“But you’ve been at my house for nearly a week,” says George.
“That’s where my socks and underwear are. In that bottom shelf thingy in your guest room.”
“You left all your underthings for my mom to find?”
“Not on purpose!” Pfeff laughs. “Oh god. I need to get underwear somehow.”
“You can wash it,” says Major. “There’s a machine in the cottage.”
“But what if I forget one night?” says Pfeff. “What if I forget and then I have only used underwear to wear? Tipper will know.”
“She will,” says Major.
“She’ll smell me,” says Pfeff, still laughing. “Or even if she doesn’t smell me, she’ll have like a second sense that I’m a filthy creep who doesn’t belong on her island.”
I see my chance and take it. “I can bring you to Edgartown,” I call over. “Solve all your problems.”
“Oh no.” Pfeff clutches George comically. “Carrie was eavesdropping.”
“You were talking loudly about your underwear in my immediate vicinity,” I say.
“Is Edgartown where the bookstore is?” asks Pfeff. “Where I have my gift card I got for being a lemon god?”
“Mm-hm. There are lots of shops.”
“Yeah, okay. Can we go tomorrow?”
I sit up. “Sure.”
“What time is good?”
“Eleven,” I tell him. “Meet me on the dock.”
Pfeff stands. “I’ll be there.” He picks up a croquet mallet from the lawn. “Now I’m going to make Major play croquet, since he won’t play tennis.”
“I’ll play croquet,” says Major. “Croquet doesn’t make you sweat, so it’s in line with my leisure agenda.”
I lie back and look at the stars again.
What a magical boy. A boy with lemons in his pockets. A boy in flip-flops, who needs a haircut. Who says “butthole” to my mother, to correct for the rudeness of saying “weenies.” A college boy, or a nearly college boy, who kissed me tonight, and might kiss me again.
We are going for a boat ride.
23.
MOST EVERYONE HAS left the lawn and I am heading back into the house when I spot my father down on the end of the dock. He’s with the dogs: Wharton, McCartney, Albert, and Uncle Dean’s Lab, Reepicheep. He is bent over, doing something in the moonlight, wearing a dark sweater over his white clothes.
I turn and head down there. I haven’t forgotten the photograph in my mother’s jewelry drawer, and it is rare to get him alone. I want to ask him about it.
He’s pulled up a loose board. “Needs repair,” Harris says when I get close. “This thing has rusty nails sticking out of it.” He sets the board down on the edge of the dock. “I’m sure it’s not the only one. I should probably have the whole thing looked at.”
I’m not interested in his real estate maintenance, but I glance at the old board in pretense. “It’s warped,” I say.
“There are lots like that. The storms we had this spring really did a number on the island.” Harris sits down in one of the two Adirondack chairs we have stationed on the dock. His glass of whiskey, ice melting, rests on one arm. “Did you have fun tonight?”
“I did.”
“Your mother got cross with me because I didn’t hunt.”
I nod. It’s a typical dynamic between the two of them. “She wants all her work to be appreciated with full participation.”
“I appreciate it. I just don’t need to look for lemons like a schoolboy.” He chuckles. “Dean went all-out hunting. He’s kissing up to her after bringing all those guests.”
“Is she going to forgive him?”
“Dean does whatever he wants in the moment and charms people later. That’s his modus operandi,” says my father. “They always forgive him.” Albert comes up with a tennis ball in his mouth and drops it. “Okay, you beasties,” Harris says to the dogs. He stands up again with the ball. “You ready?”
They are.
He winds up, pretends to throw it, laughs at their confusion. Then he really throws it, and all four dogs hurl themselves into the ocean, paddling urgently toward the ball. Harris looks at me. “They are indefatigable,” he says. “It never ceases to amaze.” The dogs come out and he throws the tennis ball again.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say.
“You may.” He winks, to take the edge off correcting my grammar.