by Liska Jacobs
“I’m fine,” I say, as quietly as I can. “Now get a towel and splash some water on your face, for fuck’s sake. I’ll hide in the shower. Get her to go back to sleep. Jesus Christ, Robby.”
I shut the water off and climb into the shower. I hear Robby tell Jane he needed a shower. He woke up drunk and thought it would help.
She asks where I am. He says I slept on the deck with Tom. She wants to get up, go for a swim. He convinces her to lie down with him.
I wait. I lick at the salty mixture of sweat and water that’s gathered above my lip and think how I should take Mother up on her offer. I should catch a plane with the last of my savings and move into the guest bedroom. She’ll wake me up at dawn, offer freshly pressed juice the color of sludge, her face pulled back by a sweatband. Let’s jog together, she’ll say, or How about a Pilates class? And she’ll cart me around to the salon where she works, showing me off. But oh, the effort she’ll have to put into it now. How she’ll need me to play up the role of beautiful, composed daughter, make it really sell. And she’ll ask questions too: Where did you run off to? How is Charly—still acting? Poor Robby—poor dear old Robby—still a lifeguard? No, Mother, no. Nothing is the same.
I try to imagine Eric, but all I can picture is his hands. He’s tracing the mouth of his wineglass, slowly, with his finger. I cannot picture his face, though, and panic, heavy and cold, settles in my chest. I focus instead on how I felt in his office while we reviewed Picasso sketches, the moment just before he finally touched me. That swelling of electricity that crackled between the two of us. It was like that, wasn’t it? For us both? It must have been.
I steal back to my berth. I try with great effort not to make too much noise, but when I roll onto my side the curtain gets stuck and suddenly Robby and I are looking at each other over Jane’s sleeping body. His eyes are red rimmed. He looks old. He opens his mouth to speak, but something about his expression embarrasses me. I think he feels it too, because he just shuts his mouth and looks helplessly down at Jane.
19
On the way to Avalon we pass the same herd of buffalo on the ridge, but now they’re facing in the opposite direction, like a weather vane that’s shifted with the wind. The seals bellow when we coast by. A few splash into the water to play in the boat’s wake. I point and call for Jane as she’s taking out her camera.
“I see them,” she says, her mouth thin. I try to read her expression, but she’s too quick. Her smile is back up.
Charly does not make breakfast. We instead eat little boxed cereals and bananas. She isn’t hungry—“Too tired,” Jared says to me. “Poor old girl, sailing isn’t your thing,” he says to her. “When we get to Avalon I’ll get you Dramamine.”
As we round the last wild cliff, the grass jutting out, waving us on, we see a cruise ship on the horizon. It’s ridiculously large, smoke billowing from its stacks, little orange boats gliding back and forth from it like ants on a log. And suddenly there are sailboats and yachts, people in caps and bikinis shouting “Ahoy!” Speedboats race by, a jazz band plays from a beach covered in white umbrellas, a helicopter whizzes overhead.
There are people everywhere too: on glass-bottom boats that look like tiny cabooses, chugging along near the rocks; on Sea-Doos, teenagers in life vests, the fishing boats blaring their horns at them to get out of the way. There are scuba divers and snorkelers and, standing on the rocks and pier, fishermen fat and thin, playing hand radios. The Catalina Express sits in the harbor with its engine roaring, spewing exhaust.
Tom turns on the boat’s radio. He seems indifferent to this sudden assault—they all do. Jane is peeling off her jacket, rubbing sunscreen into her shoulders. Charly has her eyes closed, tilting her head toward the music. Jared is at the bow with Robby, both perked up, their faces alight with excitement.
“It’s gonna be fuckin’ wild,” Robby says.
Jared turns back to us and beams. “We should’ve been here the whole time. This is where the party’s at.”
Jane glances at Tom. “I liked Two Harbors.”
“You and me, kid,” Tom says, winking at her.
The boats and Sea-Doos create a nauseating artificial swell, and the boat lurches.
“Where are we mooring?” I ask.
Tom motions with his chin to a small cove, and we motor with care through the various boats already anchored.
“Look at the golf carts, how adorable!” Charly says, pointing to land. “Can we rent one, Jared?”
Jared nods. “Comes with the villa.” He stretches so the sun hits his face. “Aw, fucking land, thank God. The boat’s beautiful, Tom, but I’m looking forward to toilets with plumbing.”
Tom shrugs. “Sailing life isn’t for everyone.”
Robby’s holding Jane, his face bent down on her shoulder. “I for one am looking forward to some golf,” he says, kissing her neck.
“I thought we’d do the spa together,” she says.
“You can’t get Robby into a spa,” Jared says, looking at me as if I’ll agree, but I know better. I just sit back and watch a group of children throwing pennies at the pelicans lined up on the dock.
Charly seems to have woken up a bit, and she smiles at Jane. “I’ll come with you to the spa. That sounds like just the thing.” Her voice is funny, though, sort of far off and dreamy. Jared puts his arm around her and squeezes.
“Wifey needs some pampering,” he says so we can hear. “Some Dramamine and some pampering.”
But Jane still waits for Robby to answer. He finally shrugs, laughing a little. “I’m not one for massages. It’s not really my thing.”
“I didn’t know that,” she says quietly.
The pelicans suddenly launch without making a sound and sweep off across the water. The children celebrate the birds fleeing, rushing to the end of the dock, their parents shouting, “Careful! Careful!”
We get the boat anchored and Tom radios the luxury rental villas to send us their water taxi. A young bleached blonde motors out to us. She’s driving a flashy speedboat, painted navy with teak flooring and handrails. The side of it says Hamilton Cove. Two plump boys in white polo shirts take our bags.
“Welcome,” the girl says. Her uniform is cut low, a polo with a matching short navy skirt. Her name tag says Rachel. When she smiles she looks right at Jared. I can see her feeling out who has the cash. “How was the trip over?” She’s finally landed on Tom, who’s hopped down from the wheel of his boat.
“Perfect weather,” Tom says. He taps her name tag. “Rachel … means little lamb, doesn’t it?”
She has enough sense to blush and take a step back. “Is this your boat?” she asks after we’ve settled into our seats on the taxi.
Tom makes a show of modesty. He breathes in long and hard, turns to look it over. It’s shining under the summer sun, looking hand-polished and expensive.
“It’s my baby. I’ve sailed it all over, down to Costa Rica, out to the Cape. Last year we took it to the Mediterranean.” He says “we” as if he means all of us, so she looks at me, sitting closest.
“He doesn’t mean me,” I tell her. “I’d have drowned him if we sailed farther than the Santa Monica Bay.”
Tom laughs. “And just this morning you were begging me to take the long way around the island.”
“How long have you been married?” Rachel asks, smiling.
This thrills Tom. “Seems like forever,” he says.
I shake my head at Rachel. “We’re not married.”
She looks at us, confused. “You’re not Mr. and Mrs. Brownstone?”
“That’s me,” Jared says as we motor in. “And my wife, Charly,” he adds, motioning to where Charly’s sitting, eyes hooded again, a sweet sleepy smile on her face.
I can tell Rachel doesn’t know what to make of us, so she just looks straight ahead and concentrates on getting us to the dock.
“Hamilton Cove is still new,” she tells us when we’ve come ashore. “We’ve opened only a year ago.”
You can te
ll this is true, everything’s clean and a little plastic-looking. They’ve shipped real sand by the boatload to make the beach. Moms in floral cover-ups watch children with sand toys, digging away, while dads mingle at the tiki bar, watching the many flat-screen TVs. A fake parrot lords over them, and sitting on the bar is a large rum keg with It’s Island Time in a distressed font.
Rachel leads us along a winding pathway, pointing out the tennis courts and swimming pools.
“We have a saline pool and a lap pool,” she says, smiling her tour-guide smile.
Jane’s stopped to look at where she’s pointing. “I’ve read you have free transportation to the Zip Line Tour, is that right?”
Rachel nods enthusiastically. “Yep—just arrange it through the front desk.”
“It’s the longest zip line in the country,” Jane tells us.
“And the spa?” Charly interrupts. Her cheeks are pink from climbing the steps to the clubhouse.
“Right across the lawn. There should be spa menus in your villa,” Rachel says. “Try the papaya mango facial scrub.” She touches her smooth young face, as if to show us it does wonders. “Makes your skin super soft.”
“Oh, that sounds heavenly.” Charly sighs. “It’s so nice to be off that boat—oh!” She gets embarrassed and touches Tom’s sleeve. “Don’t pay any attention to me. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
Tom assures her he isn’t offended, even gives her chin another tap, which deepens her blush.
After check-in, Rachel is there again, sitting in a golf cart, her hair pulled into a ponytail as if she might do some heavy lifting. One of the boys is behind the wheel. We climb in, teasing Rachel about how young she looks. Robby asks if she’s even old enough to drive the golf cart. She’s enjoying the attention, I can tell by how she’s looking sideways at Jane and me. Charly has checked out, staring off toward the harbor where a group of children are playing volleyball.
The villa itself is large and high up on the cliff so there is a view of everything coming and going in the harbor. The cruise ship sits on the horizon; a helicopter whisks just above the sea; Sea-Doos and sailboats and yachts cut frothy, chalk-colored paths across the water. On our deck are sun chaises and a fire pit that lights with a key. Everything feels slightly forced—it smells of new paint and air freshener, and the floors are laminate meant to look like real wood.
But Jared is ecstatic. “Look at this kitchen,” he says, running his hands across the counters. “Now I wish we’d gone for soapstone.”
Robby comes out from one of the master bedrooms. He’s rubbing his hands together. “Did you see the minibar?”
“Nothing mini about it,” Jared says. “It’s fully stocked.”
“The prices are a bit much,” I say, flipping over the menu. “Fifteen dollars for a bag of peanuts?”
“Says the girl staying at the Miramar.” Tom comes out from his room. He takes the menu from me, studying it.
“It’s not the prices.” I frown. “It’s the quality.”
He taps the menu on my nose. “Gallo not good enough for you, is it?” His teeth seem very white indoors. His bald head is pink, the rest of him burnished that brown only white boys get when outside all the time, the color of a soft leather purse. “Come on, Jared, the ladies request better-quality wine. We’ll go into town and stock up.”
Jared’s head is very close to Charly. They’re having some private tiff. But when Tom says his name he looks up, all smiles.
“Perfect,” he says. “The girls can check out the spa, and by the time they get back we’ll have the barbeque ready.” He kisses Charly on the cheek. “Treat them to anything they want,” he tells her, and then smiles at Jane and me.
Charly’s face is red when the boys walk out, her chest drawn up tight. “He’s turned into a real ass, hasn’t he?”
“I don’t think Tom’s the best influence,” I tell her.
She touches the spa menu left open on the counter. “He’s so impressed with himself since becoming an exec at the firm. I mean he was always into flashy things, but now everything has to impress.” She sighs, wringing her hands together.
I touch her arm lightly. “Having nice things isn’t that terrible.”
“I know that,” she says, pulling away. “It’s just hard work being in a relationship—you wouldn’t understand.”
Jane puts her arm around Charly. “Robby’s like that too. Get him around other guys and he’s lord of his domain. Get him alone and he’s a child.”
I can’t help but feel slightly protective of Robby, of Jared too. Fine, I think. Let’s play our roles.
“Come on,” I say, turning on my easy, breezy smile. “You’ll feel better after a shower—then we’ll go spend a shit ton of Jared’s money at the spa.”
“I’ll buy us mango papaya facials,” Charly says, and they laugh.
We wash up, each of us changing into fresh clothes. Charly is in a sweet cotton dress with little eyelets, her neck deeply sunburned. “I don’t know how I missed that spot,” she says, looking at it in the mirror. “I’ll have to text Jared to get aloe vera.”
Jane changes into Bermuda shorts and an oversized tank top—I can see her zebra-print sports bra underneath. “God, do I need a facial,” she says, looking at her face in the vanity.
I look into the mirror too, at my bare shoulders, the white cotton top making them seem tanner than they really are. “Me too,” I say. “I’m breaking out.”
“Where?” Charly asks, turning from the mirror to look at me. “I don’t see anything.”
Jane rolls her eyes. “Your skin is perfect.”
At the spa they have only two appointments available. The woman at the front desk looks apologetic, her lips knitted together in a grimace. She looks at me. “We can fit you in tomorrow morning.”
Charly starts to complain but I shush her. She pouts alongside the woman. “It’s okay,” I tell them both. “I didn’t really want a facial anyway.” Which is true. I’m suddenly eager to be away from them.
“What about a massage appointment?” Charly says with urgency.
Jane is flipping through a magazine, her spa robe draped over her arm. I think she must be trying very hard not to tap her foot.
The woman at the desk shakes her head. It’s the jazz festival, she tells us. “You’re lucky two appointments canceled.”
This settles it. I tell them I’ll go into town and find the guys. I make a joke that they’ll probably need supervision anyway, but only Charly laughs—a strained little sound, not really a laugh at all.
20
I make my way down to the sandy beach. The light out is bright and eager, sweeping over everything. I turn my face up to it. I imagine it’s Eric’s face—that intensity, that warmth, that goddamn smile.
A jazz trio performs on the grassy lawn, couples spread out on blankets and chairs; families play with a beach ball and Frisbees. A Boston terrier bounds past, his owner chasing after her, calling, “Lucy! Heel! Stop! Heel! Damn it.” The man is red-faced and sweating, and when he runs past I catch an intimate whiff of him. The dog slows, then turns and bolts into a cluster of long dune grass.
I stop to look at the grass, which was clearly planted there to give the impression of rolling Cape Cod beaches. Last summer—has it already been a year?—we gathered at the head curator’s house, a sprawling Provincetown estate, for the Fourth of July. The weather was warmer than this, wetter too, heavy with condensation from a tropical storm off the Atlantic.
I remember pulling up and thinking: This is the type of house you always hope is your destination but never is. This beautiful house with a circular drive made out of tiny pebbles the color of pearls. It could be in France—a château in miniature, small only by Marie Antoinette’s standards.
Estelle, a robust woman with snow-white hair and tiny polished glasses, is standing on the front steps in a casual pale gray linen suit. Her wife, Bette, an artist and gallery owner, is in a Stella McCartney wrap dress, and has two chubby Cavalier spa
niels in her arms. She hugs me over the black-and-white one she calls Poodle.
They take us through the high arched foyer, flanked on either side by Mark Manders sculptures, variations of Girl Study, and one that I do not recognize but is a tangle of man, animal, and nature. The main room is all reclaimed wood and white walls with crown molding, and on the far wall, large windows overlooking the ocean below. The side doors are thrown open so the sea air can roll in, and I can just make out various lawn sculptures, bright yellows and reds.
The house has eleven rooms, most with windows facing out to Cape Cod Bay. Together Estelle and Bette show us their Damien Hirst Kaleidoscope painting, made from hundreds of butterfly wings—a great burst of blues and golds. In the dining room, painted directly onto the wall, is a Swoon mural, a woman in dreamlike meditation. Among the fourteenth-century Chinese cabinets with jade inlay, and the collection of Tiffany art glass and transferware, hangs a collection of Louise Bourgeois drawings—of eyes and spiders, of grotesque womanly figures.
Outside on the patio are the rest of the curators and staff. Photography is drinking negronis with Illustrated Books. Both are fit older men who like to wear expertly tailored pinstriped suits, always with a pocket square. One sneaks me coffee-flavored candies in the afternoons, holding his hand out as if it were a surprise. The other leers at the research assistants—young girls still in graduate school, working on their dissertations—but he never does anything about it.
Architecture is the one I have to watch out for: new, young, with a raging God complex. I can hear him giving the bartender a hard time—Too much vermouth, make me another—before he turns away to continue his conversation with one of the curators from MoMA PS1.
We drove up from the airport with Eric at the wheel and three women from Painting and Sculpting in the back. He teased them about their husbands and grandchildren, complimented them on new haircuts and shoes, a particular scarf, a signature scent—he notices everything. And it doesn’t hurt that he is handsome and boyish, and wants to see you smile and laugh. By the time we arrive the women are pink-cheeked and giggling like schoolgirls.