Mansion Beach

Nicola

Felicity’s nanny comes down with strep throat on Saturday and has to stay isolated for twenty-four hours while the antibiotics

do their work.

“I’m so sorry,” David says when he calls to ask if she can babysit. Taylor had to go to Boston for a meeting, and he

has a commitment he can’t change at the last minute, he explains. “If I had anyone else to ask, I would,” he says. He doesn’t

want to take advantage of , especially on a Saturday, her day off.

“Are you done with your extended apology and speech?” asks.

David snorts. “I think so.”

“Okay. I’m in. And I don’t need all of the reasons behind it. I’d be mad if you didn’t ask me.”

“Are you really sure? And if you’re really sure, bring a bathing suit.”

“If you ask me again, I’m telling your mom about the rum you stole from the house where you were dog-sitting the summer you

were fifteen. I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.”

David says, “Do you want me to—” and at the same time says, “Don’t you dare send a car or driver for me.”

“What about a helicopter?”

When arrives on her bike, only moderately sweaty (she’s getting better at the hills!), she very carefully does not look around for Jack Baker. David opens the door, and attached to his leg, looking at from underneath her ridiculous lashes, is Felicity. Jack doesn’t appear from any of the places where ’s carefully not looking, and she doesn’t ask David where he is. She hasn’t seen Jack since Monday.

“You look fancy,” she says. “Where are you headed?” David steps aside to let her in and gently detaches Felicity from his

leg. He’s wearing a long-sleeve button up in white linen, the sleeves rolled up halfway, and faded dark red shorts like you

see on wealthy men of all ages on Nantucket. Well, like imagines you see. She’s never been to Nantucket, but she’s

read a lot of summer novels set there. His skin has an even, golden tan, and can smell a subtle cologne when he bends

to hug her. His teeth gleam. He’s like an advertisement for what money can add to what are already really fortunate genetics.

But, she knows, he also looks right on a creeper (terrible name) under a car, or at a Minnesota lake house.

“Oh, to meet a friend. It’s more like a lunch appointment.” He doesn’t allow his eyes to meet ’s.

darts her eyes toward Felicity, to see if she’s listening. Felicity is fully absorbed in a bracelet on her wrist. “Is

the friend Juliana?” asks softly. David looks like he’s going to answer, but in the end he just turns toward Felicity

and says, “Bye, sweetheart. I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”

Felicity looks up briefly. “Bye, Daddy.”

“Maybe an hour and a half, or two?”

Felicity lifts one of her hands in a gesture that seems fascinatingly adult, even dismissive. “Bye, Daddy,” she repeats. “I’m

playing with now.”

“Well, there you have it,” says David. “I guess I’ll see myself out.”

“Come on.” Felicity takes by the hand and something in ’s heart shifts with the sensation of Felicity’s warm little fingers tucked into her palm. It’s almost a jolt. Is this what a biological clock feels like, when it starts ticking?

She follows Felicity down a hallway; her first tour with David didn’t include the bedroom wing (it is really and truly a wing ). Many of the doors are closed (she’s dying to get a look at Taylor and David’s room!) but one is open. She can’t help it, she pauses for a peek.

“What’s this?” she asks Felicity.

“Daddy’s office.” And then, with more authority than a three-year-old should have, “You can go in.”

Nobody has to ask twice. She pushes the door open wider. It is, maybe, a little bit funny that a person with no job

has an office this nice, but okay, whatever, this is how the wealthy roll. The office has obviously been touched by the wand

of the same interior designer responsible for the rest of the house—sleek, minimalist, a long low couch, a desk made of reclaimed

wood with impossibly slender legs, an assertive chair in a deep orange that matches the small square pillows on the couch—but

it does retain a few touches that seem very specifically David. On the desk, a coffee mug with an inch of coffee in it alongside

an open can of Narragansett Fresh Catch. A tiny pile of clutter—sunglasses, mail, a bottle of vitamins. A pair of running

shoes, laces akimbo, in the corner. And above the desk, incongruous with the decor in the rest of the room, is a framed poster,

wildly neon, that makes smile.

“The Minnesota State Fair!” she says. She can’t tell if it’s beautiful or garish; probably, like the state fair itself, it’s

a little bit of both. It makes her feel nostalgic.

“Mommy hates that poster,” Felicity says pensively.

“She does? Why?” Not that really has to ask. It’s the antithesis of the rest of the office, the rest of the house.

Felicity shrugs.

“Have you ever been to a fair?”

Felicity shakes her head and says, “What’s a fair?”

Oh, this poor kid. What’s a fair? tells her all about it. Rides, and bunnies, and llamas and alpacas. Music shows all day and night. Dock-diving dogs, and a lumberjack show where real lumberjacks with arms the size of Felicity’s whole body chop wood as fast as they can. And the food! Cotton candy, and key lime pie on a stick dipped in chocolate, and foot-long hot dogs, and mini doughnuts so small you can eat twelve of them, and pizza on a stick. Also corn dogs on a stick, and pork belly on a stick, and cheesecake on a stick (so many foods on so many sticks!).

“Twelve doughnuts,” says Felicity incredulously. “Don’t you get a bellyache?”

“Of course you do,” says . “But it wouldn’t be the state fair if it didn’t give you a bellyache. All of the food tastes

so good, but none of it is good for you.”

Felicity nods solemnly, taking this in. They both stare at the poster, the vivid colors (the phrase CHEESE CURDS in bright yellow somehow jumping out of the bottom left, and suddenly nothing sounds as good to as a red-and-white-checked

paper basket full of them). Felicity stares for so long it seems as if the molecules have reordered themselves. It seems as

if now that she understands the poster the world has new meaning.

“Okay,” says finally, feeling a twinge of guilt that they’re in here at all. “We need to make sure we play enough.

Your daddy won’t be gone that long.”

Wrong. It isn’t an hour and a half, and it isn’t two—it’s more like three and a half hours, but doesn’t mind. She loves

this day. They play for a really long time in Felicity’s room, where she has rows and rows of dress-up clothes. Dolls and

books galore. When they’re finished there, they change into bathing suits and go out to the pool. Felicity digs in a wicker

bin and pulls out a contraption that she begins strapping around herself.

Felicity calls this contraption her “bubble” even though to ’s eye there’s nothing bubble-like about it; it’s three rectangles of foam that land on Felicity’s mid-back like a skydiving parachute pack. It keeps her safe, though; in the pool she bobs around like a cork, while stretches out on one of the foam floats, listening to Felicity’s voice, high and bright, singing some song about a turtle and a frog.

She’s got two eyes on Felicity, and then she’s got one eye, and then, for just a slice of a fraction of a second the sun gets

to her, and the light motion of the float gets to her, and, really, it’s hardly any time at all that her eyelids flutter and

she’s got no eyes on Felicity, because then the song about the turtle and the frog stops, and she opens her eyes, and the

bubble is floating all on its own.

is off that float so fast , every lifeguarding lesson, every day swimming on the lake coming back to her, and she’s underwater, grabbing Felicity and

bringing her to the edge of the pool, holding fast and tight to her little body, saying, “Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod, what happened, Felicity?”

Felicity’s big blue eyes are brimming over. “I took off my bubble.”

Deep breath. It’s okay, everyone is okay. “Why’d you take off your bubble?”

“I wanted to see if I could swim yet.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She tries to keep her voice steady, but she can hear it wavering.

“Don’t tell Daddy I took it off,” whispers Felicity. “I’m sorry.” She looks so bereft, and so fragile, and so huggable. Ergo,

hugs her.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I won’t tell. But don’t do that again, all right? Don’t take off your bubble again unless a grown-up

is right there, and a grown-up says it’s okay.”

doesn’t let herself think about it, doesn’t allow her mind to go there . But later, at the end of the summer, when she isn’t there to do any saving, she does remember this day, the way they dodged

a bullet. She thinks about how you can be above water one second and underneath it the next.

Once ’s blood pressure lowers to a reasonable level, they dry off with fluffy pool towels, change back into their clothes, visit the bathroom, find a carton of organic strawberries in the refrigerator. “Cut off the green part,” Felicity instructs, climbing on a small step stool to bring herself up to counter level, so does, she cuts off the green part, because what can she say, for a three-year-old Felicity presents as quite the girl boss, and doesn’t feel qualified to disobey. After the snack comes a brief lull. Is David ever coming back?

“Let’s play a game,” she suggests. “Do you have any games?”

“Playroom,” Felicity says, pointing down one of the endless wide hallways. didn’t even know about the playroom! She

follows Felicity into a white, white room with acres of cubbies. In the cubbies are pastel baskets, and inside sees

art supplies, many of them not opened, and board books, and a tiny globe whose continents light up in different colors when

you touch it. wants to trade places with Felicity, like immediately. She’s about to set up Chutes and Ladders when

suddenly David is there, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching them and smiling.

“Hey!” says . “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m sneaky.”

“Daddy!” Felicity runs to him and hugs his leg.

“How was your appointment?” asks. She puts extra weight on the word appointment .

“What?” He looks startled. “Oh, good. It was good. Fine, you know. Good.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Spring House. You been there yet?” (Is he slurring?)

She shakes her head. “Out of my price range.”

“Have Jack take you.” She winces. That’s humiliating. (But also, she wants Jack to take her.) “And get the Point Judith calamari

appetizer and a Mudslide. You won’t be sorry.”

“Copy that,” she says. She uncrosses her legs and stands, reluctant to leave and go back to her own cottage, where there’s no pool, no strawberries, no dress-up clothes. She stalls a little, angling for more time, maybe an invitation to stay.

“ Come on , Daddy.” Felicity pulls his arm. sighs. How quickly she’s been replaced.

“Just a sec, sweetie. I need to find money for .” He pats the pockets of his red shorts. “Sorry, I don’t—I just...

my wallet.” He looks perplexed, a little emotionally rumpled. “I wonder if I left it... it’s probably in the... Do you

have Venmo?”

“Venmo?” Of course she has Venmo; everyone has Venmo. But does David think she expects to be paid ? They’re each other’s favorite cousin! Cousins do each other favors. Especially cousins from Minnesota. “I’m happy to spend

time with Felicity anytime. Please don’t pay me.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent.” It all feels a little cheap, suddenly, and she’s irritated with David. The long absence, the slurring,

the caginess. He can tell he’s offended her, and he unleashes one of his winning smiles.

“In that case,” he says, “I’ll see you Monday at eight sharp. The nanny costs a fortune.”

It’s a decent recovery, and she gives him credit for it. “Eight sharp it is,” she says. Then Felicity announces, “Bathroom!”

and disappears. “Listen, David,” she hisses, once Felicity is out of sight. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing with Juliana? What are you doing to Taylor?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What am I doing to Taylor ?”

“I mean, what are you doing in general?”

He clears his throat. “Am I obligated to explain all of that to you?”

Coming from David, this smarts; wow, it really smarts. She blinks hard, wondering if she might cry. Then she rebounds and says, “No. Of course not. But there was a time when you would have wanted to.”

“Yeah, well.” He rubs his temples.

Just like that, Felicity is back.

“Listen, Nic—”

She bends down and opens her arms for a hug. Felicity dives right in, and says, “Bye, Felicity. I had a great time

today.”

“Tell my favorite cousin thank you for hanging out with you,” David says. He’s trying to make it up to her, but keeps

her eyes on Felicity, who says, “Thank you for hanging out with you.”

By the second week in July, has led two dock expeditions and five tank explorations at BIMI (pronounced “bimmy,” which

she always finds funny). She has prepped for and attended two of the weekly talks. She’s going to be in charge of her own

Creature Feature; she’s going to focus on starfish, which she knows will be a hit with the younger visitors. She’s hard at

work getting ready for the impending arrival of the College Crusade students who will come for a week in August. (The College

Crusade helps underrepresented youth get on a college track.) She’s tested water; she’s collected plankton; she’s cleaned

tanks. She’s gone along on one harbor cruise.

They celebrate the birth of a baby seahorse. By now most people have read the Eric Carle book Mister Seahorse, so people are typically not surprised by the fact that the female seahorse lays her eggs in the male’s pouch, but it still

makes smile to think about it. She pictures laying her eggs in Zachary’s pouch. She imagines telling him that he is

to be responsible for toting the eggs around, and that when the time comes to give birth his body will undergo contractions

that straddle the line between vehement and violent. Zachary would 100 percent never go for it. He’s way too finicky for all

of that; pregnancy would complicate his career trajectory. He’d never want to wear maternity clothes to the firm.

But she can’t imagine Jack toting around the eggs either. What male that she knows would tote the eggs?

David! David would tote the eggs.

She’s never been happier, and even though she worked hard in her previous life, there are days when she feels like she’s never

worked harder. As a proud millennial—she barely squeaked in, born on the very tail end of the generation—she’s determined

to show the Gen Zers what hard work is all about. If there’s something to volunteer for, she’ll raise her hand. If there’s

a tank to clean, she’ll clean it. A Tuesday Talk to set up for? She’ll Tuesday it until the cows come home.

And then there’s Juliana. has never been friends with a famous entrepreneur before. It’s exciting! But also, it’s like

making any new friends, because except for the giant house she’s a regular person; she puts her pants on one leg at a time,

etc., even if those pants are typically part of a curated, occasion-appropriate look.

Sometimes Juliana will text during the workday, and will text back, maybe sending a photo of the touch tank

or the dock. If they happen to be outside their homes at the same time they’ll have a chat, like two dads in the fifties bonding

over a garden hedge after mowing the lawn.

didn’t go to Juliana’s last party, although Juliana had sent a text inviting her (with three emojis—clearly their relationship

has reached a new level!) because that night the bimmy interns who are old enough to drink went out to Captain Nick’s. At

the bar, one intern, Cherry, a local, told about the hundreds of glass floats made by a glassblower named Eben Horton

on the mainland. The floats, the size of an orange, are hidden around the island at the beginning of each summer, and people

go crazy looking for them. is instantly determined to find one. She’ll look first on Mansion Beach, because, why not?

“You have to be open to it, without looking too hard,” Cherry told . “Just like love.”

And then, of course, there’s Jack, whose unpredictability stands in direct opposition to Zachary’s unvariedness. Jack (and Taylor too) ping-pong on and off the island like it’s nothing; Taylor for business, and Jack for—who knows what. He has friends to see on Nantucket; he has a party in Boston. Sometimes he texts before he shows up after being away but sometimes he just appears at her door, grinning. She’s on her back foot a lot, but after years of distributing her weight evenly she sort of likes it.

He drives David’s silver metallic Tesla that rolled her eyes at until she first climbed inside, at which point, she

admits, she marveled. There’s a reason why people with money pay a lot for their cars. Their cars are nicer than the Pontiacs

and Hondas the rest of the driving world has. With Taylor’s midnight-blue Mercedes, their driveway looks like the valet section

of a hotel in the French Riviera. Not that would know. But she has an imagination.

“This isn’t the fancy car,” Jack tells her. “This is the kick-around car. David would never let me near his Porsche.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a 911 GT3,” he says, as if that explains everything. And maybe it does, what does know about cars?

“A Tesla is the kick-around car?” she says.

Sometimes, thinks about what Taylor called him at that first dinner in June—a playboy without a mansion. He might not

have a mansion, but he has a credit card. He takes to places she never would have gone on her own: out to dinner at

Kimberly’s, to Eli’s, and finally, yes, to Spring House. They bike out to Settler’s Rock one evening and pick their way over

the rocks toward North Light. The museum is closed for the day, nobody around but the seals swimming close to the shore, so

Jack leans up against the rocky wall and kisses her so intently, so urgently, so indecently that when a party of three shows up just behind them they scurry back to their bikes and pedal as fast as they can, back

to ’s place.

Once he materializes at the Institute while she’s running a squid dissection. She looks up from her magnifying glass to see him leaning against a pole behind the table. “Sorry,” she tells him. “Reservations are required, and we’re fully booked. You can sign up online for a spot next week.” Jack lingers while she crouches between a couple of ten-year-old girls, showing them the three-chambered heart and explaining to them that squids have blue blood because of a copper-based pigment.

“The way you say dorsal aspect makes me so hot,” he says later that night in bed.

“Oh, stop it.”

“For real,” he says. He puts his lips close to her ear and says, “Talk to me about the three chambers of the heart.”

“I can never tell if you’re kidding or not.”

“Me either,” he says. Then, “What should we do tomorrow?”

“Do? I have to go to work.”

“Silly Nicky,” he says. He kisses her on the forehead. It’s a kiss that should have felt merely endearing but somehow manages

to feel sexy. “Play hooky with me.”

In the world comes from, people work. If they are lucky they enjoy their work, but it’s still work , and you go because you have an obligation and you need the money and people are counting on you but besides all that, if

you don’t go to work, what are you supposed to do with yourself all day?

But here’s Jack, who talks like money is the very last reason to return to his job. (“How’s your Achilles?” she asks him every

now and then. “Better every day,” he says, grinning. “Better and better and better.”)

There’s a Tuesday Talk this very night. The speaker is the head of animal rescue at Mystic Aquarium, and knows this will attract a crowd. Who doesn’t want to hear about animals being rescued? Who isn’t looking for a feel-good moment in a feel-bad world? After lunch she and Cherry are going to set up the folding chairs. It’s Cherry’s turn to have dinner with the speaker, at Dead Eye Dick’s, before the talk. They each get a turn once in the summer. is holding out for the white shark expert, but aren’t they all?

hops on her bike and cycles toward town. She stops at Three Sisters, the pocket-sized sandwich shop on Old Town Road.

She chooses the Twisted Sister sandwich, although it’s a tough call between that and the Celeb Sister. Then, back on her bike,

she cycles to Fred Benson Town Beach, where there is a bike rack and a bathroom, and where she can be alone with her thoughts.

What thoughts does she want to be alone with? She’s not sure. But she’s feeling jumbled—too jumbled to eat with the other

interns.

She locks her bike at the rack—it’s so crowded, she almost doesn’t find a spot—and, once she’s clear of the parking lot and

through the pavilion, she crouches down and removes her sneakers and her socks, which she immediately regrets because the

sand is hot hot hot.

She’s not, of course, alone at the beach. It’s a postcard-ready day on the Block, and the beach is jammed with families and

gaggles of teenage girls in bikinis and pods of teenage boys playing Frisbee with no shirts, their bodies so effortless and

lean and muscled in a way that they probably think will last forever. But she doesn’t know any of these people, so she sort

of feels like she’s alone. She sits well back from the ocean, on the other side of the pavilion from the chair and umbrella

rentals. She’s in her blue Institute polo shirt, which feels a little weird at the beach, but so be it. She unwraps her sandwich.

She tries to put her metaphorical finger on what’s bothering her. It’s the thoughts of Zachary that surfaced earlier in the

day, as she was thinking about the seahorses. It’s the troubled way the thoughts made her feel. It’s the realization that

she’s so much older than everyone else doing her job. Usually she’s okay with that—she even finds it a little funny, like

she can be the cool aunt of the Institute, the one who takes the Institute interns out for their first pedicures. But geez,

many of the interns will vote in their first presidential election this fall. They are really young !

Maybe she does miss Zachary. They lived together for two years; it would have been strange if she didn’t miss him! She misses having someone who knew her coffee order ( is the only person left on the planet who still drinks regular milk, no almond or oat, and she almost always gets an extra shot of espresso in her cappuccino) and who will watch six episodes of Succession on a rainy Sunday. She misses planning Halloween costumes with him; last year, when everybody was dressing up as Barbie and

Ken the first Halloween after the movie came out, they went to a party as Siegfried and Roy and won first prize in the costume

contest. They had big white stuffed tigers they carried around all night, and even though the tigers were awkward they really

sealed the win.

At the same time, she’s mad at herself for missing him, so in her head she lists the things she does not miss. She does not

miss the way it was okay for her to know things, but only if he knew more things, or had just a different angle on one of

her things. She does not miss the way he sighed audibly when she stopped to meet dogs in the street, even if the dogs very

clearly wanted to be greeted. She does not miss the way he had to send a steak back to be cooked “a smidge more” every time

he ordered one and yet refused to change his order from medium rare to just plain medium. She did not like that he used the

word smidge .

She pulls out her phone from her backpack and calls her best friend from college, Reina. Due to Reina’s current circumstances

as a full-time mother (current but temporary , Reina would hasten to add), she’s sometimes available to talk at odd times of the day. Because has kept Reina updated

on Jack through text, and because they lived together for so long—holding each other’s hair back during the J?germeister vomiting

incident of sophomore year, sharing clothes and makeup, and twice, albeit accidentally, a toothbrush—they typically forgo

niceties and formalities.

“I don’t know what any of this means,” says. “This Jack Baker stuff.” She glances at her watch; it’s almost time to head back to work. In the background, on Reina’s end, she can hear Mia jabbering, Cooper making new baby noises.

“Hang on, okay? I’ve just got to get Cooper to latch on.” There are some muffled sounds, and then she says, “Okay! I’m back.

Sorry, what was the question again? My brain is mush.”

“No specific question. I just don’t know what this all means.” Reina and Hunter had gotten married and had two children within

the space of three years. They had been on parallel tracks once, Reina and , ten years ago, in that double dorm room,

with their fairy lights and their complementary comforters and their mini fridge full of vitaminwater, but somewhere along

the way Reina zigged when zagged. Now Reina has Cooper and Mia and Hunter, and has—what, exactly? The squid

and the plankton.

“Who cares what it means! Are you having fun?”

looks down at her bare feet. She digs her toes into the hot sand and then squints out at the ocean. The sun shimmering

on the water gives the beach a wavy, fun-house vibe. “Yes.”

“How’s the sex?”

Even though nobody is looking at her, and of course nobody can hear the question, flushes. “Pretty good.”

“That’s it?” Reina sounds doubtful. “No kids, you’re riding around an island in a Tesla, and sex that’s ‘pretty good’ is all

you can manage? Honey, I thought I raised you better than that.”

“Okay,” admits. She thinks of Jack’s long, cool fingers on her ribs, his lips on her neck, and elsewhere. She thinks

of kissing at North Light, and how they could barely get back to the cottage and take their clothes off fast enough. “Better

than pretty good.”

Sex with Jack is so different from sex with Zachary: more urgent, more unpredictable, more frequent. More confusing? Sure.

That too. “Would you go so far as to say amazing ?” asks Reina.

“I would go that far,” concedes. “I might go further.”

She hears Reina suck in her breath. “Yesssss, queen. That’s more like it.”

Then Reina asks, “Did you google Jack? You should google him.”

“Of course I googled him!”

“And?”

“Lots of pictures of him playing golf in a visor.”

“But did you deep-dive google him, to find the skeletons?” Reina has a degree in journalism. She’s really good. Before she

had Mia she was working at the Wall Street Journal , and she’s going to go back, she reminds often, as soon as Cooper is a little older.

“No.”

“Want me to do it for you?”

“No,” says. Then, immediately, “Sure. Okay.”

“A caper!” Reina says.

“I don’t think this qualifies as a caper.”

“A project!” she says, in the exact same manner.

“But don’t tell me if you find anything really bad.”

“I most certainly will tell you if I find something really bad,” says Reina.

But feels suddenly uneasy. “You know what? Never mind.”

“Never mind what?”

“Don’t do the deep dive. I’m going to stick with the shallow one.”

“Yeah?” Reina sounds doubtful. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Is she sure? No. “I’m sure,” she says again, as much to convince herself as to convince Reina.

“Okay. In that case, don’t overthink it. You don’t want to get yourself in another Zachary situation.”

“I definitely don’t want to do that.”

“I’m trying not to be jealous. Here’s me, leaking through my bra, sixteen pounds overweight, and there you are, fabulous as ever in a bikini, those killer abs, sex—”

“Stop,” says . “I’m currently in a polo.” (She does have killer abs, though; it’s genetic. Her sisters have them too. No boobs. That’s their trade-off.) “You wouldn’t give up that for this, Reina. Are you forgetting that I am broke and technically single?”

She laughs. “Most days, I concede that,” she says. “But every now and then...”

Mia’s bright, clear voice slices the conversation in two. “Mommy! Mommymommymommy. There’s sticky juice on the iPad.”

“I have to go,” Reina says as Cooper, maybe prematurely disengaged from his meal, begins to wail. “I think we’re entering

a Code Red. Remember what I said, though, okay? Don’t overthink things.”

“Okay,” says. “I’ll try not to.”

She thinks too much about everything. She always has.

An errant Frisbee lands near her, and one of the cute high school boys runs over—actually, even though the sand is hot and

hard to run in, he floats , the way only a teenage boy can do—and says, “Sorry, ma’am.” She tries not to mind this. She’s 93 percent sure she got ma’am ed because of the polo. If she were in her bikini that wouldn’t have happened. Reina’s absolutely right. She does have killer abs. And she has to get back to work.

Riding back by Beach Ave., she returns to the question that has been nibbling at the edge of her conscience. Who is she to

say love doesn’t matter? What does she know of love? Has she ever been in love? Does she want to be?

She knows two things about love. One. It’s not as common as people think it is. Two. She saw it between David and Juliana,

when she and Jack returned to the happy hour on ’s patio. She felt it; it was almost palpable.

What’s that worth, to be in love with an unavailable person? Is it worth everything, or is it worth nothing?

What exactly constitutes unavailable ?

Liam helps her set up the chairs for the Tuesday Talk. They make sure that the screen is working, and Liam, whose work-study job at college is in the media services department, checks the connections. When they’re finished they step outside, onto the deck attached to the Institute.

If they were young urban office workers in, say, the eighties, this is the point where they would shoot the shit over a cigarette.

But since they’re wholesome marine interns in the 2020s who would rather die than pollute the ocean or their own lungs, they

carry their refillable, environmentally responsible water bottles and do what Americans between the ages of two and thirty-five

do better than anyone: they hydrate.

Liam, sipping exuberantly, says, “I had a dream I was drowning last night. I fell right off the harbor tour boat and sank

straight to the bottom! It was insane.”

“Jesus, Liam.” shudders. “You know how to swim, right?”

“Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone know how to swim?”

She thinks about Juliana. “Well, no.”

“Everyone in America, though.”

Is this what they’re teaching this kid at his progressive college? “Still no,” she says. “Not everyone has the privilege of

swimming lessons.”

Liam reflects on this, then says, “True. I did. In my youth. But you’re right, that was a privilege. Hey, is this your guy

again?” Jack is walking (sauntering) up the sidewalk, not a care on him, no compunction about appearing at her work so soon

after the last time.

In the time it would have taken to say starfish finds herself in the passenger seat of the Tesla, driving too fast down Ocean Ave. He glances over at her. “Where

do you want to go? Your place?”

“What? No! I have a Tuesday Talk. I can’t go back all... disheveled.”

Jack grins. “You sure? I’d love to dishevel you.” crosses her legs primly and tries to scowl.

“Well, you can’t. You can dishevel me another time. How about we just take a drive? I really can’t be late getting back.”

“Sure.” Jack lowers the windows, turns up the music—Jack Johnson singing “Better Together,” so many Jacks, all in one place—and they cruise, following an oval in the center of the island. closes her eyes, letting the summer air fly over her face. Jack reaches for her hand, and for just a moment she thinks, Why worry about anything? Just enjoy.

Then, turning left to head back to the Institute, he whips the car so hard into the turn that ’s eyes fly open. A car

coming toward them with the right of way screeches to a halt, and the driver honks.

“Jesus, Jack,” says .

“What?” He glances over at her; he seems legitimately confused.

“You almost got us in an accident. Be a little careful, would you?”

He shrugs and doesn’t look a bit concerned. “I’m careful enough. I had plenty of time.”

She snorts. “Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway, if other people are careful. It takes two to make an accident.”

She won’t really think about this until later, but that about sums up a lot of the summer right there: these careless people

with their money and their drama and their disregard for the basic rules. “Uh,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it just takes one.”

No wonder David doesn’t let him near his Porsche.

Host: And we’re back with Life and Death on an Island , where all politics is local but death is universal. In this episode we’re speaking with four members of Block Island’s town

council. I’d like to dig into the hotel plan Evan brought up before we had a word from our sponsors. Evan, can you fill the

listeners in on exactly what’s involved in a proposal like the one Buchanan Enterprises brought before you last summer?

Evan: Okay, sure. Technically, it wasn’t brought before us first, but it did end up in front of us eventually. To tear down an

existing structure like the motel Buchanan had bought, the owner would first put a proposal before the Historic Commission.

If Historic denied some part of the project, for whatever reason, and the owner wanted to fight it, the appeal would go to

Zoning. If Zoning denied, they could kick to us for a reversal. That’s what happened.

Lou (whistles): Historic can be tough, but Zoning can be tougher.

Betsy: You can say that again. My ex-brother-in-law is on Zoning.

Kelsey: Remember when they first proposed the bathrooms at Mansion Beach? That was some drama .

Lou: That’s how it should be. You don’t want to let people build willy-nilly all over the island. There’s only so much land.

Kelsey : Taylor Buchanan must have felt like the whole town was against her when she was trying to get that proposal through. Did

you read that opinion piece in the paper?

Host: Can you elaborate on that?

Lou: Yeah, sure. I’ll take that. Somebody wrote an opinion piece against the hotel proposal, unsigned. The piece itself was okay,

fair enough, I’d say, but online, in the comments section? Sheesh. They got rough. They got personal about the Buchanans.

You’d have to be pretty thick-skinned to let that roll over you.

Betsy: I can’t imagine what would have happened if we ever got to the public hearing. I don’t think people would have held back.

Henry, though? My grandson? Like I said earlier in the episode he was GC on the four homes Buchanan had under construction.

He spoke very highly of Taylor Buchanan.

Kelsey: But we never got to the public hearing. They pulled the proposal.

Evan: Because of the death.

Lou: Well, come on now. Those two things aren’t necessarily related.

Kelsey: It’s all related. Trust me. Everything’s related.