Then, miraculously, her phone pings with a text. It’s Jack. It’s Jack! He’s on a boat moored out in Great Salt. Johnny O’Neill’s boat.
(Is she supposed to know who Johnny O’Neill is?)
People are hanging out. She should stop by.
She waits a few beats, not wanting to appear too eager, then texts back,K. She wants to say something more, but she forces herself to exercise restraint.You never pick up on the end of the party.
IT’S AN AZIMUT. GORGEOUS BOAT.
Okay. Shelly is not exactly sure what that means, but ooookay. Why not? She taps her acrylics on the phone screen, thinking, then types:
HOW DO I FIND U?
TEXT WHEN YOU GET TO PAYNES. She gives this the thumbs-up.SOMEONE WILL GET YOU. BAD INTENTIONS
She texts back,?
NAME OF THE BOAT. BAD INTENTIONS.
Well, okay, then. As she makes her way back up the stairs she observes that she’s more sober than she was going down them, which is a good thing for getting herself to Payne’s but not promising for the rest of the night. She’ll catch back up when she gets on the boat.
By the time Shelly makes it onto the boat—true to Jack’s word, someone picked her up at the dock in an inflatable—it’s almost sunset. She clambers up on the platform and follows the noise to whatever the living room on a yacht is called (the salon, she learns). A rough count of the people comes in at about twenty—some in little pockets on the crescent couch, others out by the railings. There must be bedrooms below, Shelly surmises, and who knows who’s hiding out there.
She sees Jack nowhere. (Could he be in one of the bedrooms? Her stomach curdles as she considers this possibility.) A man in uniform offers her a drink. A crew member! This boat has a crew. Wow. Shelly has finally arrived at the Big Time.
“Thank you,” she says, when the crew member returns with an elegant blond drink in a martini glass. “What is it?”
“A Limoncello Lemon Drop,” he says. “It’s a nod to the boat’s Italian heritage.”
“Well, then,” answers Shelly.“Ciao.”It’s the only Italian she knows. Where is Jack? She doesn’t know, and nobody else on the boat has acknowledged her or tried to welcome her. That’s okay. She’ll take herself on a tour. In the galley (she knows enough not to call it a kitchen), she waits until nobody is looking and pulls open a drawer. Each glass and cup has its own wooden cutout in exactly the right size and shape. It’s enchanting. This setup reminds Shelly of a dollhouse she once had as a child. There’s a row of bar glasses, and another of wineglasses, and a row of espresso cups.
“The richer the person, the smaller the coffee,” she observes. The only person to hear her is a crew member, who chuckles. The same crew member as before? A different one? Shelly’s not sure. She requests another Lemon Drop, and in no time at all it’s delivered back to her. Service with a smile.
When drink number two is half gone, she finally spies Jack, out on the deck. Has he been there the whole time? He’s leaning over the railing, talking to a pretty brunette in a red dress.
“Rude,” she says under her breath. He invited her, and here she is, and he’s not even looking around for her! Should she approach, or should she wait until he sees her? She stands for a minute, contemplating. She feels very alone. She can’t gain a foothold at this party. She can’t get any traction.
But just as she’s deciding whether to stay or go, the fun begins.
Okay, now this party is speaking Shelly’s language. A few people begin jumping off the bow into Great Salt Pond, landing withwhoops in the dark water below. Should Shelly? Why not? She knew she wore this bikini for a reason. She shimmies out of her dress and stands on the bow. There are lights on the boat, and lights under the boat too. She sways for a moment, then a guy behind her says, “You okay?”
Seriously. Why do people keep asking Shelly this?
“I’m chill,” she says. She thinks about her best childhood friend, Caitlin, whose family had a pool with a diving board. This is where Shelly perfected her famous swan dive. “Ready, set, execute,” she says to herself. This is what she and Caitlin used to say from the diving board. After each dive, they’d rate each other.
In she goes.
She gives herself an eight, maybe an eight and a half. Slight bend in the knees; she could feel it. Still, not bad.
Wow. The water is a little colder than she imagined it would be. She feels like the dive has propelled her all the way to the bottom of the pond. It hasn’t, of course, and she pops up not far from the boat. It’s all good.
When is the last time Shelly swam at night? She can’t remember. It’sinvigorating.Exhilarating. She’s never felt more alive.
The other jumpers have all climbed back onto the boat, where the crew members are probably wrapping them in like the plushest of the plush towels. But not Shelly. No. She’ll stay in. She floats on her back, staring up at the starry sky, at the plump, bright moon. How come she never noticed how many stars are visible here on Block Island? She flips over on her stomach: dead man’s float. Then she strokes out, swimming among the other moored boats. Shelly is a strong swimmer, owing to the lessons she took as a child. The hours she and Caitlin spent in Caitlin’s pool, racing up and down the length, holding somersault contests.
How much time passes? She doesn’t know. Should she find her way back to the boat? Maybe. She will soon. She will now. She can still see the lights, shining like beacons, though admittedly theboat is farther away than she realized. And there’s more than one boat with lights, so how does she even know if she’s looking at the right one?
The bump comes out of nowhere.
