Summer of '69(61)

She hears footsteps on the stairs and scurries to her bedroom, where she lurks in the doorway. If it’s Mr. Crimmins or her mother, she’ll pretend she’s asleep.

She sees a white T-shirt and dungarees. It’s Pick. He must sense or smell the food because he goes right over to the boxes on the counter. Jessie steps out of the bedroom.

“Pick,” she whispers.

He whips around, takes a look at her, then whistles. “Whoa, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re all dressed up. You look really pretty, Jess.”

Jessie feels like she might faint. He called her Jess, not Jessie, and she loves how grown-up the name sounds. “Thanks,” she says. “I had dinner with my mother.” She steps into the pool of lemony light so that Pick can better see her “all dressed up.” He stares at her as she gets closer. He’s going to kiss her; Jessie is certain of it. There’s a yearning in his eyes. He likes her, she thinks. He likes her back!

She’s unsure of how close to get and whether to stay silent or tell him to help himself to the leftovers. She brings her hand to her throat to touch the gold knot with the diamond, but something is wrong.

Wait, she thinks. Wait!

Jessie wraps both of her hands around her neck. Suddenly nothing else matters—not Pick, not the absence of letters from Tiger, not her mother’s promise of freedom.

Nonny’s necklace is gone.





Part Two





July 1969





Summertime Blues



The good news is that Kirby’s air conditioner is doing its job. She has taken to calling the attic her igloo. As promised, Darren showed up the day after the carousel ride with the two-by-fours, and Evan must have let him in because when Kirby returned from the state beach that day, the unit was snug in the window and the novels had been returned to her bedside table with a note lying on top: Enjoy! XO, D.

The bad news is that this was nearly a week ago and Kirby hasn’t heard from Darren since. She had thought the invitation over to his house for steamers was all set, but when Sunday evening rolled around, he hadn’t called or stopped by to confirm the time. Even so, Kirby had gotten dressed and spent a torturous hour waiting on the front porch and listening for the phone to ring inside. She had considered strolling over to the Methodist Campground and simply knocking on the door of the blue house, but after consulting her Emily Post, she concluded that this would not do at all. Darren’s plans must have changed. Maybe the Frazier family had decided on pizza instead or maybe someone had gotten sick…or maybe Darren had decided that he didn’t like her after all. She had been thrilled with the XO preceding his initial in the note, but maybe she’d been imbuing those letters with too much meaning.

Or maybe, on hearing that Darren had invited Kirby for dinner, his mother had said, “Absolutely not.”

If she had, it might have been because Kirby is white.

Or it might have been because Dr. Frazier knew that Kirby was Clarissa Bouvier.

Kirby tries to let thoughts of Darren go. He’s not the reason she’s on Martha’s Vineyard, after all. If Kirby had learned anything from Officer Scottie Turbo, it was this: Never let a man be responsible for your happiness. Kirby will be responsible for her own happiness from now on.

There are good things to think about. Kirby loves her job. She enjoys the guests, and her friendship with Mr. Ames has earned her a ride to and from work and the opportunity to nap mid-shift in the back office without worry. In her first review by Mrs. Bennie, Kirby earned high marks. Mrs. Bennie let Kirby know that the inn would be getting even busier now that July was upon them, and the guests would be more renowned. There was a rumor that Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow might be checking in, and Senator Kennedy was due to visit in two weeks.

“When we have VIP guests,” Mrs. Bennie said, “we must exercise discretion. Their privacy is our number-one priority.”

“Understood,” Kirby said. She found it hard to believe that she might be the only person standing between Frank Sinatra or Senator Kennedy and a potential scandal—but one never knew. One couple who’d checked in under the names Mr. Light and Miss Shadow had informed Kirby that they would be experimenting with LSD during their stay. They’d asked to be left completely alone for thirty-six hours—no newspaper drop-off, no housekeeping. Kirby had assured them she would personally see to it that they were not disturbed. She worried that she was being too lenient, too liberal, too indulgent. What if one or the other of them had a bad trip and did a swan dive off the roof? Would it be Kirby’s fault? But all had apparently gone just fine, and when the couple checked out, Miss Shadow had slipped Kirby an envelope containing a fifty-dollar bill.

When Kirby isn’t at work or asleep in her own private igloo, she hangs out with Patty and Luke. She worries about the role-playing or whatever it is they’re doing when they’re alone, but Kirby has learned that no one can judge a relationship except for the two people in it. And there’s no denying that Luke Winslow makes life exciting. One Monday afternoon, Luke appeared in the Willys Jeep with a cooler full of beer and a fat joint and drove Patty and Kirby all the way out to the cliffs of Gay Head. Kirby had heard all about the cliffs and they did not disappoint. They were striated in earth tones—ocher, rust, brick red—and dropped straight down to the churning ocean. The three of them sat on a blanket, cracked some beers, passed the joint around, and experienced the majesty of the place—breathtaking, ancient, holy. When Luke and Patty started necking, Kirby closed her eyes and fell back on the blanket, enjoying the sun on her face. She was nearly asleep when she heard them sneak off, and she was envious, not only because they were having sex in the great outdoors with an unparalleled view of Mother Nature, but also because they had each other and she had no one.