Friday Morning
Bess and Palmer sit on a bench in the hallway of the casino, surrounded by the club’s famed latticework. They’re donning their choicest of tennis whites, as white must be worn on these courts. It’s a rule.
Palmer is gently kicking at her racquet while surveying the damp red clay outside. She’s in a one-piece dress, which is both retro and stunningly modern. Bess has on an old skirt and a top borrowed from Cissy. On this trip she did not pack for sport.
As Palmer sighs, Bess checks her watch for a fifth time, and then a sixth. It’s been raining steadily all morning. Though the club boys stand ready by the door, poised to brush the courts as soon as the weather breaks, Bess is certain there’ll be no tennis today. It isn’t the worst development. She’s not really in the mood for getting beaten.
“Should we go?” Bess asks. “The weather doesn’t look too promising.”
“Let’s wait a teensy bit longer,” Palmer says. “I’m dying to play! It’s been ages. Golly I miss it.”
Bess fiddles with her pullover. This she brought from California, though she originally purchased it here. A decade or so old, it bears the Sconset Casino insignia: two crossed racquets with a seagull above. SCA, EST. 1899. It’s one of Bess’s favorite pieces of clothing, because it reminds her of Cliff House, of Sconset, and of her family. Grandma Ruby had the same one. The girl at the reservation desk does, too. They haven’t changed the style since forever.
“I guess we can wait,” Bess says. “But I have a crapload to do back at the house.”
“Understood. But come on!” Palmer nudges her leg. “We’ve barely spent any time together. What are you doing when you’re not helping Cissy pack anyway?”
“Waiting for tennis courts to dry?”
Palmer rolls her eyes, an act as rare as a pink dolphin.
“No. Seriously,” she says. “You can’t be working all the time. I know Aunt Cissy’s not!”
“You’ve got that right. Well, I’ve been doing a lot at the house. Alone. Thanks for the assist, Mom. And…” Bess pauses, she waits, she turns it over in her head. “This is kind of random, but I’ve also been seeing…”
Been seeing? It sounds wrong, like an exaggeration of what’s really gone on. Of course, Bess has seen Evan, multiple times, when taking a very literal view of things.
“Seeing what?” Palmer asks, her interest now snagged.
“Er, I’ve hung out with Evan some,” Bess says. “You know, my high school boyfriend? Lived across the road?”
“Of course I remember Evan Mayhew. Hotter and sweeter than a peach cobbler straight out of the oven. Whew. Lucky girl. See? What did I say? You’ve already found someone else. And he’s quite the someone else. Hubba hubba.”
“Hubba hubba?”
“Nice work, cuz. Way to get after it.”
“Please!” Bess says, and whops her on the leg. “I’m not ‘getting after’ anything. We’re friends and I live in San Francisco, remember? Plus, I’m too smart to make the same mistake twice.”
Bess blushes, though Palmer has no idea she’s using Evan’s signature line.
“It’s been fun,” she adds. “Catching up. Getting advice from one of the few who truly understands my mom. And he’s helped me pack.”
“Helped you pack? Ooh-la-la. Sounds so very friendly.”
“Knock it off, P.”
“Whatever.” Palmer blows a long, straight, wispy strand of blond hair from her explosively blue eyes.
“It’s nothing,” Bess insists, though Palmer didn’t ask her to.
“Fine,” Palmer says. “If you don’t like hot guys, I really can’t help you. I’m sure he has a girlfriend anyway.”
Bess bristles at this borderline rude, entirely fair statement. She exhales.
“Probably,” Bess concedes, though her hackles are still up. “He hasn’t mentioned anyone specifically. But I saw him with some woman at the market.”
“Oh, well. You should probably ask where they’re registered,” Palmer jokes. “First stop Sconset Market, next stop the aisle. How do you know it was a girlfriend? Were they making out in front of overpriced cheese?”
“No. Nothing like that. They weren’t obvious about it.” Bess recalls how they looked between the slots in the bike rack. Her knees throb as if she’s still crouched. “She could be a friend. They weren’t holding hands or anything. Also she wasn’t that pretty.”
Palmer snorts.
“Someone’s jealous.”
“I’m not jealous! It’s just a fact.”
“I’m not sure I buy that one, sweetie,” Palmer says, and pops up onto her feet. “You still have a thing for him. Who wouldn’t?”
She moves toward the windows. The floor moans despite Palmer’s slight weight. At once Bess is filled with gratitude for this place, which most owners would’ve tried to update by now. It’s creaky and warped and vaguely musty, last renovated ninety years ago. Only the locker rooms have changed, and not by much. Truly, the place is approaching the last stop of charmingville, refurbishtown straight ahead. Dozens of weddings are held at the casino every year, but Bess thinks there must be twice as many couples who eliminate the venue because the main room is too dark. But all that wood looks gorgeous when decked out with white tables and chairs, twinkle lights strung overhead.
“Dang it,” Palmer says, peering through the glass. “More clouds are rolling in. Why don’t you ask him?”
“Ask him what? If he has a girlfriend?” Bess makes a face. “I can’t.”
“Why not? It’s an ordinary question. You get a pedicure and they bring it up fifty-seven times. You have boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” Bess says. “I could’ve a few days ago but now it’d be weird. We’ve spent a lot of time together.”
Palmer jerks her head in Bess’s direction. Her ponytail flicks against the glass.
“Oh, realllly? How much time? Do tell.”
“Hours. Half a day. We’ve had a lot of … intense conversations. It’d be like screwing some dude and then asking for his name.”
“You guys did it?!”
Palmer turns all the way to face Bess, her skirt fanning out behind her. The court-brushing boys are straining themselves to eavesdrop, albeit not owing to any interest in Bess’s love life. They’ve likely never heard a grown woman refer to sex as “doing it.”
“Shhh!” Bess says, laughing. “No we didn’t do it. I was using a metaphor.”
“Heck of a metaphor. Does he know about Brandon?”
Bess nods.
“And the…”
Palmer rubs her fingers together. Is she making the sign for money? Bess is perplexed. Then again, the women were paid, so …
“If you’re referring to the hookers, then yes,” she says.
“And the…”
Palmer makes a hammering motion.
“Construction? Tools?”
“The abuse,” Palmer stage-whispers.
Bess reddens all the way to her hairline. The boys gawp and scuffle away.
“Okay, it really wasn’t.” Bess mimics the pounding. “I mean, not in the usual way.”
“Humph,” answers Palmer.
“And yes I told him Brandon was a jerk, more or less. He even knows about the—”
The words are partway up Bess’s throat but she swallows them back down. Evan knows about the pregnancy. But aside from Bess and Brandon, he’s the only one.
Though Palmer is her go-to confidant, Bess has to be careful what she tells her. Not because Palmer would spill a secret in a million years or for a million dollars. No, it’s something else, something not even Bess fully understands. Things seem to go awry when Palmer is in on a secret. To tell her is like writing it in a journal. It doesn’t become public but the mere act forces you to confront the truth. And sometimes the truth is ugly, uglier yet when compared to Palmer.
“He knows about everything,” Bess says, before Palmer can press for more. “At this point it’d be odd to spring the ‘do you have a girlfriend’ question. That’s like lame high-school-reunion banter.”
“I guess.” Palmer shrugs. “I’d still ask him though.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Invite him tonight,” she says casually, as she digs around in her tennis bag for some lip balm.
“To Flick’s pre-wedding party?”
“Yeah, sure! Why not? If he has a girlfriend, he probably has plans. But what if he comes? Maybe…” Palmer wiggles her brows.
“Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Then she thinks, just as Palmer said, Maybe.
“Is she still having a party?” Bess says.
She can’t invite him, can she? It’d be strange.
“Even in the rain?”
“It’s supposed to clear,” Palmer says, forever optimistic. “Anyway, a little drizzle never killed anyone.”
Suddenly there’s a crack of thunder. A streak of lightning shoots across the sky.
“A little drizzle?”
“Oh poo,” Palmer says, glowering at the courts, which are now getting a proper soak. “I really wanted to hit!”
“It’s for the best,” Bess says, and stands to join her. “I need to make progress at the house.”
“You need to make progress all right.”
Palmer latches on to Bess’s elbow and guides her toward the door.
“But it has nothing to do with that house,” she says. “Let’s scrap tennis. Cliff House, too. I’m taking you to town. We need new outfits for tonight. If you dress the right way, who knows, maybe you’ll get to do it after all.”