distracted. It was 8:48, then 8:50.
He would be there. She knew he would be there. They used to meet at the Quaker Cemetery all the time in high school. That’s spooky, Nina had said. What was spooky was that Agnes had been conceived in the Quaker Cemetery, Dabney was sure of it.
She put on her spring coat and left the house. She decided to take Box’s Wagoneer rather than the Impala. The Impala was the most recognizable car on the island.
She drove by the Quaker Cemetery at a few minutes after nine. She slowed down, her eyes scanning the southeast corner for the gravestone of Alice Booker Wright, Dabney’s great-great-grandmother, which had been their usual meeting place.
She saw the outline of him—a hulking, dark figure sitting on Alice’s grave.
He waved at her with his right arm.
She hit the gas.
She drove back through the streets of town thinking, Go back, go see him, kiss him again. Oh how she longed to kiss him again. She remembered the smell of the cut grass in that cemetery and the squish of mud under their feet and the rough-hewn edge of Alice’s headstone rubbing against Dabney’s back, the taste of Clen’s neck, his voice, his eyes, his knee bouncing up and down, his feet shod in Chuck Taylors, how he loved them, he was stubborn, he wouldn’t stop wearing them no matter how old he got. Desire presented in Dabney like mercury in her veins. Go back to him!
But no, she wouldn’t. She pulled into her driveway and hurried back into the house, short of breath. She had left the TV on, and the final scene of the movie was playing: Oliver sitting alone in the snow.
The phone rang, startling her. Would Clen be brazen enough to call the house? Then she realized that the phone call was from Agnes. Agnes called every Thursday night at nine thirty because she knew her mother would be home for Sandwich and a Movie. Thank God that Dabney had come back! If Dabney hadn’t answered, Agnes might have grown worried and called Box, and then there would have been some explaining to do.
“Darling!” Dabney said.
“Mommy?”
Dabney said, “Honey, are you okay?” Did she dare hope there was trouble in paradise, Agnes’s engagement to CJ on the rocks? Oh how Dabney would inwardly rejoice!
“It’s my job,” Agnes said. “I found out yesterday that we didn’t get funding from National for the summer. The club is shutting down until the school year starts back up.” With these words, she started to cry.
“Oh, honey,” Dabney said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I knew it was iffy,” Agnes said. “I should have mentally prepared myself.”
“So what will you do all summer?” Dabney asked. She had a dreary picture in her head of Agnes working as a temp in CJ’s office, fetching coffee, answering the phone.
“I’m coming home,” Agnes said.
“What?” Dabney said. “To Nantucket?”
“Yes, Nantucket. I don’t hate it as much as you think, Mom.”
“I didn’t think you hated it,” Dabney said. However, Agnes didn’t love Nantucket the way Dabney did. She hadn’t been home for the summer since her freshman year in college. Agnes had inherited Clendenin’s taste for globetrotting. There had been trips to France and Italy in high school, then a summer in Ireland, then a summer working at a camp for disadvantaged children in the Bronx, which had eventually led her to her current job. “I just thought you might want to stay in the city with CJ.”
“He wants me to stay,” she said. “But Manhattan stinks in the summer. I’d much rather be at the beach. I can work as a counselor at Island Adventures; I already talked to Dave Patterson. I can plan the wedding. And I can hang out with you and Dad.”
Agnes was coming home for the summer! Dabney felt light-headed.
“CJ is really busy,” Agnes said. “He has to negotiate contracts before training camp starts for his football players, and one of his clients for the Yankees, I can’t tell you who, is in the process of being traded to
He would be there. She knew he would be there. They used to meet at the Quaker Cemetery all the time in high school. That’s spooky, Nina had said. What was spooky was that Agnes had been conceived in the Quaker Cemetery, Dabney was sure of it.
She put on her spring coat and left the house. She decided to take Box’s Wagoneer rather than the Impala. The Impala was the most recognizable car on the island.
She drove by the Quaker Cemetery at a few minutes after nine. She slowed down, her eyes scanning the southeast corner for the gravestone of Alice Booker Wright, Dabney’s great-great-grandmother, which had been their usual meeting place.
She saw the outline of him—a hulking, dark figure sitting on Alice’s grave.
He waved at her with his right arm.
She hit the gas.
She drove back through the streets of town thinking, Go back, go see him, kiss him again. Oh how she longed to kiss him again. She remembered the smell of the cut grass in that cemetery and the squish of mud under their feet and the rough-hewn edge of Alice’s headstone rubbing against Dabney’s back, the taste of Clen’s neck, his voice, his eyes, his knee bouncing up and down, his feet shod in Chuck Taylors, how he loved them, he was stubborn, he wouldn’t stop wearing them no matter how old he got. Desire presented in Dabney like mercury in her veins. Go back to him!
But no, she wouldn’t. She pulled into her driveway and hurried back into the house, short of breath. She had left the TV on, and the final scene of the movie was playing: Oliver sitting alone in the snow.
The phone rang, startling her. Would Clen be brazen enough to call the house? Then she realized that the phone call was from Agnes. Agnes called every Thursday night at nine thirty because she knew her mother would be home for Sandwich and a Movie. Thank God that Dabney had come back! If Dabney hadn’t answered, Agnes might have grown worried and called Box, and then there would have been some explaining to do.
“Darling!” Dabney said.
“Mommy?”
Dabney said, “Honey, are you okay?” Did she dare hope there was trouble in paradise, Agnes’s engagement to CJ on the rocks? Oh how Dabney would inwardly rejoice!
“It’s my job,” Agnes said. “I found out yesterday that we didn’t get funding from National for the summer. The club is shutting down until the school year starts back up.” With these words, she started to cry.
“Oh, honey,” Dabney said. “I’m so sorry.”
“I knew it was iffy,” Agnes said. “I should have mentally prepared myself.”
“So what will you do all summer?” Dabney asked. She had a dreary picture in her head of Agnes working as a temp in CJ’s office, fetching coffee, answering the phone.
“I’m coming home,” Agnes said.
“What?” Dabney said. “To Nantucket?”
“Yes, Nantucket. I don’t hate it as much as you think, Mom.”
“I didn’t think you hated it,” Dabney said. However, Agnes didn’t love Nantucket the way Dabney did. She hadn’t been home for the summer since her freshman year in college. Agnes had inherited Clendenin’s taste for globetrotting. There had been trips to France and Italy in high school, then a summer in Ireland, then a summer working at a camp for disadvantaged children in the Bronx, which had eventually led her to her current job. “I just thought you might want to stay in the city with CJ.”
“He wants me to stay,” she said. “But Manhattan stinks in the summer. I’d much rather be at the beach. I can work as a counselor at Island Adventures; I already talked to Dave Patterson. I can plan the wedding. And I can hang out with you and Dad.”
Agnes was coming home for the summer! Dabney felt light-headed.
“CJ is really busy,” Agnes said. “He has to negotiate contracts before training camp starts for his football players, and one of his clients for the Yankees, I can’t tell you who, is in the process of being traded to
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