Nicola
On Thursday evening is in her kitchen, about to FaceTime her parents, when she hears a rapping on the front door of
the cottage. She opens the door to find a young woman, maybe college age or maybe slightly older, with glorious eyebrows and
pillowy lips. An Instagram face; it looks, even standing in front of in real life, as if it has been run through a
filter to smooth and plump the skin and raise the cheekbones. Her name is Allison, she says, and she’s been sent over by her
boss, ’s neighbor Juliana George, who would be “honored” if would attend her “little get-together” the following
night.
“What’s the occasion?” asks.
Allison blinks, her wide, catlike eyes growing even wider and more catlike. “Summer solstice.”
The longest day of the year. This is not something can remember having specifically celebrated before.
“Wow, okay, thank you very much. If I’m free I’d love to go.” Allison cocks her head as if seeing right through . You already have plans? her look seems to say. You? “Oh, who am I kidding,” confesses. “I’m very free.” Then, because she’s from Minnesota and this is how she was brought
up, she says, “What can I bring?”
Allison looks startled, as if has asked if it’s all right if she comes mostly nude, but wearing tap shoes. “Just yourself,” she says, all business. Maybe Allison’s personality has been run through a filter as well.
By the time the next evening comes is tired and not feeling festive, summer solstice or not. There has been an emergency
at the Institute; a recent high tide has blocked the flow of water leaving one of the tanks, and it’s overflowed. Apparently
this is a common occurrence, this overflowing, and actually it was a little bit exciting, the way the interns all pulled together
to sort it out, but it was also supremely messy, and as a result she smells like algae and plankton.
She considers not going. She won’t be missed—she doesn’t even know the host. But early evening falls toward late evening and
cars begin to pull into the driveway next door. FOMO gets her by its ugly teeth. She showers off the algae; she dons the one
nice dress she brought for the summer. She takes a deep breath and tells herself that she can do this, she can go to a party
alone. She hasn’t been to any parties since Zachary, not real parties anyway. There are a lot of things she hasn’t done since
Zachary. Sex is another thing. She hasn’t done sex since Zachary. It was her decision, to end things, to move here, to start
over—but that doesn’t make it all a breeze.
The party has the feel of a scene where you might turn around and see, say, an indie movie director or a singer just off a
tour, maybe not an outdoor giant stadium tour but one that includes lots of hip, smaller venues. Olivia Rodrigo before the
Grammys; Noah Kahan before Stick Season . In one corner of the lawn, in a cabana, a DJ in a plain black T-shirt, sunglasses, and giant headphones is frowning at the
sky, which is growing dark, with tinges of pink around the edges, and dancing by himself. Which supposes is what DJs
do.
There’s a small line at an outdoor bar, and behind the bar the doors to the house are flung wide open. In and out of these doors move a steady stream of partygoers, flitting like moths. misses Zachary so suddenly and fiercely the missing feels like pain. The feel of entering a new situation with a hand in hers: she misses that.
Deep breath, girl. Deep breath. She joins the line at the bar.
“...get you?” says the bartender, the first half of his question lost because just then the DJ turns up the music and a
little cry goes up from the dancing crowd and a song almost knows, rendered nearly unrecognizable by a beat laid underneath
it, begins to play.
“I don’t know,” she says, unsure of what sort of drinks people order at a party like this. Gin and tonic is her go-to summer
drink. Can she do better? “What’s good?” He holds up one finger and says, “I got you,” and before can think twice she’s
in possession of an apricot-colored drink.
“A twist on an Aperol Spritz,” the bartender says. takes a sip. She likes it. Another sip, and then, because she drinks
too fast when she’s anxious, a third one.
“Have you seen Juliana?” demands a woman with streaky hair and long tanned legs. shakes her head and says that she
hasn’t even met her; she doesn’t know what she looks like. The woman scrutinizes and says, “Juliana and I went to college
together. BC. Go Eagles!” With that pronouncement she’s gone, melting into the crowd.
moves toward the edge of the bar area and almost bumps into a woman with a half-shaved head. The hair on the other
half is pink. She’s drinking a twist on an Aperol Spritz as well, and smiling at .
“Melanie,” she says, offering the hand not holding a drink.
“.”
“Dog trainer to the rich and famous,” she says. Her handshake is firm and she has about her a no-nonsense attitude that
figures goes a long way with a doodle or a corgi. When she releases her hand hangs for a second in the air, as if at
any second it’s going to reach for a treat pouch or a clicker.
“What rich and famous?” is genuinely interested.
The woman makes a motion as if closing a zipper running horizontally across her lips. “Client confidentiality.”
tries not to roll her eyes. “Got it.”
sees someone moving toward her. She glances, then her eyes come back for a double take. It’s none other than Jack Baker.
Jack Baker! A familiar face. A familiar, sexy face.
“Take my arm, I’ll rescue you,” he says. She takes his arm and he leads her to the edge of the crowd and says, “That lady
is a nutcase. She had me cornered at another party the other night.”
“A party here?”
“No. It was—” He waves a hand in the general direction of town. “It was somewhere else. I couldn’t get away. I don’t even
have a dog, .” (He remembers my name! thinks .) “Do you need another drink?”
She looks down at her glass: empty. “Yeah,” she says. Then, remembering her manners, “Yes, please.”
“Wait here.”
He returns with fresh drinks and offers his arm again. He doesn’t have to ask her twice to grasp back onto that smooth,
tanned limb. She walks with Jack Baker inside, through what she imagines would have been called the ballroom, if this were
a Disney movie and she the misfit in rags. Her dress is hardly rags but everybody else is wearing something more interesting,
more Instagram- or VSCO-worthy, or at least their eyebrows and jewelry and shoes are more interesting. The hair on almost
all the women, save the Dog Trainer to the Stars, is preternaturally straight, center-parted, swinging. By comparison,
feels like a frizz monster, and like the only person who smells like the bottom of the ocean despite the shower.
Anchored together in this way and Jack move past a long table with an impressive raw bar and, next to that, an array
of tiny desserts: mini carrot cakes and cheesecakes and exquisite cupcakes and fruit kebabs, all lined up, soldiers ready
for battle.
“Hungry?” asks Jack, and says that she isn’t, even though she sort of is. She berates herself silently for that: this is not the 1950s; women are allowed to have appetites! She casts a regretful look at the kebabs and follows Jack to a corner high-top table. Several clumps of two or three or four party guests are scattered throughout the room; it’s a lot of people, but there is space to spare. Long windows, nearly floor to ceiling, line one wall. Through them can see the dark edges of the sky moving closer toward the center; the sun has set, and, just like that, the longest day of the year has come and gone.
(Later someone will point out to that this year the solstice had actually occurred on June 20, so the party was off
by one day. You can, will reflect, wait and wait for the longest day of the year, and still you may miss it.)
They rest their drinks on the table and look around. There is a strong feeling—almost an odor, or anyway at least a scent—of
money in the air. Perhaps in some cases it’s a lack of money, and a corresponding desire for it. Everybody seems to be making
a Secret Deal, or taking a photo that might turn out to be Important, if Not Life-Changing, and the promise of Something seems
so close, so tantalizing, as if you can reach out and pluck the possibilities like peaches from a tree. “How’s she know so
many people ?” asks Jack.
“Oh, I don’t think she knows them all,” says Jack, smiling. “They’re not all invited. They just come.”
“ I was invited,” says, “not to brag or anything,” and he smiles again, that wide, white smile. He taps the tip of ’s
nose with his finger and says, “Aren’t you adorable.”
Two girls dressed in yellow (in homage to the solstice? wonders) come up to them then; they chat with Jack and mostly
ignore . When they’re gone puts her face close to Jack’s ear—there are speakers in here to bring the DJ’s music
closer, and it’s loud—and whisper-shouts that she has not yet met Juliana George.
Jack furrows his brow and taps his ear the way you do when you need somebody to repeat something.
“I haven’t met the host yet!” she says.
“Ahhhh!” Jack nods. “Let’s fix that. Come with me.” They leave their empty glasses on the table—three young men in black T-shirts
have been clearing glasses and plates—and follows Jack out of the ballroom to another part of the house, down a wide
hallway that leads to a set of stairs. “Front stairs,” he says, pointing. “Back stairs are over there. Library,” he says,
pointing again, and sees, through the open door, a semicircle of a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She spends
a moment contemplating the feat of architectural design that makes possible built-ins in a rounded wall.
“I feel like I’m in a live game of Clue,” she says.
Jack laughs appreciatively at this. “Colonel Mustard did it, if you’re wondering.”
“I knew it,” says . “The bastard.”
“Seems like it’s always Colonel Mustard,” he says.
“Yesss!” cries, even though in her experience it’s always Professor Plum. She and her sisters used to play a lot of
Clue, especially at the lake, where there is only one television and no cable, no Wi-Fi. Sometimes they hated that, and sometimes
they tolerated it, but more often they loved it. Especially now that those endless summer days are over—they still go when
they can, but never so freely, never so unencumbered, never so endlessly as they did in the past—now they really love it.
Jack’s phone buzzes, and he glances at it and says, “Sorry, darling, I have to take this.” Despite her internal efforts to
remain impervious to his charms, the way Jack Baker says darling does something naughty to . “Here, wait for me in there”—he gestures toward the library—“and I’ll be right back. Okay,
Nicky?”
From where did Jack get permission to use the nickname that only her family is allowed to use? “Okay.” She enters the library
and stands for at least a full minute, maybe longer, looking at the spectacular shelves, before someone says, “It’s something
else, isn’t it?”
jumps. There’s a person in the room with her, a woman about her age, could be younger, could be older, with shoulder-length dark hair, really curly, those enviable curls that probably drive the owner crazy, and a simple white slip dress. Beautiful skin, darker than ’s. That’s not saying much; most people have skin darker than ’s, Minnesota having originally been settled by pale people. The other woman is upright in one of the three easy chairs that sit, like the three points on a triangle, in the center of the room, around a large round leather table. She’s not looking at a phone or at any of the books; she gives the impression of having been recently deep in thought. Her smile is small and cautious, and her eyes are big and brown.
“It’s amazing,” says. “I’m pretty sure this is the nicest house I’ve ever been in.” The woman nods, as though this
is a test and has given the right answer. thinks of the home she grew up in, a home that a real estate listing
might describe as cozy and well-loved but only when using those terms as a collective euphemism for cramped and possibly shabby . She thinks of her and her sisters sharing the one bathroom on the second floor, the endless stream of female clutter moving
across the countertops, bobby pins and scrunchies and bottles of makeup and perfume and mouthwash, one of them always tipped
over and leaking resolutely from a cap that hadn’t been put on tightly enough. The lake house on Pokegama, the real estate
listing would call rustic and full of character from times gone by, which mostly means that the appliances are all due for replacing.
“Are you trying to escape the party?” ventures . A fellow introvert?
“A little,” says the woman. “I’ll go back out soon. I just—” A fraction of a shrug, a pause. “I just needed a break.”
“Sure, I get that.” wonders when Jack is coming back to call her darling again and to let her lips get close to his ear. What is taking him so long? “I just can’t believe all this space for one person,” goes on. “For one person! It’s almost criminal.”
“Almost,” the woman agrees.
“I guess that’s why she throws the parties,” says. “To fill things up. Otherwise it would be lonely here, right?”
“That’s probably one reason.” waits, but the woman doesn’t offer an idea of what the other reasons might be. Something
about the smooth, eager expression on her face makes feel like she should keep talking. “It’s the first time I’ve been
here,” she says. “Even though I live right next door.”
“Right next door!”
nods. “How about you?”
“Oh, I’ve been here since early May,” she says. “I haven’t missed a single party.”
“Wow. That’s commitment.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“I’m , by the way.” steps toward her and extends her hand. The woman’s fingers are long and slender, ringless,
though there is a trio of simple gold bracelets on her wrist. They shake. The timing works out such that she says her name
at the same time Allison enters the room and also says the name: “Juliana!”
looks from one to the other. “ You’re Juliana?”
She smiles and nods. The smile is still small and careful but it has opened a fraction, then opens up more, until it’s an
actual grin. “I am,” she says. roots around in her recent memory, trying to recall exactly what she said about the
house being too big. And had she called the owner lonely? Had she said something worse? “And if you live in the cottage next
door, that makes us neighbors.”
“I guess it does.”
“Juliana,” says Allison again. “I think I found the person you were looking for. He’s near the bar.”
Juliana’s face betrays nothing; she turns to and says genially, maybe just crossing over into formality, “I need to
go speak to someone, . It was so nice to meet you. We should get together in a more intimate setting someday soon, so
we can chat.”
“We should,” agrees. But she doesn’t mean it. She’s flustered; she feels tricked, even gaslit. Anyway, this is the sort of thing people say casually to each other all the time and never follow up on. Like the way you promise all your extended family members at a funeral that you’ll have to get together in happier times, and you don’t see them until you’re peering into another casket.
But: “How’s Monday?” Juliana turns in the doorway to say this to .
“Monday?” Taken aback is a gentle term for what feels.
“We’ll take the mopeds out. Maybe... four p.m. ?”
“I work until five.”
“You’ve got meetings on Monday,” Allison reminds her. “Until five-thirty.”
“Let’s make it six, then.”
“Okay,” says, too much on her back foot to really consider if she wants to accept or not. She’s annoyed at Jack for
depositing her in the library and not coming back for her. She’s peeved at Juliana for not revealing her identity right away.
She doesn’t like feeling duped. She’s bothered by Allison for being so together.
Allison says, “We should...” and looks meaningfully at Juliana.
“Right.” They sweep out of the library, leaving alone. She stands there for a few minutes, looking at the books, wondering
if they’re real. They’re arranged by color, a style she’s seen on Instagram, and it looks fantastic, but she wonders how you
could ever find anything you’re looking for. pulls out a few, one by one, randomly: a blue, a light pink, a green.
She checks them. Real.
Then she decides that if Jack isn’t coming back she’ll go enjoy the party on her own. Or at least she’ll observe the party
on her own. The DJ is going strong, and the dancers are still at it, and there’s still a line at the bar. She overhears somebody
say:
“Ordinance—”
And another person say, “He’s a celebrity watcher, which is the same as—”
And another person say, “Fuck if I know, Katie—”
A couple is in the middle of a heated argument, whose flames alcohol are definitely fanning. He never wanted to go out with her friends even though she went out with his asshole friends all the time, even to that stupid hockey...
Who hasn’t been there? I mean, seriously, who hasn’t been there ? Once and Zachary got into a fight at the Public Garden in Boston, when they’d gone for an overnight to celebrate
their second anniversary. A Public Fight in the Public Garden, which, when she looks back on it, is utterly humiliating. In
the moment, though, she remembers the way the rage overtook her, and how she didn’t care who in the world was listening. Maybe
she was even exhilarated by the sidelong glances of strangers, and the way they both refused to let the fight end. Zachary
was a champion one-upper; had it been a D1 sport he’d have gotten a college scholarship.
Now that she’s on the other side of it, she can see that it’s not a great look, airing your grievances without checking to
see who might be around. wants to take this couple aside and tell them to go to bed and talk about it in the morning.
Or maybe don’t talk about it! Maybe just forget it, and go out for coffee and bagels to soak up all of the alcohol, and get
on with your weekend.
is feeling her drinks—ho, boy, is she feeling them. She only had two! What was in them? She wants to go home. She has work in the morning, even though it’s Saturday; they’re hosting a dock exploration, and
she’s in charge. The interns each take a turn with the Saturday shift. She’s about to leave when she feels a hand on her arm.
She turns. Jack! It’s Jack. She pulls her hand away and cries, “Where’d you go for so long?” She actually sputters this; had
she been a cartoon there would have been an exaggerated back-and-forth motion of her head, rubbery lips.
“Here and there,” he says, looking infuriatingly sexy-chagrined.
She tries her best to ignore the sexy part. She folds her arms, hoping this gesture, pedestrian though it may be, sufficiently conveys the depth of her frustration. “You left me! I was talking to Juliana but I didn’t know it was Juliana and you never came back , and then she had to go talk to someone, and you never came back!”
“Sorry,” he says. “I am sorry, darling Nicky, I am. I got caught up talking to some guys I know.” Jack strikes then—as
he will even more later in the summer, after everything—as someone who remains smoothly impassive in the face of others’ agitation.
Even grief, probably. She’ll learn more as time goes on, but she can see already that he’s shellacked all over with an impermeable
coating that allows nearly every outside influence to slide off him like water from oilcloth. Then he says, “You won’t believe
the story I just heard.”
“Well, what is it?” tries sticking her lip out like a grumpy toddler, realizes it’s not playing the way she wants it
to, puts the lip back where it belongs.
“Never mind, I can’t tell you all of it right now—but I will eventually.”
“Aw, come on! I was waiting all this time and you won’t even tell me?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a story for another day. But I’ll definitely tell you, because it has to do with you.”
“With me?”
The music stops, and Jack looks at his watch. “Right on cue. Eleven p.m .”
“What’s right on cue?”
“The end of the party. Block Island noise ordinance.”
Where was this noise ordinance, asks, last week and the week before? Where was the noise ordinance when she couldn’t
sleep? Jack tells her that Juliana hadn’t followed it, and had been given a warning, and was now compelled to comply. Or else.
“Or else what?”
Jack yawns. “To be honest with you, I don’t know. Come on, I’ll walk you home.” The partygoers begin to leave, calling out to one another, or simply scattering into the darkness, the reverse of the moth-to-the-light actions from earlier. doesn’t see Juliana anywhere. She hears engines start up from the driveway. The DJ has his equipment almost dismantled. It’s amazing how quickly the scene goes from a party to a not-party, as though the whole thing had been merely a stage set and has to be taken down to move the production to a new city.
Jack takes ’s hand as they cross the lawn toward her cottage.
“How do you know everything about this place?” she asks him, still perturbed. “Noise ordinances and all that. How do you have
people to meet in town? Didn’t you just get here?” Taylor’s father had bought the Buchanan house two summers ago, but renovations and decorating had taken a long time,
and they’d become official residents only in April. Jack had arrived just a little earlier than had.
“Sort of. I come and go.”
“Blown in by the east wind? Like Mary Poppins?”
can see the outline of his grin in the lights still blazing from the house next door. “Something like that. I’m a professional
chameleon. I learn what I need to fit in wherever I end up.”
“I thought you were a professional golfer.”
“Ha! That too. Or was. And will be again.”
He swings their joined hands between them in a gesture more intimate than thinks they deserve as two people who have
only recently met, but even so there’s something sweet about it, something that makes feel like they’re two teenagers
headed off to prom. She looks over her shoulder at her neighbor’s house and feels her mood begin to shift and lighten. She’s
been to a real party! She stayed until the very end at this party! Laptops and Netflix in Providence, this is not. Look at me now, Zachary, she thinks. Look at me now. She can see shadows moving around the vast lawn, bending over to pick up trash, stacking discarded chairs, clearing the bar. Over New Harbor hangs a slender moon. can see the green light at the end of David and Taylor’s dock.
“So this is where lives,” says Jack Baker, when they reach the front door of her cottage.
“This is it.” She shrugs. “Nothing fancy. I’m just the poor neighbor.”
“I bet it’s a great little place.”
“It’s not bad. Perfect for one person.”
His teeth are gleaming in the darkness. He leans toward , placing his palms on the door behind her. She thinks he’s
going to kiss her, but instead he leans his forehead against hers and stays there for a good long time. Somehow he makes this
feel more intimate than a kiss. His breath smells like mint. When did he have time to pop a mint? “Should I come in and see
how not bad and how perfect for one person it is?”
Every fiber of her body wants him to come in, and every fiber of her brain is telling her not to listen to her body. She’s
known guys like Jack Baker—who hasn’t? College is full of them. The world is full of them. Jaunty, athletic, careless boys
at home in their bodies, sexy boys who know their worth and where to spend it. He moves his face back from ’s and put
his hands on her waist, tilting his chin down so he’s looking up at her.
“ No ,” she says finally, reluctantly. “It’s late. I have work in the morning.” But she’s laughing when she says it, half of her
wanting him not to listen to her, half of her hoping he’s not the type to ignore the words in favor of what he thinks the
words are really saying.
“Fair enough,” he answers easily. “Could I give you a quick little good night kiss, at least?”
“Okay.” She thinks it’s sort of adorable that he asked.
“I’ll keep it innocent, I promise.”
Then his lips are on hers, and it’s quick (quicker than she wants, after all) and mostly innocent, until his tongue slips
briefly between her lips before he pulls away. Like a promise, that slip.
“Good night, Carr.”
She tries to keep her voice steady and composed. “Good night, Jack Baker.”
She goes inside, but from the window she watches him walk down her walkway, heading toward the front of Juliana’s house. How
is he getting home? How did he get to the party in the first place? She didn’t ask. She knows he’ll figure it out—he’s exactly
that type.
What would have been the harm in having him come in? she wonders, when she has tucked herself into bed. Lack of sleep, obviously.
She would have paid for it the next day at work. She’s already going to pay for the evening, because of the drinks. She gets
up and guzzles a glass of water, then goes back to bed, where she lies for a long time, with her chaotic, unfamiliar thoughts,
in this unfamiliar home in her small corner of an unfamiliar island, waiting for sleep.
Host: And we’re back after a word from our sponsors. Remember to use the code lifeanddeath, no spaces, to get ten percent off at
our gold sponsor, Mattress Queen, and our silver sponsor, Buddha Bowls 2 U. Brought to you by All Ears Media, Life and Death on an Island is a five-part series looking at one summer on Block Island. This is episode two, “The Town Council.” When we left off before
the break we were talking with council members about a mysterious death last summer. Some have attributed the death to a “party
culture” that reached new levels when a business entrepreneur moved to the island. Betsy, let’s start with you. What did you
know about the founder of LookBook?
Betsy: Juliana George was definitely involved in something illegal. Anyone who makes that much money is not on the up-and-up. I’m
sorry, but it’s true. Look at Elizabeth Banks.
Evan: You mean Elizabeth Holmes?
Betsy: Either way.
Kelsey: Aren’t we here to talk about the council? Should we maybe like talk about the council meetings? I’ll start. We meet on the first Wednesday of the month.
Evan: I’ve got three kids under the age of seven. I look forward to these meetings. Sometimes we go over to Poor People’s and get
a beer after. Lou over here? That guy can drink.
Lou: I’m not ashamed.
Evan: Last summer the island was considering a proposal by Buchanan Enterprises to tear down a motel on Dodge Street and build
a “boutique inn and spa.” I know the listeners can’t see me but I’m using air quotes because I can’t say it with a straight
face.
Kelsey: Personally, I think a spa sounds amazing. Can I tell you how many hours a week I spend on my feet?
Betsy: People are real touchy on the subject of hotels since the Harborside burned down two summers ago. I mean, what if these Buchanans
were involved? It’s not like they’d be the first people on Earth to commit arson.
Lou: Betsy!
Betsy: What? I’m not the one who thought of that. It was Catherine from the bookstore who said it first.
Evan: It was while that proposal was front and center that Instagram account started; @keeptheblock, it was called, and—
Kelsey: Sorry to interrupt. But I think it was @keeptheblocktheblock. I don’t know who started the Instagram account. Some of those
comments were pretty harsh. The whole account is gone now.
Betsy: In retrospect, I wonder if we ganged up on Taylor Buchanan.
Evan: We who?
Betsy: We as a town. As an island.
Lou: We didn’t gang up on her.
Kelsey: I definitely didn’t. By the way, I would kill for her hair. Sorry. Bad choice of words. She has really pretty hair. No question,
she goes off-island for those highlights. Goes? Went? I don’t know.
Betsy: You want the real scoop on what’s going on in this town, though? Don’t go to the town council meetings, or the zoning board
meetings, which are even worse. It’s a snoozefest at the zoning board meetings.
Lou: I second that.
Betsy: What you want to do is go to the post office in the afternoon, when the locals go pick up the mail that came in on the boat
midday. Better yet, better than the post office? Go to the dump.
Lou: Man, I love the dump.
Evan: That’s where I first heard about the body. At the dump.