“Don’t come in,” she told Frank. “It’s only a hall and four rooms.”

  “That’s fine,” Frank said. “Keep drinking water.”

  Sheila looked up at the tall, handsome man standing before her. “Do you know something?” She put her hands on his shoulders. “You’re a remarkable man. You could have taken advantage of me, as drunk as I was. We could have gotten a room at the White Elephant…Instead, you got me water and food. You’re a true gentleman.”

  Frank inhaled sharply. “Well. Thank you. But believe me, I hope I have a chance to take advantage of you this summer.”

  “I hope so, too,” Sheila told him, her heart racing.

  Frank smiled. “Let me take you to dinner at the Club Car Saturday. I promise I’ll be a gentleman.”

  “I’ll see you then,” Sheila said, and kissed his cheek, and went inside to her room.

  * * *

  —

  It was Ariel who initiated the Hump Night dinners. One of the real estate agents presented her with a pound of scallops. She stored them in the office’s refrigerator along with her lunch yogurt. She called Sheila, who had told her Mrs. Reardon would allow her two calls a day on the Rose Hotel phone. Sheila agreed to buy rice and a lemon and tomatoes. Mrs. Reardon overheard and advised Sheila to buy some chorizo to chop and sauté with the scallops to add to the rice.

  “Scallops are sweet but like eating thin air. Believe me, they won’t satisfy a man’s appetite,” Mrs. Reardon said. “Buy a Chardonnay to pair with the meal.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reardon,” Sheila said, wondering why in the world her boss thought Sheila could afford wine.

  Later, as Sheila was leaving, Mrs. Reardon came to the back hall.

  “Here,” the hotel owner said, handing Sheila a bottle of pale gold wine, “this will be perfect. Add just the smallest drop to the scallops and chorizo.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reardon!” Sheila practically curtsied.

  That night, on their two-burner hot plate, Sheila cooked the rice while Ariel sauteed the scallops and chorizo, and when Nick and Wyatt came in, they were astonished. The girls had set a table up on the first floor in the small vacant office next to Sharon Waters’s, and found four old metal folding chairs. Ariel had put a hydrangea from a bush in the hotel’s unkempt garden in a small jar in the middle of the table.

  They had wisely cooked a lot of rice, and Ariel had picked up vanilla ice cream and fresh blueberries, so it was a memorable feast. They relaxed during the delicious meal, and instead of rushing off to get a beer or collapsing in bed and reading books or walking down to the water, they stayed at the table and talked about their jobs or bosses or former bosses and laughed as their cheeks grew rosy. It was that simple: Sharing a home-cooked meal together made them a kind of family. They knew one another better, in ways that seemed insignificant, but were the invisible threads of life.

  “We should do this each week,” Nick declared as they rose to carry their plates and glasses down to the small kitchen sink.

  “We?” Ariel asked sweetly.

  “Okay,” Nick said. “I get what you’re saying. Wyatt, are you up for cooking a decent dinner next week?”

  “Sure,” Wyatt said.

  “Not pork and beans or hamburgers or hot dogs,” Ariel said.

  “And there must be a fresh vegetable,” Sheila added, secretly amazed that she could tell these two guys what to do.

  Sometimes when the night was rainy, Ariel and Sheila had makeup and hairstyle sessions. Ariel had changed the starkness of her plywood bedroom walls by putting up pictures she’d found at the Thrift Shop. Sheila, not wanting to copy Ariel, had taken home magazines left behind in the Rose Hotel, cut out photos she liked, and taped really clever collages to the walls. Ariel had screamed when she saw them.

  “You’re so talented!” Ariel told Sheila. “You’re an artist!”

  “Not really,” Sheila protested, but she was pleased.

  Some nights the guys went off to the Atlantic Café to drink beer and watch baseball. Those nights Sheila and Ariel turned into their own spa nights, soaking in perfumed bubble bath, washing each other’s hair, getting into their robes, and painting each other’s nails. Ariel showed Sheila how to wear eyeliner and blush. Sheila French-braided Ariel’s long blond hair. Ariel had a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream she’d been given at some party.

  One night, they talked about guys.

  “I’ve met a man,” Sheila confessed. She was lying on her bed while Ariel painted her toenails.

  “Oooh, a man! Tell me everything!”

  “Well, it doesn’t mean anything. I mean, I am engaged to Hank. But this man is so fascinating, and handsome, and nice, too.”

  “What’s his name? Where did you meet him? Have you kissed him? Details, please.” When Sheila didn’t answer immediately, Ariel tugged her toes.

  Sheila said, “Stop! Okay, okay. His name is Frank Johnson. He’s an advertising man. He’s staying at the Rose Hotel. I met him for a drink, and he was a perfect gentleman. No, I haven’t kissed him. I want to, though.”

  Ariel put the brush back in the small bottle of coral nail polish. “Frank Johnson? That’s kind of a phony name, don’t you think?”

  “What? No! It’s a perfectly normal name.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Are you my mother? I don’t know. Maybe early or middle thirties. Ariel, he’s really nice.”

  “Why is he staying at the Rose Hotel? That seems kind of off.”

  “He said it’s the only place he could find a room. He’s staying for several weeks. Don’t be so suspicious. I know what I’m doing. I like him.”

  “You have been with a man before, right?”

  “Of course!” Sheila sat up, insulted. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and studied her toes. “This looks so pretty. Thanks.” Sheila took a deep breath. “Okay, listen. I’ve only slept with one guy. But it was Hank, and I love him, and he loves me. We both went to Cleveland State University, and I think at first Hank and I latched on to each other because we knew each other from high school. We were goldfish in an ocean of whales and sea turtles. So, well, we liked each other, and the more I saw him, the more I liked him. We made love. He asked me to marry him before I left for Nantucket. I said yes. I guess I never experienced the supreme rapture the books talk about, but it’s nice.”

  “Maybe the books exaggerate,” Ariel said.

  “What about you?”

  Ariel shrugged. “I haven’t been with many men. To be exact, two. I was in love with a guy my sophomore year and we got serious, but he broke up with me my junior year so I slept with his best friend in revenge, not that it was even pleasant, and forget rapture.” Ariel shivered. “I’m absolutely not looking for a serious relationship this summer.” Ariel paused, thinking of Wyatt, and how her heart bloomed when he was near. But she was worried about her friend. “Sheila, you should be careful. You don’t want this Frank Johnson to break your heart…or worse.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Impulsively, Sheila leaned over and hugged Ariel. “We’re on Nantucket and it’s summer and we’re only serious about having fun.”

  “You’re right.” Ariel stood up. “We should get some sleep. Work tomorrow.”

  “Right.” Sheila checked her watch. “The guys aren’t back yet.”

  “We’re not their mothers.” Ariel grinned. “And thank heavens for that!”

  * * *

  —

  It was Wednesday night a couple of weeks later. The women had cooked. The four sat down to enjoy chicken parmesan that Sheila had inventively made in the skillet on the two-burner hot plate. It was a hot day, and even though they had small windows in their rooms to let in fresh air, the basement was beginning to smell of mildew and mold. Sheila and Ariel burned scented candles when they were in their rooms. Wyatt was much more sensible. He bought small circular fans for everyone, and they were a great help.

  The four Sand Palace occupants had been living there for over a month, and they’d become increasingly comfortable with one another. Both Ariel and Sheila wore tank tops, shorts, and flip-flops at the dinner table. They carelessly pulled their long hair up into ponytails or buns on top of their heads. The men wore shorts and tees, and Wyatt smelled of oil from the boat shop and Nick smelled of a heady men’s cologne from Fanshaw’s.

  The men had brought beer, which they slugged down immediately. Ariel and Sheila chose ice water. For the first few minutes, everyone ate as if starving.

  Nick broke the silence. “So, children, how was school today?”

  “Exhausting,” Sheila grumbled. “Mrs. Reardon’s hotel is full and some people treat their rooms like a giant wastebasket, dropping stuff all over.”

  “I’m good,” Wyatt said. “Mr. Cabot is a great guy, seems to know everything and everyone on the island.”

  “I like where I work, too,” Ariel told them. “Although I’ll admit, my face hurts from smiling. Tonight, I’m going to curl up with a book. Plus, I’ve got a date with the washing machine. Sheila, if you want to give me your laundry, I’ll throw it in with mine.”

  “Thanks, Ariel. I haven’t had time to—”

  Nick interrupted. “Doesn’t anyone want to know what I’m doing?”

  “Nick,” Ariel and Sheila chanted together teasingly, “please tell us, what are you doing?”

  Wyatt snorted.

  “One of Mr. Fanshaw’s customers asked me to help tend bar at a party on the Morecombs’ yacht tomorrow night. The big one in the harbor. Check it out. Her name is MORE.”

  “I’ve noticed that yacht. It’s enormous,” Wyatt said.

  “Fanshaw’s giving me one of his white shirts so I’ll be appropriately dressed. I’ll serve drinks and cocktails. I’ll make a week’s worth of pay in one night.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet a woman,” Ariel suggested.

  “Maybe I will,” Nick agreed.

  * * *

  —

  The next evening, as Nick showered, shaved, and dressed, his hands shook. This was why he’d chosen Nantucket. He wanted to meet people with money. Big money. He’d work for them, he’d marry them, whatever it took. He was determined to change his life.

  His older brother was a physicist at MIT working on dark matter. He lived with a pretty woman named Ursula, also a physicist. When the two were talking about their work, Nick had no idea what they were saying.

  His sister, Anya, had married a banker. They had a huge house in Ipswich and four children whom his mother worshipped. The only way Nick, the youngest child, could excel would be to make a lot of money while making an obvious and substantial difference in the real world. Nick was determined to do just that.

  He’d worked for Brooks Brothers in Boston, and here on Nantucket at Fanshaw’s, he assisted the kind of men he wanted to emulate. They carried themselves with ease and importance, and they were always automatically polite to Nick. They didn’t have to act powerful. They were power.

  Nick walked down Straight Wharf to the end of the pier where a longer pier extended for the big yachts. MORE was the first of five superyachts at anchor. Every window glowed gold. Nick went past the first boarding ramp, which was meant for guests, and down to the last boarding ramp, meant for crew. He was met by a tall, tanned man wearing the yacht’s uniform of navy blue and light blue.

  “Name?” the man asked, looking down at a clipboard.

  Nick gave his name.

  “Lower deck, midships,” the man said.

  “Give me a break,” Nick said.

  The man pointed to a door. “Take the stairs down two flights.”

  Nick went through the door and down the narrow steep stairs to a long, narrow room where guys dressed like he was were opening bottles of wine, filling buckets of ice from an ice machine, and polishing trays.

  A man with a name tag that read JOE stepped in front of Nick.

  “Well, aren’t you a pretty boy,” Joe said. “Lucky for you. You can take drinks around. Phillip has a tray. Champagne. Mortlach 18—that’s Scotch, pretty boy. Sparkling water. Go on, they’re starting to arrive.”

  Nick had worked for caterers before, during his college days, and he’d learned how to balance a tray. He knew how to place the heavier drinks in the middle of the tray, the lighter ones on the outside, how to hold it with his fingertips, his wrist angled slightly while keeping his shoulder straight, how to hold it below shoulder level. He was tall, strong, and young.

  As he stepped onto the foredeck, he was reminded that he was also handsome by the way the women’s heads turned, by the way they smiled.

  “Darling, thank heavens you’re here,” an older woman said, slinking toward him. “We’re parched.”

  He walked around the deck, making eye contact, smiling, nodding, saying nothing but “You’re welcome.” He knew better than to flirt with the guests.

  An hour later, the deck was crowded and loud with talk and laughter, and they still accepted more drinks from Nick’s tray. Impressive, he thought, how much these people could drink. At Joe’s request, Nick opened the doors to the lounge with its soft leather sofas and fine paintings on the wall. Immediately, several of the older women swept in, dropping around the long coffee table with cries of pleasure.

  Nick waited by the door to see if they wanted more drinks. They ignored him.

  “God, I couldn’t have stood up for another minute,” a glamorous woman said, putting her feet on the short table. “My Louboutins are killing me.”

  “But they’re so gorgeous,” another woman countered.

  “The things we do for our husbands,” a red-haired lady dripping with emeralds chimed in. “They get to wear deck shoes. We have to torture ourselves for beauty.”

  Nick surveyed the room. All the guests held full glasses. He quietly left and headed back to the serving galley.

  At the top of the stairs, sitting on the stairs, leaning against an inner wall, her long legs stretched out across a step, with a cigarette in one hand and a paperback book in the other, was a beautiful woman with long blond hair and a very short dress.

  Nick gave himself a moment to compose himself. She was much younger than the other guests. Must be someone’s daughter, he decided.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “Mon Dieu,” she said. “Aren’t they the most boring people on the planet?”

  She was exquisitely beautiful, her frame delicate and slender, as if she were a ballerina lost on the ship. She did not move her legs.

  Nick sensed the spark between them, and that gave him the courage to say, “But aren’t you one of the guests?”

  That made her toss back her head and laugh. “You are correct. I’m here with my father. My mother is with the angels, so I have to be his accessory. But I’ve fulfilled my duty, so I’m escaping.”

  “The stairs don’t seem like a comfortable place to sit,” Nick said.

  “Again, you are correct.” The blonde smoothly twisted her legs down to the next step and rose. “I am Francine Bruel.”

  “Nick Volkov.”

  “Do you live on the island?”

  “For the summer.”

  Loud baritone laughter exploded from the front deck.

  “Take me somewhere else.” She moved close to Nick, gazing up at him with crystal blue eyes. There were only inches between them.

  “I wish I could,” Nick said. “But I’m working here tonight.”

  Francine made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Who cares. Let’s go into town.”

  Nick shook his head. “I’m afraid I care. I’m working because I need to, but I would like nothing more than to take you someplace.”

  “Lâche,” Francine said, glaring at him.

  “I’m not a coward,” Nick told her, and was rewarded with her eyes widening when she realized he understood French. Score one for me, Nick thought. His education had been helpful, after all. He wasn’t fluent in French, but he did have a working ability. Working, he thought.

  He said sternly, “I am here working, and you are here playing.” He stepped closer to her, towering over her so that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. “And I am not a toy.”

  Before he could control himself, he hurried down the steps to the next deck and the next.

  The galley was wild now that the party was almost over. The waiters drank champagne from half-empty glasses, ate the slightly burned hors d’oeuvres that hadn’t been served, and did mincing imitations of some of the more colorful guests.

  Nick gave himself a moment to stand outside and catch his breath. He was trembling and he knew his cheeks were burning. The last thing he’d expected tonight was to experience such intense emotion. Francine had stepped out of his wildest fantasies.

  And Francine was sophisticated and filthy rich, he reminded himself. Any man would want her, and she would consider Nick entire tiers beneath her. For a long moment, Nick was swept with shame. He was handsome, he could probably take her to bed, but she would never consider him her equal, and what he had felt for her in those few moments had not been love, but infatuation, sexual attraction, lust. And a powerful exhilaration that such a beauty would even speak to him.

  Yet, helplessly, he knew he would hold the sight of her, her long blond hair falling back past her shoulders and her blue eyes daring him, like a treasure in his heart.

  He hit his fist into his hand. “Fool!” he whispered to himself angrily.

  Nick pushed his way into the galley and joined the other caterers, who were laughing as they washed trays, loaded the dishwasher, and tossed out lipstick-blotted napkins. This was where he belonged now, but this was not where he would stay.

  eight