung as a solo, and she was hinting that she wanted Darcy to be the soloist. Darcy hinted back: No way.
Rehearsal lasted about an hour and it was a tribute to how much they revered Sylvia that they all were willing to take an hour or two out of the gorgeous summer evening. The moment Beth said, “That’s all for tonight, ladies, and thank you,” at least half the group rocketed off, back to their families and friends. The rest filed out quickly. Beth cornered Darcy.
“You can do this solo, I know you can, Darcy. You’re the only one who can.”
“I’d faint from nervousness, Beth. I’m fine with the group.”