Husbands & Lovers

Chapter Six Mallory

May 2008

Winthrop Island, New York

I first stepped onto Winthrop Island off the noon ferry from New London. It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend and Monk Adams’s stepmother was supposed to pick me up at the dock. I stood alone in the drizzle for a solid half hour before a vintage wood-paneled Jeep Wagoneer tore around the corner and jolted to a stop before me. Monk Adams jumped out of the driver’s seat and shook the rain from his hair. I’m so sorry, Pinks, he said. (That was his old nickname for me, Pinkie Pie being one of the My Little Ponies.) Becca’s under the weather.

I remember the phrase rang an un-Monk-like note, a ladies’ luncheon kind of note. I hopped onto the worn burgundy leather bench seat and buckled up while Monk threw my duffel bags into the back. Under the weather? I repeated. What does that mean?

Monk shoved the Jeep into gear and winked at me. Means you’re in no condition to drive, he said.

Which turned out to be the first entry in my Winthrop dictionary that summer. To be under the weather means you’re either drunk or hungover. I never found out what they call it when you’re actually sick.

Monk got me the job. I mean, obviously. It was our junior year of college and he’d called me up at the end of March from his dorm room at Colby, where they were in the middle of something called fake spring. (He explained that fake spring was a Maine thing—the first wave of balmy weather that came in to melt down the snowpack, sending everyone into a bout of spring fever that ended abruptly when the inevitable blizzard hit on the first of April.) He asked how I was doing, how was the boyfriend (Oh, same, I replied), whether I had any summer work lined up yet. I said not yet, couple of internships still hanging in the balance. He said, Stop me if this sounds too weird, but my dad and stepmom need a summer nanny at their place on Winthrop Island. They like to hire college girls, and last year’s nanny took another job. Was I interested?

I said sure. I asked how much it paid.

He said good question, he could hook us up to discuss all that. He said, It’s a cool gig, decent hours, nice guest room with your own bath, yards away from the beach. Plus, I’m right next door at my mom’s family’s place if you need a hand.

The way he tagged on those last words, so deliberately casual, released a rash of tingles from the top of my spine to the ends of my fingers and toes and everywhere in between. At that instant, drowning in a pool of dopamine on the cheap cocoon chair in my dorm room, there was no way I wasn’t going to take this job nannying for Monk Adams’s dad and stepmom, right next door to Monk Adams, all summer long.

Even though I had a fairly serious boyfriend at the time.

I asked (exact same nonchalance) why I would need a hand.

I remember he made this awkward chuckle, almost embarrassed. I guess Chippy and Blue can be a bit of a handful, he said. And my stepmom is…

Is?

Kind of a trip, he said. But don’t worry. I’m caddying at the Club all summer. I’ll take care of you.

The Wagoneer started forward. The windshield wipers were old and streaky; the humid air collected in patches of fog on the glass. I couldn’t make out the harbor very well, other than an impression of two or three shabby storefronts and a fire station—not exactly the ritzy enclave I’d envisioned. Monk had rolled down the driver’s window—air-conditioning was for spendthrifts and wimps, according to the Winthrop code—and his left elbow rested on the ledge. My nerves were shot through with the shock of seeing Monk again. He seemed wider and leaner at the same time. His right hand rested on the wheel at twelve o’clock, more rugged than I remembered, knuckles cracked, like he’d been working with his hands. He shot me a glance, flashed a little smile, and pointed the Wagoneer up a steep hill. The engine rumbled from its dirty throat.

Monk patted the dashboard. “Beast.”

“The classic. How old is it?”

“Old. Eighties, I think? It’s been our summer car since I can remember. We call her Bessie.” He flashed me another smile. “It’s good to see you, Pinks. How long has it been?”

“That pub crawl in Provincetown, I guess. Winter break a year and a half ago.”

“Right. That was fun. The old Nobles crowd. Good get-together. We should plan another one.”

“We should.”

I didn’t mention that the old Nobles crowd had been his crowd, not ours. That Monk was the one who called me up, out of the blue (there were times I thought Monk only ever called out of the blue) and said, Hey, bunch of us getting together in Provincetown for a pub crawl the day after Christmas. Did I want to join in? I said yes. Duh. His friends had treated me with the usual affable tolerance, asked me how RISD was going. They were all grinding through economics and finance classes in the Ivy League and various liberal arts colleges around the Northeast. I was the token artist, like a mascot, so they could point to me and say, See? We’re not all a bunch of aspiring investment bankers and lawyers and tech bros! Anyway, their efforts at conversation had petered out after the first stop on the tour, so Monk had hung back with me and we’d ended up talking in the corner booth at the Black Sheep (Monk sitting across the table with his legs propped on the seat next to me, me creating abstract art with emptied Splenda packets) until the others had long left, until the bar was closing down, until it felt safely within the boundaries of the friend zone to invite him to crash on the sofa at my mom’s place. To my surprise, his face lit up. Seriously? he said. Would that be okay?

I said, Sure, the accommodations are not luxurious, but it’s better than driving all the way back to Boston on a beer buzz, right?

He grinned and said it sounded a hell of a lot better. He drove the five miles to my mom’s house at a grandfatherly pace. I handed him a pillow and a few blankets (Mom always set the thermostat to Pleistocene at night) and a spare toothbrush. He said thanks. We stared at each other a second before I turned and fled for bed.

I remember I couldn’t sleep that night, knowing Monk Adams lay on a sofa mere yards away from me, on the other side of a wall the width of a paper towel. I could get up, I thought. What would happen if I got up?

Next thing I knew, I woke to a shriek when my mother walked through the living room on her way to the coffee maker.

By the time I’d thrown on a bathrobe and rushed out to explain, Monk had already won her over. They were chatting in the kitchen. Mom brewed extra coffee, extra strong, and pulled bacon and eggs out of the fridge. Monk scrambled the eggs and did the dishes. He left after breakfast, dropping a casual goodbye kiss on my actual lips, and for a while after that we would talk regularly on the phone, exchange texts, make promises to meet up at the next break.

Until we didn’t. Until the gap between calls and messages expanded to forever.

In order to fill the Monk-sized hole in my life, I started dating Dillon. Dillon was a senior at the University of Rhode Island, majoring in something called management science. Attractive, funny, decent in bed, could hold a conversation, returned messages promptly. Check check check. For a while, it worked great.

Then Monk Adams called me in the middle of Maine fake spring to ask if I wanted to spend the summer taking care of his brother and sister on Winthrop Island.

And I said I’d take it.

“So explain to me about your family,” I said to Monk.

“I mean, you know the big stuff already. Mom and Dad divorced when I was ten. He married Becca right after the papers came through, so you work it out. Twins were born a year after that.”

“What’s she like? Your stepmom.”

He squinted through the windshield and the streaks left behind by the wipers. The grin dimmed a notch or two. “So, I can’t lie to you, Pinks. She’s kind of difficult.”

“Difficult how? And why didn’t you mention difficult before?”

“I hinted. To be fair. But the truth is, I didn’t want to put you off.”

“Oh, subterfuge. Nice.”

The grin sprang back. “See, that’s what I love about you, Pinko. Nobody else I know springs words like subterfuge into everyday conversation.”

“Can you just stick to the topic at hand? Evil stepmother?”

“She’s not evil, Pinks. She’s like everyone else, she’s got shit she’s dealing with. She just doesn’t always deal with it in the healthiest way. She gets—you know, difficult. Especially with chicks like you, younger and prettier. But like I said, don’t worry. I’m literally a hundred yards away. Got your back. Team Mallory, all the way.”

The word prettier had thrown me off. I croaked out, “Promise?”

Monk held out his hand, little finger crooked. “Pinkie promise.”

We crossed pinkies. (Our old thing, because of my nickname. Dumb, I know. But it was ours.)

“Anyway, you’ll like my dad,” Monk said. “Everyone does. The arts are his thing. He’s on a couple of boards and stuff. That’s how he met Becca? Her family’s got this big art foundation. You should show him your work.”

“I’m not going to show your dad my artwork, Monk. That’s like…weird. And pushy.”

“He’d love it. He’s into the whole scene. He’s got this kick he’s on right now, about championing the work of women artists. Because, you know, the patriarchy. Actually, now that I think about it, the only arts he doesn’t encourage are mine.”

Monk said it like a joke, but I knew better.

“He’s still being a dick about that?”

Monk shrugged. “You know how it is. Bragging rights. He wanted me to intern in New York this summer with the other scions.”

“I don’t know what’s worse, a banking internship or hanging out with the scions.”

“Well, except this one. Right?”

“You’re the exception to every rule, Monkfish.”

He lifted his hand for a fist bump. “Stuck to my guns, though, Pinks. You’d be proud of me. Told him nope, I was spending the summer on the island, working on my music. He told me that was bullshit, I needed a real job. So I said fine, I’ll caddy at the Club.”

“Was he pissed?”

His voice deepened. “Caddying is for the scholarship boys, son. You don’t need a leg up into this world. You’re already in it.”

“Well, fuck him.”

“Fuck him,” Monk echoed.

The road flattened out. Bessie’s ancient transmission gasped for a higher gear and found it at last. I turned my head to the window and peered through the layers of drizzle and fog.

“Pretty cool cliffs over there,” Monk said. “You can see the lighthouse and everything. When the weather clears up, I’ll show you the view.”

When I walked into the family room at Seagrapes and met Mrs. Adams, I thought maybe Monk had exaggerated for effect. She didn’t look drunk at all. She looked immaculate. She had honey-blond hair highlighted with streaks of lighter honey—Grade A honey, if you will—and honey skin to match, improbably taut. The whites of her eyes matched the whites of her teeth. She opened her glossy lips in a wide smile of greeting.

“You must be Mallory! We’re so delighted to have you here. Monk, honey, could you put Mallory’s luggage in the nanny suite?”

“On it.” Monk disappeared around the corner with my two duffel bags—the same ones he had carried for me into the residence hall at Nobles, years ago.

“He’s told us so much about you,” said Mrs. Adams.

“Oh, heck. And you’re still willing to take me on?”

She blinked, like she didn’t get the joke. “He said you were terrific with kids.”

This was news to me, as I hadn’t had much to do with kids at all at that point in my life, let alone in Monk’s company.

“Love kids,” I said. “Love ’em. Speaking of which?”

“Chippy and Blue are upstairs with their math tutor between noon and two.” A thump shook the ceiling above us. To her credit, Mrs. Adams continued without a pause. “So you’ve got a little time to rest and unpack and have a bite to eat. You’re welcome to take whatever you like from the kitchen. Grace will give you a hand.”

“Grace?”

“Our housekeeper,” she said. “She’s been with us for years. A member of the family, really.”

Now I caught it—the ever-so-slight slurring of a word or two.

Monk popped back around the corner, adding several watts to the overcast air in the family room, surrounded on three sides by french windows that offered nothing but gray.

“Monk, honey,” said Mrs. Adams, “would you mind sticking around to introduce Mallory to Chippy and Blue? They don’t finish with Carson until two, and I’m due at the Club for the ladies’ activities committee.”

Monk sighed. “I guess I could make the sacrifice.”

“Don’t you have to babysit some golfers instead?” I asked.

“Not when it’s raining, Pinks,” he told me.

I guess Chippy and Blue can be a handful, Monk had said.

But the pair who came thundering down the stairs at exactly one minute past two o’clock and threw themselves at Monk, one on each side, seemed civilized enough. Chippy wore a pair of drawstring chino shorts the color of goose turd and a brown T-shirt that said Brunswick Soccer. Blue wore a sleeveless seersucker shift of pristine pink and white. Both were lightly tanned and had matching straw-gold hair, Chippy’s cut short and Blue’s gathered back in a luxurious ponytail.

“Guess what, monsters?” said Monk. “Mallory’s here!”

The twins turned to me in unison, looked at each other, and broke away from Monk to run yelling into my arms—one on each side, just like they had with Monk a moment ago. My arms were full of fragrant kid limbs. My mouth was full of fragrant kid hair. Maaaaalllloreee! they said, like they’d been waiting all their lives for me to appear.

I raised my gaze to Monk, who folded his arms and traded smiles with me.

This is going to be a piece of cake, I thought confidently.

Six hours later, I called up Monk on his cellphone. No answer. A minute later, he called back.

“They won’t go to bed,” I said.

“Of course they won’t go to bed. It’s still daylight.”

“Your stepmom said eight p.m. sharp.”

“Becca hasn’t put those kids to bed herself in years. Probably ever.”

There was some noise in the background.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“At the Club. With Dad and Becca. The annual welcome dinner.”

Chippy jumped off his bed and hit me with a pillow. “I thought you were supposed to switch off your phone inside hoity-toity clubs,” I said.

“I might have kept mine on vibrate, just in case. Have you pulled down those magical blackout shades?”

“Yes. Bathed and combed, jammies on, teeth brushed. Read the books. Ow!” Pillows from both sides this time.

“What about Toy Story?”

“Becca said no TV before bed.”

“Pinks, for God’s sake. Let the poor kids watch a fucking movie. I do it all the time. I promise you, they won’t tell on you.”

“Not on the first night, Monk. I have a little pride.”

He sighed into the phone. “All right. Give me fifteen minutes. I know a trick.”

“What? You can’t just leave in the middle of dinner!”

“I so can, Pinks.”

“Forget it. I can handle it.”

Chippy let out a whoop and banged the pillow against his sister’s head. Blue started to howl.

“Yeah, sure. You got it all under control. I’ll be right over.”

“What about your parents? Dinner?”

Monk let out one of his low, rumbling chuckles. “That’s a joke, right?”

Twenty minutes later, Monk appeared at the door to the twins’ bedroom, wearing tan slacks, a navy blazer, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a guitar slung over his shoulder.

“You’re late,” I said.

“Had to see a man about a six-string.” He unslung the guitar from his shoulder and plopped onto a beanbag upholstered in sage-colored plush. Already the kids were crawling over him, begging for a song. “All right, all right. Geez Louise, you two. Aren’t you supposed to be asleep by now?”

“But we’re not tired!” said Chippy, bouncing on the other beanbag. He wore a pair of short Tom Brady pajamas and his eyes looked a little manic. Blue curled up on Monk’s lap like she owned it.

Monk looked sternly at Chippy. “Bro. What about our little talk yesterday? What did I tell you guys?”

Blue yelled from his lap, “Do as Mallory says and don’t give her any sass!”

“Right. So what am I doing here?”

“Playing us a lullaby?”

“Cute.” He strummed a few chords. “What I meant is I’m not supposed to be here, right? I’m supposed to be having a nice lobster dinner with Mom and Dad at the Club. You’re supposed to be asleep so Mallory can put her feet up.”

“Play that one about the cat,” said Blue.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, cupcake.”

“?‘Don Gato,’?” she said, in a surprisingly accurate Spanish accent.

The random chords lapsed into melody, first in major key and then slipping mysteriously into minor. I plopped cross-legged on the other beanbag. To my surprise, Chippy plopped onto my lap.

“Oof,” I said.

“Take it easy there, bro,” said Monk.

Chippy wriggled around until he’d made himself comfortable. “Proceed,” he said grandly.

Monk plucked a few strings like a Spanish guitar solo.

Oh, Se?or Don Gato was a cat

On a high red roof Don Gato sat

He was there to read a letter…

(MEOW MEOW MEOW! sing-shouted Blue.)

Where the reading light was better

(MEOW MEOW MEOW! sing-shouted Chippy.)

’Twas a love note for Don Gato

The kids belted out a chorus of meows. Monk waved them quiet like a conductor.

I adore you, wrote the lady cat

Who was fluffy, white, and nice and fat

There was not a sweeter kitty

(MEOW MEOW MEOW!)

In the country or the city

(MEOW MEOW MEOW!)

And she said she’d wed Don Gato

Again, the chorus of meows. Monk winked at me and cut them off.

As they proceeded through the verses—Don Gato so excited he falls off the roof (?Ay caramba! the kids sing-shouted together), the doctors hold a consultation, poor Se?or Don Gato up and dies—Chippy’s limbs relaxed against mine, one by one. His little-boy sharpness softened at the corners. I circled my arms around him and he leaned his head against the hollow of my shoulder.

As the funeral passed the market square

Such a smell of fish was in the air

Though the burial was slated

(Meow meow meow, less shouty now)

He became reanimated

(Meow meow meow)

He came back to life, Don Gato

Slowly Monk spun out the final line. As his buttery voice hung the last note on the air, he turned to me and lifted an eyebrow.

I clapped my hands together. “Bravo!”

“Encore!” murmured Blue, from the crook between Monk’s guitar and his lap.

“Encore?” Monk pretended to be outraged. “I’m not singing that again. Forget it. I don’t even like cats.”

“Then play something else. Please, Monk?”

Monk held up a finger. The kids went quiet and attentive, watching his finger like a pair of dogs concentrating on a treat. “All right. But only if the two of you get in bed first.”

“So is it true?” I asked. “You don’t like cats?”

“Like it’s a crime?”

“Kind of, it is.”

We sat side by side in the Wagoneer, driving down West Cliff Road toward the village, such as it was. Mr. and Mrs. Adams had returned home half an hour ago and Monk had buzzed my cellphone.

Meet me at the end of the drive in 10 min

What why, I texted back.

Surprise

When I reached the end of the drive ten minutes later, Monk was waiting inside Bessie, engine rumbling. The clouds had dried up and the sun had set, leaving the air damp and cool. Monk had reached over the seat to open the door for me. He’d changed out of his blazer and button-down shirt into a plain blue tee underneath a casual shirt in a retro print, unbuttoned. The chinos remained, only more rumpled. I’d asked where we were going.

The Mo, he’d said.

Mo?

The Mohegan Inn. It’s where all the nannies and the Club staff hang out in the evening. The only public bar on the island. It’s pretty chill, you’ll likeit.

Okay, I’d said. Then I’d asked about cats.

“Actually,” he said, “if you want to know the truth, I’m kind of a sucker for cats. I just didn’t want to play that damn song again.”

“It’s a favorite, huh?”

He propped his elbow on the door. The cool air blew through the window and ruffled his hair. “The thing about kids, they don’t mind hearing the same song over and over again. Drives a man insane.”

I sang—not very well—“You broke my will.”

“But what a thrill.”

Together, howling—“Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire!”

When we were done laughing, I said, “Someone’s a little giddy tonight.”

“Pinko,” he said, “you ain’t seen nothing.”

It wasn’t until he’d parked Bessie along one of the damp, winding streets in the village and reached his long arm over the back of the seat that I realized he had his guitar with him.

“Holy shit,” I said. “Are you going to play something?”

“Don’t tell Dad, but I started playing sets here last summer.”

I turned to face him, there in the front seat of Bessie. There were no streetlights and he’d turned off the engine, so I couldn’t see much of him. Just his outline. The warmth of his body. The two of us, Monk and me, in the middle of the quiet dusk. Sharing a secret.

“So your dad doesn’t know you’re here?” I asked.

“Nope.” He checked his watch. “Shit, we’re late. Come on.”

We climbed out of the car. I followed Monk downhill and around a corner to a large, rambling clapboard house of the type that suggested George Washington had slept there. Several cars were parked outside, none of them newer than ten years old. Light burst from the windows. I felt that I knew this place; I’d been inside a hundred buildings like this one. The ceilings would be low, the floors stained by generations of beer. The walls would have been knocked out to create a single large room around the center chimney, which would be boarded up. A dull wood bar would stretch across one wall; a bunch of mismatched junk-sale chairs and tables would clutter the open space. The air would smell like the inside of a barrel of ale.

As we crossed the threshold, Monk grasped my fingers. Only for a few seconds, only until we’d chiseled through the crowd and reached the bar. The bartender caught sight of Monk and his face relaxed in relief. “Thought you were a no-show, bro,” he said.

“Sorry, had some parental complications. Mike, this is Mallory. Friend of mine. She’s nannying for my dad and stepmom this summer.”

Mike wiped his hand on a bar cloth and held it out to me. He was about thirty, a redhead, affable wide face and a brogue on command. “Mallory! You wouldn’t be a fellow Irish, now, would you?”

“All the way through,” I said.

“Then you’re always welcome at my bar, Mallory friend of Monk. What’ll it be?”

“Pretty good local IPA on tap,” Monk suggested.

“Local IPA it is,” I said.

Mike looked at Monk. “Make it two?”

Monk shook his head. “Nah, I’ll hold off until the break. Mallory? You okay here?”

“I’ll keep an eye on her for you,” said Mike, pulling the beer from the tap into a pint glass. “Mic’s all set up.”

Monk looked down and for an instant it seemed like he was going to kiss me. That was how it felt, the way he’d taken my hand as we walked inside, the way he’d introduced me to Mike. I could see Mike assumed we were a couple. Keep an eye on her for you. I waited for the kiss, a little dizzy. A flash of guilt because of Dillon.

But the kiss didn’t come. He lifted his hand and gave my hair a ruffle, like you’d pet a dog or something, and disappeared into the crowd.

“Hey, bro,” said Mike to the man perched on the stool next to me. “Give the lady a seat, all right? She’s with the band.”

The man shrugged and slid off the stool. I climbed on and reached for the glass. Monk was right, the beer was perfect. Not too hoppy, like some IPAs. Mike stood across from me, arms folded, bar cloth hanging from one hand, scowling thoughtfully in the direction in which Monk had disappeared. I felt a stir in the crowd.

“Kind of a roomful you’ve got here,” I said. “Is it usually this packed on a Thursday night?”

“Not usually, no. First live music of the season.”

I had to raise my voice because a round of cheering had touched off. “Sorry we were late!”

“No worries.”

From the other side of the room came some noise from the microphone, some laughter, Monk’s familiar chuckle. “Sorry, guys. Got held up en route.”

Someone yelled, I’ll bet you did. Another one made a shrill wolf whistle. Mike looked at me and winked, grinning, and my cheeks turned hot. I wanted to lean forward and explain to Mike that, okay, yes, Monk and I came here together, but we weren’t, like, together. I had a serious boyfriend! Monk probably had a girlfriend; he always had girlfriends. We were just really good friends, that was all, really good friends who happened to be of the opposite—

A strum of chords interrupted this interior monologue, amplified by the microphone. A climb up a ladder of notes, a swift descent. Then Monk’s voice, easy and rumbly, like Bessie’s engine idling at the end of the drive. “How’s everyone been? Kind of a rocky winter, amiright?” Some laughter. “Hope nobody’s trading any mortgage-backed securities for a living.”

A few shouts laced the air. I couldn’t hear the words.

“Anyway, we made it, right? Back on the island. Summer’s around the corner. Even the rain’s stopped raining out there.” The strumming took on a pattern, the start of a melody. “So I been working on a few new tunes over the winter. Hope you like this one. It’s about…” A delicate, intricate play of guitar strings filled the pause. “Well, I’ll let you figure out what it’s about.”

A few more mellow chords and Monk’s voice came in, melancholy.

I hadn’t heard Monk sing onstage for years. Not since Guys and Dolls senior year, when (in a move that sent shock waves through the rigid Nobles caste system) he opted out of lacrosse and instead brought down the house as Sky Masterson. As we streamed out of the auditorium opening night, I remember hearing someone say that Monk Adams kid had a killer set of pipes, he could go on Broadway. It wasn’t just that buttery voice or the way he spoke Sky’s lines like he himself had been raised in the middle of Brooklyn, a block away from Ebbets Field. It was the way he filled the stage. It was the way he made you believe in the story. This energy he had.

I couldn’t see Monk from my position on the barstool at the other end of the Mohegan Inn bar. I couldn’t even glimpse the top of his head, gleaming in the lights, a few shades darker than it was when I met him in the ninth grade.

All I had was that voice, pouring over the tops of all these heads, the working class of Winthrop Island.

You know the voice. It’s more burnished now, a decade and a half older and wiser, but the instrument’s the same. Floats a top note all the way into next week, like it’s nothing, then dives back gracefully into the chest, where it melts into liquid gold. Where would you be without that voice on your frayed nerves, your hurt soul?

You know the song too. “Winter Tale”—it was the lead single on his debut album. Remember how it starts off slow and soft, like he’s just musing to himself in front of that old portrait of the man with the fox-sharp eyes and the triangle beard, the collar of lies and the cross of fear, how he imagines a whole life for this man, some girl this man wanted to marry and didn’t, how she married someone else on a midwinter night, a midwinter night, and the man’s soul turned into midwinter bone and midwinter blight. The man grows rich and pretends to be happy, until his old sweetheart sickens and dies on a midwinter night, a midwinter night—the quiet, controlled anguish Monk packs into those notes, just tell me you haven’t cried when you’re driving by yourself, late at night, and this song melts through the speakers. And then back to the portrait, which transforms for an instant into an old man on a midwinter night, a midwinter night, his fine face wrecked by bone and by blight, but his fox-sharp eyes are young and bright, because he’s flying home to his sweetheart in the midsummer light, the midsummer light.

On the way back up West Cliff Road, Monk wanted to know what I thought.

“Not bad,” I said. “You might just have a future there, kid.”

He reached for the radio dial. Bessie’s sound system was pretty basic, just an old-school AM/FM band, and you couldn’t pick up a lot of stations on Winthrop anyway. Monk flipped around a little and gave up. “That midwinter one,” he said. “You don’t think it was too downbeat?”

“What? No! It was gorgeous. The music, those lines of melody, that was unreal. I’ve never heard anything like it. It sounds so simple, until you realize it’s not.”

“Not too cheesy?”

“It could have been cheesy, I guess. In the wrong hands.”

He laughed—not the usual wide-throated Monk chuckle but something more bashful. “Maine winters, right? It’s a mood.”

“Seriously, I don’t know how you survived them.”

“I wrote a bunch of songs. I don’t know, sometimes you get this flood of music in you, right?”

“Um, not really?”

“Okay, like your artwork. Don’t you get this…like a gush of inspiration sometimes? Some idea, something in your heart, right, and you wake up in the middle of the night and it all comes pouring out in the only language you really know. You can’t sleep, you can’t think about anything else. You’re just holding the bucket, trying to catch all the rain pouring over you before it’s gone.”

I looked out the window, though it was dark and there was nothing to see except some distant lights, sparkling through the ink. “Yeah, I know.”

“I know you know,” he said.

He was coming off the high now. The euphoria ebbed from his skin. I wanted to say something, to reach out and pull him to safety, but I couldn’t make the words take shape.

“So,” he said, “how’s the boyfriend these days?”

“Dillon? Oh, fine. He took a job at Dunkin’ Donuts. The corporate management program?” I added quickly.

“Wow,” said Monk. “That sounds…that sounds…”

“Yeah, I know. But I mean, doughnuts, right? At least? He’ll be okay. He’s not…he doesn’t need…”

“Not a wild and crazy type of guy?”

“No.”

Monk reached again for the dial. “That’s good, Pinks. Nice and steady, someone you can count on.”

“No, you’re right. He’s a good guy.” I stared at Monk’s fingers, turning the dial. I thought about them strumming the guitar, coaxing music from the strings. “What about you? Anyone special?”

“You mean like a girlfriend? Not at the moment, sadly. There was this girl at Colby, kind of off and on. We’re taking a break right now. She’s working in Boston over the summer. Some finance shop.”

“Really? Which one? My sister’s with this guy, he’s in private equity. In Boston.”

“I don’t remember the name. Bunch of Harvard guys, that’s all I know. Her dad went to school with my dad? So, the old crowd.”

“That’s how it works, I guess.”

“Nepotism all the way down.” He slowed Bessie to turn down a gravel driveway. “I’ll just park in our drive and walk you over. Is that okay?”

“You don’t need to walk me over. It’s not like downtown Providence or anything.”

“Humor me, okay? It’s dark and you don’t know the way.”

The lights of his mother’s family’s house appeared between the trees. The driveway was scarred up and Bessie’s vintage suspension hit every pothole like it was a creek bed.

“Sorry,” said Monk. “Any teeth left?”

He parked Bessie outside the garage. I hopped out and joined him on the other side. He kept his head down, not looking at me.

We walked side by side across the damp meadow grass. I thought he might take my hand, the way he’d led me to the bar inside the Mo, but he kept his arms to his sides as he loped along. The rain had stopped but the clouds still shrouded the moon, and the wall of old fieldstones came out of nowhere. Monk grabbed my elbow just in time. “Sorry, should have warned you about that,” he said, helping me over. “Spaced out a little.”

I hopped onto the soft turf on the other side and drew my arm away, so he wouldn’t think I was trying to make a move or something. “Spaced out over what?”

“Nothing. It was a trip, that’s all. Singing in front of everyone again. Singing in front of you.”

I elbowed his ribs. “You did great. Honest. I was…I was in awe, actually.”

“You’re serious?”

“Monk, I mean it,” I said. “You’re really, really good. Your voice? Scary good.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked the other way. “So, to the left over there, you can’t see it, there’s a cliff—well, more of a bluff. But kind of steep. Down to this little beach. Just be careful, okay? There’s a path, but if you’re just stumbling around drunk at night or something—”

“I’m not going to be stumbling around drunk at night. I do have some professional standards.”

He laughed. “I know you do. Still. Watch out, okay? My mom broke her ankle once.”

“Yes, sir.” I saw a light appear ahead of us. “So what brought on this crazy creative manic thing over the winter?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff, I guess. Just thinking about how college is almost over, how…” He tilted his head to the night sky. “How you start out with all these paths, all these choices. And then you realize that once you choose one path, you can’t go back. You think about all the paths you could have taken and didn’t. So I guess that’s what all those songs are about, really. Paths not taken.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” I said. “Or you could just enjoy the path you’re on. Just be glad you’re on whatever crazy path you’re given.”

Monk stopped. After a couple of steps, I stopped too and turned back to him.

“What?” I said.

He shook his head and started forward again, hands in pockets, until we reached the door of the mudroom.

“That was fun,” I said. “Thanks for taking me along. Not that you gave me a choice.”

“Hey, you could’ve said no. You could’ve said Fuck off, Monk. It’s my first day of work and I’m exhausted.”

“Monkfish,” I said, without thinking, “when have I ever said no to you?”

As soon as the words were out, I thought, Shit.

The house was dark. Nobody had thought to leave the porch light on. I couldn’t see Monk’s face, couldn’t tell what he was thinking. As I started to turn for the door, he opened his arms and folded me against his chest.

“Thanks for coming, Pinks,” he said.

“Anytime.”

“I mean this summer. I’m glad you’re here.”

The salt breeze rustled around us. I leaned against his sternum and listened to his heart. My arms rested around his middle. I thought, I don’t want to leave. I want to stand like this all night, counting the beats of Monk’s heart.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

I pulled away. “I should.”

“All right, then.” He leaned down and kissed my lips, the same casual goodbye he’d given me in the driveway of my mother’s house on the Cape. “See you around.”