The front door opened and a child of eight or so came out, ran down the steps, and grabbed his bike from where it lay on the lawn before speeding off toward the center of town. Afraid she’d be caught craning her neck like a nosy neighbor, Maggie set off toward the end of the street.
When she was growing up, June and Jerry Gribbin had lived directly next door, a childless couple who decorated their home for every holiday. Mr. Gribbin had taught music at the academy, and Mrs. Gribbin had given piano lessons in their front parlor. While Maggie hadn’t wanted to play the piano—Sarah had—she’d secretly loved hearing the music floating through the open parlor windows, and she’d fallen asleep many nights to the sound of “Für Elise” or songs her sister identified for her, Mozart’s “Fantasia” in D minor and Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
Maggie wondered who lived there now and if there was still a baby grand piano in the parlor.
Two houses past the Gribbins’, Cottage Street came to an abrupt end and gave way to gravel that served as the parking lot for the beach. It had always been strictly “swim at your own risk”—which of course everyone did—but now Maggie noticed there was a lifeguard stand at the exact midpoint of the beach. She slipped off her shoes and walked through the coarse, pebbly sand for a closer look. She dropped her shoes and bag near the base, then climbed up to the lifeguard’s seat. She sat leaning forward, resting her arms on her thighs, gusts of sea air blowing her hair across her face. At low tide, the harbor was calm, the whitecaps that flowed onto the shore languid, almost timid, though she knew the right circumstances could bring waves that flung angrily onto the beach and withdrew in a huffy snit. But today it was lovely, the sky a perfect early-autumn blue, the view clear all the way to the peninsula across the water. Between the harbor and Buzzards Bay, Shelby Island rose up like Bali Ha’i on days when the mist was thick. Such was late September along the Massachusetts coast below the arm of the Cape.
Maggie hopped down from the stand and headed for the water’s edge, walked past the wrack line, and stepped over fat clumps of seaweed, broken shells, pieces of driftwood, and part of a shoe that had washed ashore. She paused to pick up a smooth piece of sea glass and rubbed it between her thumb and index finger before slipping it into the pocket of her denim skirt. Testing the water with her right foot and finding it chilly, she withdrew to a point the waves couldn’t reach. At the end of the beach was the jetty, a random pile of rocks. She made her way carefully to the end and sat on the largest boulder, which marked the end of the jetty where once upon a time, she and Liddy and Emma had met to exchange gossip and discuss their social lives. She lost track of time in the flood of memories of the girl she had been and the faces of the people she’d loved. Liddy with her long skirts and long braid, a hippie before they’d ever heard the word. Emma, the minister’s daughter, the peacemaker, who never rolled her skirts up above her knees and who always did the right thing. And of course there’d been the countless hours she’d sat there with Brett, the golden boy who could have had any girl in school but who’d only ever had eyes for Maggie. Beautiful Brett, the absolute love of Maggie’s life, who’d shared her dreams and later a secret she’d never gotten over, one she’d never shared with even her closest friends. The secret that had driven them apart.
She wasn’t going to think about that now—didn’t want to think about him at all. She wanted to have a fun weekend and enjoy her time with her oldest and dearest friends. The last thing she wanted was to dwell on something that had, in the end, brought her nothing but pain and regret.
She picked her way back along the rocks to the sand and the lifeguard stand, where she retrieved her shoes and her bag. However mixed her feelings might be, she was still glad to be back in this town, on this street where she’d grown up, this beach she knew so well, immersed in the life she’d once lived here. She was grateful for the opportunity to come home, and she was going to enjoy every minute of her stay. Starting now.
Determined to make it so, she turned her back on the water, brushed the sand from her feet before sliding them into her shoes, and retraced the steps to her car, whistling “You Should Be Dancing.”
Time to get the party started.
Liddy’s deck overlooked the magnificent gardens she’d spent the past thirty years perfecting with perennial beds that swirled around rose bushes and set the stage for the tall backdrop of the last of the summer’s delphiniums, monkshood, cannas, lilies, and hollyhocks. A riot of colorful annuals spilled from pretty pots on the deck and on the railings. A round table surrounded by four very comfy chairs was placed on the right side of the deck, and three lounges occupied almost all the left. Liddy had prepared a tableful of goodies—a baked brie, an artfully designed platter of crudités with a spicy dip, and a plate upon which a hefty slab of smoked bluefish rested on a bed of kale. For Maggie, it was sheer heaven to be sitting there on a beautiful late-September evening, inhaling the scent of the sweet autumn clematis that wound its way around the rails, and enjoying the company of her two oldest and dearest friends and the warmth of Liddy’s hospitality, which was nothing short of fabulous.
“Refill, Mags?” Liddy held up the pitcher of margaritas.
“Oh, no. No. I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. Really,” Maggie
