Genuine Fraud(51)

“You have an apartment in London?” Jule looked at the onion while she was peeling it.

“It was an investment,” Immie said. “And kind of a whim. I was in England on a summer program. My money person had advised me to put something in real estate, and I loved the city. This flat was the first place I looked at, an impulse buy in totally the wrong country, but I’m not sorry. It’s in a very cute area: St. John’s Wood.” Immie pronounced it like Sin Jahn’s Wood. “I had the most fun ever, decorating it with my friends. And we went around town and did tourist things. The Tower of London, the changing of the guard, the wax museum. We lived on digestive biscuits. It was before I learned to cook. You can borrow the place anytime. I never use it now.”

“We should go together,” said Jule.

“Oh, you’d be into it. The keys are right here. We could go tomorrow,” Immie said, and patted the bag that sat on the kitchen counter. “And maybe we should. Can you imagine? Just you and me in London?”





Immie loved people who were passionate. She wanted them to love the music she loved, the flowers she gave them, the books she admired. She wanted them to care about the smell of a spice or the taste of a new kind of salt. She didn’t mind disagreement, but she hated people who were apathetic and indecisive.

Jule read the two orphan books Immie had put on her bedside table, and everything else Immie brought home for her. She memorized wine labels, cheese labels, passages from novels, recipes. She was sweet with Forrest. She was scrappy yet willing to please, feminist yet feminine, full of rage yet friendly, articulate yet not dogmatic.

She realized that the manufacture of herself to please Imogen—it was like running, really. You simply powered through, mile after mile. Eventually you developed endurance. One day, you realized you loved it.

When Jule had been at the Vineyard house five weeks, Brooke Lannon showed up on Immie’s porch. Jule opened the door.

Brooke walked in and threw her bags down on the couch. Her blue flannel shirt was threadbare and old, and her silky blond hair was up in a topknot. “Immie, you still exist, you witch,” she said as Immie came into the living room. “All of Vassar thinks you’re dead. Nobody believed me when I said you texted me last week.” She turned to look at Forrest. “Is this the guy? Who…?” She left a question mark in the air.

“This is Forrest,” said Immie.

“Forrest!” said Brooke, shaking hands. “Okay, let’s hug.”

Forrest hugged awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”

“It is always nice to meet me,” said Brooke. Then she pointed to Jule. “Who’s this?”

“Don’t be mean,” said Immie.

“I’m being delightful,” said Brooke. “Who are you?” This, to Jule.

Jule forced a smile and introduced herself. She hadn’t known Brooke was coming. And Brooke clearly hadn’t heard about Jule being there, either. “Imogen says you’re her favorite person from Vassar.”

“I’m everyone’s favorite person from Vassar,” said Brooke. “That’s why I had to drop out. It was only two thousand people. I need a bigger audience.”

She dragged her bags upstairs and made herself at home in the second-best guest room.





END OF JUNE, 2016

MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS

Five weeks before Brooke arrived, on her seventh day on Martha’s Vineyard, Jule splurged and took a tourist bus around the island. Most of the people on the bus were the kind who want to check off the sights on a list from a travel website. They were in family groups and couples, talking loudly.

The afternoon brought the tour to the Aquinnah lighthouse, in an area the guide explained was first inhabited by the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head and later, in the 1600s, by English colonists as well. The guide started talking about whaling as everyone poured off the bus to gaze at the lighthouse. From the lookout, they could also see the colored clay cliffs of Moshup Beach, but you couldn’t get down to the water without a hot walk of about half a mile.

Jule wandered away from the lookout to the Aquinnah shops, a cluster of small ventures selling souvenirs, Wampanoag crafts, and snacks. She wandered in and out of the low buildings, idly touching necklaces and postcards.

Maybe she should stay forever on Martha’s Vineyard. She could get a job in a shop or a gym, spend her days by the sea, find a place to live. She could give up trying to do anything with herself, stop being ambitious. She could just accept the life that was on offer right now and be grateful for it. No one would mess with her. She didn’t have to look for Imogen Sokoloff at all, if she didn’t want to.

As Jule exited one shop, a young man stepped out of the place opposite. He was carrying a large canvas tote bag. He was about Jule’s age. No, a little older. He was lean and narrow-waisted, not muscular at all, but graceful and loose-limbed, with a slightly curved nose and nice bone structure. His brown hair was tied up in a bun. He wore black cotton pants that were so long as to be shredded at the bottoms, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that read LARSEN’S FISH MARKET.

“I don’t know why you want to go in there,” he called to his companion, who was presumably still inside the shop. “There’s not any point in buying things that have no use.”

There was no reply.