Between Husbands and Friends

  Between Husband and Friends is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2014 Ballantine Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1999 by Nancy Thayer

  Introduction copyright © 2014 by Nancy Thayer

  Excerpt from Nantucket Sisters by Nancy Thayer copyright © 2014 by Nancy Thayer

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Originally published in hardcover by St. Martin’s Press in 1999.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Nantucket Sisters by Nancy Thayer. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-553-39110-7

  Author photograph: copyright © Jessica Hills Photography

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover image: © Flickr Open/Getty Images

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Introduction from the Author

  Epigraph

  June 1998

  1987

  June 1998

  Summer 1987

  July 1998

  Summer 1987

  July 1998

  Summer 1988

  July 1998

  Summer 1989

  August 17, 1998

  1990–1991

  August 17, 1998

  Spring 1991

  August 17, 1998

  July 1991

  August 17, 1998

  Summer 1991

  Summer 1991

  August 17, 1998

  Summer 1991

  August 17, 1998

  Summer 1991

  August 1998

  Fall 1998

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from Nantucket Sisters

  About the Author

  An Introduction from the Author

  Secrets. They can be as harmless and delicious as candy or as deadly as a bomb. In Between Husbands and Friends, I explore the secrets we tell our husbands, our friends, and ourselves. Nantucket summers—so sensual, sunny, and carefree—inspired this book, just as a certain Nantucket summer inspires Lucy West to make a delicious mistake that leads to a multitude of complications.

  I’m delighted that my early novels are being made available to my readers as ebooks. My style has changed slightly, as the world has grown faster, but my subject, family life, remains as mysterious and fascinating to me now as it was in these early books: falling in love, raising children, friendships and betrayals and forgiveness.

  Looking back at all my books, I note one other consistency: most books are set somewhere near water. Stepping begins on an island in Finland where I lived for a few months. My other books take place in Vancouver, British Columbia on the Pacific Ocean, in Milwaukee on Lake Michigan, and finally on my beloved Nantucket. I’ve always found the blue immensity of water inspirational, and of course the storms and sunny beachside days provide wonderful settings and metaphors for novels.

  I hope you enjoy these early novels and discover some new friends there.

  Nancy Thayer

  “He wishes to be far away, either at sea or on the shore. In between, he realizes, is the most difficult of all places to be.”

  —The Sea Man by Jane Yolen

  June 1998

  It’s a soft, lazy morning with the early June sunlight tumbling into our kitchen where the four of us move in a carbohydrate-high daze after indulging in Max’s triple-fruit pancakes. I’m loading the dishwasher, Margaret’s finishing the cold rice salad we’re taking to the Cunninghams’, Max holds Jeremy on his lap, reading the Boston Globe comic section aloud, simulating tough-guy growls or femme-fatal falsettos so extravagantly that Jeremy’s in hysterics and even Margaret grins.

  “I’m going to organize the beach bag,” I tell them, and hurry up the stairs. We’ll spend most of the day outside, so I head for the children’s bathroom to search through the cabinet for the new bottle of sunblock I know I bought, when all at once the bag drops from my hand. My heart hammers fast and hard. Hot blood churns up through my chest, floods my face.

  I slam the bathroom door, lean against it. What the hell is going on? Am I dying? I’m thirty-seven, way too young for hot flashes. Anyway, these things can’t be called flashes, they’re more like explosions, as if my heart is full of time bombs.

  I hate this, I hate this. My heart trips and gallops. My fingertips are numb. My lips are icy. I’m afraid.

  I drop to the floor, curl up into the smallest possible mass, wedge myself into the corner, the cool ceramic tiles like walls, like barricades behind my back. I bring my knees to my chest, drop my forehead on my knees, cross my arms over my head, like someone in a crashing plane.

  “Mom?” Jeremy wanders up and down the hall, calling for me. Oh, God, I hope I locked the bathroom door when I came in here. I don’t want him to find me like this, but at the moment it’s beyond my powers to crawl over there and check to see if the lock is snapped. “Mom? Dad says it’s time to go.”

  I can’t answer. I hear him shuffle off.

  I can’t sort through the commotion in my head. Is it anger? Is it that I feel pressured—trapped? It feels like fear.

  But what do I have to fear? I mutter to myself: Be reasonable, Lucy. If it’s the job offer from Jared Falconer, well for God’s sake, you can deal with that. If Max feels really strongly about it, then don’t take it. If you feel even more strongly that you want it, then do take it. You can work it out, you and Max. And the children will be just fine. Margaret’s fourteen. Jeremy’s going to be in first grade this year; he’ll be in school most of the day. It’s Max, isn’t it? You’re afraid of Max, afraid he’ll disappear into one of his effing depressions.

  “Mom? Are you in there?” Margaret taps on the door.

  “Be out in a minute,” I call.

  Okay, my voice works. I drag myself up to the sink to splash cold water on my face. I stare at my reflection. My heart slows. I’m okay.

  Occasionally I’ve had other bizarre spells, fits of dread that seize me in the middle of a clear bright day, and I never can figure out what’s going on, and then two days later something happens: My aunt dies, a friend’s child is hit by a car. That doesn’t mean I’m psychic any more than it means I’m psychotic. Mostly it just makes me uncomfortable.

  But these are, I think, panic attacks, and they’ve been happening a lot recently. I’ve got to do something about them. If it’s the job offer, I’ll talk it out with Max and make a decision. That should stop them.

  Get a grip, I order my reflection. “All right, I’m ready!” I call, and fly out of the room, grab up the canvas carryall, and head down the stairs like any normal mother.

  In the kitchen Max has Jeremy sitting on the counter while he ties his sneaker. Over his shoulder, he asks, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  In one easy movement, Max lifts Jeremy up onto his shoulders. “Okay, crew, time for blastoff.”

  When the four of us crowd our way through the front hall, Midnight and Cinnamon fly into their usual Kamikaze Cat routine, streaking back and forth, ears back, tails bristling, tripping us. As we step out into the bright light of
day, Margaret morphs from contented daughter of the house to blank-faced sophisticate, so that anyone passing by won’t think she actually has a family.

  We set our bags in the trunk, then pile into the Volvo station wagon, Max in the driver’s seat. I relax, roll up the sleeves and undo the buttons of my blue cotton shirt, letting the sun fall on my throat and chest. I lean my head back. The heat feels good.

  I look over at my husband, who’s dressed for a day off in shorts and a cotton T-shirt, an old present from his staff that reads on the front: “How many editors does it take to change a lightbulb?” And on the back: “One, but first he has to rewire the entire building.” Six days a week his newspaper has him, pretty much heart and soul, but on Sundays he belongs to us, and when he’s really with us as he is today, he lights up our lives.

  We drive through a town flooded with morning light, past houses and lawns shining as if freshly washed, out toward the country.

  “Daddy,” Jeremy calls, “can we do the ant song?”

  “Sure. Let’s see. How does it start?” Max tosses me one of his lightning-white smiles, then begins to sing: “The ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hooray, the ants go marching one by one, hurrah, hooray!” He throws his head back, letting his rich baritone roll out into the air. His teeth are a beautiful milk white against his tan, and his black hair glistens and curls like the pelt of a vigorously healthy animal. This is my Max at his best.

  “The ants go marching one by one, the little stopped to suck his thumb!” Jeremy croons.

  I add my vague soprano to the mix. “And they all go marching down, into the ground, to get out of the rain!”

  Jeremy pokes his sister. “The ant song!” he yells at her.

  Margaret rolls her eyes at him and presses the earphones tightly against her head, but by the time we’re on three—“the little one stops to take a pee”—she’s yanked the earphones down around her neck and joined in. She loves this stupid song as much as we do, and we’ve been coming to the Cunninghams’ for summer Sundays forever, and she really doesn’t want to miss a thing, not even her brother’s maniacal laughter because we all said “pee.”

  By the time we finish the song, we’re turning off the main highway onto a winding, potholed, empty stretch of secondary road through farmland.

  “Dad!” Jeremy calls. “Can I drive?”

  “All right,” Max says, and slows the car. Jeremy undoes his seat belt and climbs over into the front seat, his wiry little body seemingly composed entirely of elbows and knees. Max pushes back his car seat to make room for Jeremy on his lap, reminds Jeremy where to put his hands, and off we creep at fifteen miles an hour, with Jeremy concentrating so hard he’s got his tongue stuck between his teeth. Occasionally the car wavers over too far to the left, but Jeremy’s doing a pretty good job as we bump along.

  Just before we reach the Cunninghams’, an old red truck approaches from the other direction, clanking and shuddering.

  “Dad?” Jeremy queries.

  “You can do it,” Max tells him. “Keep your eyes on the road. Don’t look at the truck. Look toward the right side of the road.”

  We all hold our breath while Jeremy steers the Volvo. We’re even with the truck, and then it’s behind us, and Margaret cheers, “Well done, Germ!” and Max tousles his son’s hair. “Yes, Jeremy. Good job.”

  The road bends. Thickets of trees and shrubs loom above, forming a green-black tunnel, and then we go around a curve into the sunshine. The Cunningham farm spreads out beneath the blue sky.

  “We’re here!” Jeremy yells.

  “Can you make the turn into the drive?” Max asks.

  “Sure.”

  The road runs parallel with a long fenced pasture where Chip’s beautiful gelding Gringo grazes beneath a tree. The horse raises his head, watches us go by, swishes his tail disdainfully, and returns to his grass. Seven-year-old Abby’s there, too, in jodhpurs and a sleeveless plaid shirt, waving enthusiastically. She’s on her pony Brownie, and Princess, the other Shetland, stands in readiness at Brownie’s side.

  The Cunninghams’ historic brick Georgian mansion rises up like a set for Masterpiece Theatre. Max helps Jeremy make the turn past the neat circle drive at the front of the house to park on the white gravel at the side. We spill out of the car. The golden lab, Sugar, waddles out to greet us, her tail wagging.

  Chip lopes toward us, a tall blond man wearing only swimming trunks and sneakers. His shoulders are burned, his skin glimmers with sweat. No doubt he’s been working in his vegetable garden, or cutting brush away from his various trails through the woods.

  “I just drove!” Jeremy crows.

  “I saw you. You did great.”

  “Can I ride Princess?”

  “Absolutely. Abby’s got her all ready for you.” He takes Jeremy’s hand, turning to tell us, “Kate and Matthew are in the house.”

  Max opens the trunk, and we fill our arms with the bowl of rice salad, beach bag, and a carryall holding two bottles of white wine and one of apple juice, which we carry through the back door into the cool kitchen. Kate’s there, barefoot, wearing a black bikini. She’s bending over the long pine table, lost in thought, her face somber, even sorrowful.

  “Kate,” I say.

  She jumps, startled, and in an instant transforms herself. “You’re here! Hi, guys! Margaret, look what I just made!” She waves her hands like a game show hostess, displaying a rectangular cake turned into an American flag by raspberries, blueberries, and white icing. She’s got icing on her cheek and elbow, but her eyes are pouchy and red-rimmed.

  “That’s cool, Aunt Kate,” Margaret says.

  “Thought I’d practice for the Fourth of July.”

  “What a girl.” I hug her.

  “Where’s Matthew?” Margaret asks, looking around. Matthew outgrew the ponies long ago and never took to riding as Abby has.

  “Where do you think?”

  Already Margaret has gone off into the den, drawn by the sirens’ song of MTV. The Cunninghams and Max and I decided long ago that when our two families get together the kids are permitted to watch all the television they want, but they have to join us at the table for dinner, when dinner’s ready, no matter what’s on television then.

  “Chip’s been mowing,” Kate tells Max. “I think he wants to take a dip in the pond.”

  “I’ll join him,” Max says, and heads out the door.

  Through the high windows I see Chip tightening the cinch on Princess, then making a brace of his hands onto which Jeremy eagerly steps. Jeremy climbs onto the pony’s back and grabs the reins. In the sunlight Jeremy’s brown curls take on a paler glint; by the end of the summer his hair will be bleached almost blond.

  Abby kicks her pony, and they set off at a trot, Princess at her flank, Jeremy trying to post. Jeremy often has coughing spells after riding. He’s probably allergic to horses, and guiltily I hope he is. I’m always nervous when Jeremy rides. Even a pony is huge, compared to my little boy.

  “I put beach towels out on the patio,” Kate calls.

  Max joins Chip. The two men walk along the path between grasses and wild daisies to the pond, one tall, blond, and lean, one short, dark, and stocky. A giraffe and a bull. Good friends.

  I say, “I think I’ll have a swim, too,” but Kate puts her hand on my arm.

  “Wait. I want to talk.”

  “Kate, not now.”

  “Lucy, please.” Her face flushes and tears well. “Lucy, he’s dying.”

  Her grief is so painful. I take Kate in my arms and hold her as if she were my child. “Oh, honey.”

  “Chip won’t let me talk about it. He’s so inflexible! And intolerant, and just plain ignorant, too!”

  “Chip’s just worried,” I assure Kate. “It’s understandable.” I pull out a chair. We sit facing each other. “Tell me.”

  “He’s so thin,” Kate cries. “And his skin—”

  For several years Kate has been doing hospice work, visiting a young man named Garrison wh
o has AIDS. Chip fears that Kate will somehow become infected, or will carry the disease home to her children. They’ve had many royal battles over this. Kate insists on sticking with her work with Garrison. Chip retaliates by refusing to listen to one word about the dying man. It doesn’t help that Kate has, if not fallen in love with Garrison, at least come to love him deeply, and not only platonically. To Kate, Garrison is as handsome as a wounded god, brilliantly funny, creative, sympathetic, intuitive. She tells me there is a deeply complicated sensuality in caring for him. She brings him expensive treats: iced mango sorbet, Dom Pérignon and Stilton, chocolates from Switzerland. Each bite he takes is a thrill, an event. She cuts his nails. She combs what hair he has left. She touches him as much and in as many ways as she can, sometimes she even gives him facials. She rubs his back. Often they sit listening to music—Garrison likes opera—holding hands.

  “I want to bring Oscar here,” Kate says, weeping. Oscar Wilde is Garrison’s Yorkshire terrier. “I promised Garrison I’d give him a good home. And Oscar knows me, trusts me. He won’t be so bereft. Or we can be bereft together.”

  “What does Chip say?”

  Kate snorts. “What do you think? He doesn’t want Oscar here. Says one dog is enough. Right, as if we don’t live on a fucking farm!” Kate rises, grabs tissues, blows her nose, sits down again. “Chip says Oscar would upset Sugar. Make Sugar jealous. God, Sugar’s so fat and lazy, she needs a younger dog around to get her moving!”

  “Sugar’s not the point, Kate. It’s that Oscar is Garrison’s dog, and Chip is jealous of your relationship with Garrison.”

  “Yeah, well, he damned well should be!” Kate sobs. “Garrison loves me in a way Chip can’t even understand! Garrison loves me with his soul. Oh, God, how will I live without him?” Grief overwhelms her. Kate bends double, her entire body shaking with sobs. She sinks to her knees on the cool tile floor.

  I glance around. Matthew and Margaret are still in the den. Outside the children sit enthroned as their ponies try to munch grass. I can’t see the pond, but the men must be there.

  “Kate.” I kneel next to my friend and wrap my arms around her. “Honey. I’m so sorry.”