Darcy stirred in his arms. “Don’t go.”
“Have to.”
He pulled on his board shorts and T-shirt. They rose, kissed lightly, and Nash went out the door. Darcy showered and creamed her face and limbs with lotion. Her skin glowed from the sun, her mouth was tender from kissing.
In the T-shirt she wore to sleep in, she watched Grantchester.
James Norton was gorgeous, but he couldn’t hold a candle to Nash. Darcy’s thoughts veered over to Nash, who had the same kind of restrained, gentle manner the television vicar had.
The episode ended. She went through the house turning off lights and locking doors, finally climbing the stairs and entering her bedroom. She slipped between the cool sheets of her bed, stretching out with a sigh.
It would be nice to have Nash in bed with her now. Just to talk with about their days, their plans for this week, and then to drift off, feeling his warm male body next to hers. She rolled on her side, placing her hand on the spot where he had slept several times before, and fell asleep.
—
Mondays were Darcy’s day for accomplishing all the chores she was too busy the rest of the week to do. Cleaning the house. Shopping for groceries—always a hellish task because their main grocery store, Stop & Shop, went from supplying sixteen thousand people in the winter to sixty thousand summer shoppers. Putting away the groceries and tidying the kitchen. Stripping her bed, putting on clean sheets, tossing sheets and towels in the washer. Vacuuming the sand she’d trekked in from the beach yesterday.
After all that, she sat down at her computer and answered emails from friends, cruised Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. She ironed some cotton shirts and a few gauzy scarves to wear during the week. She made a casserole that would last the week or serve Nash if he came for dinner. She talked to him on the phone—he couldn’t come, it was a day of long light, perfect for finishing the widow’s walk his crew was working on. He might not see her until the weekend. Darcy called Missy Linsley, the other single woman in their crowd. They walked to Cru, the restaurant at the end of Straight Wharf, for French pilgrim cocktails and roasted Nantucket oysters. They enjoyed an intimate gossip fest about their crowd that left them weak from laughter as they watched the sailors come in and the sun slant over the harbor.
—
The next day Darcy worked. Her desk was piled with seven thousand matters needing to be taken care of right now. She answered the phone seventeen times; she opened and organized the mail. At one, the director of the children’s library closed the door to the office and they ate their abbreviated lunch of yogurt while they went over the schedule for the week. When Beverly rushed off to a meeting, Darcy stationed herself at the computer and began ordering the new books from a list they’d compiled.
At the end of the day, Darcy changed into her Speedo, pulled on her street clothes, and went out into the day, heading for Jetties Beach. It was after five, so it wouldn’t be crowded. She needed a calm, cooling swim before heading home. The tide was in, so she didn’t have to wade far before arriving at water deep enough for swimming. She did the breaststroke for a long time, loving the surge of her body, the way the water’s swells washed her mind clean. When she tired, she flipped over and floated as the sun warmed her face. This was the perfect relaxation therapy. All thoughts dissipated into the salt air.
Back on shore, she dried herself as well as she could, pulled her clothes over her damp bathing suit, and took a moment to comb her hair. Not far from her, a boy and girl lay together on a blanket, kissing and whispering and giggling. She thought of Willow. She had to remember that was not her business.
She ambled home, smiling at the people she passed, swinging her book bag, humming a children’s song. Inside, she poured a glass of wine and zapped leftovers from the picnic in the microwave, put it all on a tray, and carried it out to her garden. It was six thirty and the sun was still high in the sky. Birds sang from high in the trees. Over at the Brueckners’, the three boys were playing in the sprinkler, screaming with glee.
Nash called. She curled up on her sofa and they talked about their day. It was so comforting to hear his voice, to make him laugh, to soften her own voice and flirt over the phone.
—
Gradually the island filled with people rushing to escape the heat of the mainland, walk the golden beaches, swim in the ocean, and shop in the marvelous boutiques. Darcy did two story times a day, answered emails, attended staff meetings, and cataloged the new books. Most books were cataloged on the mainland by CLAMS, aka the appropriately named Cape Libraries Automated Materials Sharing, and arrived on the island ready to shelve, but there were always exceptions, especially with self-published children’s books. When a staff member had an emergency, Darcy took over the circulation desk upstairs, and she dutifully and happily attended the necessary posh gala fundraisers. It was good to wear a gorgeous dress and lots of bling and mingle with the beautiful people while waiters offered her champagne and scallops wrapped in bacon. She saw people she hadn’t seen for nine months and caught up on their news—who was pregnant, who had broken a leg skiing, who had bought a villa in Tuscany.