All You Need Is Love (26 page)

Looking at the brochure, it seems obvious that I should have at least done Mrs. Dandy-Patinko the courtesy of scanning the info — after all, she’s guiding me toward the next four years of my life and all she wanted me to do was look up her aging, throwback-to-another-era (her words, not mine) brother. The front depicts a bearded man in clay-splattered overalls working seriously at a pottery wheel. Nothing super exciting there. But then, when I open it — or, um, unfold the pamphlet — Aunt Mable’s familiar print-script is there.

Took you long enough! For someone who’s so into other people’s stories, I knew you’d wait to unfold this. Now that you’ve taken the first step, the next is to visit Tink (not the fairy in Peter Pan). If you relax and let summer come to you instead of running after it, you’ll enjoy it more. Let your cup runneth over, as they say (who the hell they are, I don’t know — but it sounds validating, doesn’t it?).

The tears never leave my eyes — yes, my eyes well up, but they don’t spill over. It’s like Mable knows — knew — me so well she knew what my reaction would be and I’m appreciative of her insights. But Tink? I’m confused for all of three seconds until I flip to the other side of the page and find Watson Pantinko’s address c/o Menemsha Potters. Patinko=Tink. Got it. I am my own detective! Mable and I once joked about becoming private eyes — not in the gruesome televised way but in the film noire, black stockings, tweed suits, dramatic music way. Now, I’m kind of getting to do that. Except barefooted.

I stand up, strap Jim in (fake boyfriend or not, I’ll keep him safe on the road), and feel totally ready to leave behind Crescent Beach, Hadley Hall people, and another night’s assumptions. I rummage around for my flip-flops.

Of course, I find two flip-flops, but they don’t match. One is black-soled with orange strappy things (or whatever you call the toe-parts of flip-flops) and one is from an old outing with Aunt Mable, black with a red fake flower in the middle. At least they are right and left footed, so I slide them on and drive, aware that when I walk around with these shoes, it will look like I’m making a statement about myself. Either I’m artsy and different, or dorky and disheveled, but no one will know just by looking that I didn’t brush my teeth the night before, that I believe it’s possible to like The Clash singing Spanish Bombs and Madonna’s Borderline equally, that my car is crammed with summer stuff for my job at Slave to the Grind II (Mable’s soon to be renamed café), and that I am actively forgetting a boy named Jacob and actively seeking summer distractions. Or, as Arabella likes to call them — SFs — summer friends, summer flings, summer…whatevers. I’m supposed to relax and let summer find me, right? Then again, what can you tell about people by their exteriors, their school sweatshirts, their houses, their mis-matching shoes?

In order to bring my car to Martha’s Vineyard, I had to get reservations months ago. And in choosing to go to Crescent Beach yesterday, I lost my spot. So now I’m faced with that ever-adult issue of taking responsibility for my own actions (read: leading with the ticket people to get me on a boat now).

“You can go stand-by,” the ticket guy says from behind the safety of the glass wall. Clearly the people who design ticket booths must know that irate customers need the barrier.

“But I have to get there today. Like, now,” I say and then hate myself for saying like. It only makes me sound more petty and annoying and it doesn’t get me any closer to the island where my job, friend, and life await my arrival.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Ticket Master says and checks something on the computer screen to make it seem like he’s got many more issues to take care of other than my little mishap. “But the fact is you gave up your space.”

“But I called, I asked about trading….”

“This is a ferry operation, not a baseball card swap,” he says, weary of me and my whining. “Here.” He hands me a slip of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the stand-by ticket. Go back to your car, ask the parking lot attendant where to go and get in line.”

“Will I be on the next ferry?” I ask, clutching the piece of paper like it’s the Wonka golden ticket.

“You’ll be lucky to get there by dusk,” he says and directs me out the door.

Two hours and three ferries later, I’m pulling an album cover stance (Knees bent, hair down, tank top and sunglasses on) and sitting on the hood of my crumbly, rusting Saab and debating the merits of hot dog versus just onion rings, people watching and trying not to get burned. As predicted, the sun came out full blast right when I got in line and — since you can’t leave your car and my a/c is broken (or correction, never worked in the first place) — I am slowly turning shades of pink.

“You are in so much trouble,” says the voice on the other end of my cell phone. Thankfully, the voice belongs to English and energetic Arabella Piece, who is kidding. “Don’t worry — I covered for you. It meant I worked a double shift but when you didn’t show up I figured there must be a really good reason.”

“Well, thanks, Bels — I owe you one,” I say and hop down from the hood to look for some SPF for my face and arms.

“So,” she says, “Give me the dirt — what’s so important that you had to miss your ferry and your first day of work?”

I shake my head like she can see me. “Nothing. It turns out — nothing.”

“Thank you for that electrifying and informative debriefing…now, speaking of debriefing…”

“Oh, God, Arabella, what’d you do now?” I ask and smile.

Arabella laughs. “I’m tossing my hair around and giggling into the mirror like I’m at a press conference,” she says. “But like I’d say to the media — no comment.”

“So you’re not going to tell me anything?” I ask and wonder what — or whom — Arabella is doing across the bay.

“Let’s just put it this way: if you want a summer fling, you’ll definitely get one,” she says. “I might just have a couple. Oh — and Chris called here since he couldn’t reach you on your cell phone.”

“Is he okay?” I look at my phone and pat it like it’s a puppy. “There was no reception at Crescent Beach.” And not much of anything else, I might add.

“He’s fine — I think — but he said he has a change of plans.”

“Oh, how mysterious…” I say and wish Chris were here to add levity and grace to my day. But Chris isn’t here. He’s on his way to visit his first real boyfriend, Alistair, who will probably turn out to be perfect. And Chris deserves that. But I wish they could have their romance closer to the East Coast. Then he and I could hang out with Chili Pomroy — the ultra-hip soon-to-be-Hadley student who of course summers on the Vineyard with her artist scene parents. “Have you seen Chili? She only got there last night but she was going to drop by the café.”

“No — not yet. But I’m breathless with anticipation.” Arabella cracks. She doesn’t so much have an issue with Chili, but I think she resents the idea of someone else taking up my time. It’s like even the bounds of friendship are tested by time-suckage — jobs, guys, other friends — we’ll have to see how it all pans out. Arabella coughs and lets the words rush out of her mouth, “Now — I have to run. Henry’s helping me finish some things here and then we’re going out to lunch with Tyler, Jason, Lissa, Jay Daventree and that lot.”

I remember Henry’s preppy posse vaguely but it’s odd that Arabella is so entrenched in life there already and I’m not there yet.

“So you’re not at Henry’s now?” I ask. From our conversations a while ago I thought Arabella had taken up residence at Henry Randall’s quaint seaside mansion.

“I was — but I’m not now, no. We’re — I’m at the flat above the café — our place. Yours and mine. See you soon!”

“Who’s there with you?” I ask but Arabella’s already clicked off, being the quick-hanger upper that she is. Of course she could be alone or she could have some summer fling there or she could have gotten together with Henry. And would that be a problem? I think about this as the next ferry comes in, sounds its low whistle, boards cars (not mine) and people (not me) and leaves.

Arabella could date Henry — it’s not like I ever did or really wanted to. But maybe I do like him — or could. Or maybe I’m romantically challenged. If I’m really honest, Henry has lurked in the background as sort of a back-up guy. Not in a mean way, like I know I could have him and I’ll just string him along, but more like he’s sweet and steady and since there’s pretty much a clean slate there (save for him thinking I’m older than I really am — as Dad says, one lie breeds another — and Henry assumed I was an undergrad at Brown University and I never bothered to correct him. Just like Jacob did with me and his “visitor”. Oh well.). Anyway, even though there have been no romantic overtures from Henry or from me toward him, I guess the truth is I’m not so psyched about anyone else dating him either. Including Arabella.

“You — black Saab — you’re on, go!” The parking attendant shouts at me and waves me into the line of cars moving toward the gaping mouth of the ferry. I quickly jump in, start my engine and go slowly up the ramp and onto the boat that will carry me toward my summer.

The cars are all parked in lines on the lowest level of the ferry boat and after I’ve locked up, I climb the metal staircase up to the next level, then up again until I’m on the top deck. The snack bar line is too long to contend with so I take my lukewarm fizzy water (I am slowly developing an addiction to carbonated water) outside.

Rows of plastic blue chairs are bolted to the deck and passengers lounge with their canvas tote bags (some monogrammed, others plain) while seagulls careen and dive for food and little kids run around shrieking. A nice June scene. Sipping the tepid liquid, I make a quick call to my dad, leaving a message that lets him know I’m alive and well and Vineyard-bound. It’s a shame to ruin the tranquility (if you can call screeches from the gulls and loud, whiny toddlers tranquil) with my phone, but daughterly responsibility is something I keep in mind — even more so now because my dad has made the brilliant decision that I should board at Hadley this fall rather than live in my quasi-day student life at home on campus.

But this, and college, and everything else are fading into the distance as the mainland recedes and the island is nearly in view. It’s amazing to think that such a small piece of land can hold so much for me — I go to the railing and squint to see the houses that dot the outskirts of the island. Grey shingled massive mansions that are casually referred to as cottages, sweet Victorian houses painted bright colors, a lighthouse, and lots of buoys and moorings and fishing boats. Possibly, Charlie is on one of these. Possibly, he could think of me from time to time — or possibly, I am dreaming. Plus, even though Charlie is without a doubt one of the hottest people ever to walk the planet (or crawl) he is also a guy who lured me in, got me hooked (just to really play up the fishing imagery, since he is in fact, a fisherman) and left me beached (okay, that’ maybe too whale-liked). So we had one fun night together last fall. So he’s obviously a smart guy with a clever wit. So I recently saw him again in Harvard Square (a sighting for which I have no explanation). So I then bumped into him again by the ferry and he was nice. And still hot. It doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t mean anything except that I am hoping (hoping=counting on) bumping into him again at some point.

Of course, some point to me means maybe this week or in the first few weeks I’m on the Vineyard. Not, like the reality, as I’m walking back to my car. The mumbly voice on the speaker announced that passengers who drove need to go back to their cars, so, like the licensed lemming I am, I follow all of the passengers and their totes and toddlers back down the metal steps towards the car level and only then do I spot Charlie and his truck.

Okay — I never really pictured myself as a girl who would be drawn to a guy with a pick-up, but then again maybe that’s because I don’t live in Texas or some place where owning trucks or driving them is standard. At prep school, everyone’s carless. And even though some of the kids I go to school with own fancy cars already, or have a chauffeur, the Vineyard scene is much lower key. Famous people and their flocks, old money and their minions, drive beat up old Jeeps from the late seventies or walks around in faded jeans or khakis fraying at the hems. It’s the worn in rich look — like I’m so moneyed or cultured I don’t need a label or outfit to prove otherwise. That said, Charlie’s truck is clearly a working truck, not a rich kid hand-me-down, and his fishing gear and various tools in the back are all roped down.

My heart races as I debate saying hello or hiding in my car. I want to bump into him, but I want to bump into him when I look decent or at least have showered off the sludge and sand and party remains from last night. So basically the ideal situation would be to bump into him when I’m already dressed to go out elsewhere — like Arabella and I are walking down Main Street heading to meet Henry and his friends. Yeah, like that. But since I can’t create the bump-into, I decide I’ll go over and say hi now. Besides, he’s probably not interested in me and he’s the only person I’ve ever had stand me up — so.

So I walk over, sucking in my stomach to squeeze through the miniscule spaces between vehicles, and manage to bonk myself with only one side-mirror and one bumper as I try to cross over into the line where Charlie’s truck is parked near a metal post. I get to the side of the truck and slow my stride. Sure, we’re about to dock and yes I’ve got to get back to my car but I walk past the cab and put my hand on the driver’s side window to say hello.

“Hi,” I say in a bland but friendly way so that Charlie can do nothing but interpret my greeting as an island hello.

“Ah, hi,” says the hippie chic girl in the passenger seat. “How’s it going?”

I stammer and then manage, “Good.” I can’t help but stare at her — she’s got turquoise earrings and a deep tan that make me think of an Eagles’ song Mable used to sing —
I like the way your sparkling earrings lay against your skin so brown
…But anyway, earth to Love.

“Are you looking for Charlie?” Hippie asks, somehow able to make a threadbare faded red tee-shirt seem as elegant as an evening gown. Note to self: must shower and attempt cleanliness.