Page 38 of The Last Book Party

“Has Franny decided not to come?” I called out, as Henry opened the screened door to the porch. As curious as I was to meet Lil, I would have been relieved to learn that Franny wasn’t coming, after all.

“No, no, he’ll be here,” Henry said. “Too late to be of much use—some to-do with Lil, it seems—but not too late to enjoy the party.”

By the time Henry returned, I had unfolded all the chairs that were to stay on the side of the porch and had carried most of the rest to the back. When I returned to the front for my lastload, Tillie and Lane were by Lane’s pickup truck filling paper bags with sand.

Henry walked briskly toward me and with a quick glance toward Tillie and Lane, took my hand and pulled me around to the back of the house and down the sloping lawn toward the storage shed beside the tennis court.

“What are you doing?” I asked, annoyed that he’d been inside so long.

“Don’t say a word and come with me.”

He opened the door and pulled me into the shed. It was dark and damp. He pushed aside some old wooden tennis rackets hanging from the ceiling and sat on the bench along the back wall, a devilish smile on his face.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head but feeling a little excited both by the possibility of being with Henry again and that he was willing to risk it while Tillie was home. I found it impossible not to return his smile with one of my own. “Tillie’s right outside. And besides…”

I wanted to say something about the way he’d been with Tillie the other day—about the unmade futon and their lounging together while doing the crossword puzzle—to make him realize that he couldn’t have it both ways. And yet, who was I kidding? There had never been a question of his having to make a choice between Tillie and me. Ours was a summer affair. And it was still summer.

I sighed as Henry lifted my tank top and pressed his lips to my stomach. I ran my fingers through his hair, pulled him to his feet. We went at each other quickly, our manner nearly rough. And yet, even before we were done, I couldn’t help feeling that it didn’t really matter to Henry that it was me there in the shed with him. I could have been anyone at all.

“You walk out first, to the side of the house,” Henry said, his face flushed, zipping his shorts. “I’ll go in the kitchen.”

From the side of the house, I could see the driveway, already halfway lined with paper bags. Lane’s pickup truck was gone, as was Tillie’s station wagon.

37

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at Jams, Malcolm and Jeremy were already there, leaning against Malcolm’s red Mazda convertible. I stepped out of the car and went to kiss Malcolm on both cheeks, as was his custom, but he stopped me at arm’s length and took my hands. “Yowza!” He looked me up and down, nodding at my loose hair, which had grown lighter in the sun, and my bright red tank top and short denim skirt, a summery outfit that was a far cry from the loose black vintage clothes I’d favored in New York. “You are literally sun-kissed,” he said. “Orsomethingkissed.” Malcolm turned to Jeremy, who was grabbing his duffel bag from the back seat. “Is she not a vision?” he said.

“She is a sight,” Jeremy said. It wasn’t lost on me that Jeremy hadn’t agreed with Malcolm. His hair already frizzed from the Cape humidity, Jeremy looked pale, like he hadn’t left the city all summer, and harmless. He stepped toward me and tapped my shoulder lightly. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I said, and realized that I meant it. It would be good to have someone to talk to, even if I wouldn’t tell himeverything. I’d been avoiding Alva, who I knew would not only disapprove of my affair with Henry but would suspect it even if I didn’t say a word.

Despite pleading with my mother not to go out of her way to prepare for Jeremy’s visit, she had spent the morning going to Hillside Farm for fresh corn and tomatoes, Hatch’s in Wellfleet for swordfish steaks, and Provincetown for smoked bluefish dip and a wheel of Camembert. “We’ll make him a real Cape dinner,” she’d said.

When Jeremy and I entered the house, the coffee table in the living room was covered with the dip, cheese, and crackers and my mother was sitting on the deep couch, her legs tucked under her, ostensibly readingLake Wobegon Days. Her “tells” were obvious: she wore gold hoop earrings and had on the coral lipstick that she usually saved for going out to dinner or to a party. She stood up, slipped on her sandals, and stretched her arm out toward Jeremy. “Welcome, welcome to our little paradise,” she said, beaming at him. “I’m Nancy.”

Jeremy put down his duffel bag and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He looked around at the room and out the sliding-glass doors to the deck and the hills rolling down to the marsh beyond. It was high tide. The marsh had nearly filled with water and looked like a lake dotted with small islands of bright green grass. “What a beautiful home. Thanks so much for letting me stay.”

“Of course!” my mother said, pushing her hair off her face in a way that was oddly coquettish. “Come, come sit down. You must be hungry and thirsty! Eve, get Jeremy a drink. Do you want wine? Or do you prefer beer? Vodka? We have a full bar. My husband—he’s fishing with friends in Nantucket and will beback tomorrow—even has whiskey and rye, though I insist that those arenotsummer drinks.”

“A beer would be great,” Jeremy said. He blinked several times, and then rubbed his left eye.

I wished I hadn’t agreed that we would eat in. With my father away until the next day, my mother had free rein to steer the conversation to her interests, which I was sure meant interrogating Jeremy about his creative process and ferreting out enough information to determine if he and I were romantically involved.

I brought a beer to Jeremy, who was standing behind the couch. His nose was twitching like a rabbit. Was he nervous?

“Please, sit,” my mother said.

Jeremy settled into the couch, sinking down awkwardly and then squirming to sit back on the edge.

“Smoked bluefish dip?” my mother asked, pointing to the table.

“That’s fish?” Jeremy said. He jumped up to his feet, spilling some beer on the carpet. “Shit! I’m sorry.” He took a handful of cocktail napkins and started mopping up the beer.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” my mother said, looking at me in a way that made it clear that it was definitelynotnothing. She was particular about her carpet. Jeremy put his beer on the table and walked over to his duffel bag, where he rummaged around until he stood up with a pill bottle in his hand. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks covered with a splotchy rash. “I’m so sorry. It’s the bluefish. I’m allergic. I should have told you.”

My mother looked at Jeremy’s face, then at the bluefish dip, then back at Jeremy. “Oh my God,” she said.

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