Surfside Sisters(31)

On the other hand…Tommy had asked Keely to the homecoming dance years ago. Because of her friendship with Isabelle, Keely had turned him down. How many times was Keely expected to sacrifice for Isabelle?

    What would Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell think if Tommy broke up with Isabelle because of Keely?

But Keely wouldn’t sleep with Tommy simply to get some kind of convoluted revenge on the Maxwells.

And why was she even thinking of sleeping with Tommy when all he was doing was asking her to dinner?

Tommy stopped smiling. He dropped his bad boy fa?ade and stood quietly, seriously, looking solemnly into Keely’s eyes. “I’ll call Isabelle today. I’ll tell her I dropped out. I’ll pick you up at your house at seven.”

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. He waded back into the crystal-clear water and swam back to his boat. After he’d motored off, Keely shoved her kayak off the beach, jumped in, and paddled back to shore. She wanted to go home and sleep. She was hungry. She was thirsty. She was scared.

Deliciously scared.





By the time she returned the kayak, the sun was high in the sky. Keely drove home. Her mother was at work. Keely had no emails or messages from Isabelle. She drank two glasses of Nantucket’s delicious water and ate an apple. She took a long soak in a hot bubble bath. As she dried off, she admired her tan. Nantucket stayed warm, even hot, into the fall, sunlight bronzing her skin.

She positioned herself at her computer, planning to work on a short story, but her mind, her senses, were full of Tommy. She’d had totally forgettable sex twice with a cute guy her freshman year in college. Neither of those experiences had seemed extraordinary, had made her, as Hemingway said, “feel the earth move.” She’d bet Tommy could cause a tsunami.

It was late afternoon when the email came from Isabelle.

Keely! Tommy’s dropped out! He’s on the island now, working for his father and messing around with his damned boat and he’s not coming back to college ever. We had such a fight! He is an idiot! Do you think you could talk sense to him? Because if he doesn’t finish senior year, I’m done with him. I’m done.


Isabelle, take a breath. Why does it matter if Tommy finishes or not? Some of the best people don’t finish their degrees. Like me, ha ha. You can’t break up with Tommy over this. You should at least talk to him.

You’re right. You’re a genius. I’m driving down today. I’ll catch the seven o’clock fast ferry. I’ve called Tommy. He’ll meet me at the boat. I’m sure I can persuade him to change his mind. Thanks! I love you!



Her words hit Keely like a blow to her stomach. She wondered whether Tommy would bother to call her to cancel their date.

Rising from her desk, Keely looked around her bedroom. Her laundry basket was full, her desk was piled with printed drafts of short stories, her windowsill was lined with rocks and shells she’d brought home from the beach, and still, somehow, the world seemed empty. She’d lost her focus. She’d lost her energy. She should be writing now. It was her day off work. She had the time. But she felt—kicked. She felt that Isabelle still, as always, had everything. She needed to get herself back on track. She needed to write.

She lay on her bed, forcing herself to read the newest short story she’d written, and after a few minutes, her mind switched gears and she was thinking critically. This story wasn’t bad. Maybe it was even good. Good enough to send off to some literary reviews.

Was it good enough to use as her writing sample when she sent in her application to the Berkshire Writers’ Colony? The information didn’t state that the applicant had to have a college diploma. She’d had some college. She’d had a few stories published in literary reviews. She knew her writing was more than proficient; it was pleasurable to read.

You’ll never know unless you try. Her father had told her that so many times, when teaching her to surf cast or to pilot the boat through the rough waters between Madaket and Tuckernuck. When she tried out for the princess in the sixth-grade school play—and got the role of the angel, a smaller role but with wings. When she swore she would never be able to understand chess.

    Keely proofread her sample short story for the thirtieth time. She put it and her application to the colony in a manila envelope, took it to the post office, and mailed it. She returned home with a smile on her face. She’d done it. She’d tried.

Her cell buzzed. Tommy. She didn’t want to talk to him. She let it go to voicemail. Immediately after, she played it. “Keely, I can’t see you tonight and you know why. I’ll be with Isabelle. Sorry.”

She’d done it again, Keely thought. She should be proud of herself. She’d stepped away from involvement with Tommy. She was a good friend. The best friend.

After that message, Keely couldn’t return to her fiction. Her mind wouldn’t settle. Restless, she headed into the kitchen and made a complicated casserole that would last herself and her mother for several nights to come.



* * *



—

Three evenings later, as she was driving home from work, her cell buzzed. Keely parked her car in the driveway before checking it.

A message from Isabelle:

I hate him. He’s an imbecile. I did everything I could to change his mind. If he really loved me, he’d stay in school. And I suppose if I really loved him, I’d love him regardless. So it’s good we broke up. Thanks for trying to help. I’m back at Smith now, and I’m going to concentrate on my courses and the hell with men.