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It hadn’t been Doug’s idea for Ben to move in; it hadn’t really been Ben’s, either. It had just sort of happened, like so many other things in life. Ben and Doug had developed a lovely rapport with one another, one that the other veterans at the Sutton Book Club had noticed at their dinners. One evening, Doug had not been present, and Ben had felt listless and panicked, worrying about Doug’s whereabouts. Did anyone check on him?
Esme Gardner, the owner and organizer of the Sutton Book Club, had noticed Ben’s concern. She’d cornered him in the hallway and said that Doug had suffered a minor stroke, one he would probably fully recover from. Ben had nearly fallen to the floor. “Where is he?” he’d demanded. He’d gone to the hospital immediately and sat next to Doug’s bed, anxious to hear him laugh. Doug had made fun of Ben’s anxiety. “I’m an old man. Just let me have a stroke and be done with it.”
But Doug needed someone at home to help him. In the wake of his stroke, walking had been challenging for him. Ben had teased him gently and kept his spirits up. And between his jokes, he’d managed to cook and clean.
Toward the end of Doug’s healing journey, he’d spat sunflower seeds off the porch and grunted, “Where is it you live, anyway?”
Ben had told him he lived in a crummy apartment building on the outskirts of town.
“No view of the water?” Doug had demanded.
“No. I can’t afford that.”
Doug had grunted again. “That won’t do at all.”
Ben had gotten the hint. Being a man from his generation, he couldn’t say what he wanted aloud, but Doug wanted Ben to stay. More than that, he needed him to.
Now that Doug was more or less over his recent illness, Ben and Doug decided to head to the Sutton Book Club for dinner. They’d missed the past two events the week previous, as they’d sequestered themselves off from the world, careful about Doug’s intolerance for new germs and Ben’s intolerance for people who weren’t Doug.
Ben never worried about the fact that his only friend in the world was a ninety-eight-year-old man. He knew loneliness would come for him one of these days. But he chose to enjoy their time together rather than worry and regret.
Ben drove them to the Sutton Book Club in Doug’s ancient, clunky pickup truck. Doug hadn’t driven in a few years, although Ben was careful not to insinuate that Doug couldn’t do it.
“I hope Esme makes her chicken tonight,” Doug said. He had his cane between his legs and clutched the handle thoughtfully.
“I love that brisket she makes,” Ben said.
“The chicken is miles better than the brisket,” Doug insisted.
The route to the Sutton Book Club was a doozy. Over the span of Doug’s illness, tourists had returned to the island in full force, and the population had doubled or tripled. The nice weather and gorgeous sunshine distracted the tourists, and they rushed across intersections and kept no tabs on approaching traffic.
“Dang tourists. They always come here and act like they own the place,” Doug spat.
Ben laughed. “I don’t think Nantucket could survive without them.”
“We could,” Doug insisted, although Ben knew that wasn’t true. The only income he ever brought in came from odd jobs here and there, all of which were hospitality-based. The money he and Doug got from the government was abysmal. It couldn’t have kept a donkey alive.
Ben parked Doug’s truck in one of the handicapped parking spaces directly in front of the Sutton Book Club. Esme had had the spots set up specially for the veterans who came to Veterans’ Night. This was just another reason she was a godsend—one of the most caring and loving individuals Ben had ever met. Because Ben’s mother had died when he was fifteen, he often wondered if he thought of Esme as a motherly figure. She certainly watched out for him, just as she watched out for all of them.
Ben popped out of the driver’s side. Doug cracked his passenger door, as well, never willing to let Ben help him out unless he felt particularly weak. To avoid unnecessary accidents, Ben stepped casually around to Doug’s side and monitored the situation. All the while, he kept one eye on the front porch of the Sutton House, where two people he’d never seen before stood and peered through the windows.
“Do you know those folks?” Ben asked Doug.
Doug took a step forward with his cane. “I don’t think so.”
“Why are they staring in the windows? Isn’t it open?” Ben and Doug walked slowly down the sidewalk and up the walkway to the main entrance. As they got closer, Ben analyzed the man and woman on the front porch—and was soon able to hear them bickering.
“Why is it closed, Dad?” the woman muttered. She was a good deal younger than her father, perhaps in her forties, with dark hair curling past her shoulders and an athletic build that she’d dressed in a floral summer dress.
“How would I know?” her father demanded. He was maybe in his late sixties or early seventies, and he wore a sleek suit jacket and a pair of jeans. He had an air of importance about him while his daughter’s shoulders rounded forward as though defeated.
“Excuse me?” Ben asked from below the porch steps.
The woman and her father turned to frown down at Ben and Doug. They looked at them as though they didn’t belong.
“Hi,” the woman said. She looked exhausted, and her eyes were bloodshot. “Do you have any idea why it’s closed?”
Doug and Ben exchanged worried glances. Ben said, “We’re here for Veterans’ Night. Esme holds a dinner for us local vets twice a month.”
