Chapter Twelve
Katie and Jessie jumped on board the Long Island Rail Road leaving Pennsylvania Station for Bay Shore with seconds to spare. The train, headed for the southwestern end of Long Island, was packed with twenty- and thirtysomethings fleeing the city for the summer weekend. The women were lucky to find two seats together.
It’s a cruel secret, never mentioned by the real estate agents of NYC, that once you can finally afford to move out of your parents’ house and into an apartment, with its first month’s rent and last month’s rent and broker fees, and your half of a Craigslist couch, you have to start saving for a summer share.
When the temperature hits ninety, many postcollege, gainfully employed young New Yorkers do their best to hit the road—or the rails, as the case may be here. Jessie and Katie were of that breed. They had saved all year for a quarter summer share in the Hamptons. So far, they had only been once and had an OK weekend. They had spent a ton of time wondering where to go and how to get there. They were excited to try Fire Island, known for its simpler choices and casual vibe.
Katie and Jessie were childhood best friends who now shared a Bookstagram account on social media. They called themselves the Spice Girls and only featured books with spicy sex scenes. At this point, they had over fifty thousand followers, making their account one of the most popular bookish destinations on Instagram. Sometimes they posted book covers, and sometimes reviews, but mostly whole paragraphs taken from novels, both old and new, with steamy sex scenes.
The two twenty-five-year-old women had booked their weekend on Fire Island after a chance encounter with a fragile-looking gray-haired lady waiting in line in front of them at a book signing at the Union Square Barnes Noble, months before. Aside from On Fire Island, the title that came with the ticket to meet their favorite author, the two women each carried a bag filled with Benjamin Morse’s backlist—hoping for autographs on all. That’s how they got to talking with the gray-haired lady—she had originally been in line behind them.
“You should go ahead of us,” Jessie had insisted, adding, “We are gonna take a while.” She opened up her tote bag to flash her collection with pride. The woman obliged.
“We’re hoping he will sign them all,” Katie interjected before motioning to the line that was snaked in and out of the aisles on the third floor of the massive bookstore.
“I’m sure he will—he’s a sweet boy,” she said with more than a smidge of familiarity. They were so obviously starstruck; it amused the old woman.
“He’s my neighbor at the beach,” she admitted before reaching into her purse and pulling out a card and handing it to them. It read: Gicky Irwin. Artist.
“I rent a room by the weekend—and have a few still available for this coming summer, if you’re interested. He can sign anything you want then!”
“Oh my God,” Katie had squealed. Jessie, the more restrained of the two, took the card and smiled. “We definitely will.”
And they did.
“Tickets, please!” the conductor now bellowed, before announcing the stops along his route like he was calling out the winners at Belmont.
“Lynbrook, Rockville Centre, Baldwin, Freeport, Merrick, Bellmore, Wantagh, Seaford, Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst, Babylon, for points east, transfer at Babylon.”
They were points east, by one stop. Bay Shore.
“Let’s do today’s post from the train,” Jessie suggested, pulling up their shared Instagram account on her phone. Yesterday’s post: One line from Lady Chatterley’s Lover—a book that had its author, D. H. Lawrence, entrenched in a decade-long censorship trial—received 7,632 likes. On their signature Pepto-pink background with white lettering, it read:
“Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.” —D. H. Lawrence (1928)
For this weekend, their entire stay on Fire Island, they were featuring only Benjamin Morse books. Katie pulled the complete collection from her bag. She arranged them and rearranged them on the burgundy leather seat until she was satisfied with the picture. She held it out to Jessie—who agreed that it was perfect, and they went back and forth collaborating on the caption.
They decided on:
BOOKING out to Fire Island to find Benjamin Morse! Followed by a plethora of crossed-finger emojis.
Jessie hit Post, and they agreed not to look at the results for the rest of the ride.
Neither had been to Fire Island before, and both loved the beach, but the promise of hobnobbing with Benjamin Morse aroused them more than the thought of Oliver Mellors nibbling on Lady Chatterley’s thigh.
They arrived at the ferry with a rolling bag of books and looked for the gray-haired woman they had met at the signing on the other side. When they didn’t find her, they stopped into the market, where they were given the bad news and directions to the house.
They were already at 2,300 likes.