Osprey Island

“Look . . .” Suzy was already defensive. Did they think she wanted to be there any more than they did? They’d all signed on for this godforsaken summer job! Did they think this was the way Suzy had planned to spend her vacation? “I know it’s bad,” she conceded, “but the rest of the summer’ll be a fuck of a lot easier if we can turn this place into an organized base of operations.” The girls’ expressions seemed to lighten at the utterance of “fuck.” Suzy made a mental note: swear. Often. She took a box of Hefty bags off a shelf and began dispensing them, one per girl, like uniforms. “Let’s take advantage of the dumpster out there.” She flicked the garbage bag in her hand in the direction of the old laundry. “The more of this shit we can get rid of”—she swept the bag around the room—“the happier I’ll be. And right now, I’m not very fucking happy.” The girls cracked smiles. It was like teaching, Suzy thought. You just had to get down there in the dirt with them and hash through it.

Brigid was probably no older than the other girls, but she comported herself with an air of some disdain, as though they were younger siblings she’d been forced to babysit. She gravitated toward Suzy, who seemed more of an equal. The other girls needed direction— Here: you take this closet, and why don’t you check the vacuum cleaners, see what works, what doesn’t, what just needs a new bag . . . Brigid had initiative, which was a relief to Suzy. She was able to assess a situation, see what needed doing, and get on it. She took over an old housekeeping cart that probably hadn’t been used as anything but a junk repository in more than a decade, checked the cleaning products to see if anything was still usable, chucked the rest, and pretty soon had flipped the cart over, found a screwdriver and some WD-40 in a toolbox, and was working on the wheels. She looked confident enough in what she was doing that Suzy went to work clearing another similar cart of debris so Brigid might have a go at its wheels as well.

“So,” Suzy began, with an animation so contrived that she didn’t even want to finish the sentence, but there was nothing any better, nothing particularly less ironic to say. “So how are things going for you here at the Osprey Lodge?”

Brigid snorted. “I’d rather be scrubbing shitters for the IRA at this juncture, I’d say.” She bugged her eyes, her mouth pursed in a psychotic grin.

“Oh, that sounds fabulous,” Suzy cried. “You think they’d take on an American? Really, I could be packed, ready to go, in”—she looked at her watch—“five minutes.”

They laughed halfheartedly.

Awhile later Suzy said, “I feel really awful for all of you guys, coming all this way . . . it’s usually a little better around here than this.”

“My sister was here a year ago.”

“That’s right,” Suzy said. “I forgot. So you know . . .”

“To be honest with you,” Brigid said, “I’m rather sure I’d still be something of a miserable article if Mrs. Squire . . . if there’d been no fire at all. I’d’ve managed to get myself messed with quite regardless, I expect.”

Suzy looked at her in confusion.

“Oh, it’s a damn boy,” Brigid said.

Suzy winced in empathy. “Someone back home?”

“Oh, no luck of the sort, no. Right here.” Brigid nodded resentfully.

“On-island?” Suzy was surprised.

“Oh, right here at the Lodge, if you’d believe.”

“A waiter?” Suzy’s face was still pinched, as if expecting a blow.

Brigid brightened then. “You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?” Her eyes were expectant. “Gavin? He’s from California?”

“Yeah,” Suzy said. “No, I mean, I know who he is, but . . . the one who came from Stanford, with Heather Beekin, right?”

“Is that her name?” Brigid hardly concealed her disdain.

“Did you meet her?” Suzy was confused again.

“No, not me. Not exactly . . .” Brigid paused, as though figuring out how to explain. “After the funeral yesterday, a gang of us went for a bite at the Luncheonette.”

“Heather went out to lunch with you?” Suzy was more confused than before.

Brigid slowed, explaining as though Suzy were not very bright. “There were quite a lot of them I hadn’t met. From the town. Introductions weren’t properly made, you know. Then, last night, quite late—Gavin—he was out here on the deck with her, he was. Not that I know him well, you know,” she confessed. “I’d only just met him, but he’s acted . . . oh, bloody, I don’t know—”

Suzy cut in. “I’d have a hard time . . . What’d she look like? The girl?”

Brigid made a face to imply she wasn’t much to look at. “A bit tall,” she said, “fair skin, dark hair, a bit heavy in the hip . . .”

Suzy was shaking her head.

“Rather a gothic look . . .”

“Janna,” Suzy said. “That’s not Heather Beekin. That’s Janna Winger.”

Brigid’s face went blank. The name meant nothing to her.

“Janna works for Reesa? At the salon?”

Brigid was shaking her head. “I’d entirely assumed it was the girlfriend, the . . . Heather.”