Osprey Island

When Heather had announced her intention to return home to Osprey Island for the summer, Gavin had felt gallant in offering to accompany her. She’d protested, albeit meekly, saying no, that was crazy, what was he going to do, wait tables at the Lodge? For real? And he liked the picture he’d painted himself into: he was the boy who loved her and wanted to get to know her family. There was even a part of him that wanted to fall in love with that island, to step off the clanking old ferry Heather’d described and into a place that would feel more like home than home had ever felt. Heather was to be his entrance into another world. They’d finish their degrees and move back to Osprey, have an island wedding at the old golf house on the hill. Maybe secretly Heather’d already be pregnant, and they’d move into an A-frame overlooking the sound and start their own family. They’d make their living restoring old houses and selling them to wealthy New Yorkers looking for vacation homes. Or they’d open a restaurant, work like hell from Memorial Day to Labor Day and have the rest of the year to themselves. Gavin had allowed himself these dreams.

He felt now—given the circumstances which had arisen since his arrival—that Heather hadn’t protested his coming to Osprey quite as much as she should have. It was possible, he conceded, that she had protested vehemently and he’d merely taken it as her thoughtfulness for his other prospects, his welfare. Now all that thrummed through his mind were imagined conversations he invented between Heather and her high school boyfriend, Chandler—late-night phone calls in April and May between Heather’s dorm room and Chandler’s parents’ home on Osprey. Heather complaining about the boy from LA who wouldn’t take no for an answer, Chandler saying, You got to tell him no. And Heather whining, I tried. And Chandler saying, Not hard enough.

From the Lodge deck Gavin could see a redhead sitting down on the beach. Beyond her, just offshore, the seagulls swooped and rose from the water like lazy yo-yos. To the right was Morey’s Dinghy, tucked where the sandy beach gave way to reedy swamp. To the left Sand Beach Road extended a good mile along the shore. Gavin crossed and made his way along the narrow, splintering boardwalk that ran between the asphalt and the sand. The whitewashed railing left a chalky residue on his hand, and he wiped it on his jeans as he tromped over the sand toward Brigid. She had on gym shorts and a striped bikini top. She was reading a fashion magazine.

“Looking to catch a little skin cancer?” he called, approaching.

She turned, shielded her eyes from the sun, and leveled her gaze at him soberly. “I think they’ve determined it’s not contagious.”

He hovered. “Still, you’re pretty pale to be lounging out, aren’t you?”

“Ah!” She clasped her hands at her heart. “Look at him! He cares!”

Gavin sat down in the sand beside her towel, legs bent out in front of him, hands on his knees. He looked over the bay. “How you doing?”

“Such attention! Hardly know what to do with myself.”

“You want me to go?” Gavin offered.

Brigid fixed him in her stare. “Now, what do you think?”

Gavin gave her a conciliatory smile but said nothing. They looked out at the water. After a minute Brigid said, “Not so bad, considering.” Then she said, “How are you, then?”

“OK,” he said. A pause. “You going out tonight?”

Brigid shrugged noncommittally: Make me an offer.

“You think it’s wrong to go out?” Gavin asked.

“Fuck if I know.”

“Yeah . . .”

“I never so much as laid eyes on the woman,” Brigid said.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, “but everyone who’s from here knew her.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder if they’ll even open the bar. I mean, it’s a pretty damn small town.”

“Pub or not,” Brigid said, “I’ll be fucking gumming for a pint by evening.”

“That worry you ever?” Gavin said, half-teasing. “That nationalistic need for beer?”

“About as much as your nationalistic need for cheeseburgers worries you, I’d say.”

“Touché.” Gavin smiled.

Brigid faced him then and nodded once. She was taking note of his challenge, registering it; he’d set out the ante and she’d met it. She didn’t raise him. She was waiting. Exercising some caution, for once.

“How are we on whiskey?” he asked.

She looked startled for a moment. “Out entirely,” she said, regaining composure. “Polished it off last night, Mr. Squire and myself, in fact.”

“Oh?” he said. “Oh, really?”

“He’s not such a bleedin’ maggot as everyone thinks . . .”

Gavin looked surprised. And skeptical.

“I mean, he’s desperate sad . . .”

“And losing your wife doesn’t make that any easier.” Gavin shook his head, as if he had a clue what Lance was going through.

“He’s just full of wind and—”

“Maybe . . .”