Sam peers at her, maybe deciding whether or not to believe her. Finally Sam sighs. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, I guess so. Because it’s your sister’s birthday. But really, I’m trusting you. Please don’t post it. Can I trust you?”
“Definitely. You can definitely, one hundred percent trust us.”
The girl motions to her sisters, and they get up and join, and they crouch around Sam’s chair, and Middle lifts her phone high above all of them, and as if given a cue they make identical pout-smiles and hold them, and click. Well, there’s no click, obviously, phones are silent, but there is the feeling of a click.
“Ohmygod, thank you,” says Youngest. Middle nods. Eldest seems too overcome to do anything. She might, Timothy realizes, be crying.
“I can’t believe it,” stammers Eldest.
“You made our night,” agrees Middle.
“You made our whole vacation.” (This is Youngest.)
“I can’t believe what she did to you,” says Middle. “Evil Alice. She is the worst, the total and absolute worst.”
(Who is Alice? wonders Timothy. And why is she evil?)
“Literally the worst,” concurs Eldest, who has regained her composure enough to join in the conversation.
“Oh, well,” says Sam with demureness and elegance. “It’s okay. It’s all behind me now. But thank you for saying that. I’m taking a break, and it’s been really good for me.”
(What’s all behind Sam? Timothy doesn’t know, but he sees something in Sam’s look, a flash of vulnerability, an arrow in her armor.)
Eldest nods some more, until Middle says, “Comeon,Olivia,” and tugs at the sleeve of Eldest’s denim jacket and they all bid Sam goodbye and thank her numerous times. As they repair to their table they give the impression of commoners backing away from royalty.
Timothy hears one of the girls say, “Katie, will you send that to me?” and he hears Katie reply, “Okay, I’m AirDropping it now.” (What, Timothy wonders, is AirDropping? Sounds dangerous.)
“Well!” says Sam. She looks faintly flushed, somewhat exhilarated. She smiles at him. “Should we get dessert?” Timothy wonders if she’s thinking of the cheesecake they used to share at Junior’s after Wednesday evening performances ofMockingbird.That was one of his favorite parts of that Broadway run.
But the evening has changed. It has. Where once it was smooth, now it’s rough; where flat and open, now dotted with potholes and land mines. Everything feels different after the interaction with the sisters from the other table.
“I don’t think I have room for dessert,” he says, more shortly than he means to, and then, because Sam looks disappointed, he adds, “But you can, if you want. You definitely can. You should get something.” He calls over the server, requests the dessert menu.
“It’s verbal,” says the server, his eyes on Sam. “Let’s see. Crème brûlée. And three flavors of gelat—”
“That’s okay,” says Sam. She smiles. “Thank you, but you don’t have to go through the list. Now that I think about it I’m too full too. Let’s call it a night.”
Check, credit card, signature: Timothy busies himself with allof this, and Sam offers to pay her share, and he tells her not to be silly, and then they thread their way through the other porch tables, past the bar and the hostess stand and the seating area, where two couples are enjoying pre- or post-dinner drinks, until at last they are standing at the top of the hill, looking over the Adirondack chairs and the visible slice of the island. The sun hasn’t yet set, but it’s on its way, and there are streaks of pink and orange reaching across the sky.
They stand for a moment, admiring, and Timothy tries to regain his grasp on the evening, and then Sam says, “Okay, Mother Nature, we get it. You’re flexing.” She takes out her phone from her small cross-body bag and snaps a picture of the sky.
(What does it mean for Mother Nature to be flexing?Timothy’s hold slips. He grunts. He hates phrases he doesn’t understand.)
“You got grumpy.” Sam’s elbow reaches out and taps his playfully.
“I’m not grumpy,” he says grumpily.
“Is it because of those girls? It seems like your mood turned after that.”
“No. Of course not.” He shakes his head irritably, trying, perhaps, to dislodge the nugget of truth from what Sam is saying. He’s ashamed that she’s seen through him so easily. “You didn’t drive here, did you?”
Sam shakes her head. “I don’t have a car, remember? Gertie dropped me off on the way to her plans.”
“I’ll get you home, if you’re going home. I’m parked over here.” He points toward the parking lot behind the hotel. He still sounds more truculent than he wants to.
“I’m going home,” she says. “I think. At least for now. If I go out, it’ll be later.” Timothy supposes that her Red Bulls will allow for that. Ah, indefatigable youth. “But I can walk, if you’re mad or whatever. You don’t have to drive me.”
Timothy is thrown. What has happened to their night? “I’mnot mad or whatever! I’m not mad. I’m not whatever,” he says, willing it to be true. But indeed, he’s starting to feel both madandwhatever. “It’s going to get dark soon. You’re not walking up the hill and all the way home. There’s no shoulder on that road! You’ll get flattened by a moped.”
