“Oh,” she said. They looked at each other. Jem had blue eyes that matched his shirt. He was ridiculously, absurdly handsome, and Maribel looked into his blue eyes until it was like too much chocolate cake, and she knew looking another second wouldn’t be good for her. She shifted her gaze.
“I can give you the nickel tour of the place from right here,” she said. “Kitchen, dining room, living room. The powder room is this door here and then the bedroom.” Maribel paused after the word “bedroom.”
“It’s nice,” Jem said. “I rent a room in some old house. I’d kill for my own kitchen.”
“I made some munchies,” Maribel said. “Let’s sit down.”
“Okay,” Jem said. He bounced on the balls of his feet and rubbed his hands together. “Want to open the wine? I could use a drink. I have to tell you, I’m a little nervous.”
“Nervous?” Maribel said. “About what?”
“Not about what you think,” Jem said.
“What do I think?”
“I’m not worried that Mack is going to come home and find me here.”
“Good,” Maribel said. She knew Mack wouldn’t show up before ten-thirty or eleven, even though right now a part of her wanted him to.
“I’m nervous just being around you,” Jem said. “I want everything to go right. That day at the beach…”
“The day at the beach was lovely,” Maribel said. She took the mushroom caps stuffed with Boursin cheese out of the oven and moved them onto a platter with a spatula.
“It was better than lovely,” Jem said. “It changed my whole view of the island. Before that day, I hated it here. But after that day, things got a lot better. It was weird, the way that happened, like you have magic powers.”
Maribel took the shrimp cocktail out of the fridge. “I wish,” she said. She almost added, If I did, I’d start by using them on Mack. She handed the shrimp to Jem. “You can take these to the coffee table. We’ll sit on the sofa.”
They arranged the food on the coffee table and Jem poured the wine. Maribel lifted her glass.
“Cheers,” she said. “Here’s to being nervous.”
They sipped their wine. “Really nervous,” Jem said.
“Eat something,” Maribel said. “You’ll feel better.”
Jem picked up a peachy pink shrimp and dragged it through the cocktail sauce. Maribel watched the muscles in his jaw working as he chewed.
“Delicious,” he said. He sampled a few mushrooms.
“How old are you?” Maribel asked.
“Twenty-three,” he said. “I’m basically still a work in progress.”
“There’s no better place to be a work in progress than Nantucket.”
“I guess,” Jem said, “but I feel like I’m just biding my time here. I feel like this is a resting point for me before my real life begins.”
“Your real life?”
“California,” Jem said. “I can’t be your beach agent forever, you know.” He drained his glass of wine and fell back into the cushions of the sofa. “I’m leaving for the West Coast in the fall. You should come with me.” He picked up Maribel’s hand and kissed her palm.
Maribel closed her eyes, thinking, How refreshing, a man who’s not afraid to admit he’s nervous, not afraid of being a work in progress, not afraid to commit.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I want you to come with me.”
Maribel gently reclaimed her hand. “I hardly even know you, Jem.”
“We can fix that,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything. My father owns a bar, my mother stays at home, and my sister is a whacko with an eating disorder. I graduated from college with a three-point-one GPA, and I was Theta Chi. I played lacrosse in high school. I love going to the movies. And you know who you remind me of? Meg Ryan. I thought that the first time I saw you.”
“Thanks,” Maribel said. “I guess.”
“When I was six years old, my parents belonged to a swim club. One day my sister and I were sitting on the edge of the pool while my parents did laps and when they were both at the other end of the pool, I pushed my sister in. She was only three or four at the time, and she sank to the bottom like a lead weight.”
“Oh, God,” Maribel said.
“A lifeguard noticed Gwennie and he saved her. Nobody ever knew I pushed her, they thought she fell. And Gwennie was too young to understand. Except when she went to therapy for her bulimia, she told the shrink I pushed her.”
“But they don’t think that caused her bulimia?” Maribel asked.
“It made me feel pretty bad anyway,” he said. “But relieved, too, you know, because for a lot of years I was the only one who knew I almost drowned my sister. The worst thing I’ve ever done, by far. So now you know that about me. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Maribel frowned. She thought about getting drunk in high school, a white mouse she bought at a pet store and took to a slumber party to put in Ursula Cavanaugh’s sleeping bag, cohabiting with Mack. This, her sinner with Jem.
“I guess the worst thing I’ve done isn’t something I’ve done, it’s something I’ve felt.” She thought of Tina, who would be sacked out in front of The X Files by now. “There are times when I’m ashamed of my mother.”
“Oh,” Jem said. “Uh-oh.”
“My mother was never married. She was a hippie, I guess, and she had sex with some guy she didn’t know and never saw again and I was born.”
“Wow,” Jem said. His eyebrows shot up. “And she never remarried or anything?”
“She dated some, when I was younger, but there was no one serious and then she lost interest and gave up.” Maribel sipped her wine. “She works in a calendar factory. A Christian calendar factory.”
“Does she like it?” Jem asked.
“Yeah,” Maribel said, “she does. She’s in charge there. But it’s not exactly the life she dreamed up for herself and it’s not any kind of life I would want. She lives her life through me, she has all these hopes for me.”
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jem said.
“I just wish she wanted something for herself,” Maribel said. “But she doesn’t. And that makes me angry, and even embarrassed. I feel like such a bad daughter, but I can’t help it. Every once in a while, I think, This woman cannot be my mother.”
“I feel that way about my sister sometimes,” Jem said. “My parents say my sister is giving us all lessons in love and acceptance.”
“I need some of those lessons,” Maribel said.
“We all do,” Jem said. He kissed her hand again.
Dinner was grilled salmon, cold herbed potato salad, some greens dressed with balsamic vinegar. They finished the bottle of wine and Maribel pulled out chocolate mousse, and one of Mack’s beers for Jem. He was telling her stories about the Beach Club. For years, Maribel had been hearing stories about the Beach Club and never once had she enjoyed them. Mack took his job at the hotel so seriously that Maribel hadn’t realized what a funny place it could be.
“There’s one guest, Mr. Feeney,” Jem said, “and he’s staying at the hotel for a week. Every day Mr. Feeney calls the front desk to complain about his toilet.”
Maribel giggled. “His toilet?”
Jem took a swallow of beer. “His toilet.” He burped. “Excuse me. So anyway, Mr. Feeney calls up every day. The tank’s not filling quickly enough, it’s making noises that keep him and the missus up at night, every day something different. So each morning I check it out, jiggle the handle, not knowing what I’m doing, but Mr. Feeney doesn’t realize that. He’s crowding into the bathroom with me, just so damn pleased that someone is taking his toilet problems seriously. And I want to say to him, ‘Mr. Feeney, you might enjoy your vacation more if you stopped worrying about your toilet and started sitting with your wife on the beach, dabble your feet into the ocean, enjoy the salt air.’ But around the fourth day or so, I realize something very profound. You know what that is?”