Pike's Folly (17 page)

The two women glanced down to see what he was staring at.

“I
know
that name,” Celia muttered.

“Cranberry!” The woman snapped her fingers. “Oh,
that's
right. Sure, the Cranberrys have been here
forever.
”

5

That same morning, Marlene and Stuart took the ferry from Woods Hole to Vineyard Haven, where later they'd meet up with Bill and Carla Marshall, who'd already been on the island for two days. The day had started off overcast but cleared up once the ferry pulled out of port. Neither the landing nor the ferry itself was as crowded as both would be in another week, after Memorial Day.

The ferry maneuvered between a row of red and green channel markers and into open water. Stuart felt like having a beer, so he bought a Heineken for himself and a Coke for Marlene. They huddled close together on the top deck, where the breeze was strong and gusty. Marlene's black hair, which she'd had cut for the occasion, blew into his eyes. Midway across, he ventured, “What do you think Bill and Carla will be wearing?”

“Why?” she asked. “Are you hoping to see Carla in a bikini?”

In fact, he was. Bearing her in mind, he'd brought along a Speedo swimsuit, one that showed off every contour through its skintight fabric. Wearing it around Carla would be like being naked in front of her, and being naked in front of her was his big goal this week. Much as he hated to admit it, there were still cravings he hadn't quite mastered. “Actually,” he said, “I'm looking forward to seeing
you
in a bikini.”

She smiled and snuggled against him. On the horizon, a line of beach began to rise out of the water—their first sight of the Vineyard.

“It's strange,” she said, “but a year ago, all I would've been thinking about was taking off my clothes and running around in front of people.”

“And now what are you thinking?” he asked.

She knew that telling the truth would only make him upset, so she lied. “About how much fun we're going to have.”

The boat docked at Vineyard Haven, and they could see Bill and Carla waiting at the edge of the landing. Carla was wearing a bikini top and a sarong, with her light-colored hair piled up and tucked under a straw hat. Bill looked as though he'd come directly from work, in khaki slacks and a blue oxford shirt. At forty-five, he was the oldest of the four. His brown hair was thinning on top, and his suntan looked glazed on.

Carla spotted them coming down the gangplank and ran ahead of Bill. “Welcome to the island,” she said—
just like a
native,
Stuart thought as she drew him close to give him a kiss. He could feel her breasts flatten against his chest.

They were standing in the flow of arriving passengers, and Bill called out to Carla from the pier, “Kid, you're in the way.”

Carla took Marlene's hand, leaving Stuart to schlep their bags. At the bottom of the plank, Bill muttered, “Hey, Stu,” then relieved him of the larger bag and gave Marlene a much warmer welcome. “Our car's parked a couple of blocks down the road. We hadn't counted on so much beach traffic, otherwise we would've left earlier.”

They proceeded up a ramp to the edge of a rocky seawall, where they walked to Bill's champagne-colored Mitsubishi. The ferry was getting ready to take off; a long, low toot from its horn blew across the water, and a fleet of cars began to creep singlefile into a hold on the lower deck.

“You girls are going to have to squeeze in back,” Bill said as he tossed their bags into the trunk. “Carla and I were taking some pictures down at Aquinnah, and we didn't get a chance to unload our stuff.”

Marlene peered into the car and saw a tripod lying flat across the backseat, along with a camera bag and what looked like a shiny silver umbrella, the kind used by professional photographers to bounce light around a studio. “Where's Aquinnah?” she asked.

“Don't worry, we'll get there,” Bill said. He pushed a button on his key chain to unlock the car. “Not today, though. We've got a full schedule.”

Carla slid into the backseat and righted the tripod, standing it evenly between her and Marlene, who'd climbed in behind Bill. With everyone settled, Carla grabbed Stuart's shoulder through the headrest. “Good, I get to play with your husband,” she said to Marlene.

Bill hit the gas, and once they were clear of the Vineyard Haven traffic, he told Stuart, “We brought along the
best
hash, man. Fresh from Vermont. I'm telling you, it really makes a difference if you're willing to spend a little more.”

“A beer sounds about my speed,” Stuart said. They'd turned onto a back road, amid trees and tall grass growing up from the dusty median. Bill drove with authority, not bothering to keep both hands on the wheel. His nonchalance vexed Stuart, who thought,
Dude, you don't
live
here. You're on vacation. Get over
yourself.

Carla spoke up from the backseat. “Honey, did you tell Stuart and Marlene about Lucien?”

Stuart frowned. “Lucien?”

“Lucky's an old studio friend of mine,” Bill said. “We met in Paris back in ninety-one, when I was teaching a summer course on scientific photography. He's staying in the guesthouse.”

“The guesthouse,” Carla repeated. “Doesn't that sound cool?”

Marlene smiled politely but said nothing. The news that someone else would be staying with them was jarring to her. She'd come expecting a safe place where she could drink wine on the beach, smoke some grass and surround herself with familiar, friendly faces. She needed to be nursed back to life, slowly, one little baby step at a time.

Bill grinned. “Lucky's a great cook, and a really good guy. He's especially looking forward to meeting
you,
Marlene.”

“Me?” She felt pinned to the seat cushion. “Why?”

No one knew how to answer her.
Because you're a freak. A sex
addict.

Finally, Stuart said, “Who
wouldn't
want to meet you, hon?”

The others laughed, and Marlene halfheartedly joined in. Just in time, they slowed in front of a mailbox at the end of a long, wooded driveway. “We're here,” Bill said and turned into the woods.

The time-share was smaller than either Marlene or Stuart had expected—an old country cottage with gray clapboard walls, a flat roof and an open porch where the paint was peeling. When they stepped out of the car, they could hear the ocean but couldn't see it. Past the house and driveway, a footpath plunged straight into a dense wall of beach grass, which hid the house from its neighbors. The air was lukewarm and smelled of saltwater and vegetables rotting in the garden.

Bill and Stuart left the bags on the porch and waited for the ladies, who were dallying in the yard. “Where's your friend?” Stuart asked.

Bill stepped out of his leather flip-flops and sat down. “We'll join up with him later. He's probably still taking pictures on the beach. The water's just down that trail,” he said, waving in the direction of the beach grass.

Near to where he was pointing, Stuart noticed another cottage, similar in construction to the main house but smaller. The front door was wide-open, and a royal-blue beach towel was drying from the rafters. “It sounds nice,” he said.

Bill stretched to crack his back, a habit Stuart particularly abhorred. “You get what you pay for, Stu. If you think this is nice, you should check out Lucy Vincent's.”

“What's that?”

“That's the nude beach. It's a ten-minute walk.” Bill crossed his legs, and Stuart could see the dirty bottom of his right foot. “Think you guys are up for it?”

Stuart tensed; over his shoulder, he could hear Carla and his wife approaching. “Oh, I don't—”

“Maybe just Marlene, then.” Abruptly, Bill jumped out of his chair and danced over to his wife, who was standing with Marlene at the edge of the porch. “Hey, kid. We were just talking about going over to Lucy Vincent's this afternoon.”

Echoing her husband, Marlene asked, “Who's Lucy Vincent?”

Carla blushed. “Oh, nothing. It's just a . . . tourist attraction. We'll see.”

The subject was forgotten, and Bill went inside to fix them all drinks. Stuart couldn't tell whether Marlene was enjoying herself but preferred to think she was. She looked tired and in no shape for going to the beach.

When she caught him staring at her, she asked, “What are you looking at?”

He almost said, “How pretty you are,” but didn't feel like it. Instead, he said, “Just you.”

“That's nice.” She smiled sadly, as if she didn't consider herself worthy of him.

After banging around inside the kitchen, Bill kicked open the screen door and came out carrying a tray of glasses filled with white wine. “Give me a hand,” he said to Carla, who took two glasses from the tray and passed them to Marlene and Stuart. The two remaining glasses upset the tray's balance, and it crashed to the ground, the glasses shattering around Bill's bare feet. “Damn it, kid. Those don't belong to us.”

Carla bowed her head. “I'm sorry. I'll pay for them.”

“That's not the point. What are we going to use for wine-glasses now?”

Stuart could tell Carla was used to being yelled at, and he felt awful for her. “Bill, it's okay,” he said. “I'm sure there's a store in town.”

“Yeah, that's right,” said Carla. “Listen to Stuart. And besides, we can always use paper cups. There's a whole bunch in the kitchen.”

Excusing himself, Stuart set down his wineglass and went off to fetch the cups. He hadn't expected Carla to side with him so aggressively against her husband. Great, he thought—we're here five minutes, and already everyone's pissed off at each other.

The kitchen was small and cluttered, with wooden cupboards and a shallow Formica counter on which sat a spiral of green foil from the bottle of wine that Bill had opened. Stuart pitched the foil into the trash under the sink, then found a stack of paper cups. Pouring Bill and Carla each a fresh cup of wine killed off the bottle, so he threw it away, too.

When he returned to the porch, the others were in a better mood. “We should all drink up and change into our swimsuits,” Bill said. “Lucien's going to wonder what happened to us.”

Everyone seemed agreeable, so they hurried the rest of their drinks and went inside. Carla showed Marlene and Stuart to their room, which was across the hall from the one she and Bill were using. The house was dark, lacking light fixtures in the ceilings. The only illumination came from floor lamps, which they switched on one at a time as they passed through the hall.

“It's an old house,” Carla said, “so the doors don't shut all the way.” She demonstrated with the door to Marlene and Stuart's room. “I hope that's okay.”

“Sure,” Stuart said, “that's fine. We're all friends.”

Leaving the door open, Carla left to get changed in the bathroom. Marlene had slung her bag onto the bed but just stood there staring at it. When he asked her what was wrong, she said, “I don't think I want to go swimming today. I'll just sit with a book.”

“Whatever you want, hon. But you're going to be hot in those clothes.”

“I'll roll up my pants. They're baggy, see?” She lifted her right pant leg. “Besides, it was chilly on the ferry. I think it's too cold for swimming.”

“Marlene, it's perfectly nice out. It was cold on the ferry because of the breeze off the open water.”

“I'm sure you're right. I'll see you outside.” Her force field went up, and she took her purse and left.

Stuart had to laugh—this wasn't going as well as he'd hoped—and then began to undress. The door was still wide open, and he could hear Carla finishing up in the bathroom. He quickly tugged off his pants, socks, underwear and T-shirt as a rapid pulse filled his throat at the thought of Carla's seeing his naked body. He wanted her to catch him unawares, in the act of bending over or reaching for his swimsuit, but it had to appear entirely unintentional, otherwise the effect would be ruined.

With his back to the door, he waited for her to come out of the bathroom. His Speedo swimsuit lay in a black lump on the floor, just inches away from his right little toe. At the sound of footsteps, he bent over, stuck his ass high in the air and picked up the suit. The footsteps slowed in front of the doorway and stopped.

She's looking at it, he thought. Carla Marshall is looking at my ass!

“What are you doing?” Marlene inquired.

Whirling around, he covered his penis with his hands. “Just putting on my swimsuit,” he said.

Her brow wrinkled suspiciously. Her new, shorter haircut showed off more of her face, revealing expressions he'd never seen before. This was one of them, this spinsterish look of disapproval.

“At least shut the door.” Brushing past him, she took a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and transferred them to her purse. Apparently, his being naked merited no more comment than that. Like any old wife, she crossed the room and pulled the door closed behind her, saying, “Come on, they're waiting.”

For a long time, he stared at the tarnished brass coat hook on the back of the door. With a sigh, he retrieved the Speedo from the floor and stepped heavily into it, first the left leg, then the right.

When he got outside, Bill was wearing a pair of navy-blue trunks that came down to his knees. “What the hell's that?” he asked, smirking at Stuart's swimsuit. “You look like Greg fucking Louganis, man.”

“I thought I'd get a tan,” Stuart explained. Feeling every inch the loser, he followed the other three through the tall grass to a marsh, where they took off their flip-flops and crossed an ankle-deep inlet of mud to the other side. Stuart kept his eye on Carla and Marlene ahead of him. The one on the right is my wife, he thought, and the one on the left is not.

Past the inlet, a row of warped birch boards served as stairs down a sandy hill to the beach. The day wasn't quite right for sunbathing, so they had the place more or less to themselves.

“Does anyone see Lucien?” Carla asked. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she stared down the beach. “Oh! There he is. Hey, Lucky!”