Free Moon Shell Beach: A Novel by Nancy Thayer Page B

for its sun-drenched beaches and bright surging waters, yes, but more than that, she loved it because it was a small town. She loved that babies were born in the Nantucket Cottage Hospital tucked away near the Old Mill, and that those who died rested in the cemetery on a street aptly named Prospect Hill, with its gentle reminder that those still between birth and death might want to take a moment to consider their afterlife prospects and adjust their actions accordingly. She loved it that the island had no malls or McDonald’s. She loved it that the only movie house open in the nine months of the off-season was the Starlight, and she was sorry the new owners had changed the name from the Gaslight, which had always provided the youngest males something to joke about. She loved it that one of the busiest streets in town curved past a pond where a community of spoiled mallards and a few marauding herring gulls lived, and when more people crowded onto the island with their cars, the town put up a sign:
Duck Crossing. Please Drive Carefully.
As far as she knew, not one duck had been killed on that busy curve. She loved that women had always been influential on this island—all that history she’d yawned over in school now meant something to her.
    The ferry slowed, gliding into the boat basin on the sheltered side of the island. She saw the white spire of the Congregational church rising above the village sheltering along the shore, and the stubby white Brant Point lighthouse, and the curve of Children’s Beach. She saw, in the distance, the golden blur of Moon Shell Beach.
    The ferry bumped gently against the pilings. Chains sang as they were slung and fastened while ramps were dropped into place, and the passengers filed off the boat, onto shore.
    Lexi stepped onto the island. Her new Range Rover would arrive on the big, slow car ferry at eleven-thirty. She’d pick it up then.
    She tugged her cashmere cap down over her blond hair and wrapped her scarf around her face, nestling her chin and mouth down inside for warmth. Instead of going right to her building, she took a detour along Water Street, up past the library and post office, and down Main Street. Even after all her years away, she could make this walk blindfolded. On an April Monday, many businesses were closed, but the lights were on in the post office. An old man limped down the sidewalk, accompanied by an extremely fat bulldog that was almost dancing in its attempt to keep its paws off the cold bricks. Could that be Marvin Merriweather? Could he have aged so much? The dog did look like Moses. The pair disappeared inside the Hub before Lexi could make up her mind.
    Across the street, a woman with a baby in a Bjorn and a three-year-old child clutching her hand struggled up the path to the children’s library. South Water Street was a row of dark, silent buildings. The Dreamland Theater was boarded up for the winter. The various T-shirt shops and art galleries were closed but Fog Island, a restaurant new to Lexi, had a light on far in the back and a sign stating they would be open at eleven-thirty, for lunch.
    She hurried on through the Grand Union parking lot, past Old South Wharf where a few private fishing boats berthed along the pier rocked and bounced in the sloshing seas, and finally she walked out on Commercial Wharf and stood in front of the building for which she had just signed a three-year lease.
    A two-story wooden structure, it was shingled and gray and as square and forthright as a Puritan with its white trim and granite stoop. It was a duplex, with fifteen hundred feet of open space on ground level, and another fifteen hundred feet on the second floor, where she would make her new home.
    It was ironic—and perhaps some kind of omen?—that Clare Hart’s chocolate shop occupied the space next to Lexi’s.
    She would call Clare soon. She
would.
    But for now she just turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, entering her new space.
Her
new