The Seasonaires

by Janna King

  Maz relaxed as he reviewed the designs. “That’s fire. That’s fire. That’s fire. All fire! Excellent.”

  Pleased, Lyndon made check marks with her Tiffany pen.

  “But wifey hates the name,” Maz said. “She’s half Colombian, so we should reconsider.”

  “I’ll persuade her. I always do,” Lyndon replied.

  “What . . . the . . . fuck?” Grace stared at her iPad, brow furrowed. Lyndon and Maz turned toward this interruption. Grace placed her iPad on the desk. Fortune magazine’s cover featured Otto Hahn holding a globe wrapped in a Wear National tank top:

  OTTO HAHN—ENTREPRENEUR OF THE DECADE

  What will he do next?

  “He’s a maggot!” Lyndon threw her pen on the desk.

  “An offense to maggots everywhere,” remarked Grace.

  “How does this happen?” Lyndon swiveled her chair away from the iPad. “Fuck!”

  “I was last decade’s pick. It’s no big shit.” Maz touched his collar.

  Lyndon pointed back at the iPad, though she didn’t look. “I know exactly ‘what he’ll do next’ because he does everything I do first! Yet he’s ahead! He’s probably co-branding footwear!”

  Maz massaged Lyndon’s shoulders. “Deep breaths. Look at the bonsai I bought you. It’s meditative.” He pointed to the potted bonsai on her desk.

  Lyndon refused to turn back around. “You know I can’t meditate. That’s why you bought it for me.”

  Maz bent down and stared into Lyndon’s eyes. “Look. I’m playing nine holes with him on Tuesday. I’ll find out what his next fail upward will be. He’s not that stealthy.”

  “How can you golf with him?” Lyndon spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Chill, baby. It’s part of the bigger game,” said Maz. “I’m on your team . . . as long as I don’t ever see my daughter’s treasures on social again.” He swiveled her in the chair and pointed to the bonsai, then leaned into her ear. “I gave you that because I knew you could take care of it.” His voice was now more like gravel than velvet. “I don’t believe many people can.”

  Grace watched, holding her iPad close to her chest.

  Lyndon rose and pulled gold pruning shears from her desk. “Don’t doubt my ability,” she said to Maz. “I don’t doubt yours. Win on Tuesday. Maybe that fucker will get stuck in a sand trap.”

  “Or better yet, quicksand,” added Grace.

  “I’m a scratch golfer, ladies.” Maz headed for the door. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.” He winked as he exited. “Efficient.”

  After the door closed, Grace turned to Lyndon. “Keep your friends close and your—”

  Lyndon cut her off with a glare. “I will cunt punch you if you say it.”

  Grace mimed a zipper mouth.

  Lyndon angrily snipped a branch from the bonsai.

  TWELVE

  Excuse me.” Mia pulled her coffee mug in as she slipped between the kitchen door frame and Grant, who gripped his hands on the top of the frame, stretching.

  “Fuck, I’m hungover.” Grant winced in the morning sun that bathed the living room.

  “No shit.” Cole was drinking orange juice on the couch. Mia passed the space next to him and sat in the loveseat, avoiding his perplexed look.

  “This almond milk is atrocious.” Jade put her tea on the mantel. “We should get the maid to make it from scratch. It’s easy.”

  “If it’s easy then why don’t you do it?” J.P. ribbed her as he took her mug into the kitchen. Bigger than Mia, his size forced Grant to move.

  Grant chuckled at Jade. “Oh, now that he’s fucking you, he’s gonna pretend he’s not a big pussy?”

  Jade didn’t respond, instead turning to the mirror over the mantel and applying lip gloss.

  Grant brushed by her on his way to manspread on the ottoman. “We know what you guys were doing while we were gone.”

  Mia stared out at the beach.

  J.P. reentered with two mugs of tea. He handed one to Jade and sat on the couch next to Cole. Grant flicked J.P.’s shin. “You put fresh squeezed almond milk in her tea?”

  “That’s so wrong,” Mia said to Grant, a bite to her tone. “Why do you think that’s funny?”

  “Because it is.” Grant smirked.

  “It’s really not,” said Mia, aware that Cole’s eyes were on her. “I know guys like you in Southie. You’re good-looking but your personality makes you a total tool. We get it. You’re insecure.”

  Grant clapped. “I knew you had a mouth piece behind the mom gear.”

  “I don’t dress like a mom.” Mia crossed her legs in her sundress.

  “You do a little,” retorted Grant. “You think it’s some cool retro vibe, but it’s fucking boring.”

  “How about this?” Mia uncrossed her legs and leaned forward toward Grant. “I let the real me slip out more and so do you.”

  Before Grant could agree to this deal, the Skype window on the flat-screen TV came to life. Presley, holding the remote, popped next to Mia on the loveseat as Lyndon’s and Grace’s faces appeared. She and Mia exchanged a glance.

  Everyone in the living room straightened up, except for Jade, who leaned against one of the French doors behind the group.

  “Good morning, lovelies!” chirped Lyndon. “You’re looking tan and healthy . . . most of you.”

  Grant put his hands in his pockets to hide his scabbing knuckles.

  “Put some frozen peas on those fists, Grant,” said Grace.

  Nailed, Grant winced slightly. “I will.”

  Grace held up her smartphone, showing the Instagram video of the fight.

  “That’s the last replay I want to see like that.” Lyndon pointed to the video. “Do you understand?”

  Grant nodded.

  Grace lowered the phone.

  “From the looks of social, you’re all taking advantage of the island,” said Lyndon.

  “But don’t let the island take advantage of you,” added Grace.

  Presley shifted on the couch next to Mia.

  “Make today at the store memorable,” said Lyndon. “I expect your followers to increase exponentially.”

  “Remember, the peasants who can’t afford to holiday in Nantucket want to imagine they are,” said Grace.

  Lyndon put her arm around her little sister. “We were two of those peasants growing up. You’re selling their dream at the store and online in the form of purchasable fashion.” Her eyes went to Mia. “Mia, you need to up the social momentum.”

  “Okay.” Mia straightened.

  “After your cute little T-ball showcase at The Rabbit Hole, you got a spike. Keep it from getting flat,” added Lyndon.

  “You’re the one with the most sales experience here, working at the thrift shop,” said Grace.

  Mia nodded. Grace had never acknowledged finding Mia at the thrift shop until right then.

  “Mia, do you know how to work one of those old-timey registers?” Jade sneered.

  Grant pulled an imaginary handle. “Cha-ching!”

  Mia’s face flushed with embarrassment, but she covered by scratching her head toward Grant with her middle finger. Cole caught this and silently chortled.

  “Nothin’ wrong with a thrift shop,” Presley snapped at Jade and Grant.

  “Show everyone how it’s done, Mia,” said Lyndon. “Show me how it’s done, because you’re not just going to the store to show your face—”

  “Grant,” emphasized Grace.

  “They should want the clothes right off your backs,” said Lyndon. “Jade, my darling, I’m not being literal.” She held up her smartphone and the Instagram post of Jade’s skinny-dip dive.

  Jade shifted her gaze out the window.

  “Your daddy doesn’t like seeing every man’s eyes on you this way,” added Lyndon.

  “All eyes on him,” muttered Jade.

  Grant yawned, making Presley yawn.

  “Presley, love, go make yourself an espresso,” said Lyndon. “You look tired. Don’t work so h
ard.”

  “If this is work, I never want to retire.” Presley put on a perky face. Mia glanced at her.

  “We’ll see everyone at the Summer Solstice Soiree this Saturday,” said Lyndon. “It’s the first real party of the season.”

  “Can’t wait. Tah!” Grace waved. Lyndon blew a kiss. The screen went black.

  “We’d better get to the store,” said Cole.

  Vincent entered, jangling the car keys. “Allons-y. Let’s go.” He went back out. Jade traipsed after him, J.P. right behind.

  “I’ll meet y’all outside in a sec,” said Presley.

  Mia brought her empty coffee mug to the kitchen. Presley followed.

  “How was your night?” Mia put her mug in the dishwasher.

  “Listen, let’s not chat about that with the others,” said Presley. “Keep my private life private.”

  Mia turned to her, eyes wide. “Are you serious? All you do is post your private life.”

  “Yeah. I post it. And I’m not posting anything about last night, though someone posted Grant’s stupid fight pretty quick.” She looked at the Instagram video of Grant’s scrap on her phone.

  “Did you just hear Lyndon?” asked Mia. “I can barely remember to post about myself, so you don’t have to worry about me outing you.”

  “That’s true.” They headed back through the living room.

  “So . . . how was it?” Mia slung her mini satchel across her dress.

  Presley grabbed her purse. “Are you asking me if the bartender and I had sex, because I already told you, I don’t—”

  “I’m not.” Mia stopped at the front door. “I don’t know. He just doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “He isn’t. At all,” said Presley. “That’s what makes it perfect. I’m not going to law school so I can marry a freakin’ bartender. Lawyer, doctor, stockbroker, politician, but no bartender. Especially one who lives on a boat called The Taken Aship.”

  “Ew,” Mia chuckled. “Really?”

  Presley leaned in. “It’s his cousin’s who’s gone for the summer. I didn’t see it. All we did was sit on the beach and chat.”

  “That sounds nice.” Mia flashed on Cole, alone on the beach.

  Presley twirled a lock of her hair. “It was nice.”

  Mia considered telling Presley what she thought she’d seen the first night at The Rabbit Hole: Mac giving Ruby drugs. But she remembered the time she told her mom her brother stole a Snickers from the liquor store. Kathryn was pissed at Mia. Mia wasn’t sure it was the tattling that caused the anger. She’d ruined her mom’s fantasy of Sean, her perfect little boy. Mac was a perfect summer fantasy for Presley. Who was Mia to spoil that over something she was unsure about?

  Mia started for the door, but Presley stopped her.

  “All I’m saying is let’s not tell Lyndon I was hanging out with the locals. They’re not really ‘on brand.’”

  “Why would I tell her?” asked Mia.

  “Because girls are cunts.” Presley’s Southern lilt sweetened the word.

  “Maybe the girls you’re used to.” Mia looked into Presley’s eyes. “Where I’m from, we have The Girl Vault.”

  “The Girl Vault.” Presley smiled. “I like that. I’d show you the Rho Pi handshake, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  Presley pushed past Mia to the car. Mia followed, shaking her head with a laugh.

  THIRTEEN

  The Lyndon Wyld store always had customers. The season locals shopped during the summer weekdays. They never asked for help, lightly clicking around with averted stares, as if the sales staff should know what they wanted simply by looking at them. Saturdays, the tourists created a different, steadier buzz, their excited faces revealing that they wanted to be treated the way they thought the locals were treated. It was the best day for the seasonaires to help out.

  The store was split in half—women’s clothes on the right, men’s clothes on the left. Jill, a tall, slim brunette, was the store manager. In her late twenties, she had never been chosen to be a seasonaire, despite applying for multiple summers. To overcompensate, Jill took her job very seriously. She had a specific way of folding the jeans.

  “Slap them on your legs like this.” She whipped a pair of straight-leg selvedge denim, hem downward, against her thighs. “Fold in half, then in fourths.” She folded. “Then place them on the display, pocket up, price tag in. Lyndon likes them this way.”

  Cole followed her instructions.

  “Nice,” said Jill. Mia noted the exchanged smiles.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to hang them?” J.P. wasn’t really asking. “Then you could see the style.”

  “And we wouldn’t have to refold them,” added Grant, eyeing two cute blondes waiting outside for the store to open.

  “You are one lazy conasse,” remarked Vincent as he snapped a photo of Grant.

  “Just say ‘asshole,’ dude.” Grant laughed. “I did retain a couple French words from our foreign exchange student. Or ‘arsehole’ because ‘arsehole’ is acceptable if you say it with a British accent like the boss.” He unsuccessfully attempted a British accent. “‘You are one lazy arsehole.’ I’m just going to speak like this for the rest of the time here because it sounds better. Arsehole.”

  “Nope, it really doesn’t,” said Mia with a chuckle.

  “I agree,” said Jill, her expression dour.

  Vincent caught a shot of Jade, who tied a featherweight scarf around her head as she arranged others on a display table in artful swirls and loops. “This store desperately needs more pop,” she remarked. Mia noticed that everything looked chicer after Jade touched it.

  When Jill unlocked the doors, most of the seasonaires avoided folding the jeans and instead took photos with customers. Grant zeroed in on the vacationers’ pretty daughters, who waved around their parents’ credit cards like American flags in a July Fourth parade. He welcomed STDs as if they were gold medals.

  Thanks to her work in the thrift shop, Mia knew how to compliment customers, always making eye contact to connect with them. “That color makes your eyes pop.” “This style is so flattering on you.” “Your derriere looks amazing!” The compliments quickly turned into more sales for the store and more followers for Mia. “School of life,” she mused to herself, thinking back to Cole’s comment.

  “That woman looked like a damn sausage,” Presley said after Mia encouraged a chubby soccer mom to buy skinny jeans.

  “She felt good in them and that’s what counts.” Mia waved at the woman, who left with her shopping bag. Mia posted a photo with her to her Insta Story.

  “You don’t really believe that.” Presley took a selfie in some sunglasses and posted.

  “I do.” Mia looked up at her.

  Presley put the sunglasses back in the display. “You’re a good person, aren’t you, sugar?”

  Mia examined Presley’s face, trying to figure out if this was a pageant trick. Presley slid on another pair of sunnies.

  “Eyes here, people,” interrupted Jill when the store was empty for a beat. She held up a pair of long red shorts with an anchor pattern. “Anything in Nantucket Red sells out every summer, though the locals wouldn’t be caught dead in it. I need someone to help me grab more from the back.”

  “I’m a front of the house guy.” Grant jogged to a tall redhead who entered.

  “I’ll help you,” said Mia.

  Jill’s smartphone buzzed with a text. She scrolled and shook her head. “You’re crushing it on social today, Mia.” She looked at Mia. “Lyndon wants you to stay out here and keep it up.”

  “Go, Mia!” Presley offered an overenthusiastic cheer.

  “I’ll help you, Jill,” said Cole.

  Mia watched him follow Jill into the stockroom.

  Presley leaned into her. “Wonder how many employees hook up back there. You ever hook up in the thrift shop stockroom?” Mia furrowed her brow, moving off to a mom with tween girls stepping through the door.

  The flow of customers ebb
ed into a quiet lull. Jade swayed in the store’s wicker swing, scrolling on her phone. She felt Vincent’s camera on her, so she crossed her legs and gave him a smile.

  “You know what’s missing at this store?” J.P. knelt next to her with his phone.

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” answered Jade in a blasé tone.

  “Hats.” J.P. punched in his password to unlock his phone.

  “What do you call your haberdashery?”

  “Perch.” J.P. handed his phone to Jade, website up. “Perchero means ‘hat stand’ in Spanish.”

  “Clever. But no one knows what a haberdashery is anymore,” said Jade. “Millennials are ‘stupid.’”

  The tween girls gave Jade the stink eye as they made a beeline for Presley in her sunglasses.

  “Relax, chicas,” Jade said to them. “You’re Gen Z.” She turned back to the Perch site on J.P.’s phone. J.P. caught a tiny grin cross her face.

  “Aw, see? You like them.” J.P. nudged Jade.

  “I like them, but your mission statement is so fucking pretentious.” Jade read from J.P.’s phone: “‘My goal is to inspire people to express the beauty that’s inside their heads.’” She shoved the phone back to J.P. “My dad’ll hate that.” J.P. stared at his site, flummoxed.

  Mia and the tweens’ mom held gold hoops to their ears. “With your hairstyle, these are fantastic.” Mia snapped their selfie.

  The tweens nervously approached Presley. “Are you Presley?”

  “Sure am.” Presley beamed.

  “We love your Snapchat Stories,” giggled one tween.

  “You have awesome style,” said the other.

  “Thank you.” Presley beamed at them and touched the floral tops on the display next to her. “You’re both prettier than roses in spring. Will you take a selfie with me?” The girls moved in close to Presley. She took the pic and posted. “Now you’re part of my story.” They traipsed back to the mom, but not without items that Presley chose for them.

  Presley slipped behind Mia, who was standing at a T-shirt shelf, staring toward the stockroom. “I was teasing you before, honey. Cole’s a good boy, I can tell. He’s got that soulful eyes thing going on.” Presley reconsidered. “Though he does have that scar. Maybe he’s not such a good boy.”