The Islanders (15 page)

“LOOK, THE IMPORTANT THING IS
you have to act like you just happened to be passing by,” Nina said for the dozenth time.

Aisha rolled her eyes. Like Nina was the person to be giving lectures on how to be discreet. Nina, who had spilled the news about Zoey and Lucas to her within fifteen minutes of having heard it.

Now they were standing around the dock, practicing so they'd look casual when the ferry came in with Zoey and Lucas aboard. Aisha was supposed to pretend she had just been passing by and
Oh, there's Nina, I'll go over and say hi, and oh, there's Zoey on the ferry. What a major coincidence!

“I'll be totally cool, all right? I mean, I'm not personally quite as worked up over this as you are.”

“Zoey and Lucas?” Nina said incredulously. “You think that's no big deal?”

“Well, it's big, I mean as far as gossip and so on, but I don't think it will be a life-altering experience for me.” She looked
at her watch, then glanced out toward the setting sun. “There's the
Minnow
.”

“Okay, now run away.”

“Away where?”

“I don't know. Jeez, Aisha, do I have to think of everything?”

“This is your particular insanity, Nina,” Aisha said.

“Run over to Passmores'. If she sees you there, you'll just say you went in for a Coke.”

“Should we synchronize our watches?” Aisha asked. “That's what they do in the spy movies.”

“Would you rather I just hadn't told you?” Nina asked.

Aisha considered that question as she trotted across the parking area to Passmores'. There were two tables filled in the outdoor seating area, and the sound of more diners inside.

Aisha lurked by the alleyway, self-consciously keeping her head down as the ferry chugged across the harbor.

So, Zoey was fooling around with Lucas. It was juicy, no question about it. Stupid, too, probably. But then, Zoey did have this suppressed crazy streak deep down inside that you didn't really notice till you'd known her awhile. Plus, she was hopelessly, pathetically romantic, which was the kind of character trait that got people into trouble. Much better to be rational.

It was one thing to look at a guy and think, Hey, not bad.
But that didn't mean you acted on it. Otherwise, you'd constantly be getting led around one way or another, a prisoner of whatever chance happened to bring a good-looking guy your way.

The ferry whistle split the calm night. None of the diners at the cafe flinched or jumped, which showed that they were locals. Aisha looked at them more closely. Pastor what-was-his-name and his wife. And the two gay guys who had the house on Pond Road.

Zoey and Lucas.
Definitely running counter to peer pressure on that one. Not that peer pressure should be your guide. If it were, well, she'd be going out with Christopher, wouldn't she?

She flashed on an image of him, tight, very tight shorts, running down the field, keeping the ball just ahead of him, his cute little . . . But then, that was exactly the point. Zoey was the kind of person who'd let that get to her. Aisha was not. She could separate out the fact that he was good-looking and not be influenced in the slightest. And she could ignore everyone's expectations.

Aisha nodded, feeling content.

Besides, Nina didn't have a boyfriend, either. Lots of girls didn't have boyfriends.

“Order up.” She heard the familiar voice close at hand, but muffled. She jumped around and stared down the alley. “Come
on, pick up, it's getting cold.”

Of course. Christopher cooked at Passmores'. It was one of his seemingly endless profusion of jobs. The kitchen door was just down the alleyway.

Aisha glanced anxiously toward the ferry. It was nosing into the dock, but it would take four more minutes before they tied it off and lowered the gangplank.

She sidled down the alley, stepping carefully so as not to make a noise. Hot, moist, aromatic air blasted from the doorway, along with the crash of aluminum pots and the roar of a dishwasher.

“You need drawn butter with that,” Christopher said.

Aisha flattened herself against the brick wall and peered around the corner. The kitchen was blazingly bright, fluorescence gleaming off stainless steel. Christopher was only a few feet away, his back to her as he placed a green garnish on a plate of fish.

He was wearing a white apron over cutoff shorts and a blue T-shirt. On his head he had a baseball cap turned backward.

He moved from the range to the broiler, shaking a frying pan here, lifting a plate there, sailing a steak through the air to land on the grill. It was almost graceful. Almost like a dance of some sort, and he did it well.

He bent over at the waist, reaching into a low refrigerator,
and pulled out a cake, sliced it, spooned strawberries over it, and, with a flourish, sprayed a mound of whipped cream on top.

“Here,” he said, turning very suddenly to face her.

Aisha leapt back, but it was too late. He leaned out of the door and handed the strawberry shortcake to her, producing a clean spoon from the pocket of his apron.

“I . . . I . . .” she said.

“You are hungry, aren't you?” he asked smugly. “I mean, that is why you came sneaking down the alleyway, right? You wanted something to eat? Surely it wasn't to see little old me.”

“I just happened to be here.”

“I see. On your way to—” He made a point of turning his head slowly. “On your way to the brick wall at the end of the alley.”

“I'm waiting for someone,” Aisha said furiously.

“Uh-huh. I know you are, but I'm working right now, Aisha.” He grabbed her hand and thrust the dish into it. “Try this, it may satisfy at least some of your craving.” He winked outrageously and disappeared back into his kitchen.

Aisha threw the dish hard against the bricks. “Why can't I get rid of you?”

He leaned back through the doorway, looking serious and a little angry. “If you really want to be rid of me, you can,” he said. “I'll never speak to you again, never look at you, put you
out of my mind permanently. If that's what you really, truly want. You have three seconds to say
Get out of my life
.”

“I, uh, I—” she stammered.

“One.”

“Look—”

“Two.”

“Christopher!”

“Three.” He nodded cockily. “Didn't think so.”

The creep
, Aisha thought grumpily.

Claire walked for several hours, through the narrow, familiar streets of North Harbor, along the breakwater, in the sand on Town Beach. She sat on a bench in the circle for a while, till the bells from the steeple rang eight and roused her from her thoughts.

She knew she should go home, but she knew she couldn't. Not yet.

Inevitably her feet found Coast Road, and she turned south. It was a mile, more, till the houses, some bright, some shuttered and empty, thinned out, leaving her with only the crashing surf for company. The last of the widely spaced streetlights fell behind, and now only the milky light of a startlingly bright moon showed her the way. It was another half-mile to the intersection with Pond Road, down which she saw more homes,
more light, but she plunged on into lonely darkness.

In two years she had not returned to the spot, and she wondered if she would know it when she got there.

But then a chill breeze raised goose bumps on her arms and shoulders. Her steps faltered on the sand-blown blacktop.

Yes. This was the place. The moon's diffuse glow seemed to cast a spotlight on the vast white scar, the tree trunk naked, its bark ripped away long ago.

She stood there, staring, not really thinking, just letting her mind go blank. And then, after a while, she realized she was crying.

“Zoey, how
could
you?”

They sat in the middle of the circle, Zoey lying back on the grass, Aisha with legs and arms crossed sitting on the bench, Nina pacing back and forth, chewing her unlit Lucky Strike. The sun had set, plunging North Harbor into darkness softened by a dusky moon overhead.

Zoey had met the two of them at the dock, instantly realizing that despite their lame attempt to make it look like a coincidence, Nina had, of course, told Aisha everything.

When he'd seen them, Lucas had squeezed her hand and prudently disappeared into the disembarking crowd.

“You don't understand,” Zoey said, trying to calm her
heart, trying to keep her head from spinning. “It's like—it's like you're happy with regular old store ice cream until you discover Ben and Jerry's.”

Aisha rolled her eyes toward Nina. “Look,” she said, leaning forward, “I think you're kind of missing the point a little, Zoey. I mean, sure, right now all you see is the good stuff with Lucas—”

“—whatever that might be,” Nina interjected.

“But you can't ruin your life just because some guy gives you a case of heaving bosom.”

“I know,” Zoey said dreamily.

“Do you realize what this will do to everyone?” Aisha asked. “We've always gotten along all right, the six of us. You, me, Nina, Claire . . . most of the time, Benjamin, Jake. We're a group, we're buds.”

“We're all stuck with each other, trapped together like rats in a cage,” Nina said. “Every morning we're on the ferry together, every evening the same thing. In between we go to the same school and live so close together that you could just about throw a baseball from your house to anyone else's house.”

“I know,” Zoey said, more seriously this time. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I know this will really hurt Jake.”

“It's not just that,” Nina said. “I don't care if Jake gets hurt.
It's that, I mean, we won't be a group anymore.”

“You hate being part of a group, Nina,” Zoey pointed out. “You're the raging nonconformist here.”

“I know, but still, I need a group to rebel against.”

“It will be like civil war around here,” Aisha said glumly. “You and Lucas on one side, Jake and Claire on the other. We won't be together anymore. Don't try to fool yourself, Zoey. This isn't just like you're seeing another guy; it's like you've decided to go steady with Satan or something and you're trying to convince yourself that everyone will accept him eventually.”

“Really, Zo,” Nina said.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Zoey shouted in sudden exasperation. “You want me just to give Lucas up because it will keep the group together?”

“Sounds kind of unromantic when you put it that way,” Nina said.

“Look, romance is not the only thing in the world,” Aisha said. “People do stupid things for love. How about the Trojan War? Paris and Helen go at it and Agamemnon ends up being chopped up by his wife while he's taking a bath.”

“Excuse me?” Nina said. “Could we stick to reality here?”

“I can't stop feeling something because it's inconvenient,” Zoey said.

“Of course you can. I do it all the time,” Aisha argued.

“You're right, though,” Zoey went on, talking almost to herself. “Things won't be the same, will they? It's like we've all been going along in this pleasant little dream and I'm going to screw it up.”

“Forget about us,” Nina said, suddenly serious. “What about you, Zo? You won't be part of Zoey and Jake anymore. You won't be the couple everyone looks up to. Barbie and Ken. You'll be part of Zoey and Lucas.

“It's your decision, Zo,” Nina went on. She looked at her friend, for once without a hint of irony in her eyes. “Only it's maybe bigger than you think.”

Claire found her father in his study, a dark-paneled room lined with expensively bound books and lit from green-shaded lamps. He was in a deep leather wing chair, smoking a cigar, sipping a glass of scotch, and reading through a sheaf of official-looking papers with a detached look.

“Daddy,” she said.

“Oh, hi there, honey. Where've you been?”

Claire came into the room and sank into a chair opposite him. She tried to meet his eyes, but looked down at the carpet instead. It took a while to put the words together. “How did you get Lucas to do it?”

“What?” His voice was confused. He pulled the cigar from
his mouth and set the glass on a table. “What was that?”

“How did you get Lucas to confess that he was driving the car?”

“Me?” Her father made an effort at a smile.

“Daddy, I remember,” Claire said in a choked voice. “It wasn't Lucas.”

“I don't know . . . what are you—”

“Lucas wasn't driving the car,” Claire said flatly. “He was in the backseat. He was complaining, he was saying we were all too damned drunk to be driving and we should walk back into town. He was making a joke out of it.
Stop it. Pull over. You're scaring me.
He was joking, but he was serious.”

Her father's confused look vanished. “I think you're just imagining things, honey. I know how much you've wanted to remember—”

“Have I?” Claire snapped. “How hard have I tried?”

“It's not your fault. You had a concussion, for God's sake.”

“He wasn't hurt, Lucas wasn't hurt; Benjamin's right. Because he was in the backseat. He was in the back yelling that we should pull over and not try to drive.”

“Look, memory's a tricky thing—”

“But he confessed. Why? To protect Wade? Why? He didn't care about Wade. No. He cared about me, though. He was in love with me.”

“Love,” her father snorted.

“Tell me the truth, Daddy,” Claire begged. “It wasn't Lucas driving.”

“Wade, then,” her father said. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it was Wade.”

Claire laughed bitterly. “It was me. It was me!” Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands. “I was driving the car. Me.”