“But I like presents,” he said.
“I know you do.”
“Come on,” he said. “The water should be warm.” They walked down through the parking lot toward the path to the beach.
Jule looked back. The tour guide was waving at the crowd, gesturing for people to get back on the bus. It was scheduled to leave in five minutes.
She had no way to return to the hotel. Her phone was nearly out of battery and she didn’t know if she could call a cab from this part of the island.
It didn’t matter. She had found Imogen Sokoloff.
Jule let the bus leave without her.
THIRD WEEK OF JUNE, 2016
MARTHA’S VINEYARD
One week earlier, a guard stopped Jule at airport security. “If you want to carry this bag on, miss, you have to put the toiletries in a clear plastic bag,” the man told her. He had a flabby neck and wore a blue uniform. “Didn’t you see the sign? Everything has to be three point four ounces.”
The guard was going through Jule’s suitcase wearing a pair of blue latex gloves. He took her shampoo, her conditioner, her sunblock, her body lotion. He threw them all in the trash.
“I’ll send it through again now,” he said, zipping the bag shut. “Should be okay. You wait here.”
She waited. She tried to look as if she’d known how to pack liquids for air travel and had simply forgotten, but her ears grew hot. She was angry at the waste. She felt small and inexperienced.
The plane was cramped, with plasticky seats worn down by years of use, but Jule enjoyed the flight. The view was exciting. It was a cloudless day. The shoreline curved down the coast, brown and green.
Her hotel was opposite the harbor in Oak Bluffs. It was a Victorian building with white trim. Jule left her suitcase in the room and walked a few blocks to Circuit Avenue. The town was filled with vacationers. There were a couple of shops with nice clothing. Jule needed clothes; she had the Visa gift cards, and she knew what looked good on her, but she hesitated.
She watched the women as they walked by. They wore jeans or short cotton skirts and open-toe sandals. Faded colors and navy blue. Their bags were fabric, not leather. Their lipstick was nude and pink, never red. Some wore white pants and espadrilles. Their bras didn’t show. They wore only the smallest earrings.
Jule took out her hoops and tucked them in her bag. She returned to the shops, where she bought a pair of boyfriend jeans, three cotton tank tops, a long flowing cardigan, espadrilles, and a white sundress. Then a shoulder bag made of canvas printed with gray flowers. She paid with the card and got cash from a machine.
Standing on the street corner, Jule transferred her ID and money, makeup and phone to the new bag. She called her phone’s billing service and arranged payment with the Visa number. She called her roommate, Lita, and left a voice mail saying she was sorry.
At the hotel, Jule worked out, showered, and put on the white dress. She blew her hair out in loose waves. She needed to find Imogen, but it could wait until the next day.
She walked to an oyster bar that looked onto the harbor and asked for a lobster roll. When it arrived, it wasn’t what she expected. It was nothing but lobster chunks in mayonnaise on a toasted hot dog bun. She had imagined it would be something more elegant.
She asked for a plate of french fries and ate those instead.
It was strange to walk through town with nothing she needed to do. Jule ended up at the carousel. It was indoors, in a dark old building that smelled of popcorn. A sign claimed that Flying Horses was “America’s Oldest Carousel.”
She bought a ticket. It wasn’t crowded, just a few kids and their older siblings. Parents were looking at their phones in the waiting area. The music was old-fashioned. Jule chose an outside horse.
As the ride started, she noticed the guy sitting on the pony next to her. He was wiry, with developed deltoids and lats: possibly a rock climber, definitely not a weight-room guy. Some white and some Asian heritage, Jule guessed. He had thick black hair, a little too long. He looked like he had been out in the sun. “I’m feeling like a loser right now,” he told her as the carousel started moving. “Like this was a crazy bad idea.” His accent was general American.
Jule matched it. “How come?”
“Nausea. It hit me right away, as soon as we started moving. Blech. Also I’m the only person on this thing who’s over the age of ten.”
“Besides me.”
“Besides you. I rode this carousel once when I was a kid. My family came here on a vacation. Today I was waiting for the ferry and I had an hour to kill, so I thought—why not? For old times’ sake.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Why are you on here? Do you have a little brother or sister somewhere?”
Jule shook her head. “I like rides.”
He reached across the space between them and held out his hand. “I’m Paolo Santos. You?”
