Nantucket Red (Nantucket Blue) by Leila Howland Read Free Book Online Page B

inside my raincoat, gathered my stuff as best I could, and pushed my way through the heavy door to the inside part of the ferry, where the air-conditioning, set to arctic frost, sent a chill down my back like a zipper.
    The knees of my jeans were soaked through to the skin. Water dripped from my ponytail and the hem of my raincoat. I looked around for a seat, or at least a corner to shove my bags in while I tried to rescue the picture. As the steam whistle blew and we pulled away from the dock, the people who had missed the heavy rain settled in. Dry and comfortable, they removed their moisture-wicking jackets and opened hardcover books and well-respected newspapers. Kids stared into their iPads or lined up to order hot dogs while their parents typed into their phones. Chocolate Labs and golden retrievers curled on cozy fleece beds. I stood dripping in my own private puddle.
    “Is someone sitting here?” I asked a guy whose guitar was taking up a seat.
    He looked up, blinking, like I’d just startled him out of a dream. He was older than me, but not by much. He had messy dark blond hair with a few strands of gold and lines that went from the corners of his bright blue eyes to his cheeks. He was cute and he knew it. He smiled up at me, pulled out his earbuds, and asked, “What’s that?”
    “Is this seat taken? I mean, by anyone besides your guitar?”
    “Oh, no,” he said, laughing a little as he stood up to get his guitar. He was wearing a gray wool sweater with a hole in the elbow. There was paint on his jeans and a little in his hair. As he leaned over to place his guitar under the seat, his T-shirt lifted, exposing a tan, muscular back. Was he doing that on purpose? “Looks like you’re headed to the island for a while.”
    “Yeah,” I said, arranging my stuff in an awkward pile.
    “Me, too,” he said. “What are you going to be doing?”
    “Working,” I said, peeling my dripping jacket off. “You?”
    “Working, yeah, but also just taking it all in. Surfing. Writing music. Resetting, you know? There’s nothing like a summer on Nantucket to shake things up.”
    “That’s true,” I said, thinking about how last summer had completely changed my life. “Um, can you watch my stuf f ? ”
    He patted my suitcase. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
    A little girl sucking on a Popsicle watched with interest as I held the picture over the trash can and freed it from its ruined case. I brushed it off with the soft, dry sleeve of my sweatshirt. The photo looked so small and vulnerable without the frame, but except for a tiny corner piece that had torn off with an apple-seed of glass, it had survived. I turned it over to check the back and gasped. Written in faint ballpoint pen was a list.
    Nina’s Life List
    1. Visit Rodin Museum in Paris.
    2. Learn to drive and then drive Route 1 to Big Sur.
    3. Drink Campari on Amalfi Coast with Alison.
    4. Be in a Woody Allen movie.
    5. See St. Francis from altar.
    I traced my finger over her familiar architect’s handwriting. I felt Nina’s presence for the first time since her death. It was like she was leaning on the counter wearing brown duck boots and a Fair Isle sweater, her hair down and her brown eyes laughing at my discovery.
    I’d never heard of this list before, and I wondered where and when she’d made it. Since it was on the back of her graduation picture, it must’ve been right after she’d finished Brown. They all had a check mark next to them except that last one: See St. Francis from altar. Maybe it was the faintness of the ink, or the small, girlish hearts drawn in each corner, or the checks next to the first four items on the list, each marked by a different pen, but I had a feeling that no one else knew about it. It was her secret, and now it was mine.
    I stepped outside. The air was balmy compared to the dank, clammy cabin, and the rain was now a hesitant drizzle. I stood under the overhang and studied the list again, considering the first item.