were, waiting for her. Elongated and ebony-shelled, the mollusks clung together with streams of brilliant green seaweed flowing from them like mermaid hair. Eleanor took hold of a few and tugged and laughed when she found resistance. She had read up on mollusks and knew they did not feel pain or anxiety (although how had the scientists done that experiment?), so she felt no guilt wresting them away from the boulder and carefully placing them in her bucket. She didn’t want the shells to break. Ari loved mussels, and it would be fun to present her with this treat for dinner tonight.
Water washed around her waders as she gathered the mussels. The tide was coming in. With her bucket almost full and the sun warm on her shoulders, she sloshed back up onto the beach and over the crunchy sand to her Range Rover.
She listened to 97.7 ACK FM as she drove home. It was important to keep up with the island news, plus she enjoyed hearing familiar voices talking about town events. A new play. The Select Board’s report, every week during the off-season, every other week in the summer. She was especially pleased that in the past few years the policy-making group of the island had changed its name from the Board of Selectmen to the Select Board, indicating that it was not a completely male assembly. About time.
Back at her house, she unpacked her groceries, setting her bucket of mussels on a shelf in the refrigerator. She needed a few more things, so she set off walking to the Sconset Market, one of the most charming and old-fashioned establishments on the island. They sold everything a person needed for a perfect summer day: ice cream cones and delicate chocolate pastries, tote bags and tees, gourmet crackers and cheese, sunscreen, postcards, and paperback books. Near the shop, beneath the shade of several trees, were benches and bike racks.
Eleanor bought a fresh baguette for soaking up the liquid of the mussel broth, which she would steam with garlic and white wine. Outside, she settled onto a bench with a paper cup of ice cream and let her thoughts roam. She was glad Ari had chosen not to marry Peter, and she was sorry that Alicia was so angry about it all. Status was so important to Alicia. Alicia had been the sweetest, daintiest, prettiest little girl, the only person in the family who could make Mortimer smile. Alicia would run to her father when he returned from work, as if he were a warrior returning unscathed from battle.
“Daddy!” Alicia would fling herself at him, hugging his knees and begging for him to pick her up. Alicia always preferred pastel, full-skirted, twirly dresses and ribbons or headbands in her hair. The wisdom at that time was to give girls trucks and boys dolls. Eleanor had given Alicia overalls, an engineer’s cap, and an electric train, but Alicia hated the overalls and never played with the train. Alicia’s passions focused on being pretty and being loved. Eleanor knew that somehow some of that was her own fault. Had she not loved Alicia enough?
Fortunately, Ari had a passion of her own aside from love. Ari wanted to teach preschool. Eleanor envied her. Eleanor had been raised to play a good game of tennis and make frivolous conversation, saying nothing controversial that would embarrass her husband, because back then the husband was the center of a woman’s world.
“Eleanor!”
She glanced up to see who had called her name. It was Silas Stover, who’d been a friend of Mortimer’s. Eleanor had never been close to Silas’s wife, Maxine, because Maxine was a keen golfer. The couples met at cocktail parties, shared the news of growing families and grandchildren, but when Maxine passed away two years ago, Eleanor and Silas had lost touch.
“Silas, how nice to see you,” Eleanor said.
Silas was tall and solid, with thick gray hair and an old sailing injury that set his nose to one side. He wasn’t handsome. He never had been. But he was clever and kind and it lifted Eleanor’s mood to see him ambling toward her.
Silas lowered himself onto the bench next to her. “How are you, Eleanor?”
“I’m good, Silas. And you?”
Silas rubbed his left knee. “Oh, well, I’ve got a knee replacement scheduled for the fall, and I can’t even count the twinges in my hinges, but as they say, if you don’t wake up in the morning without something aching, you’re dead.”