Read Online Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) by Leila Howland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leila Howland
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much!”
“Staff dinner is at four. See you then.”
“Tonight?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” I said, though I still needed to go for a run and practice stick drills. She ducked behind the bar and tossed me a T-shirt the same shade as the famous Nantucket Red pants. “The first shirt is on the house. After that they’re twenty bucks. You got a pair of khakis?”
“I can find some,” I said.
“Four o’clock,” she said. Her phone rang.
“Oh, and um, I need housing, too. That’s what the original ad said?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She saw the number on the caller ID, muttered something under her breath, picked it up, and spoke into the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. She handed me employment forms and gestured at the door.
It’s just nine weeks, I told myself as I pulled on the last of several pairs of khakis in the Nantucket Hospital Thrift Store dressing room. And then I’ll be at Brown. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing could make these pants look good. The waist was high, and not in a cool retro way, and they were a little too short. But they basically fit otherwise and would have to do until Mom could send me a better pair from home. I’d tried Murray’s first, the store famous for Nantucket Reds. I’d found a pair that were actually almost flattering, but they were a hundred dollars.
I wandered over to the thrift store, where secondhand khakis seemed to grow like weeds. I found at least six pairs in my size, four of which didn’t have stains, and two of which were from this century. “Those are half off,” the elderly thrift store volunteer said when I set them on the card table with the cash box and old-fashioned adding machine, the same one I’d seen Rosemary use to balance her checkbook. “All ladies’ trousers are.”
“I guess I’ll get them both,” I said.
“You sure you don’t want to check out the books? Hardcovers are a dollar today. I can put these aside for you,” she said, checking the labels as she folded the pants. “Oh, Talbots. You’re lucky. The good brands go quick. I’ll put these out of sight so no one snags them.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, not having the heart to tell her that the Talbots pants would probably have been safe even if they had been displayed on their one mannequin. I ducked into the book room and spotted a display of oversize art books. Even though they varied in size and style, I could tell they’d inhabited the same space for a long period of time. I imagined they had all been donated from one person’s collection, some very dedicated museum lover. One was from the Getty in Los Angeles, one from the Frick in New York, and another was from the Rodin Museum in Paris. I pulled out the Rodin book. The cover was torn, there was a coffee ring on it, and when I cracked it open, the slippery pages smelled faintly like cigarettes.
I sat on the floor and thumbed through it. It was written in French. I could only understand bits of it, but the writing wasn’t the point. The pictures were. Don’t think of Zack, I told myself as I searched frantically for The Kiss . I found it and snapped the book shut, biting my lip. I bought it. It was a sign of some sort. I wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, but I felt Nina next to me again, whispering about something I needed to understand, a place I needed to go and see, even if I had to wear Talbots khakis to get there.
A few hours later, I was twenty-seven minutes early for my first day of training, which was somehow worse than being late. I’d left the inn with plenty of time to spare in case something came up. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but if I wanted to train for lacrosse and make eight thousand dollars in nine weeks, I had to stick to a schedule and not screw up. Every day I was going to eat three healthy meals, run five miles, and get eight hours of sleep. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about Zack and Parker.
When I arrived
“Staff dinner is at four. See you then.”
“Tonight?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” I said, though I still needed to go for a run and practice stick drills. She ducked behind the bar and tossed me a T-shirt the same shade as the famous Nantucket Red pants. “The first shirt is on the house. After that they’re twenty bucks. You got a pair of khakis?”
“I can find some,” I said.
“Four o’clock,” she said. Her phone rang.
“Oh, and um, I need housing, too. That’s what the original ad said?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She saw the number on the caller ID, muttered something under her breath, picked it up, and spoke into the phone in rapid-fire Spanish. She handed me employment forms and gestured at the door.
It’s just nine weeks, I told myself as I pulled on the last of several pairs of khakis in the Nantucket Hospital Thrift Store dressing room. And then I’ll be at Brown. I sighed at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing could make these pants look good. The waist was high, and not in a cool retro way, and they were a little too short. But they basically fit otherwise and would have to do until Mom could send me a better pair from home. I’d tried Murray’s first, the store famous for Nantucket Reds. I’d found a pair that were actually almost flattering, but they were a hundred dollars.
I wandered over to the thrift store, where secondhand khakis seemed to grow like weeds. I found at least six pairs in my size, four of which didn’t have stains, and two of which were from this century. “Those are half off,” the elderly thrift store volunteer said when I set them on the card table with the cash box and old-fashioned adding machine, the same one I’d seen Rosemary use to balance her checkbook. “All ladies’ trousers are.”
“I guess I’ll get them both,” I said.
“You sure you don’t want to check out the books? Hardcovers are a dollar today. I can put these aside for you,” she said, checking the labels as she folded the pants. “Oh, Talbots. You’re lucky. The good brands go quick. I’ll put these out of sight so no one snags them.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, not having the heart to tell her that the Talbots pants would probably have been safe even if they had been displayed on their one mannequin. I ducked into the book room and spotted a display of oversize art books. Even though they varied in size and style, I could tell they’d inhabited the same space for a long period of time. I imagined they had all been donated from one person’s collection, some very dedicated museum lover. One was from the Getty in Los Angeles, one from the Frick in New York, and another was from the Rodin Museum in Paris. I pulled out the Rodin book. The cover was torn, there was a coffee ring on it, and when I cracked it open, the slippery pages smelled faintly like cigarettes.
I sat on the floor and thumbed through it. It was written in French. I could only understand bits of it, but the writing wasn’t the point. The pictures were. Don’t think of Zack, I told myself as I searched frantically for The Kiss . I found it and snapped the book shut, biting my lip. I bought it. It was a sign of some sort. I wasn’t sure what it meant exactly, but I felt Nina next to me again, whispering about something I needed to understand, a place I needed to go and see, even if I had to wear Talbots khakis to get there.
A few hours later, I was twenty-seven minutes early for my first day of training, which was somehow worse than being late. I’d left the inn with plenty of time to spare in case something came up. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, but if I wanted to train for lacrosse and make eight thousand dollars in nine weeks, I had to stick to a schedule and not screw up. Every day I was going to eat three healthy meals, run five miles, and get eight hours of sleep. The busier I was, the less time I had to think about Zack and Parker.
When I arrived
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