We reached the beach. The crash of the surf made an unfriendly sound, and the horizon looked hard and dark as stone. Milo staked the spot for me to plant and grind the club umbrella as Isa snapped flat three beach towels. “Sunblock me?” she asked. “I’ve got fifty proof in my bag. Then Milo.”
“Just you,” I said. “You can do Milo’s sunblock yourself.” And I spread it like primer paint over her shoulders and back.
Milo took the farthest towel and made a show of flexing, sending a toned ripple across his shoulders. Posing for me, before he launched onto his stomach. He was flirting on purpose. Milo was a devil, a tease. He wanted to see if I’d bite. Probably testing to see if he could bring back some hot story to his posh Boston prep school.
After a few minutes, Isa turned to me with a smile. “Milo’s stomach growled. He just whispered that Connie’s smoothies taste like crap.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I don’t appreciate swear words,” I said loud and primly, giving it my best au pair.
In response, Milo hawed. Eventually, he stood and jogged down to the surf for a swim. I was pretty sure he was keeping it high and tight for my benefit.
Isa watched him, too. Then she took a couple of tabloid magazines from the beach bag. “My addiction,” she said.
I fished out my poetry book.
“Sailing Alone Around the Room,” Isa read off the jacket. “What’s that about?”
“It’s poetry. My addiction,” I answered, and I picked a place in the middle, hoping the spine didn’t look too obviously uncracked.
“Jessie liked junk,” she explained. “Poems are for school, she said. Like Robert Frost.”
“So untrue, and you’re totally missing out.”
“You sound like my friend Clementine. She’s kind of nerderrific.”
“All the best people are.”
Isa smirked. “Jessie didn’t think so. She said it only took a nanosecond to tell dorks from cool kids. And if you were a dork, Jess let you know straightaway.”
“Fine, that’s wonderful, but I’m not Jessie.”
That stopped her. She sank into her junk mag, and I tried reading a few poems. Though I soon realized they were a bit tastier than poems; more like odd, true, human things I liked to imagine Sean Ryan saying in his most brilliant, A-game mood.
But I could feel Isa’s eyes on me. Soon she’d tossed aside her magazine. “I might need veneers,” she said.
“You do not. Your teeth are perfect. And you’re too smart to get sucked in by those awful rags.”
Isa waved me off. “Jessie got me hooked. She’d bring them from her house. Now they make me feel close to her.”
“No offence to Jessie, but they’re still junk. I’ll lend you my book if you promise no more tabloids.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve read it like a hundred times.”
She took it. “Thanks, Jamie. This looks better.”
It was such a small thing, but I could tell she was grateful. Maybe I really did have a purpose being here. Maybe my nerderrific self would be a benefit to Isa, who seemed so lost: old-fashioned and overly mannered one minute, then spinning off in whatever direction you placed her in the next. It was as if she only existed as a manifestation of what other people wanted her to be. It sounded to me as if Jessie had made Isa into her accomplice—whether reading junk mags or ganging up on Connie or driving too fast in the Porsche—and it crossed my mind that Isa was now trying to figure out what I needed from her, and subtly adjusting herself to fit. I’d have to watch out for that.
Meantime, it was hard-boiling hot. Shite. I flipped and tried to float my mind out to sea, into the white noise of surf and gulls. Milo returned, shaking off water like a dog. The swim had worked up his appetite, he announced. Time for Mud Hut.
The word had gotten out. At the bar stools, we were sitting ducks. Whispers moved around us like clouds of gnats. Milo and Isa seemed aware of it. Then I saw Isa’s gaze catch and hold. I followed her stare across the pool to a middle-aged workman who gripped his tackle box like it was his only friend in the world.
“Who’s that?” I asked. “Why’s he staring?”
“Mr. Quint.” Isa took another bite of burger. “Peter’s dad. We’re probably just reminding him … of things.”
Mr. Quint looked tired and defeated. His face scared me; bloated, beery, all hope lost. His red hair and blue eyes had long washed out of their youthful punch, and his freckles made a rough pattern over his skin. He’d been working on an electric panel near the cabanas, but once he’d gotten his stare out, he seemed to give us a hard mental shrug, finishing his work quickly and leaving without another look our way.
The kids had gone still. Isa spoke softly. “Poor Mr. Quint. Connie once said he’d already lost so much in his life, he couldn’t afford to lose Peter, too.”
“Where were Peter and Jessie going in that plane?” I asked.
Isa cast a look at Milo, who glowered. “Milo hates talking about it,” she murmured. “He misses Peter.”
“It’s okay. Go ahead, you can tell me. It’s your story, too.”
“The thing is, I don’t know where they were heading. Peter took Jessie’s dad’s plane. He’d never flown without a copilot, but he faked the paperwork.”
“Was that normal, for him to do stuff like that?”
She nodded. “Him and Jess both. They liked to dare each other into all kinds of stunts.” She regarded me. “You know, it’s funny how your names are both Js and how you look like her. Tall, with wavy dark brown hair. I bet Mr. Quint thought he was seeing a ghost. But I guess he’s not the only one.”
Her words made me tingle. So that’s why there was all this extra attention on us. A dizzying thought—had Miles McRae actually chosen me for this specific reason? Since Isa couldn’t have Jessie, she could have someone who looked like her? After all, I was the image of Mom; everyone said so. Maybe McRae figured any tall, cute enough, teenage brunette was as good as another.
“Why’d they end up crashing?” I asked.
Isa’s eyes darted as Milo cut a swift kick her direction. “Owwchie, Miley.”
“Don’t pay him any attention. Whose fault was it? Wait, Milo—” But by this point, he’d had it. He jumped off the stool and whooped to some friends on the boardwalk. Then, with a deliberate shoulder against us, he ran to chase them down. “Guess that’s it for Mr. Milo.” I turned to her. “I don’t think he’s coming back. But maybe that’s better. If you still want to talk.”