Page 97 of Surfside Sisters

“Isabelle is a good girl—

“She’s hardly a girl.”

“You two will always be girls to me. But okay, Isabelle has a good heart. She’ll come around in time. I suppose all you can do is wait.”

“You’re right. So. Let’s talk about you.” Keely twisted in her chair. “Look what I found in the paper.” She folded the town newspaper so that a certain article showed and handed it to her mother.

NANTUCKET VOLUNTEER OPPORTUNITIES.

“Over two dozen organizations need help. Why not choose one or two that interest you the most? You could be really helpful, with all your experience as a nurse.”

Eloise nodded. “You’re right. I’d like to volunteer. I’ll check these out. Oh, and Keely, look! Here’s something you might like.” She handed the newspaper back to Keely.

Are you a writer? Come join the Nantucket Writers’ Club at the Nantucket Atheneum Wednesday nights at seven to talk about your fiction and non-fiction work. No age limit.

“It doesn’t say who’s involved,” Keely murmured. “Or where they’ve published or if they’ve published.”

“Does it matter?” Eloise reached over to take Keely’s hand. “When you were a child, you loved talking with people about words. How ‘set’ can be a subject and a verb, the difference between ‘gloomy’ and ‘grim.’ You might have fun being around people who love words.”

“Mmm. Maybe.”

“My point is,” Eloise said, pointing at the newspaper, “the people in this group arewriters.My life has changed, Keely, and I’ll admit I’m having trouble adjusting to it. It helps to have you here. And I’m glad you’re seeing Sebastian. But you spend so much time isolated in your room, working…I think you should try this group. I think it would be good for you.”

Keely laughed. “Okay, you know what? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go to the writers’ group if you’ll volunteer.”

“Deal.” Eloise extended her hand and Keely shook it.

Wednesday evening Keely entered the town library, just as she’d promised her mother she would. Nantucket had become a celebrity and intellectual paradise. Writers of all genres and levels of success came for the summer or a year to soak up the atmosphere. Some of the writers were well-known and enjoyed their celebrity, drinking at the island bars, picking up a man or a woman for the night and often making some kind of scene that the island would feast on for days. Other writers preferred their privacy. Maybe Keely’s high school English teacher would be there; Mrs. Atwater had always talked about a book she was going to write.

The young woman at the circulation desk directed Keely to a small conference room on the handsome ground floor. Keely went down the stairs, through the hall, pulled open the door, and entered.

First, Keely spotted Grace Atwater, her former teacher. It had been only a few years since Keely had seen her, but Grace had stopped dyeing her hair. Now she’d taken on the appearance of someone who wrote by candlelight with incense curling up around her halo of frizz.

“Hi, Mrs. Atwater!” Keely said happily. She entered the room and glanced to see who else was in the group.

Isabelle.

Isabelle was seated at the table, across from Grace Atwater.

She was more beautiful than ever, with her thick blond hair sheared short, accentuating her blue eyes. Keely’s heart was like Niagara Falls,thunderingas emotions cascaded through her. Keely wanted to race toward Isabelle and embrace her. But of course she couldn’t. Sharing one’s writing was a brave and intimate deed, done only when the writer felt some degree of safety, some sense that no one would laugh or sneer at the work. Isabelle might feel anxious with Keely in the group. Keely would definitely feel anxious with Isabelle here. Keely felt Isabelle studying her, and wanted to run from the room. She had spoken to audiences of four hundred people and felt less nervous than she did now.

“Keely.” Isabelle’s voice was cool, but she looked strained, almost fearful. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I only decided today.” Keely gripped her notebook tightly, hoping to conceal how her hands were trembling. “How is your father?”

“He’s getting better, thank you,” Isabelle replied, her voice formal.

“What areyoudoing here?” a man asked, his tone belligerent. He looked to be in his sixties, with thick white hair. He wore horn-rimmed glasses over his bright blue eyes. His face was flushed almost burgundy. “You’re a published author,” he continued. “Why would someone successful like you deign to hang out with a bunch of amateurs like us?”

Keely hesitated. She could leave. Maybe sheshouldleave. But she answered honestly. “My mother suggested I come. She reminded me that when I was a young girl, I had a best friend. My best friend and I dreamed of being authors. Novelists. We read the same books and discussed them. We were passionate about words. We couldn’t get enough of words, the way they sound, the way they look, what they can do when they’re arranged one way or the other. We were like a very intense, determined fan club of two. We sat in our bedrooms or on a porch, and shared the stories we wrote with our words.” Her chin trembled when she admitted, “I’ve never been happier in my life.”

Isabelle ducked her head, took a tissue from her bag, and blew her nose.

The man growled, “I see.”

A confident, almost aggressive voice spoke up. “Hi, Keely. Cool that you’re here,” a young woman said.

“Thank you.” Keely’s legs were shaking.

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