The Wonder Spot by Melissa Bank Page A

and I wasn’t sure I could do it now. I had to stand with my back to her, which in itself was embarrassing.
    When I stopped playing, Venice smiled—a huge relief, even though I wasn’t sure if she was smiling with me or at me.
    . . . . .
    That summer, Venice sent me a postcard a week from Europe. She’d seen Georges in Tuscany and described it in six languages, including pig Latin: “Elt-fay othing-nay.”
    In late August, she called from Capri to invite me to spend Labor Day weekend on Long Island, where Hugh’s family had a house. I’d never gotten a call from Europe and wasn’t sure how expensive it was, and I found myself saying yes because it was faster than saying no, which would have required an explanation.
    Hugh and Venice picked me up at the train, in his grandparents’ old station wagon. Venice gave me the front seat, and I looked out at the bushes of blue hydrangeas, the huge shade trees, and the houses with their silvered cedar shingles.
    Hugh’s was on the bay side, across Dune Road from the beach. The house was big but shabby; his family had managed to hold on to the house but had no money to keep it up. You’d open a drawer and the pull would come off in your hand.
    I was worried that I’d feel awkward as the guest of Venice, as a guest of a guest, a guest once-removed. But Hugh introduced me to his mother and grandparents and sister as his “great friend,” and that was how I felt.
    . . . . .
    My favorite time of day was the late, late afternoon with the sun golding up the ocean and sand and sea grass and dunes. Venice said it was called “magic hour” in the movies. She knew because she’d read a few scripts by then, given to her by a director she’d met that summer.
    One magic hour, after swimming, we got dressed on the beach in jeans and sweaters. We unpacked a dinner picnic of leftovers—cold crabs and cold corn on the cob and tomatoes Venice had flecked withfresh basil. Hugh made a fire, and we drank wine and stayed out there on the beach late into the night.
    When we got back everyone was asleep, and Venice went off to Hugh’s bedroom, as she did every night. She’d come back to ours just as the sky was getting light, and sometimes I’d wake up and remember where I was and I’d feel as happy then as I ever had.
    . . . . .
    The three of us were happy as quahogs until Labor Day. It was overcast, and I thought that was what made the morning seem slow and thick.
    Without much enthusiasm, Hugh suggested sailing.
    Venice looked dubious; she noted the lack of wind. Then she said, “Our train leaves at four.”
    Hugh said, “I know what time your train leaves.”
    Venice seemed oblivious to his tone, and maybe she was at first. However upset she’d been when she’d gotten into Brown, I knew she was excited now about going. She wasn’t talking about it, but she radiated the exuberance you can feel about going to a new place or starting a new thing.
    Hugh wasn’t going anywhere or starting anything; he hadn’t found a job yet.
    Finally we went sailing, without any of us really wanting to. It was a little boat, not much bigger than a Sunfish, and it looked old. As I got in, I asked Hugh when it had last been used.
    Hugh seemed to wonder himself for a minute, and I thought, Three drown in boating accident.
    Both Venice and Hugh knew how to sail, and all I really did was watch them and the bay, lower my head when the boom crossed over, and look forward to going back to the house and taking one last outdoor shower before getting on the train.
    The sky clouded over, and there was no sun at all anymore, and no wind, either. Finally Venice said, “We should head back.” Hugh didn’t answer, just turned the boat around.
    They had to tack—zigzag—the whole way back across the bay. Hugh kept sighing, and he seemed annoyed. He was giving