Chapter 1

            They waited for the two sedans and pickup truck to drive up the ramp, and two Porsche sportscars and a rusty Volkswagen convertible to drive down the ramp, and then they were motioned forward and walked their bicycles onto the ferry. The gate went down and the ferry driver in the tiny wheelhouse throttled up the engine to leave Balboa Island for the ride to the Balboa Peninsula. To drive across the bridge on the opposite side of the island to the top of the bay and down the peninsula to the ferry landing was six miles, and so the five-minute ferry ride was quite popular although the two ferries could take no more than three vehicles at a time.

            Winston was at the front of their little group, paying their fares to the deckhand, then there was Margaret who had rarely left his side all week, behind them were Angela and Jackie and Michael and then David. They were dressed comfortably in shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops and sunglasses, and had spent a relaxing morning exploring the densely populated but charming island, had stopped for a fish-sandwich lunch and ice cream, and Jackie’s enthusiasm in a trendy shop for a new outfit for the party enthused the rest of them to buy something for themselves, and those clothes, purchased for what was likely too much money, were neatly folded in colorful paper bags hung from their bicycle handlebars.

            David raised his face to the sun for a few moments before gazing down the long Newport Bay. The sun was bright, glaring even, the sky was a clear pale blue, and the salty breeze coming up the bay was pleasantly cool on his skin. Seagulls cried and wheeled overhead, sailboats and motorboats and outboard-powered skiffs crisscrossed the bay, their bows plowing the blue-green water into a foamy white, many of the larger craft bearing swim-suit and bikini-clad passengers and crew. The rhythmic rolling of the ferry, the gentle swaying of palm trees, and the pale blue sky and the sun warm on his skin and the sailboats and motorboats and skiffs and the breeze and the fun-seeking people on the deck with them, was truly idyllic and David began to wish that this was not the last full day but the first full day.

            It was too soon to forget the long days and long nights of study, presenting his thesis, and then the relief of awakening one morning and realizing it was all over, and Winston then offering a week at the beach. It was a generous offer, with much promise of rewarding themselves for what they had achieved. Angela had at first appeared unmoved by the idea, but David put it down to fatigue, and after a while she agreed it was a good thing, although he sensed there was something about her this week that was different, was at times moody or distracted—he was unable to perceive which, but she insisted it was neither. Even so, they had all enjoyed the week immensely, and had on several occasions toyed with the idea of renting a house together near the bay, and the clean broad beaches, and how expensive it would undoubtedly be.

            They had rented a motorboat the day before and cruised the clear water of the bay to the entrance channel and back again, slowing to admire John Wayne’s property with its vast green lawn sloping to the water’s edge, and marveling at his 136-foot refitted U.S. Navy minesweeper—which it no longer resembled—named the Wild Goose.

            The ferry driver throttled back and steered into the V-shaped dock in front of the Pavilion, reversed the throttle as the ferry slid beneath the overhanging ramp and bumped home, then throttled up just enough to hold the ferry in position. The gate went up and the Porsches drove up the ramp with the Volkswagen clattering behind, followed by those pushing bicycles and those on foot, a line of cars waiting to drive on for the return trip. A woman in a purple bikini and floppy straw hat lost her grip on her folding beach chair and as she was also carrying an umbrella and a small ice chest, with a large beach bag over her shoulder, David picked up the chair and held it for her while she rearranged everything, his friends waiting for him in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. He soon joined them, and they mounted their bicycles and rode onto Palm Street, crossing East Bay, East Balboa, East Oceanfront, and reaching the bike path, turned in the direction of the beach cottage they were staying in and where they intended to freshen up and change into their new beach fashions and then ride on to the party given by a country club friend of Winston’s.

Chapter 2

David said, “What if she asks you?”

“She would never do that.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

Winston smiled. “I’m leaving town in another week or ten days.”

“Have you told her?”

“Tomorrow . . . or next week.”

Slipping away from the crowded patio, they had retrieved their cache of red wine and entered the side door of the beach house and on into the kitchen where Winston rummaged through a drawer of utensils and finding the only cork puller not bent or broken opened the first of two bottles. There being no more wine glasses in the yellow-painted cupboards, they sipped the vintage burgundy from small juice glasses and mockingly smacked their lips as though it was little better than a jug of vagrant vino. David pushed aside the frilly window curtains and they watched the goings on. After a time, he said,

“Do you think all these people were invited?”

“I don’t see how,” said Winston, “Jeremy never had many friends.” He poured out more of the excellent wine he had the foresight to conceal in rolled-up beach towels in the wire basket on the handlebars of his beach cruiser. The side door creaked open and slammed and Michael came through. He was attired in the newly purchased Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt as was Winston and David although the shirts were different colors.

David said, “Margaret wants Winston to marry her.”

“She has also taken to ordering me about.”

Michael said, “You’re lucky to get a preview of how it will be if you do.”

“A shudder is rippling down my spine.”

“I could never allow any woman to give me orders,” said David.

“She does it in private, as if she owns me already.”

Michael said, “She should enlist in the military. Become an officer.”

David said, “You could offer that idea as possible compensation.” He found a juice glass for Michael and Winston poured out wine. Michael sipped and made a noise of appreciation.

Winston cut the foil capsule off the second bottle, and they watched him extract the cork with the same hands that had thrown daring passes, accepted honorable awards, and held close desirable women. Michael said, “If she orders you to sit down to discuss the future, tell a joke.”

“What kind of a joke?”

“Tell a long wandering story and at the end say you messed up the punch line, laugh big, and start over.”

Winston’s problem seemingly solved, the three friends from college watched the crowd mingling, gesturing, drinking, laughing, and here and there a hand brushing a sensitive part of another’s physical attributes, an outward sign that mating urges were inching up the pole. They watched Angela and Jackie, dressed as was Margaret in flower-patterned pedal pushers and white sleeveless blouses purchased from the trendy shop on the island, leave the refreshment table with tall drinks in hand, and slip through the crowd to join some people at a picnic table. They seemed to know one another.

David was uncertain about Angela. They had been dating for some months and since graduation he had been trying to decide. Although suited physically, they were not madly in love but coupled by a sympathetic appreciation of the artistic temperament, he the writer she the painter. Adding to his ambivalence was his observation that, although ardently sexual this week, her interest in conversation deeper than should they lay on the beach or swim the waves or what nightly entertainment was available or should they use handcuffs again, was on the wane. He admittedly had said nothing to her about plans for the summer, and it occurred to him now that an offer in that direction might very well improve the situation. He sipped wine and thought about various offers and which might succeed best.

Beach lovers strolling the Strand lingered to watch the lively party on the patio, perhaps entertained by the rock and roll music blaring from two immense black speakers connected by long wires to a tape deck. Two such strollers were emboldened to step over the low wall and make their way through the crowd to where a long table precariously supporting a jumble of alcoholic beverages leaned against the clapboard wall of the house. A bearded man wearing a checked shirt and cowboy hat unslung a guitar from across his back, straddled the low wall, and began to strum and sing. Whatever sound he made, for it was impossible to hear from the kitchen, it lured first one and then another and then another of the plentiful unescorted women.

Winston leaned forward and peered cautiously through the window, and satisfied with what he saw, or possibly, did not see, said, “Where did Margaret go?”

            The side door creaked and slammed and Margaret came into the kitchen and stood before them, feet apart, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared. David envisioned a Drill Sergeant inspecting unsatisfactory recruits. She said, “What are you doing in here?” Neither Winston nor David nor Michael ventured a reason. She continued with a voice braced with authority. “I step away to speak to the host, your friend, and when I turn around to ask a question—you are gone. Now, bring your wine if you must, and let’s join the party, together.”

Juice glasses and bottles of precious wine in hand, they followed her out single file, flip-flops slapping their heels. She led them to a picnic table some people were conveniently vacating to join those gathering around the cowboy crooner. Angela and Jackie remained, along with a man with a toothbrush mustache and an ill-fitting toupee.

            “This is Oliver,” said Angela. “His sister masturbates stallions.”

            Oliver, who’s general appearance suggested it was a word he normally used sparingly if at all, said, “Blackie Boy is her prized stud and I was telling them how she collects his sperm to inseminate the mares of rich owners.”

            They sat down and Margaret made introductions. Winston poured out wine into Oliver’s empty glass, and topped off his glass and David’s and Michael’s. Angela and Jackie were drinking some kind of pink concoction, and Margaret did not drink alcohol as she claimed it lowered defenses and made one open to predation by the lower orders.

“This is delicious,” said Oliver. “There was some decent wine earlier but it was drunk as soon as it was opened.”

“We brought it,” said David. “Barely got any for ourselves.”

“So rude,” said Oliver. “But this is good.” He turned the bottle to see the label.

“I scraped it off,” said Winston.

Oliver nodded, smiling. “They would think it not worth drinking. Clever.”

Winston was pleased. “Have some more,” he said, and topped off Oliver’s glass.

Jeremy, Winston’s country club friend, came to the table. His pompadour had collapsed in the late afternoon heat and there was a red wine stain on his white Polo shirt over the general area of his heart. “Is the party any good?”

Margaret said, “Of course.”

“Food is gone, and all of the wine and most of the beer.” He shook his head. “I guess there are about three times more people than I asked.”

Winston said, “Thank you for inviting us.”

“I’m turning off my music as most everyone prefers the troubadour.”

“It’s the mystique of the lonesome cowboy,” said David.

“Kathy didn’t show. She said she would come but she didn’t show.” He shrugged. “If I don’t see you before you leave, Winston, thanks for coming. It was nice to meet all of you.”

“Keep in touch,” said Winston.

Jeremy shook hands with everyone and went off in the direction of the tape deck wired to the immense black speakers which he silenced a few moments later.

Michael said, “Is it true your sister masturbates stallions?”

“She lives on a ranch in Montana,” said Angela. “Go ahead, Oliver, tell them about it.”

The cowboy singer’s fans applauded. Encouraged, he began a new song.

Oliver looked over his shoulder at the entertainer’s crowd.

“Never mind them,” said Angela.

Oliver turned back, and seeing they were attentive, he said, “Where do you want me to begin?”

Angela said, “In the barn, when your sister is going to do Blackie Boy.”

Oliver told his story rather distractedly, as if he had to relive in his mind the business in the barn in Montana to tell it properly.

Angela interrupted. “This part gives me the chills.”

Oliver drank some wine, and went on, Winston abruptly refilling their glasses as Oliver related his sister fearlessly kneeling under the nervy stallion with a super-size condom and sliding it onto the stallion’s super-sized erection and the horse tossing his head this way and that and rolling his eyes and then, using his hands to show the size of the erection and the action of his sister’s hands as she masturbated the stallion, Oliver convincingly imitated the stallion’s wild whinnies as it bared its teeth and lay its ears back, and then how full the condom was when his sister slid it off and gave it to the ranch-hand who put it in the ice chest on a bench outside the stall. Oliver stopped, breathed in deep, let it out slowly, and staring into the distance, drank wine.

They were all quiet, each occupied with their own vision of the ultimate scene, the cowboy crooner poignantly underscoring their vicarious experiences with a song about lost love. David became aware of the sheen on Angela’s face, and on Jackie’s face, and the flushed cheeks of always-in-control Margaret. Michael grinned at him from across the table. Winston rewarded Oliver by pouring out the last of the vintage burgundy into his glass. They toasted the manliness of Blackie Boy, and the courage of Oliver.

“Those poor little mares missed out,” said Angela rather dreamily. “Getting it on with a well-hung guy is really something.”

They all looked at David with new appreciation. Angela, seeing this, said, “Oh! You thought I was talking about David? No, no, no, no. This was another guy, a very special guy, seven and a half inches of throbbing ecstasy.” She smiled and turned her head on one side. “Ricardo. I wonder where Ricardo is now.”

Jackie said, “Seven and a half inches? I would be thrilled with six.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” said Michael.

Oliver, patting his toupee as if assuring himself its dignity had not been mussed by the ribald revelations, said, “Seven and a half inches, six inches—how do you think it makes me feel?”

David said to Angela, “Dare I ask if you’ve been faking it these months?”

Angela laughed. “I’ve enjoyed every sweaty thrusting minute.”

Winston drank the last of his wine, and rose to his feet. “I’m getting my bicycle and thrusting my way back while I’m still sober.”

“We’ll all go,” said Margaret, standing up beside him. “The party is over anyway.”

They finished their drinks and leaving Oliver alone at the table they retrieved their beach cruisers from the side of the house, old Schwinn bicycles with wide curved handlebars, coaster brakes, and no fenders. They walked them out onto the Strand, where they mounted and pedaled the mile to the beach house where they had been staying for a post-graduation week of sun and fun, and where there was an abundance of quality alcoholic libations.

***

David was dreaming, but who and what it was about faded into the haze of awakening. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and rolled over to see if Angela was awake. There were only disheveled covers to mark where she had slept, and the bedroom door was closed. He became aware of voices resonating through the wall as if spoken down a long tube. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, scratched an itch on his scalp. That fuzzy feeling in the brain one has the morning after too much wine momentarily impeded recognition but it came to him slowly that the voices were Angela and Jackie in the adjacent bedroom. He struggled a bit in sitting up and moved the pillow to cushion his back against the carved wood headboard.

Angela said, “For sure, David is no two-legged stallion. But he went to France last summer to visit his father, and this woman his father lives with invited her sister to visit—”

“Wait, this woman, she isn’t his mother?”

“No, they divorced, years ago. His father has a French girlfriend, or mon amour, as they say over there. Anyway, the sister, Mary or Marlene or some name like that, seduced him, and taught him how to use what he has.”

            “Better than the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am?”

“He takes a lot more time, has been sensitive to my demands.”

“I wish Michael took more time.”

Angela said, “I had two earth-moving orgasms.” She chuckled. “Handcuffing him to the headboard is such a turn-on.”

“You handcuffed him?”

“I wanted another orgasm, but he fell asleep after I unlocked them, so I had to do it myself.”

“You slut!”

“It’s not slutty if you get what you want.”

David got out of bed and dressed, desperate for a cup of black coffee. His groin and manhood were sore from being ridden enthusiastically, but he had no complaint. Angela’s chrome-plated handcuffs with the unusually long chain were on the floor. He dropped them onto the packed clothes in her open suitcase, and thoughtfully examined his wrists.

Jackie said, “Winston ordered brunch from the bakery on the corner.”

            “He really is a dream,” said Angela.

            “That’s what Margaret says.”

            They had all slept in late, and were now straggling downstairs and out to the patio to take a seat at the table bearing the sumptuous brunch Winston had generously sent out for. They ate placidly, idly watching a passing parade on the Strand, the more colorful being a trio of sweaty jogging men conversing loudly in a jumble of breathy words, half-a-dozen teenage girls in polka-dot pajamas laughing shrilly at something said, a petite dog walker with bloodied knees struggling to control five Pekinese hell bent on nipping innocent ankles, and two leggy tanned beauties in abbreviated shorts and tops seemingly racing against time itself, blonde pony tails swinging side-to-side. Angela, oddly disinterested in the showy display of leisure pursuits, wolfed a chocolate cake donut and a bowl of fruit and sipped a second cup of heavily creamed coffee, and after glancing at her wrist watch half a dozen times during her feasting, announced there was something she forgot to do, and went into the house. The others, hunger satiated, seduced by the calming influence of the morning breeze bearing the smell of the sea and the faint rhythmic booming of waves tumbling onto shore, basked in the warming sun beneath a cloudless blue sky, drank coffee, and said little. A man of short stature with a shock of curly black hair walked past rather slowly, holding what appeared to be an open magazine or some such and reading aloud.

“It’s that guy,” said Michael. “You know, the actor from the play Wednesday night.”

David nodded in recognition. The actor had sat alone at an adjacent dinner table, and between forking abundant mouthfuls from a large wood bowl of colorful salad, proclaimed loudly with clipped sentences what a great play it was, his character essential to every scene, and every performance sold out.

Michael mimicked the actor. “They gave me a standing ovation, and three curtain calls.”

“There was no standing ovation or curtain calls,” said Margaret, picking something off the cinnamon roll she had been eating and flicking it away.

Winston said, “Actors live make-believe on stage, so why not in real life?”

Margaret looked at him rather oddly, and said, “We must always tell the truth if we are to preserve mutual respect and social order.”

“That’s my biggest problem with relationships,” said Jackie. “I want to believe men are truthful, but I never know for sure.”

Michael said, “I always tell you the truth.”

A flock of seagulls cried and veered and swooped low overhead. A gray and white blob dropped noiselessly and narrowly missed the box of pastry. Jackie said, “Gross!” and Margaret frowned and covered it with a paper napkin.

Winston stood suddenly. “Hey! Jeremy!”

Jeremy left the Strand and came onto the patio.

“What are you up to this morning?”

“Going into town for a coffee and breakfast.”

“Join us,” said Winston. “There is more than enough.”

Jeremy leaned forward for a better look at the spread. “Are you sure?”

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” said Margaret.

Michael and Jackie slid over to make room. Jeremy sat on the bench and David gave him a cup and Winston poured out coffee. Margaret handed Jeremy a plate and a fork and smiled as he generously served himself and began to eat with gusto.

After passing remarks on the fine weather, Jeremy aired mild complaints about the mobbing of his party, and the dreaded influx of “inland hordes” to the pretty beach town. He pushed his plate away, unsuccessfully concealed a belch, and said, “I expect all your chosen futures are secure, but I confess, that after returning to my seat to watch the endless procession of fellow graduates, I realized I was never to have the luxury of deciding what to do with my life.”

            This statement provoked seriously made but absurd intentions from the others to turning to alcoholism, drug dealing, prostitution, bank robbery, or animal husbandry. Jeremy said, “Apparently, I am the only one who will be a productive member of society.”

            Margaret said, “Doing?”

“I am to join the family firm.”

            Winston said, “Building custom yachts, isn’t it?”

            “I’ve worked there every summer since I was fourteen.” He shook his head as if that had been a great disappointment. “I start full-time next week.”

            They applauded, tepidly.

            Winston said he was, in fact, joining his father’s financial planning firm.

“I will envy you hanging out with all those celebrities,” said Jackie.

Michael, who had studied graphic design and photographed cultural and sports events for the college newspaper, said, “I am at present negotiating a juicy retainer deal with a big talent agency to photograph their clients.”

“Michael is going to take artistic nude pictures of me,” said Jackie.

Michael lowered his voice as if revealing a state secret, “Submitting what I expect to be gorgeous prints, in person—it’s all arranged—to the photo editor of Playboy magazine.”

Jackie, a flashy swimsuit model, pursed her lips as if bestowing upon him a kiss. “It’s one of my dreams, you know, to be a Playboy Centerfold.”

Angela came out of the house with her suitcase and set it by the door, and with her purse in hand, squeezed in beside David, and glanced at her watch. David turned to her and said, “You were gone a long time.”

She shrugged. “Why, did you miss me?”

He put his arm across her shoulders. “If there was a crystal ball on the table, right here, what would you want our future to look like?”

She said, “Our future?”

“Yes. Our future. You know, what we are going to do over the summer.”

“I don’t see a future.”

David laughed. “I know there is no crystal ball, but pretend there is, and tell me what you would like to see.”

Angela said, her voice firm, “I have a future, and you have a future, but not together.”

            A voice called out, “Excuse me?”

            They turned to see a man who had apparently come up between the houses.

            Winston said, “Can I help you?”

            “Angela called for a taxi? Is this the right address?

            Angela gestured. “That’s me,” she said. “Take my suitcase, there by the door, and I will be with you in five minutes.”

            David looked at her. “What do you want a taxi for?”

            “To take me home for the rest of my luggage, and then to the airport.”

            “The airport?”

“A month before finals, Professor Ingle invited me to bring my drawing portfolio to his townhouse. He liked them, said I have promise. He mixed cocktails—he has a great view of the city from his deck—and explained your novel to me with such brilliant insight that it shook me. I realized how much I held back my art for your art.”

David said, “Professor Ingle is a gasbag.”

“Not in the art world,” she said sweetly. “He was kind enough to write a letter—”

“His so-called writing is heavily edited by an intern—you let him read my novel?”

“—recommending me for an assistant curator job with a colleague of his in New York. So, you see, a future with you is impossible.”

Angela looked at David with pity, hesitated, and said, “No longer must I sit meekly with hands folded in my lap while you maunder on about the great writers you hope to equal with your own searching style, reading to me your favorite passages from novels I would rather walk barefoot on broken glass than read.” She rose from the table with great dignity, looked skyward with hands open to the heavens. “I am free,” she said. “Free at last!” She laughed delightedly, and then looked down at him, her face glowing. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and said, “It would be folly for the desirable go-getter woman I intend to become to waste one more day on a mostly likeable guy who’s dream-life is tapping out novels on an ancient manual typewriter that, citing the thinly fictionalized story of your summer in France as an example, are unlikely to sell many more copies than your few relatives and even fewer friends will charitably buy.”

The stunned silence following her diatribe was shattered when Angela shouted with joy, and raising her hands to the heavens again, she said, “That was brilliant. Brilliant! You see, don’t you David, that setting myself free from your stifling spell has allowed my own creativity, my brilliant creativity, freedom of expression.”

With a grand gesture, she pulled a folder from her purse. “This is my plane ticket, and this—she leaned down and kissed his forehead—is my good-bye.” She glanced at the others, and said, “Thank you for the delicious food, the fine wine, and all the fun stuff,” and to Winston, “Please thank your parents for the use of their quaint beach house.” Her head held high she turned away and strode across the patio and disappeared down the path between the houses.

David had looked up at her before she turned away, and in that moment, her aquiline nose and fine cheekbones and dark brown hair pulled back over the lovely curve of her ear, imprinted on his memory an indelible image of her profile at its most beautiful. Why he should have seen that in that moment, why he should have seen her after all this time at her most beautiful, he would never be able to explain.

No one said anything, until, at last, Winston said, “To whom and how much did she pay for that speech I wonder.”

“I’ve been told off plenty of times,” said Michael. “But never with such style.”

Jackie said, “I never heard her talk like that before.”

“Some of that is from rewrite notes for my novel,” said David, shaking his head.

            Margaret said, “My god, is it as good as that?”

            He smiled. “It was rather thrilling to hear my words read with such conviction.”

Winston said, “You think making a speech like that is a compliment?”

David drank the last of his coffee. “To be fair, her reading my work had more than one benefit,” he said. “She used variations on my sex scenes for our sex.”

Michael said, “So, you knew—”

“Where she was headed.”

“How boring is that?” said Jackie. “I mean, planning sex like a grocery list?”

“Kathy said having sex with me is like writing a grocery list,” said Jeremy.

Winston said, “Did she memorize the scenes or read from the pages while you were doing it?”

“You think I do it with my eyes open?”

Margaret said, “Should I be reading those scenes?”

Winston said, “I haven’t complained.”

“You’re not the complaining type.”

Jackie said, “What’s the good of complaining—it’s never done me any good.”

Michael said, “You hang on to that philosophy and life will be good.”

She smiled at him. “Life is good right now.”

            Margaret rubbed Winston’s shoulder. “I am so lucky to have found the perfect mate,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

            Two stocky women with faded blue duffle bags slung over their shoulders came from between the houses.

            Winston stood. “Ah, here’s Rhoda.”

            Rhoda said hello to everyone but was really talking to Winston. “Did you all have a fun week?”

            “We had a great week,” said Winston. “We’re all packed, and I wrote you a check.”

            “This is Sherie. She’s my helper today ‘cause I got five houses to clean.”

Winston said, “I must confess that some of my guests, overcome by their abrupt freedom from college, somehow got hold of some funny cigarettes and so you may notice an odd smell in some of the rooms.”

Rhoda and Sherie looked at one another and Rhoda said, “Uh-huh.”

“I took the liberty of writing the check for double the usual amount, and I hope you can still clean without feeling . . . compromised.”

Rhoda said, “These funny cigarettes . . . did they smoke ‘em all?”

Winston chuckled nervously. “Unfortunately, there are a few left over, and they don’t want to drive with them in possession, if you know what I mean.”

 Rhoda nodded at Sherie, and Sherie said, “Don’t you worry that handsome head of yours Mr. Winston, because we can promise you, faithfully, that when we leave this house, anything like that will have gone in smoke.”

“That’s right,” said Rhoda. “Now, supposing you show us where these things are so can deal with them right away.”

            Rhoda and Sherie followed Winston into the house. Jeremy rose and said his goodbye’s, and turned in the direction from which he had come. Jackie began clearing the brunch leavings.

            David said, “We’ll bring out the luggage and load the cars,” and he and Michael left the table. When they were safely away, David said, “Damn that woman.”

Michael said, “Are you heart-broken?”

“What I am is an idiot for not seeing it coming,” said David. “I was going to invite her to spend the summer with me. She was helpful when I was rewriting my thesis, and I thought she could do the same when I start rewriting it to send to literary agents.”

“Angela was editing your novel?”

“Oh, God no. But she would read chapters and ask intelligent questions, and that helped me refine it before turning it in to the committee. I got an A on it, by the way.”

“I could lend you Jackie.”

“What kind of novels does she read?”

“She reads comic books. Same thing, isn’t it?”

“Very funny. I suppose her favorite is Superman?”

“Superman, Batman, and Spiderman,” said Michael. “She sometimes reads a story to me, and they’re not bad.”

While they gathered luggage from the bedrooms, David recreated in his mind the scene on the patio with Angela, only this time it was he who dumped her with a literary finale so soaring that it—he smiled at the idea—solicited applause as she slunk away with bowed head.

Margaret gathered paper plates. “Why did she humiliate him like that?”

“I know it wasn’t about sex,” said Jackie. “She handcuffed him to the headboard and her orgasms blew her mind.”

“She did what?”

Jackie nodded, and went on to tell Margaret what Angela said about the sister of his father’s French girlfriend who seduced him and taught him great sex.

“Maybe Angela dumped David because he is still in love with her.”

“With Angela?”

“No. The sister of his father’s French girlfriend.”

“David loves the French girl, can’t have the French girl, Angela dumps him because he doesn’t love her?”

Margaret, pausing her clean-up to look toward the house, said, “Poor guy. There must be some way to cheer him up.”

Jackie stacked the paper coffee cups and looked slyly at Margaret. “This is another summer of love.”

“Jackie! Winston is my one and only, and even if he wasn’t, I . . . I would never.”

“You said you would never smoke a joint, but you liked it.”

“It was relaxing.” She had later done things with Winston in the bedroom she had never done before. He praised her afterwards, but she was unsure if she could do them again.

Jackie smiled, nodding slowly. “The three of us getting it on—wow!”

They piled the paper plates and the paper cups and the plastic flatware and the dirty crumpled napkins and the remains of the fruit and baked goods into the delivery box.

Margaret crossed her arms, and said, “Where would you get handcuffs?”

Jackie said, “I have this friend . . .”