I drain my glass and walk outside. Summer has waned, the heavy blanket of heat and humidity lifted, the salt air cool on my face. The high moon colors the cumulus clouds silver, in a velvety blue-black sky. A great blue heron stands in silhouette, long and elegant on a piling to which is tied an enormous yacht. There are other more dramatic places — the elegant squalor of Manhattan, of course, the wild light show of Shanghai, the self-satisfied beauty of Paris, the cool gray loftiness of London. But there is nothing quite like this place, nature’s canvas, peaceful and unassuming.
A gleaming, brand-new, fifty-foot Hatteras — the most self-indulgent of all luxury items, an absolute gas guzzler, an insult by its very existence to world poverty, the environment, good taste — sits tied off on multiple pilings. It’s mine.
I feel, more than hear, you come up behind me.
“This is where I kissed you the first time,” I say.
You blow out a breath. Disdain, something else.
“And where you broke my heart,” I go on into the silence.
“Looks like you got over it.” Your voice is tinny, distant.
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think about you at all.” It sounds like the lie that it is.
“Come by the house later,” I say. Does it sound easy, casual? “Sean and I are going to get high.”
“I’m married,” you say. “I have a child.”
There’s a tightness to your voice, as if you’ve taken offense; as if you can’t imagine I’d suggest such a thing. The good wife. The pretty mother. I know well the lovely little story of your life, the one you post about daily on your Facebook page.
“You were always good at slipping away,” I say, turning to you. “As I remember.”
You soften, laugh a little; we share a storybook of wild memories. Our misspent youth.
“Betsy Lynn.” Your husband; he’s come looking. You are the jewel in his coat. “Hon, you ready?”
“Of course,” you say. “Let’s go.”
“Night, Scottie.” Another robust handshake from your handsome Bradley. “Good to see you again, man.”
But this time there’s an edge. He does remember me. He knows what I was to you. I smile.
“Good night, Brad.”
“They’re never going to accept you, you get that, right?” Sean blows out the gust of smoke he’s been holding in. His eyes glimmer with mischief, smile wide and peaceful.
Accept me? As if. My membership to this yacht club where I used to work was easy to secure. Just a phone call from my attorney, and the doors swung wide. No trial membership. No seeking of sponsorships. Just a nice big check, the golden key to any lock.
Accept me? People will bow at your feet if they think you can help them with something, anything — donate to their causes, buy their properties, use their contracting companies, drive off in one of their new cars. Acceptance is not the goal here. Acceptance is what people think they want.
We’re on the bow of the Hatteras, still at the dock, the club closed and empty now of members and staff. The pool glows chlorine blue; the lights stay on. This was when it was ours, at night after everyone left and the pool was clean, the camp room tidied and the kitchen closed.
“Can I say something?” asks Sean.
“Sure.”
“I don’t get it. Your game. I don’t get it. It’s not that fun. It’s not like Fortnite. That shit’s epic, man.”
I have to admit, I’ve always been pretty chill. I think I get it from my dad. These days more than ever, I just don’t give a shit.
“It’s not for everyone,” I concede.
He takes another long drag before handing the joint off to me.
We drift along the Intracoastal, easy. Moonlight glinting on the black water. It’s high tide and we know these waters, how shallow they get, how fast. Right outside the channel, a snowy egret balances on one leg, delicate, its clawed foot just barely beneath the surface of the water. Its white feathers glow, its gaze impervious.
Sean is easy at the helm. Kayaks, skiffs, bow riders, opti sailboats, big yachts like this one; we’ve done it all. We used to run the big ones home for drunk members. Sometimes member kids with a little too much freedom would invite us for pleasure cruises.
Once — do you remember, Betsy Lynn? — you and I ran your father’s boat aground. Making out, not paying attention, we wound up in the shoals by one of the tiny barrier islands. There was hell to pay. But not really. We got a lecture about trust and responsibility. And: “Scottie, you should know better. You grew up on these waters. This is a million-dollar boat, son, not a bath toy.” Your old man liked me; he grew up with my parents. If that historic prom night had gone a little differently, he liked to quip, I might have been his son.
Sean steers the boat to my new dock, so close that the club is still visible as he effortlessly brings the monster to a halt. I’m living on it until the house is done. Our house. The kind we used to dream about.
Edna Buck — white-haired, besuited, bejeweled gossip columnist — has already done her piece for the local paper. Hometown Boy Makes It Big, Comes Back to Roost. And you thought your kids were rotting their brains with video games! Just look at tech billionaire Scottie’s new beach bungalow!
You. Standing on the dock, hands in the pockets of your white shorts. Blue and white — striped T-shirt, topsiders. Hair back in a high ponytail. You didn’t dress for me. You never had to.
You’re one of those women. Effortless. Creamy skin and golden hair, the symmetry of your face, the magnificent proportions of hip to waist to bust. You’re the trophy. The prize that goes to the right man for a job well done.
I think you could have been more than that. Don’t you?
“Sleep in one of the state rooms,” I say to Sean.
He hops from the stern to the dock. You step back, barely acknowledging him.
“I gotta get back,” he says. “Mom waits up.”
“Give her my best.”
“Great night, man,” he says with that old smile. “Glad you’re home.”
“Me too.”
Home. It is — this sleepy beach town, now overrun with tattooed Airbnb tourists from the sticks, aquarium, beach day crowds. Tiny motels leveled, giving way to towering behemoths with hundreds of rooms, surf shops, parking garages. No matter where I go in the world — isn’t it odd? I always want to come back here and feel that humid salt air on my skin, watch the palms sway. Florida is the butt of a national joke, ripped to shreds by the intellectual elite. But those of us who really know it, we keep the secret of its savage beauty.
You climb aboard and I show you around. Your blue eyes don’t register anything but vague acknowledgment.
“Same layout as my dad’s,” you say. “Much newer, of course.”
“He still has it?”
“No.” It comes out as a scoff. “They got tired of it — all the work, the expense. They’re downsizing these days.”
There’s a note. Something wistful. “That’s what happens, I guess.”
You run a tender hand along a silver cleat.
“Get and get and get,” I say.
“Then purge,” you finish. “Free yourself.”
You turn to the hulking shadow of the house. It’s a dark mass, dwarfing the other large houses around it, houses that glow with lit landscaping, warm lights burning in windows. They fought the construction of the house, my neighbors. Too big, they complained. A monstrosity, more rooms than a B&B. But I won. Of course I did. I don’t lose often. Except when it comes to you.
“It’s huge,” you say, staring at it. Your back is to me and I can’t see your face. So I imagine it as it was earlier this evening — a little angry, suspicious, something else.