Summer of '69(65)

The next morning, when there is only a scant half hour left in Kirby’s shift, Mr. Ames comes into the back office holding a red rose surrounded by greens and baby’s breath and wrapped in cellophane.

“For me?” Kirby asks. She knows the flower can’t be from Mr. Ames himself—he’s married and has never shown anything more than an avuncular interest in Kirby—but she worries it might be from Mr. Rochester in room 3. Mr. Rochester is a rotund, bespectacled, bald man of at least thirty who has been sent by AAA to rate the hotel. Mr. Rochester had leered at Kirby upon his return from what must have been a Chianti-and-sambuca-soaked evening at Giordano’s and invited Kirby up to his room for a nightcap, which Kirby had, naturally, refused, even though she realized that it might sabotage their chances for a respectable rating.

“Not Mr. Rochester?” Kirby asks.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Mr. Ames says.

Kirby puts the rose in a bud vase and sets it on the desk. She supposes the flower could be from Bobby Hogue, who is back at the inn this week. He’s such a nice man, though even older than Scottie Turbo, and Kirby wonders whether she could be in a relationship with a man with a missing hand. Yes, she decides. If Darren were missing a hand, she would still like him.

When it’s time to leave work and head home, Mr. Ames tells Kirby to go on out front; he has to check in with Mrs. Bennie for a moment. Kirby thinks this is strange—they don’t usually overlap with Mrs. Bennie, who arrives at nine—but she steps outside anyway.

There, idling at the front curb, is Darren in his red Corvair. When he sees Kirby, he hops out of the car and races around to open the passenger door.

“Ride home?” he says.

She can’t believe this is happening. Darren is here at the inn at seven o’clock in the morning to take her home. He’s not wearing his white T-shirt and shorts, which means he isn’t on his way to work. He came only to see her. And Mr. Ames is in on it. Darren is the one who brought Kirby the rose!

Kirby keeps her cool. “I’d love it,” she says as she folds her legs gracefully into the front seat. “Thank you.”





I Heard It Through the Grapevine



Kate never would have guessed it, but Bitsy Dunscombe drinks even more than she does. It’s a Friday night in July and they have managed to score a decent table at the Opera House. This alone is reason to celebrate. Bitsy calls their waiter over and orders champagne, the best, a vintage Krug.

Bitsy Dunscombe, née Entwistle, of Park Avenue, New York City, and Main Street, Nantucket, was born an aristocrat. She married Ward Dunscombe, whose family owns platinum mines, and now Bitsy has more money than everyone else on Nantucket combined—or close to it, anyway. Kate finds Bitsy’s blatant displays of wealth obnoxious, except in situations like this one.

As the piano tinkles away and the regulars sitting at table 1 hoot with laughter, Kate and Bitsy make quick work of the Krug, and Kate eats one of the tiny gougères brought out by their waiter before they order their martinis.

Bitsy isn’t Kate’s first choice of dinner companion on a Friday night but the two of them do make a tradition of getting together once a summer, and neither David nor Ward is coming to the island this weekend, so when Bitsy called, Kate thought, Why not, and accepted the invitation.

David called the night before to say he was bogged down in a case and couldn’t get away, but Kate knows he’s keeping his distance on purpose. He’ll show up when she cuts back on her drinking, when she can make it through a short phone conversation without hiccupping or slurring her words, which hasn’t happened since she arrived.

As for Ward…well, everyone knows that Ward Dunscombe has a mistress on Long Island; her name is Kimberly Titus and she’s the daughter of Reggie Titus, flour king. Even Bitsy knows and she seems to accept it as a matter of course. When Kate informed Bitsy that David wasn’t coming this weekend, Bitsy said, “Does David have a Kimberly in Boston?”

“No,” Kate said. “He has a job.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew Bitsy must find her naive and way too trusting, but Kate had been married to a philanderer once and she wasn’t crazy enough to do it a second time. David is principled; if anything, he’s too principled. Kate is the one with the dark secret and questionable morals.

One martini, two martinis. Kate orders the escargots to start and Bitsy the hot appetizer—a crepe of seafood tossed in béchamel—which she barely touches.

“Shall we order wine?” Bitsy asks. This seems excessive. Kate is already seeing double, and the garlic from the escargot is repeating on her, so she eats a piece of bread slathered with the sublime French butter. But the question was, of course, rhetorical. Bitsy calls over their waiter and keeps him at the table far longer than is necessary, hanging on to his arm, asking obnoxious questions about Sancerre versus Chablis when she has already announced that she’s ordering le boeuf for her main course.

When poor Fernando or Arnoldo—Kate can’t remember the man’s name for love or money—finally escapes, Bitsy looks at Kate across the table and says, “I’m sleeping with him.”

Kate nearly chokes on her bread. “With whom?”

“Arturo,” Bitsy says. “He comes to the house after service and throws pebbles at my window.”