Summer of Love (14 page)

“Hey, Love,” Henry says. His voice doesn’t completely betray his social grace but its lacking a certain warmth it had before (BC — before Charlie). Henry and I never spoke about the dinner party, but suffice to say from island gossip, he knows I went home with Charlie and I know he wasn’t alone that night (Mike, Charlie’s sister, saw him rolling around the lawn of the Manor Club with some girl after the party had ended).

“Hey there,” I say from the distance of my car. I put the car in gear to let Henry know I’m not planning on a big time talk.

Leaving Jay Daventree, whose white blonde hair seems iridescent in the sunlight, Henry gives me the one minute sign so I don’t peel out of the paved area. With his usual saunter, Henry walks over, his watch looking shiner than ever, his shorts with their obvious label, his car gleaming behind him. Somehow, since getting together with Charlie, who has equal — probably more — wealth but who doesn’t flaunt it — I’ve seen Henry in a different light. He likes his labels and his “small dinner party” of course wound up being at the ritziest place on the island. And even though he’s nice — I guess part of it seems like an act now. Or maybe it’s real, but it’s covered by the need to appear cool at all times.

“So — here long?” Henry asks, deliberately leaving out any pronoun and thus avoiding having to mention Charlie’s presence.

“A couple hours,” I say, not needing to shove it in his face.

“I heard you went flying today,” Henry says like it’s common knowledge.

I bite my lip and put my hands on the wheel and decide to answer like it’s no big deal rather than pestering him for how he knows and why he cares. “It was cool — we could see all the way to Nantucket and I thought I’d be nauseated but I wasn’t…”

“Did Charlie fly?” Henry’s mouth is shut tightly, defiant.

I recoil a little. “No — his friend Chet did.”

Henry nods, “Chet Stein. He’s a good guy.”

“Wow, someone who actually meets with your approval,” I say and then wish I hadn’t. It’s just that Henry’s so judgmental about Charlie, and about everything that isn’t part of his perfect little world. “Sorry. Never mind.”

Henry leans down so he’s close to me, resting his arms on my open window. It’d be flirty if it weren’t tense. Or maybe it still is but in that loaded, dramatic way. “Chet’s been flying since he was nine. His mother’s family owns the airport and….” Then he shakes his head. “I won’t bore you with the details. But you should ask Charlie why he didn’t take you up himself. Maybe that’ll — ah — shed some light on the issue at hand.”

“Okay,” I say, overly friendly to show that I’m not buying into the guy battle for good versus evil and that I’m more than ready to leave. “I’ll ask him.”

Henry takes a step back and when he speaks, his tone is totally different, upbeat and fun like nothing just happened. “Hey — it’s almost the Fourth. Got any plans?”

With the car in reverse, I lean out the window. “I’m not sure yet. It kind of depends.”

I leave it open-ended not to give the illusion of mystery and be all coy but because I don’t know. Arabella wants to get dressed up and go to the Island Ball which Trip Randall (AKA Henry’s dad) throws annually. It sounds boring and expensive — but she thinks it’s funny and if we go with the right spirit it will be fun — plus the best views of the fireworks are reported to be from their back deck. Other items on offer include making double money at the café since no one wants to work, going back to Boston to be with my dad and Louisa as they picnic by the Charles River (read: Love intrudes on a romantic evening), or asking Charlie what he’s doing. But I guess part of me figured he’d have told me by now if he wanted to hang out — but he hasn’t brought it up.

I drive back through Katama and down to the traffic island where turn left and park at the shopping center. The post office is set back a bit and I flip flop up the ramp and inside where it’s cool and dark to see if there’s any mail for me. Mostly, I’ve gotten postcards from Hadley people — Harriet Walters who is doing some journalism school, Keena Tonclair, my buddy from London, wrote to tell me about her summer break-up with my former vocal coach. She also told me about her mother’s new project, a writing fellowship. I wrote back to ask more questions but haven’t heard anything. But the postcards have to come to the café or to my house (which of course won’t be my house in the fall) and my dad sent them to me in one big packet complete with the Hadley Hall crest.

But here, in the B folder of general delivery mail, I find a simple white envelope addressed to me. Back outside, it’s so bright I can hardly see anything but once my eyes adjust I tear open the envelope and find two letters — one from Mrs. Dandy-Patinko telling me she’s secured a coveted interview at Stanford with Hadley alum (and trustee) Martha Wade. Martha’s the trustee everyone wants to befriend because rumor has it she can get you in — or keep you out. But when I look closely I see that the interview is next week and I don’t have the cash for a ticket nor do I have the time blocked off on my schedule at the café. Basically, I’m screwed.

I drive back slowly, in that haze of too many thoughts swirling around my already summer-dim brain. I’m zoning with the windows down, the loose chatter and ice cream crowds milling around the stop and go traffic in town, when I happen to look up. There, on the side of a grey shingled building just three streets away from the café, is a small sign that reads “Rare Books: When You’ve Been Hunting High and Low”. Actually, the sign is so faded from years of rain, sun, and Vineyard weather that it says Rare Ooks, but I’m still of sound mind enough to know the ‘b’ is missing.

This jolts me from my college trouble haze — Mable’s note said to look high and low. With all the excitement of getting together with Charlie, of having that summer boyfriend I wanted, my treasure hunt slipped to the back of my mind. But now I wonder if this tiny upstairs bookshop is what Mable had in mind. I check my watch — if I go in now, I’ll be late for my shift. And Arabella won’t be happy since she worked a double. But if I don’t go now I won’t be able to go until tomorrow and it’ll drive me crazy all night — I’m just not the most patient person in the world.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say into the phone.

“I can’t talk — we’re swamped. I’ll be right there. One triple mocha no cream,” she answers.

“I’ll be five minutes late — is that okay? I promise I’ll take over when I get there.”

“I’m exhausted,” Arabella moans through her teeth lest the customers hear her.

“I know — but I covered for you three days ago,” I remind her. In general, we’ve been fine trading shifts and she’s definitely helped make my hours easier so far, but in the past couple weeks I’ve noticed she’s been grumpy about any favors I ask, but more than willing to ask me for them herself.

“Fine — just don’t be more than fifteen minutes. I have…”

“What?” I ask. “A hot date?”

“I gotta go,” she says and shouts “double latte extra foam” before hanging up.

Maybe Arabella does have a hot date. Or maybe she’s annoyed about Charlie. Or maybe it’s lame that I’ve been sucked to the boy side — I so don’t want to be that girl that drops her friends when the perfect guy comes along — but it’s difficult. Charlie has weird hours from his days at the dock, I have odd hours from the shifts at Slave to the Grind II (we really need to change the name!), and Arabella has equally irregular work times, too. The math involved in arranging a simple dinner or ice cream outing is astounding. So she and I have kind of been missing each other lately.

I park in my favorite spot down by the Chappaquiddick ferry, and walk past a couple of art galleries to the shingled building. Wrapped around the outside are rickety wooden steps and a wobbly railing that I grip tightly even though I doubt it would actually keep me form falling down if I tripped.

The door is red and peeling, the high and low sign swings in the wind, tapping against the side of the building. I go inside, looking around for signs of life or of clues, but I see only rows of books. Stacked from floor to ceiling are paperbacks, hardcovers, beautifully bound leather dictionaries and those old, oversized logs that used to be used to keep track of store tallies (Mable went through a phase of keeping all her books by hand, so they look familiar).

“Are you looking for something in particular?” asks a woman who appears from behind a tall bookshelf.

“I’m not sure,” I say. And I’m really not. It’s fun to follow Mable’s map but it’s also embarrassing to put myself out there, asking questions of people I don’t know, going places I wouldn’t normally visit, and generally stretching my comfort zone. But of course that’s her point.

“We have some new arrivals,” the lady says and points to a crate of books that have yet to be arranged. She reminds me of someone — with her gentle manner, her quiet but self-assured way of speaking, the way she carefully examines each book before shelving it. Louisa — she reminds me of Louisa. Maybe it’s just because they both run bookstores. As I wander around the stacks and shelves, I think of my dad with Louisa, of my life back at Hadley. Then I try to imagine going back there, how anxious I’ll feel packing my books and clothes and heading to the dorms this fall. In the course of three seconds I go from missing my dad and wishing I could in fact go on a picnic with him and Louisa for the Fourth of July to being incredibly annoyed that he’s making me become a boarder after two years of happy day-student life. My hand rests on a hardcover book whose cover depicts a figure reaching back for a hand that isn’t there.

“That’s a wonderful novel,” the book woman says.

I read the name In the Midst of Ephemera by Poppy Massa-Tonclair. PMT! My English teacher form London. “I know her!” I say and smile. It’s so cool to see someone’s name on a book — that is, someone with whom I actually communicate.

“Lucky you,” the book woman says like she’s not sure if she should believe that this random red headed girl in fraying shorts and a bikini top would really know an award-winning author. “She’s judging the Beverly William Award — but you probably knew that.”

Um, no actually I didn’t, but then again news of international book awards is hardly part of my every day summer sprawl. “Right.” I nod like I know what I’m talking about and then mentally shake my head at myself. When did I become one of those people who pretends to know something when she doesn’t? That’s always annoyed me about other people and yet I’ve found myself doing it every so often to my own dismay. Why bother saying you know a certain song or like a certain book or know a political opinion when you don’t. So I take it back. “I didn’t know she was up for that. She taught me for a semester in London.”

The woman smiles for real now and reaches out for the book in my hand. “I studied abroad once — a long time ago — it’s such a great experience. I had the opportunity to stay on but…” She looks at me and shakes off her own words. “Regardless…would you like this book?” She opens the front cover to look at the price. “It’s a first edition from the seventies.”

Did I plan on buying anything in here? No — but why not. I should have PMT’s books on my shelves in something nicer than my rumpled, water-stained paperbacks. “I would,” I say and feel my back pocket for money. Then I have that panic you get when you know you’re late. “Here — I’m sorry I have to go. I’m late for work and…by the way, weird question but do you have anything else for me? Like a note or a clue?”

I expect the woman to nod and say something like of course she does or how clever I am but instead she hands me the book, takes my money and looks at me like I’m crazy. Nice. I blush and accept the book and run down the rickety stairs and over to the café where I put the book by the door to the flat and continue in my breathless pace to the counter.

Arabella wordlessly hands me an apron and I tie it around my waist. Then she points to my top — which at this point is still one half of a bathing suit. Like a scolded child, I untie the apron, run upstairs and return with an appropriate tee-shirt.

“I said ten minutes,” she says while she punches out and I punch in. The crowd has thinned now after the post-lunch frenzy. The next crowd will come in in a few minutes, getting that caffeine burst before the evening kicks into gear.

“Actually, you said fifteen,” I say.

“The point is, I’ve been working non-stop and I thought you’d be here.”

I thought you’d be here hangs like cartoon bubble words in front of us. I make a fresh pot of coffee and make space in the cooler so it can chill afterwards while Arabella watches me, not helping at all since her shift is finished. When we first started we acted like we were one person, filling in over here, taking over over there, our skills overlapping like a piano part for four hands. But that was when serving coffee and greeting customers and refilling cream pitchers felt new and exciting. Now that the novelty has more than worn off, we’re stuck in the drudgery of running a café.

“Hey — what’re your plans later?” she asks.

I’m hopeful she wants to reconcile whatever rift we have happening and I’m about to saying nothing when I remember Charlie’s offer to swing by at midnight. “I have plans with Charlie,” I say like I’m admitting to something bad.

Arabella looks at her watch. “I have to go.”

“Where’re you headed?” I ask and feel a dread when I think of the eight long hours I have ahead of me here.

“I’m meeting Chris,” Arabella says.

I think for a second and wrinkle my mouth. “He’s at the beach — with Haverford.”

Arabella nods. “I know. I’m…we’re meeting and then I’m going exploring.”

Something in her tone sounds weird, but quite possibly I am on high alert because I feel guilty and bad about our lack of good vibes at the moment. “Oh — well, have fun. And feel free to stop by while I’m here.”

She nods and walks the heavily traveled path form the counter to the stairs of our apartment, leaving me to deal with dishes and desserts for the afternoon’s peckish people. From the back oven I take out a tray of marshmallow brownies and begin sifting their tops with graham cracker crust the way Mable taught me when she invented the s’more bars.

We used to sit on the counter at night when Slave to the Grind’s doors were locked, breaking the leftover treats into bits, eating them with our fingertips. She talked about how happy the café made her — and I guess I thought it would make me happy, too. She made café life appear so easy, but I’m learning that things look easy when they’re fun or you’re good at it or you just have a goal to succeed. Where do I find that I my own life?