But actually, she was locked in, by her own emotions. She wanted to see Theo again.
Theo. It had always been Theo for her, but he was so popular, dating a different girl every weekend, she’d assumed he had no interest in her. Atticus was Theo’s best friend, and Atticus had been in love with Beth. He had told her that, and that had tied her to him. She had cared for him, she’d worried about him and tried to help when his dark depressions came over him. Somehow they had become a couple, and she believed, she was certain that she had made him happy, or at least less depressed. From time to time in classes or walking in the hallway, Beth caught Theo looking at her, and his look was like a song calling her home, and then he’d flush and turn away. So she had believed that Theo liked her, that he might actually want her in the way she wanted him—not simply sexually, but spiritually, too, as if he was missing part of himself, and if only she would go to him, he could be complete. That was how she felt about him.
They never talked about it. Once, at a school dance, when he held her as they moved to a slow song and the desire between them was so obvious, so strong, Theo had smiled down at her and asked, “Beth. What are we going to do?”
“What can we do?” Beth asked, and there was no answer, or not the answer they wanted. She was Atticus’s girl, and he needed her in a serious way—so serious that his mother had actually taken Beth for coffee so they could talk about Atticus and his problem.
“You know,” Paula Barnes had said, “Atticus is afraid you will leave him for Theo.”
Beth had nearly knocked over her mug. “Why would he think that?”
“Atticus is very sensitive,” his mother had replied.
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Beth snapped, because she wanted to say, good grief, every moment of every day when I’m with him, I have to be attuned to his precious sensitivity, and sometimes I want to run away and be free or do something that will offend that sensitivity! Immediately, she apologized for snapping at his mother. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for him. I wish someone could help.”
“He’s seeing a therapist. And he’s on medication. And, Beth, Atticus’s father and I are so grateful to you for being there for him, for doing all you do. That’s why I asked to meet you. To thank you. To tell you we know he can be hard work, but we believe he’ll get better, he’ll get well. He’s so awfully brilliant, and he has a wonderful future in front of him—if we can just get him there.”
Mrs. Barnes was crying, quietly, gently. Beth knew what she had to say, and she said it, “I care for Atticus very much, Mrs. Barnes. I’ll be there for him as much as I can be. You can trust me.”
Often, it wasn’t a hardship, dealing with Atticus. For one thing, he was amazingly handsome, in a doomed-poet sort of way, with long tousled black hair and blue eyes with black lashes. He was tall and too thin, and he always wore button-down shirts to school, so he looked like an aristocrat among the grungy peasants. At his best, he could be smart and funny and quick-witted. At his best, he always had Beth laughing.
At his worst, he didn’t laugh. He hardly spoke. He had dark circles beneath his eyes from not sleeping and he grew increasingly paranoid, thinking the teachers were trying to flunk him out, thinking that Beth and Theo were in love. It became too unpleasant for the three of them to walk home together, so Theo walked home another way. With other girls.
Even when he was at his worst, Beth never suspected that he might actually commit suicide.
When Atticus was found dead from an overdose, everyone who knew him or his family was shocked. Many were overwhelmed by grief, but a few people were angered, and their anger at this senseless loss had driven them to bring therapists over to the island to talk at a town meeting. The police department had bulked up its presence. The mental health organizations had spread the word that they were there to help. Beth’s father insisted she spend an hour a week with a counselor. And that helped, a little, because Beth felt so guilty about Atticus’s suicide. Had she not loved him enough? She’d never had sex with him, but he had never urged her to, and she knew Atticus didn’t often have the energy or the desire for much of anything. Dr. Moore helped release some of the guilt she carried, and Paula Barnes had written a brief note to Beth telling her that Atticus’s suicide was not in any way Beth’s fault, that it might have happened sooner if Atticus hadn’t had Beth’s companionship and love.
Over time, the town went on. The Barnes family moved off-island. Beth and her classmates went off to college.
With a kind of jolt, Beth came out of her reverie. She was here, now, staring out the kitchen window, lost in her thoughts. She wanted to go forward, but where?
She gathered up her purse, redid her lipstick, and was headed out the door when the house phone rang.
“Beth? Is that you? You are exactly the person I’m looking for!” Prudence Starbuck didn’t need to introduce herself. Her sterling silver voice was unforgettable. “Listen, darling, I’d like to take you to lunch to talk about a job that might interest you now that you’re home.”
“Oh, Mrs. Starbuck, that’s very nice—”
“It concerns this new organization, Ocean Matters. I saw you at Ryder Hastings’s lecture. I’ve agreed to be his point man on the island. We need someone young and energetic and savvy to do the social media for our Nantucket chapter.”
“I’d be glad to volunteer my free time, Mrs. Starbuck, but I need to get a job—”
“Darling, this is a job. You’ll have an office on Easy Street, and a computer and all that sort of thing, and of course you will have a very considerable salary. Now, what are you doing for lunch today? May I take you to lunch at Cru?”
Maybe this was the sign from fate that Beth was looking for! Anyway, Beth liked Mrs. Starbuck’s brisk can-do energy.
“I’d be happy to meet you at Cru,” Beth said. “What time?”
ten
Monday morning, Lisa unlocked the door to her shop. Every time she entered, moving around the space, turning on lights, waking her computer, she felt a surge of pride. She had built this business. She had made it happen.
She set her go-cup on the shelf behind the counter. She was behind on ordering, and because Monday mornings were always slow, she expected to get a lot of work done.
She was arranging a new shipment of summery jewelry—turquoise, blue, coral—when Moxie Breinberg entered the shop.
“Hi, Moxie,” Lisa called. “Let me know if I can help you.”
“Sure thing.” Moxie fastened her attention on a rack of new sleeveless dresses, pulling one out and holding it to her while she looked in the full-length mirror, putting it back, choosing another one. “Could I try this on?” she asked Lisa.