What a mess of a summer!
She knew from experience to force herself to do some kind of mindless household task when she was wallowing in self-pity, so she put a bandana around her head and worked in the garden, weeding and deadheading and watering. The day was hot, but her huge old trees cast shade on part of her yard, and she didn’t mind the heat, really, it felt cleansing somehow. At first she worried that something would happen in one of the adjoining gardens—Mimi would fall or Willow would meet Logan near the hedges or Otto would storm at his sons. But all she heard from her neighbors were a few voices and then slamming of car doors as the Brueckner family set off for the beach.
In the late afternoon, Darcy surveyed her kingdom with her hands on her hips and patted herself metaphorically on the back for a job well done. She put away her tools, stepped out of her gardening clogs, and took a long, blissful shower. It was always such an emotional lift, working hard physically all day and then bathing, massaging body lotion into her tanned limbs, slipping into her silk kimono, and feeling the healthy ache of well-used muscles. She poured herself a glass of wine and prepared a platter of treats—cheese, crackers, olives, sliced peppers, carrots, bluefish pâté, and smoked salmon—to munch while she curled on the sofa and read. Muffler sat on the back of the sofa, patting her face with one gentle paw, claws neatly tucked in, reminding her he also liked bluefish and salmon.
“What a pest you are,” Darcy said. She got up, put some salmon and bluefish pâté in his bowl, then went back to her book.
The book was a mystery, engaging and suspenseful, and she passed the lonely evening without trying to call Nash, without phoning Jordan to see if Nash had been at the beach, without crying. She was proud of herself, in a miserable sort of way.
PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre was about to begin when a knock came at her front door.
Nash! It had to be Nash. He’d missed her too much, he wanted to talk with her—
She almost tripped on her own feet to get to the front hall.
She yanked the door opened. Boyz stood there.
He wore shorts and a blue-checked shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, the pale blue of the shirt setting off his pale blue eyes.
“Darcy, could I come in? I need to talk to you.”
Darcy hesitated.
“Please?” He seemed earnest, not in game-playing mode. “It’s about Willow.”
“Willow? Is she okay?”
“Yes, but…” Now Boyz hesitated.
Darcy pulled the door wide. “Come in.”
She led him into the living room where the signs of her single life were laid out before him—the glass of wine with only an inch left to drink, the plate of munchies for one, the book lying on the sofa, its bookmark protruding like a small sign of someone’s overorganized, tidy, and lonely life.
Boyz chose a chair across from the book. Darcy returned to her place on the sofa. She waited, not speaking.
“You look good, Darcy,” Boyz began.
Darcy cut him off with a quick shake of her head. “No. Stop. You came here to talk about Willow. Right? What about Willow?”
Boyz smiled charmingly and nodded in agreement. “Of course. Willow. The thing is, she’s gotten very attached to you over the summer. You must be aware of that.”
Darcy nodded, and her posture softened. “I’m fond of her. She’s a special girl.”
“Autumn and I are grateful to you for all you’ve done, taking her under your wing, getting her involved with the library, with story time, with your friends. You have been incredibly kind.”
“It hasn’t been kindness, Boyz. Willow is a wonderful young woman. She’s bright and funny and generous. You and Autumn should be proud.”
The Nantucket newspaper, the Inquirer and Mirror, lay on the coffee table, neatly folded. Boyz gestured to it. “We saw Logan Smith’s name in the recent court report. He was caught dealing drugs.”
“Yes. I saw that.”
“This is such a worrisome time in our lives. I mean, Willow is a teenager, and although you have so marvelously averted what could have been a tragedy with Logan Smith and his heroin, well, we’re aware that similar situations are waiting for her everywhere back in Boston.”
“All parents of teenagers face that possibility,” Darcy told him. “I’m sure there are many support groups in Boston. I know there are—”
Boyz chuckled, looking satisfied, as if he’d caught Darcy in a familiar embarrassing act. “Books, right? You were going to advise me to read some books.”
He’d pushed her buttons—the same ones he had manipulated when they were married, subtly disparaging her work and her passion for reading. For one quick moment, Darcy felt anger shoot up in her chest, and she almost let it take her over. But she breathed deeply, sat back on the sofa, and let her anger evaporate.