The Summer House by Jean Stone Page B

sandals, especially the sandals that laced halfway up her legs and were, like most of her wardrobe, built for style not comfort.
    One car passed, then another and another. And then another pickup truck pulled to the side of the road.
    “Want a ride, lady?”
    BeBe turned and looked directly at Tuna. “I’m not sure,” she replied. “How far are you going?”
    He smiled. “Not as far as I used to. But hop in.”
    She climbed into the old truck where they had made love lots of times, back when Tuna still lived up island with his folks and they had nowhere else to go. Two years ago he had bought the cottage and, well, they’d no longer needed the truck. BeBe looked at the worn cloth seat and inhaled its officious sea-scent. “Nice wheels,” she commented.
    He put the truck into gear and spun from the gravel back onto the road. “Thanks for not giving anything away last night,” he said.
    “Yeah. Well, I kind of figured your wife had assumed you were a virgin when you married her.”
    “BeBe …”
    She shrugged. “No problem, Tuna. Hey, we were summer friends, now it’s different. It’s okay. Honest.”
    He settled back on the seat. “You here until Labor Day?” he asked. As if she would be anything but.
    Suddenly, however, BeBe wasn’t certain. “I don’t know yet,” she replied. “I might go to summer school.” With Daniel gone, and with Tuna up and married, what was the point of staying here?
    “Would you like to come for dinner sometime?” he asked.
    She looked out the cloudy window at the scrub oaks and the clear sky. She wondered how it was that men seemed to be able to do that—fuck you one day, then have you interact with their family the next, as if you were just pals, as if the fucking meant nothing, nothing at all. She thought of Michael Barton and was glad he had left.
    “I think I’ll pass on dinner,” she said. “But thanks for the invitation.” He nodded, and whether or not he understood, she didn’t much care.
    “I’m going into Edgartown,” he said. “You?”
    “Oak Bluffs. Would you mind dropping me at the turnoff?”
    “Hell, no, I’m not going to do that. A little detour won’t kill me.”
    BeBe nodded.
    “Where in the Bluffs?” he asked.
    “The ferry,” she replied. “I want to make it in time to see the two-fifteen leave.”
    They made it in plenty of time. Tuna dropped her off across from the pier, waved, and acted as if he’d really see her later as he said.
    BeBe shook off an impending depression by reminding herself why she was here. Daniel , she said to herself. My big brother Daniel . For one last look—just a look, no more good-byes.
    After crossing the street, she stepped inside the Steamship office and checked the clock: one forty-eight. For once, for this one thing, BeBe was not late. And no one would ever even know.
    She stared outside at the stream of cars that jockeyed for position on the long, wobbly pier, cautiously moving forward as if they were race cars waiting for the green flag. They jockeyed, then stopped, parked where they would stay until they were herded into the great steel cavity that would safely transport them across Vineyard Sound: as safely, she hoped, as one of those big cargo planes would take Daniel halfway around the world … and back again.
    Then she saw them: Daniel and Father, crossing the street. There was an ache between her breasts as she studiedher brother. He was wearing a khaki uniform she’d not seen him wear before and had on a small khaki hat and polished black shoes. He was no longer a carefree Vineyard boy. He was a soldier. And this was about war.
    Father was walking close to Daniel, as if there were a big crowd—which there was not. As the men moved toward the boat, Father reached out and almost touched Daniel’s arm—a hesitant hand that stopped somewhere in midair then returned stoically to his side. Even here, even now, Father couldn’t express his feelings with Daniel, who was his pride and his