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The Nicolet is full for this time of year. It’s six thirty P.M. on a Thursday in the middle of June, and I am starting my vacation. With my Master’s program complete, I need to relax for the summer before I worry about getting a job in the fall. I‘m going over to Davis Park, Fire Island a week later than I normally do, and this is what I get for waiting; a full ferry. I buy my ticket and board the teeming boat.
The beginning of summer brings hot and sticky temperatures. My blonde, curly hair is having some major issues in this oppressive humidity. Rather than let it poof up like a poodle, I throw it up in a ponytail. It’s days like this I wish I had thin, straight hair.
To accompany the blazing summer heat, tourists from New York City and beyond flock to the island in droves. The top deck is overflowing, along with the inside, so I stand by the back of the boat and stare out across the water. The hum of the motor is comforting, putting me in a trancelike state.
I’ve been staying at the same beach house at Davis Park every summer for as far back as I can remember. My dad took my mom and I here for a couple of weeks starting when I turned eight. He knew how much my mom loved the beach.
After twenty years as a city cop, my dad retired with enough money saved to buy the house that had once been our rental. He surprised us with the news the summer I turned fifteen. Being a detective, he was always on cases and rarely home. But, the beach was his quality time with his family. I always looked forward to my summers at Davis, and spending the lazy days with my parents.
This summer is different. I’m here not for the pleasure of listening to the tranquil sounds of the water but to go into seclusion.
I started dating Evan Gallagher almost eight years ago on my seventeenth birthday, and just over a week and a half ago, I walked in on him cheating on me with my college roommate, Brandi. It’s one thing to find out your boyfriend cheated on you, but it’s quite another to witness it firsthand.
Evan and I were together for what felt like a lifetime, but I feel nothing. I must be numb or still in shock. I was so young and naïve believing he was my happily ever after. I need to get away. Away from him. From his friends. From my friends. From everyone. I need time to be alone and wallow in self-pity. So now, I’m alone on a crowded ferry running from the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
Before I realize we’re here, the boat pulls into the ferry slip and everyone methodically exits the boat. I shuffle my belongings down the gangplank and head down the boardwalk to my summer haven. The sun slowly setting over the spilling breakers of the Atlantic Ocean, this is where I will spend the next six weeks in seclusion until I go back to reality.
It’s a typical early summer weekend, when all the urbanites from Manhattan come to the island in hordes, each ferry bringing families to their paradise on the beach. The only way over to the barrier island is by ferry or private boat, so it doesn’t get overcrowded like nearby Robert Moses or Jones Beach.
I make my way down Trustees Walk, the main boardwalk from the ferry, and turn right on to Center Walk. This old wooden boardwalk splits the island in half. To the right is the bay, and to the left the ocean. My cottage is on the ocean side.
The cottage is small compared to some of the other beach houses, but it has two stories of spectacular ocean views. Upstairs there are two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a living room/dining room, full bath and an oceanfront deck. Downstairs there’s a rear deck, an oceanfront deck with a jacuzzi, and a half bath.
The house next to me is normally rented by the Chambers’, but I heard they were subletting to some college grads that live on the North Shore. Great. Some bunch of snobby rich kids partying all week. I am not in the mood for the drama. I just want peace and quiet.
The island is only a thousand feet wide, including the beach, so the houses are very close together. If I wanted to, I could probably look across at my neighbor’s deck and read their newspaper from here.
I drop my bags in the middle of the living room. Taking a quick look around, everything is exactly as I left it last year. I can put everything away in the morning; I am in desperate need of a drink.
I am relaxing on my back deck with a glass of 2008 Didier Dagueneau Silex Sauvignon Blanc, brought back from the Loire Valley, France by said ex, when my new neighbors come down the boardwalk. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. They are obnoxiously loud. I can foresee this is going to be a problem. I walk through the sliding glass door off the deck to the front window and see five of them. Three men and two women, who have had too much to drink. They can barely stay on the boardwalk. I can tell they are coupled up, except for one of the guys.
The two couples stumble into the house, and the lone man stands on the boardwalk. I see the back of his head until he turns to get the bags his friends left sprawled on the boardwalk. Ohmigod! He is by far the most exquisite man I have ever seen. He has deep blue eyes that could penetrate your soul, dark tousled hair that falls across his forehead to the side. A strong chiseled jaw. And that mouth. My heartbeat quickens, and I catch myself holding my breath. The things I could do with that mouth. What? I dart behind the window, ashamed at myself for staring. He is preoccupied picking up the debris from the drunken tornado that just touched down and goes into the house.
I lean against the wall and let out the breath I was holding. What the hell was that? Luckily, he didn’t see me sizing him up with my eyes. I came here to mourn the death of my relationship, not drool over some Miracle Mile rich kid. The butterflies are still hovering in my stomach trying to fly out of my mouth. He is just so . . . oh, wow. Maybe this is really good wine. I shake my head trying to rid my wayward thoughts, and go back out on to the deck to finish my two hundred and forty dollar bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
It’s mid morning, and time for my daily trek down to the beach. From my house it is only about fifty steps before I hit the water, so I don’t have far to walk. I choose to go farther down the main boardwalk to avoid the day-trippers from the mainland and have the beach practically all to myself. I grab my Tommy Bahama beach chair, a towel, my iPod, and some sunscreen and make my way down toward the water.
We had a particularly bad winter this year. A Category 1 hurricane hit in September of last year and took dunes with it. The erosion was tremen
dous, and the beach is much wider because of it. The storm exposed a darker layer of sand called magnetite from underneath, which is black in color. It makes the beach even hotter than it already is, and I have to run down to the water to soothe my burning feet.
I settle into my chair to listen to Zac Brown sing about where boats leave from when my cell phone rings. Wait, I thought I left it on the kitchen table. Damn it. I am not in the mood to talk to anyone right now. I check out the caller ID and see that it’s my best friend, Brenda. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade, and I called her in a panic right after I caught Evan with his pants down. I have been avoiding her recent calls and haven’t spoken to her since.
