“A little Samuel Beckett meets Hunter S. Thompson,” said Forrest. “And I’m a big fan of Pynchon, so he’s an influence.”
“Good luck with that,” said Jule.
“Ooh, youarea scrapper,” said Forrest. “I kind of like her, you know, Imogen?”
“He likes ornery women,” said Imogen. “It’s one of his few endearing qualities.”
“Dowelikehim?” Jule asked her.
“We tolerate him for his good looks,” said Immie.
They declared themselves hungry and walked to the Aquinnah shops. The area had a cluster of snack stands. Forrest ordered three paper packets of french fries for them to share.
Immie smiled big at the guy behind the counter and said, “You’re going to laugh at me, but I need like four slices of lemon for the Snapple. I’m crazy for lemon. Can you do that for me?”
He said, “Lemon?”
“Four slices,” said Immie. She put her arms and elbows on the takeout counter and leaned forward, turning her face up to him.
“Of course,” he said.
“You’re laughing at my lemon,” she told him.
“I’m not laughing.”
“You’re laughing on the inside.”
“No.” He had sliced the lemon by now and pushed it across the counter to her in a red-and-white paper cup.
“Thank you, then, for taking my lemon so seriously,” Imogen said. She picked up one of the pieces and stuck it in her mouth, biting to squeeze out some of the juice. She said through her lemon-rind mouth: “It is very important for lemons to get respect. It makes them feel valued.”
They sat at a picnic table with a view of the parking lot on one side and the sea on the other. People were flying kites on the other side of the parking lot. It was very windy. The picnic table was weathered gray and bumpy. Imogen ate one or two fries, and then took a banana out of her bag and ate it with a spoon.
“You’re here alone?” asked Immie. “On the Vineyard?”
Forrest had opened his copy of theNew Yorker.His body was turned slightly away from them.
Jule nodded. “Yes. I left Stanford.” She told the story about the pervy coach and the loss of the scholarship. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t get along with my aunt.”
Immie leaned forward. “Is that who you live with?”
“No, I’m not dealing with family anymore.”
Forrest chuckled. “Neither is Imogen.”
“Yes, I am,” said Imogen.
“No, she’s not,” he said.
Jule looked Imogen in the eye. “We have that in common, then.”
“Yes, I suppose we do.” Immie tossed her banana peel in the trash. “Listen, come with us to the house. We can swim in the pool and you can stay for dinner. Some temporary people are coming over, new friends who are just on the island for a couple weeks. We’re going to grill steaks. It’s just in Menemsha. You won’t believe the house. It’s gargantuan.”
The answer was yes, but Jule hesitated.
Imogen sat down close to Jule and lined their feet up together. “Come on. It’ll be fun,” she coaxed. “I haven’t had any girl talk in ages.”
The Menemsha house had ceilings so high and windows so wide that everyday activities seemed to have extra room and light. Drinks seemed fizzier and colder than any drinks ever had before.
