Osprey Island

From the town. Introductions weren’t properly made, you know. Then, last night, quite late—Gavin—he was out here on the deck with her, he was. Not that I know him well, you know,” she confessed. “I’d only just met him, but he’s acted . . . oh, bloody, I don’t know—”

Suzy cut in. “I’d have a hard time . . . What’d she look like? The girl?”

Brigid made a face to imply she wasn’t much to look at. “A bit tall,” she said, “fair skin, dark hair, a bit heavy in the hip . . .”

Suzy was shaking her head.

“Rather a gothic look . . .”

“Janna,” Suzy said. “That’s not Heather Beekin. That’s Janna Winger.”

Brigid’s face went blank. The name meant nothing to her.

“Janna works for Reesa? At the salon?”

Brigid was shaking her head. “I’d entirely assumed it was the girlfriend, the . . . Heather.”

“Janna,” Suzy said again. “They were talking at the Vaughns’ yesterday, actually . . .” She caught herself. “The Vau . . . Lorna’s parents, they had a little gathering after the funeral at their—”

“And Gavin was there, you say?”

“Actually, we passed him on the way there—he walked over the hill.” Suzy was nodding.

“He did head for a walk . . .”

“No,” Suzy said, “no, but, he knew where he was heading. We stopped. We offered him a ride. That’s where he was going.”

“What a shit.” Brigid’s tone was bitter; she cared a good deal more than she wanted to reveal.

“I’m so sorry.”

Brigid slammed down her screwdriver. “The fucker,” she said.

“Were you . . . ?” Suzy tried.

“Oh, I don’t even know. We’d had a . . . We’d just begun to . . . Oh, bloody—how bloody stupid.”

“Maybe they’re not . . . ?” Suzy began again.

“Right.” Brigid snorted. She’d passed the fucker in the hall of the barracks that morning, and again at breakfast in the dining room, and he’d given her an absurd, sheepish, apologetic, nodding hello, then tucked his head down and barreled off as if he had savagely important business ahead. Brigid was so blindsided that she had yet to so much as acknowledge his greetings. She thought she might soon be able to muster a response of acutely conveyed distaste: nose wrinkled and lip curled as though repulsed by a horrid smell, hand slightly open, a breathy snort to say, What the fuck? It seemed as if it might be the only look she had left. As they worked in the maid’s room that afternoon, Brigid developed a private theory to explain Gavin. She told Suzy about how he sounded when he’d spoken a bit about Heather, and about his fantasies about moving to the island and living happily ever after. Brigid’s theory was that he had it in his head to take up with another island girl—it was the only way to make Heather adequately jealous, to make it really sting.

When Brigid left the lodge that afternoon, her skin felt itchy and raw from the cleaning chemicals. She was walking up the hill, desperate for a shower, when she saw Gavin come out the north door of the barracks, freshly showered himself, and start down the path.

“Hey, pretty girl . . .”

But it wasn’t Gavin calling. The Squires’ cottage sat just south of the staff building, and from where she stood Brigid could see Lance sitting on his porch, beer in hand, waving her over. To her left, she shot Gavin her well- rehearsed What the fuck? look, though he was probably too far off—or too clueless—to appreciate it, and she veered right, to Lance Squire.

“Hey-ay,” Lance called as she approached.

“Hi.” Brigid felt awkward, unsure of what to say to this man. She knew what was only appropriate: “I’m so dreadfully sorry—”

He cut her off. “You know,” he said, “that’s all I heard today from anyone. Can’t take much more sorry.”

“I’m sor—” she began, then dropped it with an involuntary laugh.

“That’s what I need,” Lance said. “I need to see a pretty girl smile.”

Brigid obliged.

“Would you like a beer?” Lance asked. “We can shoot the shit here, just talk, just talk, not talk about sorry, about how sorry we all are, just not talking about anything, just shoot the shit . . . Would you do that, gorgeous? Can I get you a beer? Please? Sit and have one beer with an old man?”

Brigid took the bait. She swiveled her head from side to side. “What old man’s that? Where?”

Lance veritably leapt from his chair, pulling it back and offering it to her. “You sit. Sit. I’ll get you a beer.”

Brigid did as she was told.

When the door slammed again, Lance was placing an icy can of Schlitz in her hand and plunking down a chair for himself beside her. The beer felt exactly like what she wanted. She cracked it open, took a long sip, then rolled the can along her stinging forearms.

“It’s that cleanser stuff,” Lance said. “Right? It itches?” His eyes were already welling with tears. “Lorna’d rub ice on it.” He flicked at his eyes with the back of his hand, then fumbled to light a cigarette. “God, I’m a fucking