NINE

Ted tapped at the steering wheel, the car idling in the driveway, as Heddy arranged the last of the beach bags into the trunk. He turned around to see what was taking Jean-Rose so long, the kids playing tag in the grass. “Could we get there sometime this century?”

It was Heddy’s day off, tonight was her date with the waiter, and she wanted—no, needed—to talk to Ted. She’d rehearsed her speech while lying next to Anna as the sun rose. The child had woken her early after having a bad dream and fallen asleep beside her, and as she watched Anna’s little back rising and falling, the hot tangle of hair stuck to the nape of her neck, she decided today was the day to ask Ted for a loan. If she didn’t return to school and earn her degree, she wouldn’t just disappoint herself, she’d crush her mother. Plus, there were so many things she still wanted to do on campus, and leaving early meant missing out on opportunities, like writing for the Wellesley News. She couldn’t stomach it.

Unfortunately, now that he was before her, mussing up his hair and adjusting his aviator glasses, she stared at the orange stripes of his golf shirt, her mind coming up blank.

“This probably isn’t the best time, but…” She paused.

Ted leaned out the window. “Yes, Heddy.” He tapped the slit where the window rolled down, waiting for her to say something, and still she couldn’t make the words come out. Can I have a loan? I’ll pay you back, with interest, of course.

“I was wondering if— Well, if you might give me a… um, well it’s complicated…” She paused, sucked in her breath. “It’s Teddy. Can you get him his own fishing pole?”

He motioned to the garage. “You can use one in there.”

“No, a child’s pole.”

“I’ll check the hardware store.” The children climbed into the car, Jean-Rose slammed her door shut, and Ted backed the Bonneville out of the driveway. Heddy closed her eyes, even as the children waved goodbye. Asking him for money had felt wrong, like a breach of contract. She didn’t want to ask anybody for anything.

With the family gone, she stepped into the kitchen. Ruth padded around upstairs, Heddy leaned against the sink and sipped from the triangular opening of a large can of pineapple juice. It felt good to be alone, even if the house sagged without the children’s voices echoing through the well-decorated rooms. In the silent living room, she noticed small cracks in the plaster shooting off like veins from the ceiling medallion. The tapestry ottoman’s leg had a spot where the mahogany finish had rubbed off. Heddy let her eyes follow the crown molding, the bookshelves that flanked the fireplace. There were model ships of all sizes, some tucked into clear glass bottles with necks so narrow Heddy wondered how they got inside. On another shelf was a thick stack of records. Music. That would quell the loneliness gathering like Ted’s cigar smoke.

Heddy sat with her legs crossed on the plush oriental carpet and flipped through the album covers. Ella Fitzgerald, Fabian, Elvis Presley. She slid Little Eva’s “The Loco-Motion” out of the cover, balancing the smooth edges of the vinyl in her fingertips, and placed it on the turntable. She lowered the needle down with a steady hand, careful not to make any scratches. The singer’s perky voice sounded out, and Heddy turned up the dial on the record player so it filled the vacant rooms.

Ruth bounded down the stairs. “I love this song.”

“There you are! It’s creepy in here when it’s quiet.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Making my way through the bedrooms.”

“You want help?”

“Really? Would you make the bed in the master?” Ruth grabbed a cleaning spray from the kitchen.

Heddy had never been in Jean-Rose’s bedroom. The room smelled stale, a musky mix of Chanel Nº5, Old Spice, and a night of sleep. She set her sights on the mahogany four-poster bed. Pulling taut the white cotton sheets, Heddy noticed the sheet was kicked down on one side and only one pillow indented, like a thumbprint cookie. The trash can overflowed with crumpled tissues.

In the adjoining sunroom, several pieces of stained glass hung in a bay window. She’d seen the room from the back lawn—it jutted out from the rest of the house like a jewel, ornate spindles carved into the outside trim—and inside, a plush chaise was positioned in front of the windows, offering a glimpse of the sea. Someone had crudely folded a set of sheets, tossed two pillows on the chaise. “What should I do with the stuff on the settee?”

Ruth yelled from the hall. “Stack it in Ted’s closet.”

On her way to the closet, a sharp pain seared through Heddy’s toe. “Shit, shit, shit,” she yelled. She grabbed at her big toe, a puncture where an earring had stabbed her. In the bathroom, she dabbed her cut with toilet paper, sitting down at Jean-Rose’s ornate wooden vanity, an oversize mirror carved with a decorative fleur-de-lis. A large jewelry box sat on the vanity, a pale blue rectangle with three drawers and painted snowflakes on the lid. Spindly letters, written in the hand of a child, spelled out: “Jeannie.” Heddy unlatched the clasp. The top sprung open, the notes of “Someday My Prince Will Come” chiming, and a tiny figurine, an ice skater, began to spin on a single blade, her movement reflected in a tiny oval mirror.

Tiny interior compartments lined in pale blue satin each held a pair of sparkly earrings. She’d seen jewelry like this behind glass when visiting her mother at Tiffany’s, but she’d never tried any on. She picked up a large emerald earring shaped like a rounded square, a frame of tiny diamonds around it. A clip-on, it pinched Heddy’s earlobe when she closed the back. Heddy dug her finger under the feathery-light chain of a diamond pendant, fastening it around her neck. She slid a diamond eternity bracelet around her wrist, admiring the delicate circle of linked jewels.

“You little fox.” Ruth stood behind her in the bathroom, pressing a broom to her chest. “You have to see her drawer of hair accessories.”

Heddy pulled one of the tiny glass knobs, revealing a row of jeweled hair combs, and Ruth opened the next to show rows of glittering rings tucked into fabric slits. She looked at her reflection and thought how plain her headbands and ponytails seemed, how unremarkable her features. The upside was her Kelly-green tank top and short-sleeve knit matching cardigan. She’d paid less than ten cents for both pieces at the Salvation Army, but she knew they could pass muster with the girls accustomed to buying short sets at Bloomingdale’s on Fifty-Ninth Street.

She turned to Ruth. “I want to change my hair. Will you help me?”

Ruth set the broom against the wall. “Sure. Now?” When Heddy nodded, Ruth ran her fingers through Heddy’s shoulder-length mane, the way hairdressers do when they take stock of a woman’s tresses. “A trim?” Ruth opened the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out a pair of Ted’s haircutting scissors and a comb.

“Chop it. I want it short.” The shorter the hair, the harder they’ll stare, she’d overheard someone say once.

Ruth put a towel around Heddy’s shoulders. She sprayed her hair, soaking it, combing her wet hair flat against her head. “Never make a rash decision about your hair. Let’s trim it.”

“No, I want it, short. Roman Holiday short.”

Ruth grimaced. “But you’ll look like a boy.”

“I’ll look like Audrey Hepburn. Like I’m planning a trip to London, just because.”

Ruth held the scissors to the first lock. “Are you sure?”

Heddy tugged on her hair. “Come on. Before I change my mind.”

With the first snip, Heddy gasped, a long chunk of hair drifting into her lap. Ruth paused, resting her hands on Heddy’s shoulders.

“Sorry, keep going,” Heddy said.

She watched each lock fall into her lap—snip, snip, snip—clumping it in her fingers. Without all that hair, her cheekbones seemed higher, and her lips were soft and pink. Kissable. She looked kissable. When Ruth was done, she stepped back to admire her work. “It suits you. You need more eye makeup, though.”

Heddy felt the back of her neck where her hair used to hang. It was bare. The cut was girlish, framing her face perfectly, just like she’d imagined.

“I love it. Really, I do.”

Ruth put her hand on her hip. “Then why are you crying?”

Heddy wiped at her eyes, laughing. “Because it’s perfect. I belong in one of those Pepsi-Cola advertisements. ‘The sociables prefer Pepsi.’ ”

Heddy loved the spangly earrings with her short haircut, how the shape hung from her ear like a swing. “Maybe you don’t need to go to school, Ruth. Why don’t you just open a salon?”

Then everything seemed to stop. A car traveled up the gravel driveway, the unmistakable popping of rocks under tires. The truth rushed at them: They were in Jean-Rose’s bathroom, wearing her jewelry, Heddy’s hair in a pile on the tiled floor. Ruth ripped the towel off Heddy’s shoulders.

“Put those things away. I’ll sweep,” Ruth barked. They worked quickly, Heddy frantically pulling the earrings off her ears, returning them to their satin square. She unclasped the necklace, spiraling the chain back into place.

Outside, the engine turned off. “Stall them,” Ruth said, broom in hand.

Heddy closed the top of the jewelry box as beads of sweat gathered at her temples. She needed to turn down the record player, still playing the album she’d put on earlier. She didn’t think Jean-Rose would mind her putting on music, but she didn’t want to seem unhinged to her boss, who always kept the music low. Heddy took the steps two at a time, a nagging feeling that she’d forgotten something, but what?

“Morning.”

Heddy whipped around to see Ash standing on the porch. He was freshly showered, the smell of soap and aftershave wafting through the screen. “Wow. You look different.”

“Hi,” she said stupidly. She exhaled, her hands clasped behind her back; she felt Jean-Rose’s tennis bracelet slide on her wrist. She’d never returned it to the jewelry box.

“You changed your hair?”

She nodded, hoping he would say something else, while stuffing the bracelet into her shorts pocket.

“I like it,” he said.

“Thanks,” she smiled, unable to meet his eyes for a moment.

He peered behind her into the house. “I’m looking for Ted. Is he here?”

“They’re at the club.” Upstairs, Ruth was shaking out the bathroom mats, her arms out the window, slamming them against the house.

“Do you think you could leave this in his office?” Ash handed her a sealed yellow envelope. “Came to me by accident.” A postmark from Worcester, Massachusetts, Ted’s name written in messy black pen on the front.

Tucking the envelope under her arm, Heddy stepped outside the porch doors as he descended the steps. Watching him go was like watching egg white slip away from yolk, a slow unraveling, and she was determined to stop it. She sat in a pretty recline on the steps, stretching her legs the length of them. “I had fun on the surfboard,” she said.

Halfway to his car on the slate walkway, he turned. “You want to try again?”

She fluttered her eyes. “Is that an invitation?”

“You’ll be with Teddy at Katama Beach on Wednesday, right? Come back on the board. I’ll teach you.” He crouched down, reaching his hand to her cheek. She held her breath, staring at his wet hair, golden at the tips. She imagined them sitting at the high-tide mark at sunset, how his face would look serious just before he kissed her. How he’d smell like vanilla, and the salt air would nudge them closer.

“There’s some hair, from your haircut,” he said, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. He turned to leave, and she watched his truck disappear around the bend, hollow with longing.

Ruth came out on the porch and sat beside her, a dirt-streaked rag in hand. “You’re so red you look like you’ve been rubbed with Indian rocks.”

Heddy buried her eyes in her fists. “He thinks I’m nothing but ordinary.”

Ruth leaned her head on Heddy’s shoulder. “I asked around about him, you know, and I heard some things. You know, rumors.”

Heddy lowered her fists. “Like?”

“Like he needs to roll it up in Saran Wrap.”

Heddy pushed Ruth away, erupting into belly laughter. “You’re disgusting.”

Ruth played innocent. “And old Mary at the boatyard told my cousin’s friend that he has a thing for the wives.”

“Why would he waste his time?”

Ruth grabbed the cleaner. “I dunno, to convince them to buy into his development.”

“That’s outrageous. Many of them could be his mother.”

“Just telling you what I heard,” she said.

Heddy bit at the skin around her thumbnail. Her short hair. It had been for him. But what if the rumors were true?

She climbed the stairs to her room, diving headfirst onto her made bed, propping herself up by the window and staring out at the choppy water and the mainland beyond. She glanced at Ash’s cottage, feeling her bare neck; she was spending too much time thinking about this surfer who was nothing more than a flirt. In her journal, she turned to a blank page and wrote: school, school, school. She tapped the pen’s tip to the page, creating a burst of dots. Her conversation with Ted was pathetic, and she was certain she wouldn’t try again. What could she do? An image of Gigi popped into her head. Gigi, with the slick legs and big ego, digging her gaze into Heddy.

“You will fight, little girl. That’s what. Now do something.”

Heddy sat up, words coursing through her, forming an argument that she had to get on paper. She would fight. She would do exactly what the women on this island would do: Act entitled. Blame others for anything standing in her way. Before she lost her train of thought, she sat at her desk, pulling a sheet of paper from the top drawer.

Dear Members of the Financial Committee:

I am a third-year student in Wellesley College’s Department of English, and I was informed that my scholarship was revoked. It is devastating to my future, but it’s also a detriment to Wellesley.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the only student who didn’t grow up in a place like Darien or Scarsdale. I ask the committee how many students at the college come from a less affluent background? How many of your students work at the diner after school and send most of their earnings to a single mother in Brooklyn?

Here’s why you need students like me at Wellesley: I lend a different perspective to your rarefied air. Many of the women I’ve met at college are there because their parents force them through the wrought iron gates. I’m not at Wellesley to earn a “Mrs. degree,” I’m there to graduate and earn an advanced degree. I want to be a writer. Or a teacher. I’m not certain, and I think that’s okay. But what I am sure of is how much I want to learn. I want to slide into a desk chair every morning and be given the chance to dream my way out of the Brooklyn tenement where I grew up.

I ask you, respectfully, to review my transcripts one final time. You’ll see that my failing grade in biology was an anomaly. I will never make the same mistake.

She signed her name, folded the letter into thirds, and slid it into an envelope. The committee would change their minds about her. They had to.