Secrets in Summer(49)

There it was, Darcy thought, the door to Nash opening an inch and quickly closing.

She didn’t press him. They sat together in silence. Darcy was exhausted from worrying about it all—what Nash would think about Boyz being on the island and so near. And she thought that in a way, they had almost had their first argument.

Nash pulled away. “I’ve got to go home and get some sleep. I almost fell asleep right now. Fresh air and construction work, a sure cure for insomnia.”

Darcy walked him to the door and lightly kissed him goodbye. She had thought she was telling Nash about her and Boyz, yet in a way, she and Nash had learned something new about each other.

—

Darcy was out in her garden the next morning, weeding around the foxgloves and humming as she worked. She had to leave for the library, but she’d risen early, dressing and spinning through her morning chores as happily as Cinderella with birds on her wrists.

“Alfred, go back and get your flip-flops.” Otto Brueckner’s voice was pleasant but firm.

“But I don’t need them on the beach,” the boy protested.

“Maybe you’ll need them if we go into a restaurant for an ice cream sundae,” Otto said, his voice coaxing and kind.

Darcy sat back on her knees and shamelessly listened. She couldn’t help overhearing the sounds of the doors slamming on the car, the giggles of the children, and Susan calling, “I’ve got the picnic basket and the towels. I think we’re ready.”

They were a happy family, Darcy decided, and the meetings between Otto and Autumn were simply her imagination embroidering events that had never taken place. Neighbors did talk to each other, after all. Look at her and Mimi. Look at her and Clive. Okay, maybe she and Clive were not the best example. Still, as she gathered her gardening tools and kicked the dirt off her clogs, she vowed she would stop making something out of nothing, spinning drama from normal life. Obviously she read too many books.

Maybe she was exaggerating what she had with Nash, too. If her marriage to Boyz had taught her anything, it was how easily she adorned reality with her dreams. From that first dramatic kiss in front of the restaurant, when Boyz had swept her down in his arms as if they were stars in a movie, Darcy had let her imagination run wild—and how could she not when Boyz and his family were so beautiful, so captivating? How fortunate she was to have a grandmother who’d left her a house on the island; how lucky she was to have a job at the library, doing work she loved. But life was full of ups and downs, twists and turns, shocks and sins and loss and disappointments. She knew that from experience.

She showered and dressed, twisting her long dark hair into a figure eight at the back of her head, securing it with a long, jewel-headed pin. She chose to wear a plain white shirt with a mandarin collar with her flowered skirt today, and succeeded, she thought, in looking professional, chaste, and even slightly severe.

Good. She was going to be in Perfect Darcy mode today, something she did occasionally. She would eat nothing, drink only kale and spinach smoothies, which she did when she’d been eating and drinking too much. In her Perfect Darcy mode, she moved more slowly; forced herself to take one deep breath before saying anything to anyone; and focused on the work she had to do, refusing to let her thoughts wander. As she walked to work, she reminded herself she was stepping on the same brick sidewalks and crossing the very same cobblestone streets as Maria Mitchell, who had discovered a comet by looking through a telescope on her house on this island. A Quaker, Maria Mitchell became the first librarian of the Nantucket Atheneum where Darcy now worked, and later she taught astronomy at Vassar. In 1842, Maria Mitchell stopped wearing clothes made of cotton in a protest against slavery. She was a woman of principle and dignity. Compared to her, Darcy was a lightweight, daydreaming about Nash when she should be concentrating on her work. Well, today she was going to concentrate. She would finish the filing. She would be infinitely patient with the children during story hour—no, she would be enchanting.

She went through her day exactly as planned. In the afternoon, she weeded the collection, one of the most difficult jobs in the library. She had to find books that hadn’t been checked out for months, or books that were torn or stained beyond hope, and put them aside for the book sale. A time-consuming job, it demanded that she concentrate, and she was surprised when five o’clock came and it was time for her to leave.

She didn’t stop at any of the restaurants for one of their yummy carryouts. No, she was still in Perfect Darcy mode. She would prepare her own meal, using leftovers from her refrigerator. And while she ate, she would read the biography of Benjamin Franklin that had sat on her bedside table, ignored for weeks. No fast-plotted thrillers tonight, no entertaining family saga. History. Because she should.