Island Girls by Nancy Thayer Page A

that we’ve decided to have a Fourth of July party. The three of us together. Sort of an all-day picnic and swimming at the beach, then a cookout at home and then the fireworks at Jetties Beach. Would you like to come down?”
    “I’m delighted to hear you three are cooperating like this,” Justine said. “That’s wonderful. Let me think about it, will you? After all, Meg and Arden hold a serious grudge against me. I’m afraid I’d be the thirteenth fairy at the christening.”
    “That’s silly, Mom.”
    “I don’t think so. Are Cyndi and Nora coming?”
    “No, I think they’re busy.”
    “Mmm. Even more reason I shouldn’t come. It will be all young people. You don’t need a disconsolate old widow haunting the house.”
    “You’re hardly—”
    Justine broke in. “But I am, Jenny. I really am disconsolate. I miss Rory so much. I cry all the time. He was my soul mate. No,no, I can’t do anything social for a while. You’ve got to give me time to grieve, honey. Okay?”
    “Okay, Mom. I’m sorry you’re so sad.”
    “I’ll be fine. If you’re happy, then I’m happy. I can’t tell you how it cheers me that you and your stepsisters are getting along. I tell you what. I’ll call Murray’s Liquor and have them deliver a case each of red and white wine to your house for the party.”
    “Mom, that’s not necessary.”
    “No, but I want to do it.”
    “But, Mom, most of the guys will want beer.”
    “All right, then, I’ll have them deliver a case of beer, too.”
    “That’s not what I meant—”
    “I want to do it. For Meg and Arden as well as for you. If you can’t drink all the wine on the Fourth, you can have it another time. Now I’ve got to go. I’m sorting through Rory’s clothing; I want to give some to the thrift shop.”
    “That must be hard,” Jenny sympathized.
    “Not really. At least not so far. Your father had so many clothes, and he hadn’t worn a lot of them for years. Those are the ones I’m tossing. I do cry a lot, of course, but I cry a lot, anyway.”
    “Take care of yourself, Mom. Go out to dinner with your friends. See a movie.”
    “I will, Jenny. I do. You, too.”

TWELVE
    Monday night the three gathered around the kitchen table, which Meg had covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Meg served lasagna, green salad, and a buttery, garlicky bread. They drank an Italian Chianti with the meal.
    “This is delicious,” Arden said, licking her lips.
    “Yummy,” Jenny agreed. Leaning back in her chair, she asked, “How’s your Alcott work going, Meg?”
    “Okay.” Meg put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, thinking. “Although I have to admit my research has got me in a slump about men.”
    “Why?” Jenny asked, tearing off a piece of garlic bread.
    “Bronson Alcott allowed his oldest daughter to work herself sick to support him while he sat on his butt thinking great philosophical thoughts that no one cared about—”
    “Meg.” Arden leveled a look across the table. “That was a zillion years ago. Times have changed.”
    “But have men?” Meg countered.
    Arden began to clear the table. Jenny stood up to help her. They worked together in silence, covering the leftover lasagna, stacking the dishwasher, wiping down the counter.
    “Aren’t men better fathers these days?” Arden clarified.
    Meg gave herself a moment to consider. “I believe Tom is a good, faithful husband to my mother. He’s a good father to his sons. He’s reliable and trustworthy.”
    “How is he as a stepfather?” Arden asked. She turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a dish towel, watching Meg and realizing she’d never thought about Tom as Meg’s stepfather before. Arden could scarcely remember the years before Gavin and Mike were born. When Arden’s parents were first divorced, Cyndi used to babysit her while Arden’s mother worked, but after the twins were born, Arden seldom was invited to Meg’s house. “As I recall, Tom was kind of