He turns to Ms. English, aghast. He can’t believe people aren’t more considerate. He has a hazy understanding that twins are a lot of work, but don’t the parents realize someone has to clean this up? A human being? He feels like he should apologize to Ms. English, like the state of the room is somehow his fault. He realizes how much he misses working with Bibi. If she saw this, she would call the guests every profane word she knows （and she knows a bunch）， and they would both feel better.
Ms. English merely snaps on a new pair of gloves. “Okay, Long Shot,” she says. “Let’s get to work.”
Thirty minutes later, the room is sparkling clean. There are fresh sheets on the bed; the cribs have been broken down and stored; the rug has been vacuumed; the food remnants have been thrown away and the ants along with them; the puddle in the bathroom is mopped up; the towels have been replaced; the sink, tub, and toilet are scrubbed. The minibar has been emptied, cleaned, and restocked. The hangers have been counted, the robes placed on the back of the bathroom door, the blow-dryer checked, the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotion refilled. It’s so satisfying, Chad thinks, restoring this room to glory. He’s almost glad he’s no longer friends with Bryce and Eric, because they wouldn’t understand this feeling.
Paddy might understand. In the summers, he ran a lawn-mowing business in his hometown of Grimesland, North Carolina. He kept a push mower in the back of his Ford Ranger and drove to his clients’ homes—most of them ranches or saltboxes that would fit into Chad’s living room—and cut the grass, fifteen bucks for front and back. He did five or six lawns a day and put all his money in the bank so he’d have it to spend at Bucknell, but even then he had to be careful and sometimes he stayed home rather than go out to Bull Run, although Chad always offered to spot him.
Chad closes his eyes. The best part about working with Bibi is that he never has time to think about Paddy or wonder if Paddy is healed enough to go back to mowing lawns and look over the grass, striped with diagonal lines, and feel proud of his handiwork.
Normally, Chad is done with work around five, but today he and Ms. English don’t finish until after six. Lizbet has let them know that the boats are up and running again, and there are some pretty unhappy people waiting in the lobby for their rooms to be ready. From the five checkouts combined, there are sixty-five dollars in tips, which Ms. English presses into Chad’s hand, despite his protests.
“I don’t want it,” he says. “You take it.”
This makes Ms. English laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Long Shot.”
Chad stuffs the bills into the front pocket of his khakis. “I’ll give it to Bibi tomorrow.”
“To Bibi?” Ms. English says. “She didn’t earn it. She got a day off.”
But she needs it, Chad thinks.
“I hope you and Bibi aren’t getting romantically involved,” Ms. English says. “I don’t want to have to worry about you two alone in the rooms.”
Chad feels his face redden. The idea of fooling around with Bibi in one of the rooms makes him very uncomfortable. He wishes Ms. English hadn’t said that; he’s afraid it will be all he thinks about tomorrow, and if he’s awkward around Bibi, she’ll notice.
“No way,” he says. “Nothing like that.”
“But you brought her peaches,” Ms. English says, and she winks.
Chad has no interest in going home to face his father, so he delays the inevitable with a drive through town. It’s a summer evening on Nantucket and there are couples strolling into galleries for openings and a well-dressed mob crowding the hostess lectern at the Boarding House. Chad sees a group of—well, for lack of a better term—Chads walking right down the middle of the street, cutting off traffic without any consideration for the drivers, heading （he’s certain） to drink at the Gazebo, where they will order their vodka sodas and talk trash about their father’s boats, their golf handicaps, and girls.
Chad used to be one of those guys but he isn’t any longer, and he’s glad. He loops around and heads for home.
He’s driving out Eel Point Road when something catches his eye. It’s the gunmetal-gray Jeep Gladiator that Ms. English drives, parked in the driveway of number 133. The house is huge, even bigger than the Winslows’ home, and it’s closer to the water. Chad slows down. He’s pretty sure his parents considered buying number 133 as an investment property and renting it out for fifty or sixty grand a week until they eventually gifted it to Leith or Chad.