“This isForrest,” said Immie.
“Forrest!” said Brooke, shaking hands. “Okay, let’s hug.”
Forrest hugged awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”
“It is always nice to meet me,” said Brooke. Then she pointed to Jule. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t be mean,” said Immie.
“I’m being delightful,” said Brooke. “Who are you?” This, to Jule.
Jule forced a smile and introduced herself. She hadn’t known Brooke was coming. And Brooke clearly hadn’t heard about Jule being there, either. “Imogen says you’re her favorite person from Vassar.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite person from Vassar,” said Brooke. “That’s why I had to drop out. It was only two thousand people. I need a bigger audience.”
She dragged her bags upstairs and made herself at home in the second-best guest room.
END OF JUNE, 2016
MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS
Five weeks before Brooke arrived, on her seventh day on Martha’s Vineyard, Jule splurged and took a tourist bus around the island. Most of the people on the bus were the kind who want to check off the sights on a list from a travel website. They were in family groups and couples, talking loudly.
The afternoon brought the tour to the Aquinnah lighthouse, in an area the guide explained was first inhabited by the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head and later, in the 1600s, by English colonists as well. The guide started talking about whaling as everyone poured off the bus to gaze at the lighthouse. From the lookout, they could also see the colored clay cliffs of Moshup Beach, but you couldn’t get down to the water without a hot walk of about half a mile.
Jule wandered away from the lookout to the Aquinnah shops, a cluster of small ventures selling souvenirs, Wampanoag crafts, and snacks. She wandered in and out of the low buildings, idly touching necklaces and postcards.
Maybe she should stay forever on Martha’s Vineyard. She could get a job in a shop or a gym, spend her days by the sea, find a place to live. She could give up trying to do anything with herself, stop being ambitious. She could just accept the life that was on offer right now and be grateful for it. No one would mess with her. She didn’t have to look for Imogen Sokoloff at all, if she didn’t want to.
As Jule exited one shop, a young man stepped out of the place opposite. He was carrying a large canvas tote bag. He was about Jule’s age. No, a little older. He was lean and narrow-waisted, not muscular at all, but graceful and loose-limbed, with a slightly curved nose and nice bone structure. His brown hair was tied up in a bun. He wore black cotton pants that were so long as to be shredded at the bottoms, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that readLARSEN’S FISH MARKET.
“I don’t know why you want to go in there,” he called to his companion, who was presumably still inside the shop. “There’s not any point in buying things that have no use.”
There was no reply.
“Immie! Come on. Let’s go to the beach,” the boy called.
And there she was.
Imogen Sokoloff. Her hair was cut short and pixie-ish now, blonder than in the pictures, but there was no question of her identity. She looked exactly like herself.
She walked out of the shop like it was nothing, like Jule hadn’t been waiting for her and looking for her for days and days. She was lovely, but more than that, she was at ease. As if loveliness were effortless.
Jule half expected Imogen to recognize her, but that didn’t happen.
“You’re so fussy today,” Immie said to the guy. “It’s boring when you’re fussy.”
“You didn’t even buy anything,” he said. “I want to get to the beach.”
“The beach isn’t going anywhere,” said Imogen, digging in her bag. “And I did buy something.”
The guy sighed. “What?”
“It’s for you,” she said. She pulled out a small paper parcel and gave it to him. He pulled the tape off and lifted out a woven bracelet.
Jule expected the boyfriend would be irritated, but instead he grinned. He put the bracelet on and buried his face in Imogen’s neck. “I love it,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s a trinket,” she said. “You hate trinkets.”
