Mia said, “What’s your name?”
“Gavin,” said Gavin, but then couldn’t think of anything else, so he said, “What’s yours?” though he already knew.
“That’s Mia,” Squee said, protective as an older brother, as if to feel out Gavin’s intentions before he’d allow Mia to talk with him.
The squatting woman pushed herself creakily back to standing, unfurling a hand as she rose and extending it to Gavin. He stood as well. “Hi, Gavin,” she said. “I’m Eden Jacobs, and this is Reesa Delamico, and that big boy is Ryan Delamico. Can you say hello, Ryan?”
“Huh-lo,” said Ryan dutifully.
“Nice to meet you,” said Reesa. She smiled broadly. And though she’d just done Heather Beekin’s mother’s hair the afternoon before and therefore probably knew more about Gavin’s romance and breakup with Heather than Gavin knew himself, she didn’t say a word, just acted like anyone making a new acquaintance.
Gavin wasn’t very good with people, and he stood dumbly, as if he didn’t know how he’d managed to get where he was without pausing for a panic attack, during which he’d have clearly realized he was heading for a place full of people he didn’t know, and ditched the whole plan entirely.
And then, as if in response to his thoughts, suddenly there was the girl from the Luncheonette, sidling over to join their cluster, saying, “Hey, Reese, you got a light?” as she breezed in, cigarette poised at her lips. Reesa’s arms were full of Ryan, and she shrugged her apologies, but Gavin was already whipping a pack of matches out of his pocket and fumbling to light one for her. She paused as he got it lit, and then leaned in toward him like an old-time movie star. The cigarette caught, and Gavin fanned out the match while she inhaled deeply, blew the smoke out over her shoulder, and grinned. Eden, who heartily disapproved of all forms of smoking, gave a cough of distress and bowed out of the circle, saying, “Gavin, lovely to meet you,” and scuttled off toward the house.
Reesa stood watching the cigarette lighting with distinct amusement, and as Janna took another drag and let the smoke escape slowly from the corner of her mouth, Reesa’s face broke in her famous smile, and she said, with the graciousness of a southern debutante, “Gavin, have you met Janna Winger? Janna works for me down at the salon.”
Gavin shrank into himself defensively as he extended his hand, as though Janna might not shake it but grab hold and slap him to the ground in some exotic karate flip.
“Janna,” Reesa said, her smirk only growing, “Gavin.”
“We had breakfast together this morning,” Janna said.
“Oh!” exclaimed Reesa. “Well, I guess you know each other a lot better than I thought!”
Janna turned to Reesa and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, please . . .”
“We were both at the Luncheonette,” Gavin explained, “not together, just both there . . .”
“So you working over at the Lodge this summer?” Janna asked.
Gavin sucked his lower lip and nodded rocking on his heels. “Outfit give me away?” he said. “Did you have a chance to take a look at our specials this evening . . . ?” He was ridiculously nervous, trying desperately for the joke.
Janna acted as if he hadn’t said anything at all. She spoke in a hush, as if imparting a piece of vital and delicate information. “If you ask me, Heather was really a bitch about the whole thing.”
Gavin blanched. Reesa scolded, “Janna!”
Gavin was looking back and forth between them, the truth of his situation dawning on him fully. “Oh, Jesus” was all he could say.
“We graduated together,” Janna was saying. “In a class of thirteen kids,” she added. “Doesn’t take too long for word to spread.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Gavin said again. He buried his head in his hands.
Twelve
ON THE INTERACTION OF SPECIES
[A]t present the place is a grubby fishing port of dirt lanes strewn with sun-baked fish heads, eatery floors tramped with mud and blood and salt. A moss bunker refinery destroys the western shoreline—great smelting kettles and massive iron drums, the smell that emanates therefrom is enough to raise the dead. But where others less visionary will come away with only a visceral memory of the unrelenting stink, I see here a great hotel, stately, luxurious suites overlooking the majestic sunset shore. There will be tennis courts, a bathing pavilion, a restaurant and theater, and on a Sunday afternoon the ladies from Fishersburg and Menhadenport will stroll the whitewashed docks, parasols cocked overhead as they watch the schooners set sail into the bay.
—SYLVESTER DANIEL, investor, from an 1869 letter to his wife, Amelia
DEMOLITION FIRST. Then, construction. Bud, needing all the manpower he had, even cycled his waiters into the crew. Besides, it was pretty much free labor: the arrangement for June had always been beachfront lodging and meals in exchange for help in readying the Lodge for the season. And fine, true, that “readying” usually involved work of a highly undemanding, nontaxing variety. That it had turned into full-time hard manual labor was not something to which Bud was planning to draw anyone’s attention.
The police lines were down, and some progress had been made in the demolition. Off-island boys had worked the day of the funeral, guys who knew Lorna only as the someone who’d died in the fire. The grunt-work guys were there early, drinking coffee from Thermoses or Styrofoam cups, getting ready for another day. Roddy and the unlucky waiters joined the crew, pulled on heavy work gloves, and got down to it. A matter of throwing shit into the dumpster. Why they weren’t doing it with a bulldozer, no one had stopped to inquire. Probably because it was cheaper to pay a bunch of stupid thugs than it would have been to rent the necessary machinery. And Bud Chizek was nothing if not thrifty.
They’d busted down the remaining walls and posts with sledgehammers—the fun work, no doubt, for a few guys with more muscle and spare energy than they had any constructive use for—so there was wet, charred timber splintered over everything. They started gathering and tossing, collecting and discarding. It was rhythmic, methodical, awful work. Roddy hefted awkward shovelfuls of soaked and blackened linens into a wheelbarrow, and a guy with the remains of a black eye and tattoo lines snaking out from the sleeves of his T-shirt wheeled the loads away, got help from another guy—who’d already removed his shirt in preparation for the morning emergence of the Irish girls from their dorm—in hefting the load to the dumpster’s mouth. How Bud planned to lift the monolithic old sheet presses was anyone’s guess. The sun shone down with macabre earnestness. A lone yellow butterfly flirted at the periphery of the wreckage, as though it knew not to come any closer.
Suzy brought Mia over to Eden’s for the day to keep Squee company there, away from the Lodge. Then she got half the Irish girls out inspecting rooms—noting anything torn, broken, grotesquely or obscenely stained—and took the others with her to the maid’s room. Upon entrance, they looked crestfallen.
“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.