Page 52 of Saltwater

“I’m so thrilled you’re here,” Stan says. He claps Marcus on the back. “I thought I was going to have to strong-arm you into coming.”

“Of course not,” Marcus says. “All you had to do was promise to not talk business.”

Stan holds his finger in front of his lips as if he’s promising silence. But his eyes flick to mine briefly, and I can feel the pressure of his voicemail in the background—Stop avoiding me.

“I’m done with all that,” he says. “This is purely social.”

We’re on a spacious lido deck, and he leads us into the main salon.

I built to the same dimensions as Jeff’s. Then added two feet.I remember him telling me that, almost sadly, as if he wished it had been four. Despite the warm night air, my skin prickles. They’re sitting there, three of them, clustered around the corner couches of the salon, looking bored. The girls.

Fucking Stan.

I try to catch Helen’s eye, but Helen and Freddy have stayed out on the lido, listening to a live performance coming from a neighboring boat. Richard and Marcus are talking to Stan near the doors, Stan telling them he has to show them what’s on the roof. They’ll never believe it.

A helicopter.

“If it’s a helicopter,” Marcus says, “I’m not interested. Show me something original, Stan.”

It’s the primary reason Marcus has always been annoyed by Stan—a lack of originality.

Tech guys never know how to spend it, Marcus said to me in between meetings once.It’s so depressing. Zero elegance. And yet, these days, they’ve ended up with all of it.

It was a distinction the Lingates liked to belabor. Old money gave back. Old money supported the arts. Old money had class. But new money has more of it. It makes Marcus crazy. I know it does. Even if he never mentions it, it’s the reason he’s always searching for the right investment, the right opportunity to take that respectable, storied, vast old money and turn it into something truly embarrassing.

You can’t sit on your hands,he liked to say.If you sit on your hands, you’re not being a good steward.

I doubted Stan ever thought about the stewardship of his wealth; he thought about spending it.

“Okay,” Stan says, “I’ve got something original to show you.”

I know where they’re going, and I don’t want to be part of the tour. Luckily, Freddy and Helen stay behind and join me in the salon.

Helen whispers: “Who are they?”

She means the girls.

“I don’t know,” I say.

I know.

“Stan’s divorced, right?” Freddy asks.

It was news several years ago, the divorce—no prenup, deeply acrimonious. I don’t know ifthe girlspredated the divorce or precipitated it, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Yeah,” I say.

I cross the room and perch on one of the couches I’ve already spent hours on.

“I’m Lorna,” I say, reaching out a hand to the girl closest to me. It’s a gesture no other guest onIl Fallimentoever extended to me.

Her face is hard at first, and she takes in the three of us, top to bottom, a thorough assessment. The kind you have to make if you’re going to survive.

“Sasha,” she says.

She’s painfully thin, and blond. I’ve already seen girls like her all over Capri—here for the ride, the lifestyle, the boat. I’m sure there are other Sashas on the boats anchored around us, more, even, along the coasts of Spain and France.

In quick succession, the other two say “Martina” and “Giulia.”

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