Barefoot: A Novel

“I know that, Dad,” Josh said. “I’l get it back.”

Tom Flynn said nothing else, which was unfortunate because the “I’l get it back” hung in the air as the final words on the topic, making them into a promise Josh knew he couldn’t fulfil . He would never, in a mil ion years, cal Didi up to ask for the money, if for no other reason than she obviously didn’t have it and any exchange with her on the topic would be depressing and pointless.

And so, when Vicki mentioned, a few days later, that she wanted Josh to join them on an evening picnic out to Smith’s Point on Saturday night, he said yes right away, thinking it would mean another hundred dol ars that he could tel his father was from Didi. But it quickly became clear that Saturday night wasn’t an invitation to work; it was simply an invitation. The Three were getting lobster dinners from Sayle’s, they were going to build a bonfire and make s’mores with the kids, they were going to light sparklers and locate constel ations and, if the water was warm enough, go for a nighttime swim.

“My husband, Ted, wil be there,” Vicki said. “I real y think it’s time you two met and hung out a little.”

At that point, Josh tried to backpedal. His role at Number Eleven Shel Street was becoming blurry enough without having him join in on family beach picnics. And the last thing Josh wanted to do was meet Ted Stowe. Normal y, Josh left Number Eleven at one o’clock on Friday afternoon and Ted arrived around four; Ted left on Sunday night and Josh returned at eight o’clock on Monday morning. With this schedule in place, Josh had hopes of avoiding Ted Stowe altogether—at least until Ted took his vacation at the end of August. Josh feared two things from Ted Stowe—his dislike (already in place) and his judgment. Josh, in one fleeting but beautiful moment, had kissed Brenda, and now he was starting to pick up funny vibes from Melanie. Ted might perceive this; he might, as the only other man in the house, sense a connection between Josh and one or more of the women. Josh didn’t want to get fired, or beat up, by Ted Stowe. And so, a day after he’d agreed to go on the beach picnic, he took the path of least resistance and approached Brenda.

He caught her on his way out to his Jeep at one o’clock. She was returning from the beach with her notebook, her thermos, and her cel phone.

“How goes the screenplay?” he said.

“Don’t ask,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t. Hey, listen—I can’t make the picnic thing on Saturday night. I just remembered, I have something else. You’l tel Vicki?”

Brenda gnawed her lower lip. “Ohhhh,” she said. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Vicki real y wants you to come,” Brenda said. “I mean, she’s talked about how much she wants you there. To meet Ted. He’s bringing fishing rods so you guys can surf cast.”

“Us guys?” Josh said. “Surf cast?”

“With Blaine,” Brenda said. She took a deep breath; her chest rose and fel . Josh tried not to look. She was in love with someone else. “I’m afraid if you cancel, Vicki wil do something funny. Like bag the whole thing. With the way she is now, that’s exactly what she’l do. Toss the whole night out the window. And it’s real y important that we get her out. We have to boost her spirits.”

“Right,” Josh said. “But it’s a family picnic. I’m not a part of your family.”

“Neither is Melanie,” Brenda said. “And she’s going.”

Josh looked at the ground. Thinking about Melanie only confused him further.

“Is there any way you can reschedule the other thing?” Brenda said. “Any way at al ?” She lowered her voice. “I’m happy to pay you.”

“No, no, no,” Josh said quickly. He felt like his true motivation had been discovered and it embarrassed him. “You don’t have to pay me. I’l come.”

Brenda looked so happy and so relieved that Josh thought she might kiss him again. But no such luck. She just smiled in a real y nice way and touched his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

T he high-performance rating of two fishing rods bought from Urban Angler on Fifth Avenue, the Yukon’s tire pressure, four wooden pallets

“borrowed” from the Stop & Shop, five adult lobster dinners complete with boiled new potatoes, corn on the cob, Caesar salad, buttermilk biscuits, half a dozen cherrystone clams, and a two-pound cooked and cracked lobster with drawn butter, a cooler full of Chardonnay and Stella Artois, three perfectly whittled roasting sticks, a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, a twenty-four-ounce Hershey’s bar, a package of sparklers purchased in Chinatown, the National Audubon Society’s Guide to the Constel ations .

Vicki didn’t care about the beach picnic. Any other year she would have been the organizing force—did they have bug spray? Was the beach permit prominently displayed on the bumper? Did they have jumper cables, just in case, and a tow rope? Were there hot dogs for the kids, and ketchup, and juice boxes? Did they bring baby powder to get the sand off the kids’ feet? Extra diapers? Porter’s bottle of warm milk? Trash bags?

A corkscrew and a bottle opener? The camera? Now, Vicki lay back in bed, listening to Ted and Brenda and Melanie trying to cover al this ground in her stead. She didn’t care. She had gone from feeling like her body was a box of broken toys to feeling nothing at al . A week earlier, in response to her complaints, to her tears, to her tantrum, Dr. Alcott had prescribed a new medication—for depression, he said. For six days, the world had come in and out of focus as Vicki’s consciousness nuzzled the ceiling like a lazy bal oon. It was a hundred times worse than pain, this loopiness, this numbness, this sense of disconnect from the real world—the island, the cottage, the people in the cottage, the kids. On Thursday, Vicki flushed the pil s, which, she understood, was only a precursor to what she would do the fol owing day. What she did on Friday was skip chemo.

It had been a piece of cake because Brenda was Vicki’s gatekeeper, and although Brenda was doing a good job, exemplary even, Vicki knew Brenda inside and out and playing to her sister’s weaknesses was a piece of cake. Friday morning they slipped into the car—discreetly, as always, so as not to alert the kids— and Vicki noticed the yel ow legal pad and The Innocent Impostor crammed into Brenda’s handbag. This was unusual because although Brenda took the yel ow legal pad with her everywhere else, she had never once brought it to chemo. Chemo, for whatever reason, was the time Brenda reserved for reading out-of-date People magazines.