Page 43 of Summer Light on Nantucket

“Impressive.”

“Seth plays with the Boston Symphony Orchestra.”

“Wow. Music must run in your family.”

“Probably. Dad coached sports and Mom taught music, both at the same school.” Nick laughed. “My sister, Nora, is a teacher.”

Blythe gave him a brief summary of her own family, mentioning that she’d always wished she’d had a sibling.

“Sometimes a friend is as good as a sibling,” Nick told her. “Plus, you never have to beat them up.”

“You beat up your sister?” Blythe asked, faking horror.

“I wanted to. We’re only two years apart, and we fought a lot. When we were little, she’d sock me and I’d pull her hair. We had some legendary shouting matches. Also, I might have put a frog in her bed.”

“At least it wasn’t a snake,” Blythe said.

Nick fake-cringed. “Well…”

“You put a snake in your sister’s bed?”

“It couldn’t hurt her. It was dead.”

“Ugh! Nick Roth, that’s terrible!”

Looking mischievous, Nick recalled, “It was brilliant. She wassomad! Don’t worry. She got over it. We’re good friends now. I’ve mellowed since I was six.”

Blythe was laughing as Nick went around the ’Sconset Rotary and parked in front of the Sconset Market. This village was a different universe from the town of Nantucket. Small, quiet, it was like stepping back into the past.

They strolled through the lane of small cottages, their roofs covered with roses. When they got to the Bluff Walk, they went single file, stopping now and then to comment on the view of the Atlantic, rolling peacefully today. They passed sprawling mansions on their left and on their right, stairs zigzagging down the steep cliff plunging to the beach.

By the time they reached the end and followed the trail back, they were both hungry. At Claudette’s, Nick bought them roasted turkey sandwiches with the works and bottles of water and they settled at one of the tables on the deck.

Blythe caught her breath and tilted her head back to the sun. When she straightened, she saw Nick studying the view of vine-covered mansions and the road slanting down to the beach.

She studied him. He was fit. All that hiking, she guessed. His face was tan, with white creases fanning from his eyes. His shoulders were wide. He looked sturdy. She wanted to put her hand on his chest, right where his heart was.

Nick felt her gaze and turned to her.

“I have to confess something,” Blythe told him. “I’m not a serious hiker.”

“Well, that was not a serious hike.”

“Oh, and what’s a serious hike?”

“The West Highland trail in Scotland. It can take six or seven days.”

“Have you hiked it?”

“I have.”

“I bow down to you, O Serious Hiker,” Blythe teased, not exactly kidding.

“Stop it. Listen, have you hiked up Mount Greylock? In western Massachusetts?”

“No. I’ve only hiked with the kids, and we’ve stayed close to Boston.”

“How about Mount Washington in New Hampshire?”

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