Killer Summer

by Lynda Curnyn

  I hadn’t told Sage about Maggie yet, mostly because I don’t like to talk about things that I think are gonna happen until they happen. Now I was glad I hadn’t, because something about the Maggie situation was funky. For one thing, she begged me not to tell Tom about our discussion. Which kinda weirded me out a little, ‘cause I know she’s attracted to me by the way she’s always touching me. You should have seen the way she looked at me when she asked me to keep our plans a secret from Tom. Made me feel like she was asking for something else, you know what I’m saying? Of course, she said it was because it was her money and Tom didn’t have a say over what she did with her money, which was weird, too, ’cause they’re married and shit.

  Now there’s a good reason not to get married: women are fucking sneaky. Just like Bern. Who knew she had even applied for a job in San Francisco until suddenly she was moving out of our apartment. Of course, she wanted me to come. Like I got nothing better to do than follow her around. She knew I was trying to get Revelation off the ground.

  At least Maggie understands my dreams a little bit. Maybe a little too much. That’s why I need to talk to her before things get outta hand. She keeps referring to the business plan for Revelation in the plural. As in, “our” business plan.

  Which kinda pisses me off, you know? Her money notwithstanding, this is my business plan. That’s the thing about people with money. As soon as they offer to put a little down, they think they own you. And Maggie—well, let’s just say she’s more territorial than most. I started to explain my position after Tom left tonight, but she seemed a tad wound up. Actually, she looked a little pissed herself, even muttered something that suggested she might not be so willing to put up money for a venture she didn’t have a voice in. Which was why I suggested perhaps we should discuss it further over drinks. I wasn’t worried. I figured I could get her to see things from my point of view over a couple of cocktails. If there was one thing I could handle, it was chicks. All this required was a little Maggie-management. As soon as she got here, I would explain that I was going to be handling the business plan and that she would be more like a silent partner. As soon as she got here, I would set her straight.

  If she ever got here.

  “Dude, what’s it gonna be? Another beer or what?”

  I glared at him. This guy was a pest. Even if I had any money left, I wouldn’t buy another beer here.

  Maybe it was the reminder I was broke that had me standing up. “Nah, I’m outta here, man.”

  There was no use waiting any longer. Besides, I’m not really the type to wait around for anyone. Now that I had a few beers in me, it was time to talk business. And the first order of business was finding Maggie.

  And letting her know just who was boss.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Zoe

  No rest for the weary. Or the wicked, for that matter.

  No one was waiting for me at the ferry. And why should anybody be waiting for me? I was technically supposed to be here ten ferries ago.

  Not that that stopped me from having a pity party for myself as I lugged a wheelie suitcase, a shopping bag and a knapsack down the long dark roads to the house. I had definitely brought too much stuff, but somehow the thought of leaving Manhattan without at least two pairs of shoes, four pairs of shorts, two bathing suits, six books and my camera (I never left home without my camera) had been even more anxiety-producing than lugging it all here.

  So with my wheelie firmly in one hand, the shopping bag in the other and my knapsack clamped to my back, I made my way slowly down the long path that would lead me to the beach and Maggie’s Dream, though I was sure that by now I was Maggie’s nightmare. I had discovered on opening weekend that Maggie didn’t tolerate tardiness in her dinner guests. Even more so, I imagined, from the houseguest bringing the key ingredients.

  Good thing I had been to the house once before, because the streets—or I should say trails?—through the tall grasses and brush that covered most of Fire Island were pretty dark. I could barely even see some of the houses, which were set back a distance from the road. And there wasn’t a soul around. But that was Kismet for you. Since the nightlife wasn’t exactly on a par with your usual Manhattan scene, most people stayed home after dark, getting soused behind closed doors, judging by the lights I saw coming from the windows of houses set deep in tall grasses that rustled ominously in the soft breeze.

  Creepy. Maybe it was the thought of what might be lurking in the underbrush that sent me hurrying along, despite the fact that my shoulders had begun to ache from my pack and that my wheelie was bumping none too easily across the cracked pavement.

  The only disadvantage to an oceanfront share was that it was generally the farthest walk from the ferry. But since Fire Island was only about a quarter mile wide, it wasn’t usually an issue, unless, like me, you couldn’t leave Manhattan at home when you came to Fire Island. But I got to Maggie’s Dream eventually, though my right hand was raw from the handle of my heavy shopping bag, my wheelie was practically on its last wheel and I was on the verge of a permanent back disorder from my pack. Now I understood why Sage never brought more than a tote bag. But then, I guess if your clothes were as tiny as Sage’s and all your other entertainment needs would likely be met by most of the male population, you really didn’t need much.

  I felt a shot of relief at the sight of the lights burning as I made my way up the walkway to the deck. But it was only momentary. I wasn’t sure what state everyone would be in at this point. Hungry and dissatisfied? Hopefully Maggie had been able to whip something together to soothe the hungry crowd. She was supposed to be some kind of culinary whiz anyway. Yeah, they were probably all drunk by now and yucking it up, I thought, remembering the well-stocked bar that Tom had opened up to us on Memorial Day weekend and we partook in until we were all practically prone on the carpet in the living room. At least Nick and Maggie were likely yucking it up, I thought, remembering how they had sat out on the deck last time I was here while the rest of us played Scrabble inside. I remembered glancing out at them, wondering at the way they leaned in close to talk to one another. Nick knew Maggie about as well as I did, which made me curious how they could possibly have so much to say to one another. Not that Tom seemed to mind, which was even weirder. He just sat there laying down letter tiles, teasing Sage mercilessly every time he racked up a triple word score.

  When I finally made it to the screen door with all my baggage, I was surprised to discover that Tom was alone, except for Janis Joplin—the dog, that is—who let out the kind of howl that explained how she had gotten that name, and practically mowed me over in an attempt to get past me and out into greener—or in this case, sandier—pastures.

  “Don’t let the dog out!” Tom yelled by way of greeting.

  “Sorry,” I said, shutting the screen firmly behind me, which only caused Janis to start to whimper and paw at me, nearly unbalancing me. “Nice doggie,” I said, dropping my shopping bag and wheelie, and sliding my pack off my back. I assumed if I wasn’t supposed to offend the master of the house, I should be careful not to offend the master’s dog.

  Not that Tom noticed. “So you finally made it,” he said. Since I wasn’t sure from his bland tone whether he was being sarcastic or not, I glanced up at him once I had successfully brushed off Janis’s advances. My eyes widened. Not only was Tom dressed in nothing more than a towel around his waist, his hair damp as if he had just come from the shower, but he was chopping garlic with what looked like a barely contained fury. I wasn’t sure if it was the way he was wielding that knife that weirded me out, or the strangeness of seeing Tom in nothing more than a towel, which looked in danger of slipping every time he brought the knife down on another clove of garlic. Somehow the sight of his damp chest, covered in gray hair and a bit saggy with age—he was, after all, nearing fifty—made me uneasy. Kinda the way you feel uneasy the first time you catch your father running from the bedroom to the bathroom in nothing more than his skivvies, which was
one of the few memories I actually had of my father. But that was the other thing about Fire Island. Living in close quarters with strangers often brought you an up close and personal view of them, whether you wanted one or not.

  I would have slid away to the bedroom, except it looked like Tom was in the midst of making that dinner I had heard so much about. And was none too happy about it. “Well, you didn’t miss much,” he said, peeling the skin away from a fresh garlic clove. “Maggie disappeared. Last I saw her, she said she was going to Fair Harbor Market to look for coriander. But that was almost three hours ago.” He brought the knife down on the clove with a solid whack.

  Oops.

  “I come home a little while ago and find dinner half-made,” he continued, shaking his head.“I don’t know what gets into her.”

  “So, uh, dinner is still on?” I said hopefully, wondering how I could surreptitiously put the coriander on the counter without him realizing I was the cause of this culinary disaster.

  He finally looked up at me, eyes roaming over me as if I had two heads. “It’s ten o’clock. We can’t eat now. I’m just trying to finish the sauce she started before she took off to God knows where.” He sighed, as if the thought of the wasted meal deeply disturbed him. “I guess we’ll eat this tomorrow. If Maggie ever gets back with the coriander,” he continued. Whack. Whack. Whack.

  Seeing my opening, I said, “Actually, I think I might have some coriander in one of these bags.”

  He looked up, knife paused in midair as he regarded me anew. I guess he didn’t figure me for the type to be packing ajar of coriander. And with good reason. I didn’t even know what coriander was until the grocer at Gourmet Garage kindly explained it to me. Locating the jar in the shopping bag, I placed it on the counter before him, transforming myself from the neglectful tardy dinner guest to the heroine of the piece.

  For all of thirty seconds. “Oh, so you got Maggie’s message? She wasn’t sure you did.”

  “Uh, yeah. I, uh, got a later ferry than I expected.” And since I figured I had already effectively destroyed my momentary heroic status, I decided to come completely clean, pulling out the wine and the Vidalia onion, which was looking a bit bruised.“I got these, too.”

  “Ah, well,” he said, eyeing the onion.“I already used the Spanish onions we had in the fridge. I can’t tell the difference anyway, but that’s Maggie for you,” he said with a roll of the eyes. “An onion’s an onion, if you ask me.”

  “Yep, it’s all the same to me,” I said, in an attempt to bond with dear old Tom over our mutual ignorance of the varieties of onions.

  Janis Joplin, who had been humming a low whine as I emptied the contents of my shopping bag, was now clawing at the screen door.

  “Dammit, Janis!” Tom roared, returning to his former austere—and somehow more intimidating in that towel—stance.

  Even Janis backed down, lowering to her stomach and whimpering, her eyes on me, pleading.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into that mutt,” Tom muttered. “Must be a full moon tonight.” Wliack. Wliack. Wliack.

  I didn’t think there was any moon tonight, judging by all the darkness I had just ploughed through. But I wasn’t about to argue.

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  “So, um, where is everyone…else, that is?” I asked, not wanting to invoke the name of Maggie again, seeing as Tom was none too pleased with her at the moment.

  He lined up another garlic clove.“Sage had a date or something. And I’m not sure where Nick is.” He frowned, and I wondered if he was remembering how cozy Nick and Maggie had gotten on Memorial Day weekend. God, maybe Nick and Maggie were… Oh, yuck. I wouldn’t put it past Nick, though. He didn’t seem to have many scruples when it came to his love life. And ever since Bernadine had moved to San Francisco, he seemed to have even less.

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  Janis let out a low moan.

  “Shut up, you damn mutt!”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.“Um, maybe I should take her for a walk or something?” I said, realizing I had found my escape.

  “Yeah, why don’t you do that?” Tom replied, in a tone that implied that perhaps I should make myself useful for a change.

  Whack. Whack. Whack.

  Grabbing my wheelie and my knapsack, I quickly shuffled my load down the long hall that led to the back bedroom, which Tom and Maggie had designated as my and Sage’s sleeping quarters.

  I unloaded my stuff in the middle of the room, then flicked on the lamp on the nightstand between the two twin beds, shedding a dim light over the small room. The green room, as it was aptly referred to with its mint-green walls and matching mint-green curtains, looked like a little girl’s bedroom with white furniture and ruffled bedspreads. But at the moment, it looked more like the inside of the dressing room at Victoria’s Secret. Must have been some date, I thought, figuring the assortment of bikini tops, bras, postage-stamp-size skirts and slinky tops that littered both Sage’s bed and mine was Sage’s date-preparation debris. I briefly wondered who she might be out with—Sage had no small amount of admirers on Kismet—then figured it was likely the dock boy she’d been chatting up on the beach the last time I was here. I couldn’t remember his name, but I wasn’t sure it would matter in the long run. He was the kind of young, buff little boy that Sage usually aspired to. But who was I to judge? I hadn’t had sex in two months. Almost three, I thought, remembering that July Fourth was coming up. Maybe it was the reminder that I had spent last July Fourth weekend with Myles that had me shoving my wheelie and knapsack off to one corner and quickly leaving the room.

  I spotted Janis Joplin’s leash hanging from the coatrack by the screen door the moment I returned to the kitchen. Thankfully, Tom had finished his merciless chopping and was now stirring a pot on the stove, sipping a glass of wine freshly poured from the bottle I’d brought. I beelined for the leash, not wanting to banter over the merits—or lack thereof-—of the wine. (Tom was, I had already learned, a bit of connoisseur. I wasn’t.) The moment I pulled the leash from the coatrackjanis’s whimpering turned into an all-out howl of impatience.

  Tom turned from his stirring briefly. “There’re some Baggies in the top drawer right there,” he said, gesturing to a small pantry cabinet.

  “Baggies?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “For the poop?”

  “Oh, right,” I replied, suddenly remembering that my mission was not simply to escape Tom-in-a-Towel but to possibly provide a little relief for Janis, who was now tugging full throttle at the leash I’d snapped on her.

  I opened the drawer, pulled at least three bags from the box I found (I wasn’t taking any chances with a dog this size) and headed out the door.

  Once I got to the top of the wooden walkway that led to the beach and saw the ocean rolling toward me in crashing white waves, I remembered the other reason Sage had managed to prod me into taking this share. I loved the beach. Had spent half my childhood on it, mostly with Sage and sometimes Nick, when Nick realized being the only guy among girls might be an asset. And later, with Myles, who grew up two towns away from me on Long Island, though we hadn’t ever met until we both lived in New York City. That was another thing that had drawn me to Myles: He understood the angst of growing up in the shadow of Manhattan. The hollowness of claiming native New Yorker status when you knew no two islands could be more different than Long Island and the island of Manhattan. Myles had strolled along this very beach with me once…

  Now, as I stepped on the sand, felt the breeze in my face, all I could remember was that walk along the beach with Myles. I even started to relish the memory a bit, and I might have enjoyed it even more if Janis didn’t seem hell-bent on taking us straight into the tide.

  “Whoa!” I yelled, tugging back on the leash. Whoa? That was a horse command. Despite all my recent experience with the dogs of the Washington Square Park dog run, I couldn’t think of the command for stop. So I went for the obvious. “Stop!”

  Surprisingly, Janis
did stop. Though I wasn’t sure it was my plea that did it as I watched her raise her face into the wind, then drop her nose to the sand, sniffing furiously for a moment. And just when I thought she was going to give me a reason to whip out those bags I’d stuffed in the pocket of my jeans, she took off at a dead run.

  “Janis!” I yelled, pulling hard against the leash. Then I remembered the appropriate command. “Heel! Heel, Janis, heel!”

  Not that it did me any good. Janis would not be heeled. So I started to run right along with her. I really didn’t have a choice. Besides, the last thing I needed right now was to lose Maggie’s beloved dog. Especially after the coriander fiasco.

  Just as I was starting to get comfortable with the idea of a late-night jog—I did, after all, like to run, though usually in sweats and not jeans—I realized we were almost to Saltaire, the next town over. 1 didn’t know how much stamina this dog had, but I wasn’t going any farther than Kismet, I thought, as I eyed the lonely tuffs of dune grass we passed.

  Spooky.

  I kept my gaze on the beach in front of me and then was sorry for it when I caught sight of pale white skin in the tide. I quickly looked away, embarrassed. Oh, God, some happy couple was doing a little romantic From Here to Eternity roll in the tide. And if I didn’t get Jams to heel, I was soon going to be right on top of them.

  “Jams, heel!” I said. But Janis only ran faster, and just when I feared I was about to become an unwanted third to the twosome in the tide, I realized it wasn’t a twosome. Just one person. A woman. And judging by the way her skin glowed pale against the darkness, she was naked.