“Again.”
“I’ll help you find her,” Liz would reply. Then she would row to the shore. He would hold the side of the boat to steady it, then he would take her hand to help her out.
Their touch would be electrifying.
She’d reach up and pull the barrette from her ponytail. She’d shake her hair free. She’d look off to the horizon, but his eyes would not leave her. She’d nod toward the sky and say, “Beautiful sunset.”
He would step closer, this hunk named Josh Miller. He would step closer and slide his arm around her waist. “Not as beautiful as the woman who’s watching it,” he would say into her hair. Then he would lean into her, his lips moving from her cheek to her ear, to her throat … then she would stretch her back in the slightest arch … then …
They would be married as soon as she graduated from high school. It would not matter that he was Jewish: the ceremony would be in the old South Church in Boston, and they would be so in love that no one—not even Father—could say they were not meant for each other.
And they would have children. Beautiful, olive-skinned children … and he would touch her forever, grazing his hand over and over her body, coming to know every inch of her being as if it were his own … and she would know his … the softness of a special place rightthere on his stomach, the firmness of his flesh that lay just below …
“Lizzie!” came a shout.
Liz jumped. One of her oars splashed into the water. Her heart pounded. Leaning over the boat, she reached for the oar. It was floating too far away. With the other oar, she tried to row toward it, but the boat went in a circle, no closer than before.
“Lizzie!” The shout came again, closer this time, and quite recognizable. It was BeBe.
“I’m here!” she called back, then stooped and reached again for the oar. This time, she fell in.
The water was early summer icy, its chill slicing straight to her bones. Breaking the surface, Liz saw BeBe standing on the shore, hands on her hips.
“What the hell are you doing?” BeBe asked.
“Hopefully not drowning,” Liz replied, wiping the cold water from her eyes and kicking toward shore.
“Good,” BeBe answered, “because we’re all going to the movies tonight and that includes you.”
The best part about The Island theater was that it was plunked on the corner of Circuit Avenue and Lake, next door to Darling’s, home of the famous saltwater taffy and, even better, the rectangular blocks of popcorn in pink and in chocolate.
They bought their popcorn blocks first, then smuggled them into the movies, as if no one else in there was doing the same.
The theater was packed with summertime kids, who were there to watch or pretend to watch The French Connection , which had come out last year but had just made it to the Vineyard. “Slow boat from Hollywood,” was how Daniel explained the delayed-movie phenomenon.
Liz followed BeBe down the almost-dark, narrow aisle, with Roger close behind. But when BeBe scooted into a row of empty seats, suddenly it was Michael who had moved in beside her. She sat down, took out her pink popcorn bar, broke off a piece, and pretended not to notice.
As the opening credits began to roll, something made her look at the silhouette of a boy as he moved down the aisle.
Then she realized it was him .
And he was holding out his hand to steady the elbow of a silhouette in front of him—a girl.
Liz’s heart seemed to stop beating for one long moment. Then Michael leaned close to her and said, “If you want, I’ll go get you a soft drink.”
No, she did not want a soft drink. She wanted to know who the girl was with Josh Miller. She wanted to know why he was there with her and if he was in love with her. But all she said to Michael was, “No thanks.”
The movie began. Liz did not pay attention. She was too busy looking over to where Josh was sitting. She studied the back of his head. It was hard to tell in the dark,
“I’ll help you find her,” Liz would reply. Then she would row to the shore. He would hold the side of the boat to steady it, then he would take her hand to help her out.
Their touch would be electrifying.
She’d reach up and pull the barrette from her ponytail. She’d shake her hair free. She’d look off to the horizon, but his eyes would not leave her. She’d nod toward the sky and say, “Beautiful sunset.”
He would step closer, this hunk named Josh Miller. He would step closer and slide his arm around her waist. “Not as beautiful as the woman who’s watching it,” he would say into her hair. Then he would lean into her, his lips moving from her cheek to her ear, to her throat … then she would stretch her back in the slightest arch … then …
They would be married as soon as she graduated from high school. It would not matter that he was Jewish: the ceremony would be in the old South Church in Boston, and they would be so in love that no one—not even Father—could say they were not meant for each other.
And they would have children. Beautiful, olive-skinned children … and he would touch her forever, grazing his hand over and over her body, coming to know every inch of her being as if it were his own … and she would know his … the softness of a special place rightthere on his stomach, the firmness of his flesh that lay just below …
“Lizzie!” came a shout.
Liz jumped. One of her oars splashed into the water. Her heart pounded. Leaning over the boat, she reached for the oar. It was floating too far away. With the other oar, she tried to row toward it, but the boat went in a circle, no closer than before.
“Lizzie!” The shout came again, closer this time, and quite recognizable. It was BeBe.
“I’m here!” she called back, then stooped and reached again for the oar. This time, she fell in.
The water was early summer icy, its chill slicing straight to her bones. Breaking the surface, Liz saw BeBe standing on the shore, hands on her hips.
“What the hell are you doing?” BeBe asked.
“Hopefully not drowning,” Liz replied, wiping the cold water from her eyes and kicking toward shore.
“Good,” BeBe answered, “because we’re all going to the movies tonight and that includes you.”
The best part about The Island theater was that it was plunked on the corner of Circuit Avenue and Lake, next door to Darling’s, home of the famous saltwater taffy and, even better, the rectangular blocks of popcorn in pink and in chocolate.
They bought their popcorn blocks first, then smuggled them into the movies, as if no one else in there was doing the same.
The theater was packed with summertime kids, who were there to watch or pretend to watch The French Connection , which had come out last year but had just made it to the Vineyard. “Slow boat from Hollywood,” was how Daniel explained the delayed-movie phenomenon.
Liz followed BeBe down the almost-dark, narrow aisle, with Roger close behind. But when BeBe scooted into a row of empty seats, suddenly it was Michael who had moved in beside her. She sat down, took out her pink popcorn bar, broke off a piece, and pretended not to notice.
As the opening credits began to roll, something made her look at the silhouette of a boy as he moved down the aisle.
Then she realized it was him .
And he was holding out his hand to steady the elbow of a silhouette in front of him—a girl.
Liz’s heart seemed to stop beating for one long moment. Then Michael leaned close to her and said, “If you want, I’ll go get you a soft drink.”
No, she did not want a soft drink. She wanted to know who the girl was with Josh Miller. She wanted to know why he was there with her and if he was in love with her. But all she said to Michael was, “No thanks.”
The movie began. Liz did not pay attention. She was too busy looking over to where Josh was sitting. She studied the back of his head. It was hard to tell in the dark,
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