“I don’t know?” said Shelly. “She just wasn’t allrah rah rah, BC, you know. I’m not sure I ever saw her at football games. She was on scholarship. She studied a lot. She had some internship. She couldn’t afford to fall behind. And to see the business she’s in now? Fashion? We never would have imagined it. Her clothes back then wereveryuninteresting.” Then, musingly, like she was talking about a dream she’d had the night before, Shelly said, “Of course, she wasn’t Juliana George back then.”
“Well no, of course not,” said Taylor. “She didn’tbecomeJuliana George until she started LookBook. In the same way Phil Knight wasn’t Phil Knight until he started Nike.”
Shelly giggled. “No, I mean she really wasn’t Juliana George then. She had a different name.”
“Whoa,” said Taylor. “Wait.Whatdid you just say?”
Shelly clapped a hand over her mouth and said, “Ohmygod, I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” She looked a little panicked. “I forgot.”
“You don’t have to worry aboutme,” said Taylor. She oozed succor. “I promise. I can keep a secret. Anyway, that’s so interesting. So, just out of curiosity, what was her name in college? Was it like same first name, different last name? Or different first name, same last name?”
“Both,” said Shelly. “Both were different. Her name whenIfirst met her was Jade Gordon.”
“How fascinating!” said Taylor. She was still playing it cucumber-cool, though she remembered the weird story at dinner at her house, something about Juliana, about jewels, about Jade. “Why’d she change it?”
“I don’t know!” cried Shelly. “Why does anyone do anything?” She swung her cocktail glass, and Taylor tried not to notice when a drop flew out and cameso closeto hitting the white couch, but missed it, and instead landed on the living room rug, which, alas, alas, was also white.
Betsy:Less than a week after that the woman walking her dog found the body, at Dinghy Beach.
Evan:It was a weird time on the island. A weird, weird time.
Lou:It was a westerly wind, you know. That’s why the body washed up at Dinghy. Southerly, and it would have been the clam flats.
Kelsey:I don’t like to think about that. I don’t like to think about any of it.
Lou:Did she have it coming to her? No.
Betsy:Lou!
Lou:What? I said shedidn’thave it coming to her. But looking back, could someone have seen it coming? Maybe.
Evan:Yeah. Maybe.
Kelsey:Well, maybe notexactlythat. But you could have seen something coming. Possibly something.
Catherine
On the third Tuesday in August, Catherine McKee’s dog, Myrtle, wakes her at one minute past six, which, Catherine knows, is precisely the time of that day’s sunrise. (She checked yesterday.) Myrtle’s sense for this is uncanny, her method of waking Catherine always the same. She puts her two front paws on the bed and presses her wet black nose into the side of Catherine’s neck.
There are worse ways to be awoken, Catherine supposes, but why must Myrtle come always to her side, never to Amber’s? She slides out of bed, grabs her phone from her nightstand, and makes her way downstairs, careful not to wake the couple’s two daughters (Sophie and Charlotte, eight and ten), fast asleep in their bunk beds.
“Coffee first, then walk,” Catherine tells Myrtle. “Also, Advil.” The night before, the girls’ favorite babysitter, Maggie Sousa, came, and Amber and Catherine enjoyed a much-needed night out on the town. They’ve been so busy this summer—Amber manages the front of house at Spring House and Catherine works at Island Bound Bookstore—and usually on such opposite schedules that they’ve been like ships in the night.
They started with cocktails at The Oar, then moved on to a sumptuous dinner at Eli’s. Amber’s friend Kip bartends at Eli’s and he made their second round extra strong. They split a bottleof Château de Sancerre, so crisp and refreshing it practically drank itself. They had dessert too—both the baklava and the Black Forest mousse cake. Then, as if all of that weren’t enough (it was, in retrospect, enough!), they’d made their way to the outdoor bar at Spring House for nightcaps. Baileys over ice for Catherine, and a bourbon (Jefferson’s, neat) for Amber. It was when Amber ordered the bourbon that Catherine realized neither of them would be driving home, so they left the car at Spring House and begged a ride home with Back of the House Bobby. No biggie, they’d said at the time; one of them could bike back for the car in the morning.
But currently the abandoned car presents a problem, Catherine realizes. She’d planned on driving Myrtle to Mohegan Bluffs, where they could walk down the steps (good exercise for Myrtle) and clamber among the rocks. Now they must stay closer to home. She could take her to Mansion or Scotch, but those are likely to be more crowded, and her head is pounding so zealously that she doesn’t feel like making idle conversation should she run into anyone she knows.
“Dinghy Beach it is,” she says. Myrtle regards Catherine with her dark, dark eyes, so dark sometimes they don’t show up against the black of her coat, and lets out a soft belch. “Excuse you,” says Catherine, and Myrtle looks at her beseechingly. She tries not to look too closely at Myrtle’s graying muzzle, because it makes her sad. The thought of Myrtle ever—well, no. She can’t think about it.
Making it out the door is no problem, it turns out. Neither is making it down the path that leads to the beach; they are the only two creatures there, and the fresh morning air begins to revive Catherine. Ah. Inhale, exhale.
Whatisa problem is what happens after Catherine leans down and unhooks Myrtle’s leash and lets her run along the crescent of sand. Myrtle runs at a very un-Myrtle-like pace to the water. You might, if you were being generous, call it a sprint.
Myrtle won’t stop barking and backing away; the relentless noise is hurting Catherine’s already aching head.
Catherine thinks what Myrtle is barking at is eelgrass, at first, and she wonders why Myrtle is making such a fuss about it. This dog has seen eelgrass before! Then she gets closer, and closer, and she sees that it’s not eelgrass at all.
It’s hair.
