Chapter 11
On the Saturday morning of Memorial Day Weekend I walked into town before Mimi woke up with a stack of fliers I’d printed on my grandfather’s old printer. Each sheet advertised my availability for summer babysitting or nannying, complete with my age and prior experience.
My first stop was the community bulletin board at the Edgartown Yacht Club, a boating club and restaurant that extended out into the water at the end of Main Street where my grandparents had been members for years.
After securing the paper with a pushpin, I meandered to the front deck.
Excited boaters heading out for the day streamed by in a parade of white and wooden motorboats, some with speakers blaring already.
It was the first official weekend of New England summer, and those three beautiful, fleeting months stretched before everyone.
A palpable sense of anticipation swirled through town, carried on the harbor wind.
I put a flier outside the youth sailing center and then headed back up Main Street to a popular coffee shop—aptly named Behind the Bookstore because of its location—got a cappuccino, hung my last flier above the syrups and creamers, and snagged a table in their garden.
The sail-covered outdoor seating area had a patio of crushed white shells and smelled so strongly of espresso that I suspected the air itself might be caffeinated.
Headphones already in my ears, I sipped my cappuccino cautiously as my eyes scanned my notes: events in a bulleted list, roughly in the order I imagined them playing out for my main character.
This feels like a real story, I thought with reserved optimism.
The third bullet read When she discovers his betrayal.
I transported myself to my character’s office in my mind and my fingers danced across my keyboard, filling the page with details.
Her deal has just been announced, and she has that exhausted but gratified feeling.
She’s asked to review the list of names of everyone that traded stock of the target company leading up to the announcement—a standard post-signing request she’s completed a dozen times before, never recognizing any of the names.
Except this time, when her boyfriend’s name is on the list. That can’t be right, my character thinks when she sees it, scrutinizing the spelling.
As I pondered what she would do next, my eyes lifted from the screen, and I gasped at the sight of a man standing right next to my table, not one foot away. How did I not see him? I took my headphone out of my ear. “Um… Hi?”
How long had he been there? Maybe he needed an extra chair?
“Sorry, didn’t realize you were listening to something. I just asked what you were so focused on?” He gestured toward my laptop.
My lungs drew in another deep breath while I tried not to look too surprised that he, apparently, stopped by just to strike up a conversation with me.
His blue eyes held eye contact with mine while he waited for me to respond.
He was smartly dressed, holding a to-go coffee cup, looking unhurried.
I’d bet good money he was in his early to mid-thirties—the smile lines, the posture.
“Um. Just a project. Of sorts.” Lying wasn’t in my nature, but I also didn’t know him.
I wasn’t going to tell him I was writing a short story for fun because I’d recently decided not to deny my creative inclinations anymore.
After answering his question in the vaguest way possible, giving him almost nothing to work with, I assumed he’d move on.
“Cool. So, are you visiting for the weekend or do you spend a lot of time here?” he asked, undeterred.
“Oh, I’m…” I hadn’t had to explain my situation to a stranger before, and I was woefully unprepared for the question.
What came out of my mouth was a version of the truth.
“I usually only get over here once or twice a year, but this summer I’m taking a sabbatical from work, so I’ll be here for a while. ”
“That’s great. I’m spending most of the summer here, too. I go back to the city for important meetings here and there, but I’ll work remotely from here for the most part.”
“Boston?”
“New York.”
My stomach churned. I nodded.
He shifted on his feet, seeming reluctant to leave, but not bold enough to sit down without an invitation. It was sort of…cute.
He was, too. His light brown hair was cropped on the sides, a bit fuller on the top. He had soft facial features and clear blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Quiet good looks.
“What do you do when you aren’t on sabbatical?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer.”
His eyebrows went up. Was he impressed?
“Nice. I work with lawyers all the time. I’m in finance, wealth management.” As soon as he said it, I realized I should’ve asked. When did I become so bad at making conversation with good-looking, age-appropriate men?
I took a breath and gave him a smile for the first time. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Yeah.” He smiled back, brightening those blue eyes even more. I scanned his outfit as he sank into the chair next to mine at the little table—name-brand golf polo, shorts, and expensive-looking leather loafers.
I closed my laptop, giving him my full attention. “Do you have a place here?” I asked.
“My parents do. I’ve been coming here since I was a teenager. I stay in an apartment they have above the garage. What about you?”
“My grandmother does. No garage apartment, just the guest bedroom.”
He smiled, and it again reached his eyes. “Guest bedroom works, too. What’s your favorite thing to do on the island?”
I told him I love meandering through Edgartown and walking or reading at the beaches nearby, particularly Lighthouse Beach. When I asked him the same question, he said he liked boating. He didn’t say whether they owned a boat, but I assumed the answer was yes.
The conversation was easy, pleasant. It became clear as he kept asking me questions that he was flirting with me.
In a curious way—not overly aggressive or forward.
It’d been so long since I went on a date or even flirted with anyone; I’d forgotten I was someone a person might want to flirt with.
The flattery of it seeped into my pores, and a hum of something that resembled excitement built under the surface of my skin.
So I flirted back. I asked him about his job (wealth manager), where he lived in New York (Chelsea), where he went to school (Bucknell, and then Northwestern Kellogg for business school).
He asked me all the same things, and I got a thrill out of how openly impressed he was when I said corporate attorney, Hudson Yards (formerly), and UPenn.
I twirled my golden brown hair around my finger, pleased I’d thought to rim my green eyes with mascara that morning.
I hadn’t exactly dressed to impress today in my nylon tennis skort and V-neck T-shirt, but at least the outfit was consistent with what a lot of women wore on the island.
And my legs were starting to look toned after all my trips to the gym.
“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing he never mentioned it, and I hadn’t either.
“Max.” He extended his hand to shake mine. It felt a little formal after we’d just shared so many life facts with each other, but I took it anyway. Warm, firm.
“Val.”
“So, Val,” he held my gaze with a slight smirk on his mouth, drawing out my one-syllable name, “I have two questions.”
I raised my eyebrows and let him go on.
“One, are you single? And, because I’m optimistic the answer is yes, my second question is, will you have dinner with me?”
My mouth quirked up as my cheeks heated. His assertiveness was so…flattering.
“Yes and…” I paused, holding his gaze the whole time, biting down the grin that threatened to spread across my mouth, “yes.”
“Phew,” he sighed, dramatically dragging the back of his hand across his brow. “In that case, I’ll need your number.” He leaned back, produced his cell phone from his pocket, and handed it to me. I typed in my name and number and passed it back.
“Val Leone,” he said, reading the new contact on his screen as he stood up to leave. “I’m glad I met you. I’ll let you get back to that project.” He winked.
“I’m glad you, uh…stopped by.” I gestured to the table.
“What can I say, nothing does it for me like a beautiful woman typing feverishly on a laptop.”
A laugh rattled out of me.
A glint of pride sparked in his eyes at his joke landing.
I watched him walk away, noting the way the golf shorts hit just above his knees. He was muscular, but on the lankier side. No more than one minute after he disappeared around the corner, my phone buzzed.
617-555-0818
Hey, it’s Max Phelps.
I smiled down at the little screen.
What just happened?
Just over twenty-four hours later, I took a seat at a small, white tablecloth-covered table on the second-floor balcony of Alchemy Bistro. It was a fancy (even by Edgartown’s standards) restaurant on Main Street that I’d only been to once before with my brother, years ago.
Max had asked me if I was free tonight a few hours after he left the café yesterday. Mimi had invited me to have dinner with her and her friends tonight but was thrilled when I reneged to go on a date instead.
I peered over the railing after the waitress handed me the menu. “The people watching from up here is going to be amazing,” I said to Max with a grin. Wait, is that a weird thing to say?
“Oh, for sure,” he agreed. He’d swapped the golf outfit for salmon-colored chinos and a casual white button-down, rolled at the sleeves.
Similar expensive-looking loafers. The ensemble was unabashedly preppy, but in keeping with how a lot of the men dressed here.
Probably a nice break from whatever stuffy suits he wore to work.
“We should count how many people walking by are wearing Lilly Pulitzer dresses or some version of these pants.” He gestured to his lap.
I laughed. At least he had a sense of humor about it.