The guy raised his chin and thought for a moment. She tried to imagine what he was visualizing, tried to picture him maybe drinking a stolen beer in the kitchen and listening to music.
Instead of telling her, though, the guy turned and looked at her, his eyes glinting. “You going to tell the cops on us?”
Minnie laughed, surprised. She remembered how her old classmates had called her a narc and decided to use the term now. “I’m not a narc.” She scoffed.
“I didn’t think so.” The guy set down his paintbrush again. “I’m Viggo.”
Minnie was taken aback at first. She’d never heard that name. But during the few seconds of silence that she allowed after he’d said it, she found herself falling in love with the name, with how it sounded in his voice, with who it made him in the world.
“I’m Minnie.”
“Cute name.”
“I hate that it’s cute,” Minnie said sternly.
“You shouldn’t,” Viggo said. “We all have to have names. Yours isn’t one of the bad ones.”
Minnie didn’t want to tell him that she adored his, so she kept quiet. Afraid he would return his attention totally to his painting, she raised her chin and asked, “Do you know anything about that guy who died today?”
Viggo arched his eyebrow, then glanced around the classroom, as though he didn’t want anyone to overhear them. It was a strange move, but it also made Minnie feel as though he was letting her into his secrets, into his private world.
“That’s something I try to stay out of,” he said finally, his voice low.
“What do you mean?” Minnie pushed it.
Viggo cracked a handsome smile. “There are secrets in Nantucket that are better left as secrets. Do you know what I mean?” He waited for Minnie to nod, then returned to his painting with a ferocity that meant Minnie shouldn’t interrupt.
7
It wasn’t till Hannah and Minnie were on Nantucket for a full week that Hannah got up the nerve to invite Natalie over. With Minnie off at school, Hannah threw herself into making lunch for herself and Natalie, something both delicious and nutritious that would tell Natalie how “on top of her life” Hannah was. But despite adding heaps of spices to the homemade hummus, it still tasted like mushy glue. And her homemade sourdough bread was all wrong as well. Cursing herself, Hannah quickly ordered takeout, then set everything up on the porch overlooking the water, praying that Natalie wouldn’t call her out.
When Natalie arrived, Hannah and Natalie performed a ceremony of “oh, it’s you! Finally, after all this time!” that felt pretty phony. But Hannah hadn’t spoken to anyone save for Minnie (sort of) and Marshall, the editor who’d rejected her last week, since leaving Miami. Hannah needed some solace in the form of a human connection.
Natalie looked just as beautiful as she did on social media: blonde and athletic and bubbly. As they sat in the sun on the back porch, Natalie reached for a cap to cover her face, consciousof wrinkles and UV. Hannah adored feeling the sun on her skin, which made her feel like less than a woman.
“You got tacos!” Natalie said, beaming about the takeout. Hannah was grateful she’d done something right.
As they ate, Natalie, taking nibbles and Hannah trying to restrain herself, asked, “So how’s the plan going on fixing up the fixer-upper? Are you excited?”
Hannah forced a smile on her face. “It’s certainly exciting!” And then she lied. “Minnie’s got another month left of school, and then we’re going to dive into the tasks together.”
“Cute!” Natalie said. “I love a mother-daughter team! Ugh, sometimes I can’t wait till my kids are a little bit older. Then again, I had a lot of fun in the city before I moved out here.” Her eyes glinted.
Hannah imagined that Natalie had dated numerous wealthy men, men who’d taken her all over the world before the last one, her husband, had brought her here. It must have been nice to carry memories like that through life. Even on her most boring “motherhood” day, Natalie could tell herself that she’d lived. Hannah, of course, could tell herself she’d broken major stories and put people behind bars and changed the law. It didn’t sound as glamorous, she supposed.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Natalie said. “I brought over a list of contractors from the area. People whom I’d trust with a redesign.” She set the list in front of Hannah and beamed.
“Thank you!” Hannah pretended to gush. She pocketed the list, reminding herself not to tell Natalie that she probably wouldn’t be able to afford anything more than a few touch-ups till she figured out how she was going to get a revenue stream going. She didn’t want to fixate on how alienated she felt, not only from her career but also from herself.
“Tell me,” Hannah said, her voice chipper, “what have you been up to?”
Natalie talked at length about her children, about the tourism board she was on and the restaurants she and her husband had recently checked out. “Nantucket is for foodies!” she exclaimed. Hannah continued to ask questions, grateful to think about something besides the mess of her own life. And then Natalie mentioned city council and her husband’s work there, and Hannah realized she couldn’t help herself.
“What happened with that man?” Hannah asked. She’d been scouring the papers but had found nothing other than a brief obituary, saying that Thomas Bard was a beloved member of the community and his death had been an accident.
Natalie’s face contorted.
“Thomas Bard,” Hannah added. “I was at the newspaper when news broke of his death. Everyone seemed really panicked. I mean, I assumed it was foul play?”
