Osprey Island

When she returned, nodding vehemently, she took Peg’s hand, and the group made their way down the steps to the parking lot and Jeremy’s car. The porch sitters heard the grumpy car engine turn over, die again, then turn over at last. When the car rolled around the bend in Sand Beach Road, conversation on the porch resumed as though nothing had happened. A few people made excuses and started up the hill toward the barracks. Brigid and Gavin sat and had another glass of whiskey. The last of the drinking boys headed off to bed. Brigid and Gavin smoked a cigarette. The night was warm, the air saturated with mist.

“What’s between our respective roommates, do you think?” Brigid asked.

Gavin gestured toward the stairs down which they’d disappeared with the kids. “What you see, I guess.” He shrugged and took a long, pensive drag on his cigarette, as if to imply that he had other things on his mind.

“You don’t get on, then?” Brigid asked.

Gavin shrugged again. “Don’t think we’ll be best friends.”

Brigid laughed, too eagerly.

“I think I’m going to head up.” He motioned to the hill. “You going to hang here?”

Brigid yawned conveniently. “Nah, I’m knackered.”

He gave a laugh, then pushed back his chair, gestured— after you.

She let herself lead.

They walked single file up the trail, not quickly, but with purpose. Brigid let her heart beat faster. The back door was propped open with a cinderblock, and Brigid pivoted on the stoop of the barrack so that she stood facing him in the threshold. The look on his face conveyed an acknowledgment of the inevitable. He took another step to her as if to plow her down in the doorway, but then he stopped abruptly. A breath escaped him, high and short, and he leaned in. His hands went to her shoulders, pushing her inside the building, against the dark wall of the downstairs hallway. He kissed hard, allowing her no opportunity to kiss back, only to take, as if this kiss was something he needed to give to her, like a present she might refuse if he equivocated in the slightest. She wanted to say, I wouldn’t turn you away, wanted to say it in her kiss, but couldn’t find the voice, the right intonation of movement, so she just let herself be kissed by Gavin and let herself think about how Peg and Jeremy were out with Squee and Mia, and how both their rooms were empty, and how, maybe, with this same kissing fervor, he might push her down onto that pathetic creaking cot bed and do whatever he wanted. She was quite sure she knew precisely what she wanted.

Gavin pulled away, took a step back in the hall as if to see what he was doing. “Good night, Brigid,” he said, and he turned and started up the stairs.

For a second Brigid thought he meant for her to follow, but then it seemed clear that wasn’t the case at all. She’d been kissed good night, nothing more. She leaned against the wall for a minute, her lips feeling large on her face. Then she collected herself and stepped back onto the stoop. Sleep seemed impossible now. She thought about going down to the pub; she wished everyone hadn’t already gone to bed. She even half wished she’d run into Peg and Jeremy, persuade them to come along. She could go alone. And maybe would, she thought.

She started back down the hill she’d just climbed and entered the Lodge through the back kitchen entrance, headed toward the dining room. She’d cross the porch, down the steps to the beach, which she’d follow to Morey’s, have a pint, sit on the back deck by herself if it came to that. She wanted that moment back, to do it again and prolong it, extend it, change it somehow so it would come out different. She felt cheated, and sore, as if she had reached for her wallet and realized it was missing, unsure whether she had lost it or someone had fleeced it from her. Just as she reached to slide open one of the glass dining room doors, her eye caught a tiny orange glow, which for a split second relieved her. There’s a bonfire down on the beach, she thought. Someplace to go! Then the image rearranged itself and she stopped and turned quickly. In the armchair in the dark back corner of the room, Lance was smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, gorgeous,” she heard him say. His tone was predatory but not menacing.

“Mr. Squire?” Brigid said to the dark corner.

Lance laughed, his head thrown back for a second in exaggeration. “Mr. Squire,” he repeated, mocking.

“Sorry,” Brigid said.

Lance shook his head. He waved her toward him, but she stood where she was. “No, no, honey,” he said. “That’s all right.” And they both stayed there, not saying anything for a minute.

“I was just on my way . . .” Brigid began.

“Rough night?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Yeah, me too, baby,” he said.

“I’m about gumming for another drink . . .” she said, her voice drifting as she spoke.

“Go-min?” he mocked.

“Oh bleedin’ ”—she took on a dreadful American accent—“I want a drink,” she drawled.