then I received an invitation to his wedding. Millicent Booth Eden was her name. I sent a lovely crystal decanter, although it may have smashed by the time it crossed the Atlantic, and then we lost touch.”
“Haven’t you ever thought of finding him again?” Sarah says excitedly. “You could probably Google him. You can find anyone. I spend hours Googling people I went to school with, old boyfriends, anyone I can think of.”
“Maybe you could,” Nan says with a smile, snapping back into the present. “George Forbes. From Boston originally, last heard of in London.”
“God, wouldn’t it be lovely if we found him and he was—I don’t know, divorced or widowed or something, and he came back and you fell in love and lived happily ever after.”
Nan smiles widely. “My sweet Sarah, don’t you know that I’m going to live happily ever after anyway?”
Later that afternoon Nan cycles into town, a sheaf of papers tucked into her basket. They have photocopied pictures of the house, pictures of the rooms, the magnificent view from each of the windows.
Rooms to rent for summer in beautiful old Sconset home with water views and direct access to beach. Own bed and bath. Breakfast available on request. Unique opportunity!
She parks her bike on Main Street and pins one of her ads to the board, standing for a while to read about what’s going on in town. Yoga at the children’s beach, she notices, thinking that perhaps she ought to do something to stretch these old bones.
“Nan?” She turns to see Patricia Griffin, another old-timer, rounding the corner and pausing when she spies Nan.
“Hello, Pat.” She smiles. “How are you? How’s Buckley?”
“Oh you know,” Patricia says. “Life goes on as usual. What’s this I hear about you having furniture sales?”
“Just an idea,” Nan says. “Out with the old and in with the new.”
“I heard the developers were circling like vultures.” Patricia laughs.
“They were a bit. Not that I’m selling.”
“Good. It would be a shame to see your house torn down. Did you hear what happened to the Oldinghams?”
“Up at Madaket? No, what happened?”
“Their neighbor persuaded them to sell him their house, offered them a price they couldn’t say no to, apparently, but he vowed he was going to preserve it, he said he wanted an extra house for his children to stay in and he was going to create a compound.”
“And did he?”
“The minute they closed, the bulldozers were in tearing the house down. Three huge mansions are going up now.”
“And what about the Oldinghams?”
“Gone back to the Cape, but isn’t it awful?”
“Well, they won’t be getting their hands on my house if I have anything to do with it.”
Patricia smiles, then catches sight of the board. “What’s this? You’re renting rooms?”
“I am.” Nan stands proud. “It’s too quiet for me these days. I thought what fun to fill the house with people, and I need something to keep me busy.”
“What a good idea,” Patricia says. “Lovely to see you, Nan. We ought to get together. Maybe you’ll finally come and join the gardening club.” And with that she hurries off home to inform her husband that it’s true, Nan Powell is clearly having financial trouble after all.
Chapter Eleven
This afternoon, Daniel does something he has secretly, guiltily, wanted to do for years. His meeting was canceled, and he walked out of the offIce, his cheeks burning, as if his colleagues could look through his eyes and see into his soul, see where he was really going.
He has known about the Maple Bar for years. It’s a gay café and bar in New Haven. He has always been drawn to it, as he has been to so many gay cafés and bars, but has never dared do anything other than drive by, looking wistfully at the blacked-out windows.
He has memorized the address, terrified of even having a gay bar appear on his Google history. He hadn’t used the word gay. Had just put in maple and New Haven, then adding tree after the address came up, figuring he could come up with some story about researching maple trees in the unlikely event this would ever be discovered.
He has done this before, on his computer at home. He has become an expert in wiping out his cache, his history, his cookies, but still has a lingering fear that somehow someone would be able to see that occasionally, when the temptation has grown too great, he has stumbled upon gay sites, has looked at pictures, read stories with desire