I heard no particular bitterness in his voice; he was just stating a fact. That was Forrest. He didn’t dwell on difficult experiences. Forrest was a man who saw himself as lucky. Which he was, of course.
“Then you’ve got Hayward,” he said, grinning. “My son’s idea of hardship is not having a wide-screen TV in his room.”
We stood side by side at the wheel of the Chris-Craft, looking out toward the island. It was a perfect day. Not just because of the weather.
“Want me to show you how to drive this boat?” he asked.
He stood behind me with his arms encircling my body then, so both of us had our hands on the wheel. He took his baseball cap from his head and placed it on mine, then placed his large hand—surprisingly rough—over the fingers of my right hand as he showed me how to work the throttle and guided me as we changed the gears.
For a moment, I could forget about my parents, at war with each other back home in New Jersey, and the way that tennis mother had looked at me at the tennis court, and Jilly, when I’d told her it was time to put her pajamas on, throwing her Teddy Ruxpin across the room, and Hayward’s eyes, looking me over when I wore my training bra.
I put away thoughts of my own disappointing body and the unopened box of tampons in my drawer, the girls at the tennis court with their cute little pleated skirts and their brand-new sneakers, huddled over their Cokes at the snack bar, giggling together, while I zipped Jilly’s racquet into its bag and then searched around the pool for the floatie she’d left there, crawling under the lounge chairs as they painted each other’s nails. To the girls at the country club, I didn’t exist.
“Next time I take you out on the boat,” Forrest said, “we’re getting you on water skis.”
I’d heard this before. But I always believed him.
“Regina’s still the queen around here,” he said. “But I’m making you my princess.”
If I could have stopped time forever right then, I would have done it. Very soon Forrest would be turning the boat around and heading back to the house, where Jilly would be wanting to play Candy Land with me, or set up another tea party for her American Girl dolls. But in that moment, I wouldn’t have changed anything.
I might not have been an actual part of the Emerson family, but there I was, and the next day I’d be parking my wonderful yellow bicycle in front of the Lake Catherine Country Club and pushing open the big wooden doors into the beautiful sunny lobby, with its daily arrangement of fresh-cut roses. I might not have been an actual member of the club, but the woman at the desk nodded to me when we came in thesedays. The man who cleaned the pool smiled when I walked by, as did the men who rolled the clay on the courts. I knew where the dispenser was that held the ice water with the lemon slices floating in it, and the table with the basket holding thick cream-colored towels with the club insignia (“LCCC”) woven into the plush. In my own way, I had become a regular.
A regular. I liked the sound of those words.
Sometimes in these moments the thought would come to me, clear as an acorn hitting my head or the sound a tennis ball makes when somebody hits it just right:This is what happiness feels like.
11
A Library Card
Ihad hoped—briefly—that I might get to know some of the kids at the club, but it became clear from my first day there that I was not about to be included in their circle of friends. The tennis girls seemed to come from a whole other planet from me—as far removed as the models inSeventeenmagazine.
Never mind,I told myself. I knew the place I could always go to when things were difficult.
All my life, the library had been my place to escape. That first day, I’d pedaled past the beautiful old stone building with the sign over the lintel:Lake Catherine Township Library. I took it in as a welcome sight, the final confirmation of how perfectly everything was turning out that summer.
Sometime around Week Two, I parked my bike in front of that wonderful old stone building again and stepped inside.
“I’d like to get a library card,” I told the librarian.
“Are you a resident?” she asked me.
“I’m here for the summer,” I told her. “I work for the Emersons.”
“In that case, there’s no problem,” she said, taking out a stiff white card and a pen. “They’re some of our biggest supporters. We’ll keep this on file for you.”
I made my way into the stacks, breathing in the familiar library smell, and headed over to the section labeled “J through M” to choose a new selection from the Stephen King shelf. Not even a mile down the road, the tennis girls would be hitting balls out on that red clay court. But here was the place I always fit in.
I reached for a book, scanning the description on the inside flap.Sex. Money. Murder.All I needed. Some forms of adventure didn’t require a membership fee. They took place in your own imagination.
Outside, I set my selection in my bike basket and made my way back to the club. It was time to pick up the children.
Once I saw how little interest the other kids at the club had in getting to know me, I started bringing a book along with me to read during lesson times. The story was so gripping, I wouldn’t have minded if the children’s lessons had gone on for hours while I was reading it.
Sitting in my usual spot on the hot tar next to the tennis court, bent over my book, I could hear the thunk of tennis balls hitting racquets, the voice of the pro calling out pointers.
“Follow through, Jessica.”
