“Hi, everybody! Thank you so much for joining us tonight. I just want to let you know this is the last song of the evening.” The sound of people protesting and calling for more was so loud that Gwen had to stop for a moment before continuing. “Now, now, it doesn’t mean the night is over! One more song, then we’ll all head over to the fire pit to be entertained by the one, the only, Mr. Bo Starr.”
Gwen gestured to Bo, who smiled sheepishly at the enthusiastic applause he received from the crowd.
“This is the last song; make it a good one!” She changed the record and hopped lightly off the stage, eye-to-eye with Bo. “Happy now?” she said.
He was speechless.
“Look, I’m not trying to ruin anything,” Gwen said. “I’m just trying to get through the summer, same as you are.”
Bo shook his head and walked away without so much as a thank you. Gwen was right about a lot of things, but she was wrong about summer. Bo might be a champion at avoiding chores and spending all day with his guitar, but he wasn’t trying to get through anything. Bo is a Starr; we don’t get through the summer, we live for it.
* * *
As much as she enjoyed ruffling Bo’s feathers, Gwen was always on her best behaviour at campfire. She’d been making sporadic appearances, but I was glad to see her that night. Her sitting there was like a peace offering.
Sometimes I sat beside her, but that night I sat across from her, at my usual spot next to Bo. It was easier to watch her from there. I was fascinated by her campfire transformation. Gwen seemed to melt into the crowd in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. All day long she stood out, like a movie star dropped into the middle of the woods, but at night she lost her shine and became another anonymous reveller at the Bo Show. And, thanks to her, that’s what I began to call it: the Bo Show. I wouldn’t have said it out loud, but it felt good just thinking it.
Generally, Gwen stayed for the whole thing, but a few times she got up and left. I would watch as she disappeared into the darkness, and then as her light appeared in the upstairs window. I’d wonder what was wrong, what had made her leave. Gwen’s sadness fascinated me. I wanted to know what took away her appetite and made such a lively, fun person curl up inside herself. Maybe I could help her. Part of me wanted to get up and follow her, but I knew no matter how much I knocked, she would probably ignore me. Besides, I had responsibilities at campfire.
After about twenty minutes of the usual singalong songs, Bo cleared his throat.
“All right, folks, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me, I have a new one I’d like to try out on you tonight.”
The crowd murmured assent and Bo started strumming lightly, leaning over his guitar like it was something precious. Lately Bo had been introducing some of his own songs. They were pretty, mostly about love, with a catchy tune that showed off Bo’s voice nicely. It was hard to believe that my brother had so many things to say on the subject. I wondered if he was singing about one girl in particular. Just thinking about it made me feel weird, as if I had been caught reading his diary, not that Bo kept one. Besides, why should I feel guilty when he was putting his feelings out there for the world to hear? I couldn’t believe that it was based on someone, but how could he write such beautiful songs about something he hadn’t experienced?
Watching Gwen, I wondered if she had experienced some of the ups and downs that Bo was singing about. As the light and shadow of the flames passed over her face she was one moment sad and the next at peace. What was running through her mind? Was it the song that made her sad, or something else?
People fell quiet when Bo was singing his own songs, partly out of respect but mostly because they had never heard them before. But then, out of nowhere, someone joined in, adding a layer of harmony, like the sweet white glaze on a lemon cake.
I looked up, searching for the mystery singer. It was Gwen. Bo was looking at her as well, but he didn’t frown. He didn’t even look all that surprised. He just nodded slightly and kept going. When they finished he didn’t even acknowledge her, or mention her by name. I suppose he didn’t need to. All our guests knew who Gwen was, if only by sight. No one could rival her long legs or butter-yellow curls.
As people drifted back to their beds, Gwen hung around while we cleaned up. I raked the fire pit, burying the last glowing embers, and collected the roasting sticks while Bo tuned his guitar. I wondered how long she would stand there, hands tucked under her armpits, balancing on one leg, like a beautiful stork, watching us.
“I like that song,” she said eventually. “That last one. It’s pretty.”
Bo didn’t look up from his guitar. “Thanks,” he said.
Gwen waited for him to say something else, but when he didn’t she turned to walk away. She didn’t get six feet when he added, “I liked the harmony you added.”
Gwen smiled. “Thanks,” she said.
From that night forward, an uneasy peace was achieved between them. Bo said hello to her in the mornings and Gwen stopped mentioning Bo’s midnight excursions. They weren’t exactly friendly, but they were polite. Campfire was the only time they really seemed to get along. They sounded nice, like they had being singing together their whole lives.
Letters and Silverware
With Gwen around, I had been neglecting some of my regular Sandy Shores duties, but I still collected the mail. Every day after lunch I made the trek to the end of the lane, where Daddy had nailed a silver mailbox to a post. It was dented and scratched and looked like it had been through more than a few hurricanes, but the latch was strong and the little red flag still stood at attention after the mailman had made his delivery. After years of mail collecting, I could tell what was a regular old bill and what was a letter for a guest by the weight of the envelope alone. At some resorts, guests could pick up their mail at the office, but we were small enough to hand deliver it. That’s how I knew that Gwen was receiving mail — and lots of it.
The first letter arrived days after she did. I resisted the urge to study the return address. Respecting our guests’ privacy is very important at Sandy Shores. But Gwen was such a mystery to me that I thought a peek couldn’t hurt. If anything, it might give me a clue to her strange behaviour.
As the weeks passed, Gwen received a number of creamy white envelopes about the size of a birthday invitation, with her mother’s name — Mrs. Grace Cates — stamped in gold ink on the back. But who were the other letters from? The handwriting was spiky and looked rushed, addressed with a pen that seemed to have been running out of ink. The first initial was a wild and loopy cursive letter G, or possibly a J, but the last name was barely more than a scrawl. It was a short name, but I could never quite make it out. The rest of the letters might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics; they were nearly impossible to decipher.
Even the stamp was on an angle. I noted letters from Detroit, Michigan, even New York, all addressed in the same messy handwriting. Gwen was always telling me stories about the parties and concerts she went to, but she never mentioned any close friends. Even when she did mention a name, it never came up more than once. I would know. I was constantly taking mental notes about Gwen’s life as a dancer in the big city. If not her mother or a friend, the mystery letters had to be a boyfriend of some sort. But why had she never mentioned him?
If Gwen was in her room, she snatched the mail from me, tossing the envelopes from her mother on the dressing table — one more for her growing collection of unopened letters from home. But the ones with the illegible handwriting she ripped into right away. I knew enough to leave immediately. The first time I’d lingered, and she’d glared at me and asked, “What’s a girl got to do to get some privacy around here?”
On the afternoons that Gwen received mail from the writer with the scraggly writing, her classes suffered. She became more like her hated ballet teachers: sticking with the same record, making her students repeat the simplest exercises until she was satisfied, and never smiling or joking as she came around to adjust their positioning. She
wouldn’t take requests for music or tell any funny stories about life in ballet school, and she certainly didn’t allow a free dance song at the end of the lesson.
Gwen’s behaviour made everyone nervous and jittery, which made it harder for them to ground themselves and master the movements. This led to wobbling and falling out of position, which only shortened her temper even more. Their eyes darted toward me as if I could do something. I smiled helplessly and shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, “We’re all in the same boat.” But even though that was true, it’s not how the guests saw it. I was a Starr, my family ran this place. Surely I could do or say something.
Daddy always said the curse of the hospitality business is that people expect you to be able to fix everything. “When it rains, they look at you like it’s your fault. We can’t control the weather, Reenie, but we can offer people an umbrella.”
At the end of one of these lessons, after Gwen had stormed off, I poured glasses of water for the guests and talked brightly about what an opportunity it was to be taught by a professional ballerina. “Isn’t it something that she treats us like real ballet students — challenging us instead of treating us like amateurs?”
“But we are amateurs,” Mrs. Higgins said, mopping her brow with the back of her hand. She was so pink she looked parboiled. I couldn’t tell if it was the heat or embarrassment; Gwen had said a number of unflattering things about the state of her pliés.
Elinor Higgins was a Sandy Shores regular. But, despite her loyalty, she was the kind of person who was used to being catered to. A few more lessons like this and word would definitely get back to Mimi. Or worse, Daddy. Gwen was the closest thing I had to a friend here. At the very least she kept things interesting. I wasn’t ready to let stuffy old Elinor Higgins get her in trouble.
“But isn’t it something to be treated like professionals?” I went on, as if treating people coldly and with disdain was professional and being kind and funny was not. I’m not sure anyone bought it.
That night, as I’d feared, Mrs. Higgins cornered Mimi in the dining hall to complain about “that Nazi ballerina.” I was glad Gwen had decided to skip dinner and was out of earshot. Mimi voiced concern and promised to look into it, adding, “Maybe that’s how they do things in the big city, but out here we’re a lot more congenial.”
I noted she didn’t take any blame, nor did she say Gwen was in the wrong. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who listened when Daddy lectured about customer service in the hospitality industry.
* * *
The next morning, Mimi stopped me on my way to the mess hall.
“Reenie, I was hoping you could help me this morning.”
“With what?”
“The silverware needs polishing.”
My heart sank. On my list of most hated chores, polishing the silverware was number two, right after cleaning the bathroom. It made me feel like Cinderella, except there was no fairy godmother to swoop in and save the day. We never even used the silverware. It was a wedding gift, meant for special occasions that never happened.
“Fine,” I sighed.
Mimi and I sat across from each other in the office, forks, spoons and knives spread out between us. Outside I could see the morning sunlight glinting off the lake. I sighed. The silver of the heavy old utensils could never compare to the silver of the lake. My hands were grimy and the smell of the silver polish burned my nose.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Gwendolyn,” Mimi said.
“She goes by Gwen now.”
“Of course, I keep forgetting that. I hope you’re not bothering her.”
My face felt hot. “Why would I be bothering her?”
Mimi frowned. “She’s a lot older than you are, Reenie. It’s very nice of her to befriend you like she has, but I’m not sure it’s entirely appropriate.”
“But she wants to hang out with me. We’re friends.”
“I’m sorry. I was just curious. What do you talk about?”
“All sorts of things.”
“Does she ever mention getting back into ballet?”
“Who says she’s not doing ballet right now?”
“She dropped out of her ballet classes.”
I tried to remember if Gwen had told me this, but she talked in hints and suggestions. I knew she had been pursuing her musical interests, but it had never occurred to me that she had quit ballet altogether.
“Oh, really?” I said.
Mimi sighed. “Poor Grace. All those lessons, all that money down the drain. She’s worried about Gwendolyn.”
“It’s Gwen.”
Mimi looked up from the knife she was polishing. “I’m not sure I like that tone, Maureen.”
I bristled, but apologized. It was easier that way.
“This is exactly my point. I don’t want you picking up bad behaviour from her.”
“I said I was sorry,” I pleaded.
To my surprise, Mimi smiled. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve kept you in on our most beautiful morning yet and then badgered you with questions. Go. I’ll finish up here.”
“Really?” I asked, backing slowly toward the door, in case she changed her mind.
“Really. But Reenie, just because Gwen is here, doesn’t mean you can forget about your Sandy Shores duties.”
“I won’t.”
“I’d like you to spend one afternoon a week in the office.”
That meant one less afternoon with Gwen, in the studio, listening to music and learning about dance. I felt like I was being punished, but I didn’t know what I had done wrong. Still, it could be worse. I bit the inside of my cheek and nodded, dutifully. It wouldn’t do to be petulant now.
“Okay. When do I start?”
“This afternoon.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “Can I go now? If I hurry, I won’t miss the first class.”
Mimi smiled. “You’re really taking to dance,” she said. “I’m glad. I used to love it — I studied it a little when I was living in Toronto.”
A wistful expression settled over her face, and I left as quickly as I could. One second longer and Mimi would launch into one of her tales about being a struggling actress in the city. Her stories were losing their sheen; they didn’t feel as magical to me anymore. I’d rather hear Gwen talk about ballet school, or the clubs she had snuck into to see bands play. Mimi’s stories were in the distant past. Like her photographs, they were old and yellowing, moments stuck in time. But Gwen’s stories were vibrant and full of life. I could picture the smoky clubs and ornate dance halls where she’d tried her first cigarette or flirted with much older men. Those stories were going on right now; Gwen’s life was more real to me than Mimi’s had ever been.
A New Student
A week later I was sitting cross-legged on the stage, trying to bring my nose to my toes in a daily struggle to improve my flexibility, when Gwen said, “Well, what do you know. Look, ladies! We have a special guest.”
I glanced up, thankful for the distraction, and saw Mimi hovering near the entrance to the mess hall. I stifled a gasp. It was her, but she looked totally different. She was dressed for class, in a black leotard with a filmy skirt knotted at her waist. Even her hair was smoothed back and pinned securely in a bun. I had never seen those clothes before; she must have kept them from her years in Toronto as a chorus girl. She looked fifteen years younger. A knot formed in my heart, hard as stone. If she had all these dance clothes, why hadn’t she offered me something to wear when I started taking Gwen’s classes? I could be dressed like a real dancer, but instead I was wearing old undershirts and Gwen’s cast-offs, while Mimi stood there looking like she had just walked off the set of a ballet movie.
Mimi closed the door behind her, smiled at the guests and waved to Gwen.
“Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ve heard such lovely things, I thought I would come check out a class. That is, if it’s all right with you, Miss Cates?”
I immediately thought of Elinor Higgins and what a spiteful old cow she
was. I wondered if this had been all her idea.
Gwen looked at her students: seven women, a sour-looking girl who was probably a year or so older than I was, and an eleven-year-old keener who took ballet during the year and insisted on taking both the children’s and adult classes to “maintain her form.”
“Are we okay with the boss lady joining us today?” she asked with a smile. When no one spoke up, Gwen gestured to Mimi. “Sure thing, Mrs. Starr. We’re just about to start our pliés.”
“Wonderful.”
Mimi took her place in the back row, standing a little apart from the others, looking both elegant and nervous. If she saw me, she certainly didn’t let on. I flopped back over my thighs, stretching my back as far as I could stand the pinch.
Gwen led us in a series of pliés, followed by tendus and développés. Normally I was very good at keeping my balance, but I kept spying Mimi out of the corner of my eye and toppling to one side.
“Ground yourself, Reenie,” Gwen called from the floor. “Imagine you’re a tree, reaching tall but grounded all the way through the spine.”
My cheeks flamed as Mimi and I made eye contact. She definitely knew I was there now.
Gwen walked through the dancers, adjusting their postures. She paused in front of Mimi.
“Very nice, Mrs. Starr. I heard you used to be a dancer.”
“Please, call me Mimi. I was more of an actress, really. But I was in the chorus of a musical comedy, once. I had a wonderful time. All those girls crammed into a single dressing room … we were thick as thieves. After the show we would go to Fortelli’s for dinner. Do you know that place? Real, home-cooked Italian food. You’ve never seen bigger plates of pasta.”
“Can’t say that I know a Fortelli’s, Mrs. Starr, but your form is great. Look at this, ladies, almost twenty years and three kids later and Mrs. Starr is still living up to her name.”
The women smiled and clapped politely. Mimi was caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to bask in all that attention. Gwen’s compliments were genuine, even if they did highlight Mimi’s age and the fact that she had left that life behind. My jaw ached from clenching it. This was my space, and Mimi was taking it away from me. Couldn’t Gwen see she was here to check up on us?
Summer Days, Starry Nights Page 8