Postcards From Last Summer

by Roz Bailey

  “Wait one minute.” Tara held up her hands. “You guys are already booked. You’re working in Manhattan at the embassy, and aren’t you working as an apprentice for your father? And don’t you think you should run this harebrained scheme by Darcy? It’s her house.”

  “I can do the consulate work with my eyes closed,” Elle said. “They only like me because I speak Russian and I’m cute. And Darcy will go for it. We’re cheap labor.”

  Although she hadn’t been in touch with Darcy over the winter, Elle had followed the news reports regarding Buford Love’s pending trial, and for the first time in her life she felt sympathy for Darcy. Elle had suffered through the social ramifications of her own father’s bad behavior, but at least that wasn’t a public trial and it didn’t hurt the family finances. Considering the way she’d hurt Darcy last summer, Elle figured she owed the girl a sizable karmic debt, and it would feel good to start carving away at it with a hammer and some nails.

  “My old man will probably be happy to get rid of me,” Milo said.

  “You’d better run it by her,” Tara said, pointing at the car.

  “Fine.” Elle extracted another piece of slate from a bush and took it to show Darcy, explaining about the slate roof, Milo’s experience, her love for craft projects. “So Milo and I would like a shot at the repairs,” she finished.

  Darcy’s blue eyes scraped from her to Milo, then back again. “Is this some kind of joke?” She turned to Lindsay, who shrugged. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “Call it professional interest,” Milo said. “You’d need to pay for materials up front, and if everything works out we’ll charge you a fair price. Half of what you’d pay a contractor.”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Ooh!” Elle clapped her hands together gleefully. “This means I can quit my boring job in the city!”

  “You can’t quit!” Lindsay said. “I thought you loved that job. Just out of college and you’re working at the Lithuanian consulate. Isn’t that a huge opportunity?”

  “It was interesting for the first week. Now it’s just routine.”

  “Can I have it?” Lindsay pleaded. “I need a job.”

  “We should collect as much slate as we can find; salvage what we can,” Milo said, gathering a few pieces that had fallen into the tulip beds at the edge of the driveway.

  “And we should take a look at the damage inside.” Elle was already bouncing up the porch stairs, thinking back on the floor plan of the house from years ago. As she recalled, there were plenty of bedrooms, and Darcy usually didn’t like to be alone. It would be convenient if she and Milo could stay here, close to the work site. Darcy’s parents were tied up with the trial in the city right now, and she felt sure Darcy would go for it.

  “Does this mean we’re not going out?” Darcy asked.

  “If you want a clean bed to sleep in, I suggest we get busy inside.” Lindsay opened the screen door and removed a wad of dirty straw that had lodged in the doorjamb. “Come on, Darcy. If we work together it’ll be fun.”

  “Please . . .” Darcy pressed a hand to her forehead. “Let’s not make this like an episode of This Old House. You can’t make me enjoy home repairs, and it’s going to be a long summer stuck in this place without my car.”

  “Who needs a car in the Hamptons?” Elle said, holding the door for Darcy. “I bet you’ve got a bunch of bikes in the garage that work perfectly. Put some air in the tires and you can ride that thing all over town.”

  “Just what I need: wheels with a little bell on the handlebars.”

  Darcy’s deadpan delivery made everyone laugh—everyone except Darcy.

  “You guys don’t seem to get that my life is over,” she lamented.

  “Life as you know it.” Elle nodded. “But it gives you a chance to re-create yourself, form a better you.”

  “As if there was room for improvement,” Darcy said.

  “You’ll see.” Elle skipped through the house, stopping at the fireplace to clang a tool against the grate. “Like the phoenix . . . from the ashes, Darcy will rise!”

  39

  Lindsay

  “North Carolina is a long way from the Hamptons,” I told the lifeguard who stood over the giant beach blanket that held many sunbathing friends. Super polite and handsome as a Ken doll, Drew Browning had homed in on me when I was wading in with my board. Now he seemed to be addressing all his comments to me, and as I responded the words seemed to roll off my tongue, as if I’d inherited the gift of gab from my mother. “How did you end up being a lifeguard on Bikini Beach?”

  “That’s the name for this place? I thought I heard Chad call it B.B., and I figured it was an inside thing.” He turned toward the surf, the wind feathering dark hair over his forehead. Drew was classically handsome, and not as show-offy as the other lifeguards, who insisted on pulling off their sweatshirts and sitting bare chested in the tall chairs, even on chilly days. “My cousin owns a seaplane business up here. I’ve worked for her during the summers but then got certified in lifesaving and decided to step out a little more.”

  “That’s pretty adventurous,” I said. “And surprising, since I’ve heard the Carolinas have some great beaches.” And where did that comment come from? It was as if I’d kissed the Blarney Stone, just after Ma.

  “Hatteras has miles of pristine beaches,” he agreed, “but there’s no place on earth quite like the Hamptons.”

  We chatted for a few minutes until Drew had to get back on duty. He told me he’d check in later, then jogged down the beach.

  “Well, look who won the lifeguard lottery,” Elle crowed. “I’d say that boy likes you, Linds.”

  “Do ya think?” I bit my lower lip, watching him climb nimbly up the ladder of the lifeguard chair. “He seems nice and everything, but he’s a little too interested, if you know what I mean, and I definitely don’t want to get involved with another lifeguard. I keep wondering if it’s all about the way I look now that I lost weight. Or maybe he heard about Austin and me and he thinks I’m easy. Or maybe he heard that Bear is gone and figures I’m available. I don’t know . . .”

  “Or maybe he just likes you,” Tara said. “Come on, Lindsay. Can’t you give the guy the benefit of the doubt? Not all guys are horndogs.”

  “True,” Milo said. “Though in my experience, I’d say most are.”

  “You guys aren’t being fair,” Tara said. “It’s never right to judge a group of people based on their gender, size, or color. You have to treat him fairly, Lindsay, even if he is a man.”

  “Who died and made me the spokesmodel for gender equality?” I adjusted the waistband of my bikini and sat up. “All I’m saying is, I don’t trust the guy. And honestly, I’d rather stay home and watch reruns of Cheers than meet a guy like Drew Browning in a bar.”

  “But he’s just so cute,” Elle said. “Am I the only one who sees that?”

  “I see it,” I admitted. “I’m just not ready to act on it.” I rolled over onto my tummy. “Somebody’s got to do my back.”

  “Got it.” Elle popped up and grabbed the tube of sunscreen. “I’m done baking anyway. Time for some sand sculpture.”

  The sky was a rare shade of royal blue, and from my perspective on the beach blanket Elle and Milo seemed to be playing in front of a blue screen as they packed sand into mounds, adding seawater from buckets borrowed from some kids playing nearby. As they worked with the sand Elle asked Milo about his family, his friends back in Queens, his life. Her questions were fast and furious: “Do you have brothers and sisters? Do you get along with your parents? What would your dream job be? When did you know you were gay?”

  I eavesdropped on their quiet conversation, enjoying the sun’s heat on my back. “I think I always knew I was gay,” Milo said, “just as you always know your favorite color and the foods you like. The only real conflict for me was coming out, since my family is pretty old school on that stuff and all the other guys in my neighborhood were big sports buffs and athletes, guy’s guys. I
f I’d worn glasses like these to high school, I think someone would have tried to flush me down the urinal in the men’s room.”

  “No way!” Elle said. “People aren’t really like that anymore, are they?”

  That had been my reaction when Milo had approached me at the beginning of senior year in college, looking for a room in the dorms. He was sharing a house with three other guys he’d known since freshman year, three friends who’d turned on him when they learned that he was gay. “I thought it was obvious,” Milo had said. “All this time, I assumed they knew. But no . . . Jay hears a rumor from one of his teammates and confronts me, acts as if I’d murdered somebody. When I told him it was true, he nearly cried. Then he acted as if I was going to pursue him. Sexual abuse, he said. As if. I told him he isn’t my type, he told me to get out of the house, and here I am, looking for a room in the dorm, surrounded by freshmen.”

  Although I had offered to talk with Milo’s housemates, to strike some sort of compromise, Milo had stopped me. “I’d love to see Jay and the others jump on the enlightenment train,” he said, “but I’m not willing to pay the fare.”

  As a resident assistant, I was able to get Milo a single room in the dormitory I worked in, “though you will be surrounded by freshmen,” I’d said apologetically.

  “Fine, as long as I don’t have to play drinking games and pull all-nighters with them.”

  So Milo had moved in down the hall from me, and we’d started walking together to the dining hall for lunch, then spending evenings together in the empty student lounge, watching Friends and Seinfeld, proofreading each other’s papers, and playing Tetris on our laptops. He helped me design and sew a formal gown for a Barbie doll as part of my project for design class, and I helped him write a psych paper comparing the characters on ER to Greek gods and goddesses. My friend Grace had moved in with her boyfriend and was rarely around, leaving me with a hole in my life, and Milo moved easily into that space without being intrusive. Soon we started going into Manhattan together to catch museum exhibits or Broadway shows at half price. Some weekends we shared a ride back to Brooklyn, where I had awkwardly met his parents one evening when I arrived early to drive him back to school.

  “That management scum will take anything you give them! Don’t cower to them!” an older man in a shapeless undershirt and athletic shorts railed at the television. His thick white hair whirled in various directions, not comb friendly. He was a frightening sight through the front screen door of Milo’s porch, but by the time I had second thoughts he was already backing toward me, his eyes still on the television.

  “That’s right! Don’t give them your firstborn. The bastards.” He unlocked the door and held it open for me. “Hello, dear,” he said in a more subdued voice. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to pick up Milo,” I said sweetly.

  “Of course you are. Have a seat.” He gestured to the furniture, but the sofa and matching chairs were covered with laundry in various stages of folding. I moved some towels and perched on the edge of an armchair as he shouted “Milo!” up the stairs.

  Very scary . . .

  I sat up on the beach, where the sculpture of a sea sprite was taking shape. “Now that’s art. You guys work well together. I can’t wait to see what you do to the Love Mansion.” They had measured and ordered supplies yesterday and planned to start right after Memorial Day.

  “So what do you think your father’s going to say when you tell him you want to spend the summer out here?” Elle asked Milo.

  He shrugged. “As long as I’m getting paid, he won’t care.”

  “What if he was counting on you as an apprentice?” Elle said. “Or maybe he’s hoping for a summer of father-and-son bonding.”

  Milo shot a look at me, and I said, “I don’t think so.”

  “My father and I have issues,” Milo told Elle quietly.

  “Is he antigay?” Elle asked.

  “He’s anti-everything.”

  “Except unions,” I said. “I remember that he’s a big proponent of labor unions. Defending the workers.”

  “Working stiffs.” Milo squeezed a crease into a ridge of wet sand. “Management-bashing is his passion. Other than that, he’s like the original Archie Bunker. Add on my mother, who takes in kids for day care during the week, and my two sisters in high school, and you’ve got a house of chaos.”

  “I love that!” Elle beamed. “I would love a home like that, a real family. I want to be adopted. Take me home, Milo, and make me your little sister.”

  Milo shook his head.

  “Really, it’s what I crave,” Elle insisted. “My parents are so low key. For them an exciting day means reading two books instead of one.”

  “You wouldn’t like it, would she, Lindsay?”

  I shielded my eyes with one hand. “Oh, I don’t know. You never know with Elle. She loves to assimilate into other cultures.”

  “You have to bring me home with you, Milo,” Elle insisted. “Parents love me.”

  Milo dropped the bucket into the sand, shaking his head. “Elle, it’s not you I worry about.”

  40

  Tara

  A gull shrieked, rousing Tara from her catnap in the sun. She stretched, savoring her day off. Tomorrow morning she’d take the early train back to Manhattan, to her new job in the offices of Senator Sterling Wentworth. So far her job entailed fairly menial tasks like making copies, answering phones and e-mail from his constituency, but one of his aides was going on vacation next month, which would allow Tara some input on the senator’s e-mail newsletter and policy writing. Not bad for a recent college graduate.

  So much had changed since the last time she’d been on this beach, a sunny day just before last season’s hurricane when she’d splashed in the surf with Charlie. After he’d returned to Korea their relationship had fizzled too quickly. She’d found it difficult to connect with him through the mail—his writing was so corny—and every time he called her on the phone she felt trapped, as if caught in the bubble of last summer, unable to break out. The truth was, she was changing, growing every day, exploring new options, and being with Charlie closed those options. Maybe she’d feel different if he were here beside her, but he’d been transferred to Fort Benning, Georgia, and Tara’s New York roots ran deep.

  As a wave smashed onto the shore below them and sent a mist of cool spray their way, she remembered how they’d once played on this beach together. Thank God Darcy and Elle had ended their feud, at least for the time being. Elle seemed to be embracing Lindsay’s friend Milo, though her twenty-questions game was a little invasive. Elle just didn’t know when she was stepping over the line.

  “People still have issues with gay men,” Milo confided in Elle. They were still building a sand sculpture—a buxom mermaid, from Tara’s perspective—which meant Tara couldn’t have been dozing too long. “One of my friends had his apartment robbed, and the burglars actually stuffed his copies of the Gay Free Press into the toilet.”

  “Fucking burglars,” Elle said. “They must have been Republicans.”

  “I heard that,” Tara said, propping herself up on one elbow, “and you’re in big trouble, Elle.” To everyone’s surprise, Tara had declared herself a young conservative and had landed a job as a clerical assistant in the Manhattan office of a staunch Republican senator.

  “Oh, go back to sleep, Tara,” Elle said, hopping to her feet with two buckets. “I didn’t make any libelous statements about Senator Poopy-pants.”

  “You know,” Tara propped herself up on her elbows, “go on and tease me, but I went after that job because I really believe in everything Senator Sterling Wentworth stands for.”

  “Ix-nay on the olitics-pay,” Elle said. “I’m apolitical.” She headed down the sloping beach to get more water, Milo following with another empty bucket.

  “Elle’s gotten better, but she’s still lacking in empathy,” Tara told Lindsay, who sat up and dug through her net beach bag.

  Lindsay’s brown eyes we
re thoughtful. “Is she stepping on your toes again?”

  “It’s just her blithe attitude toward everything. Like Senator Wentworth. My job is important to me, and I had to fight for it. I prepared well for the interview, and even then I’m not sure I would have gotten it if one of the senator’s staffers didn’t make a huge blunder.”

  “Really?” Lindsay paused, her lip gloss in midair. “I didn’t hear about this. What happened?”

  “It was one of the guys sitting in on the panel interview—James Melvin is his name. He joked that I had a learning disability because I checked the wrong box on the form. I thought it was just a dorky joke, until he slid the application across the table and pointed out that I’d checked the African American box.”

  Lindsay winced. “Ooh . . . egg on his face.”

  “You’d think so, but he never apologized, even after I advised him that I am, in fact, an African American with a light shade of skin.”

  “How awful for you. How’d he weasel out of that one?”

  “He just mumbled something unintelligible and went on with the interview.” Tara sighed, remembering the feral look on Melvin’s face, his beady eyes soulless and cold. “Later, when I heard that I got the job, I was a little worried that they felt pressured to hire me. Maybe they thought I’d use Mr. Melvin’s blunder as grounds for a lawsuit. But I’ve gotten over that now. I’m just going to give them my best, prove that I’m up to the job, and focus on the important matters.”

  “Like Josh?”

  “Like civil rights and the senator’s proposal for welfare reform.” Since Tara’s relationship with Josh Cohen was in its early stages, she was reluctant to bring him around her friends.

  “But when are we going to meet Josh?” Lindsay asked. “Doesn’t he have a summer place out here?”

  “His parents are in Hampton Bays, but we weren’t able to hook up this weekend.”