fact hadn’t been enough to keep her on the straight and narrow, to keep her alive. Didi—and how many times had Josh uttered this sentence in his mind, hoping that it would start to make sense?—was dead.
Josh entered the house and took off his shoes. He tried to push away thoughts of his night here with Melanie. Strains of Bon Jovi floated down the stairs. Josh ascended, glad for the case of beer in his arms because it gave him something to hold. There were a few people in the living room, mostly girls, al of whom Josh had known forever, but whose names he could not, at that second, summon, crying on the sofa. Josh nodded at them.
Everyone else was out on the deck. The guys, like Josh, had their jackets and ties off, their shirts unbuttoned; they were drinking beer, talking quietly, shaking their heads, gazing off into the distance.
Zach was in the kitchen, fussing like Martha Stewart. He was dumping bags of Doritos into fancy, hand-painted ceramic bowls, he was setting out cocktail napkins, he was sponging off the countertop. He saw Josh and said, “You got beer?”
“Yeah.”
“This fridge is ful ,” Zach said. “Can you put it in the fridge under the bar?”
“Sure.”
“They’re not smoking out there, are they?” Zach said. He craned his neck to spy on the activity on the deck. “There’s no smoking al owed anywhere on the property. Not even outside.”
“No one’s smoking,” Josh said. He carried the case of beer over to the bar, which brought him into close proximity with the girls who were crying.
Their talk stopped when he approached. It became silence studded with sniffles.
“Hi, Josh.”
He turned. Eleanor Shelby, Didi’s best friend, sat between Annelise Carter and Penelope Ross; it was the queen of sorrow and her two handmaidens. Eleanor’s voice, even in its greeting, was accusatory. Josh realized this should come as no surprise—Didi obviously shared every last thing with Eleanor, and with Annelise and Penelope as wel , probably—but he was unprepared for the blitz. He opened the door to the fridge under the bar and noted the slab of blue granite, the mirrors, the one hundred wineglasses hanging upside down. He pushed the six-packs into the fridge, he shoved them with some aggression because against his wil he was thinking of Melanie and their night here, in this house. They had made love in a bed in the next room, they had showered together, they had stood on the deck in robes, and Josh, anyway, had al owed himself the five-minute fantasy that al this was his, or could be.
Behind him, Eleanor cleared her throat. “We haven’t seen you around much this summer, Josh,” she said. “Rumor had it you were babysitting out in ’Sconset.”
He smiled at Eleanor in the mirror, not because he was happy or trying to be nice, but because he was freshly surprised by the difference between girls and women.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”
Penelope Ross, whom Josh had known literal y al his life (they were born the same week at Nantucket Cottage Hospital, their mothers in adjoining rooms), said, “And there were other rumors.”
He glared at Penelope with as much disdain as he could muster. “I’m sure there were.”
“Like, you have a baby on the way.”
He scoffed. There was no point getting drawn into a discussion like this one, but the day had worn on him and he felt his fists itching. Part of him wanted a fight.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said.
“But your girlfriend is pregnant, right?” Penelope said. “Didi told us your girlfriend is pregnant.”
“And older,” Eleanor said. “Like, our parents’ age.”
Josh shook his head. Didi, now that she was dead, had a new, irrefutable authority, and an air of celebrity that she would have relished had she been alive. Josh could have pul ed out his ammunition against Didi—her money problems, her drinking problem, the prostitution—but what would that accomplish? Josh eyebal ed the girls and said in a quiet, serious voice, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
This silenced them long enough for Josh to escape down the stairs and out into the driveway. He couldn’t stay. The party for “Didi’s real friends,”
“for the people who knew her best,” was not for him. He backed out of the driveway, trying to control his breathing. He was very, very nervous. He headed out Shimmo Road toward Polpis. He waited until he had turned onto Polpis Road before he picked up his phone. He told himself he could always change his mind.
But then, as he knew he would, he dialed the number.
An unfamiliar voice answered the phone. A singsongy, Julie Andrews–type voice. “Hel-lo!”
Josh was caught unprepared. Had he dialed the wrong number?
“Uh . . . hi,” he said. “Is Melanie available, please?”
“Melanie,” the voice said. “Yes. Yes, indeed, Melanie is available. May I tel her who’s cal ing?”
“Josh.”
“Josh,” the voice repeated. There was a pause, then an intake of breath. “Oh! You must be the young man who helped out this summer.”
“Yes,” Josh said. He heard Penelope Ross’s reedy voice.
“Oooh, I’m El en Lyndon. Vicki and Brenda’s mom. They just raved about you. Raved! So, I thank you and their father thanks you. We would have been here ourselves if we could, but I had some ambulatory issues, knee
