The boat guy said he’d meet them on the dock that extended from the far end of the beach. It was very informal. Jule and Immie walked down, and two young Puerto Rican men drove up in two small boats. Immie paid in cash. One guy showed Jule how to work the motor and how the oars fit on the edge of the boat, just in case you needed them. There was a number to call when they were done with the boat.
Immie was sulky. She said the life jackets were cracked and the boat needed a paint job. But she got in it anyway.
The ride across the bay took half an hour. The sun grew hot. The water was shockingly blue.
On Culebrita, Jule and Imogen jumped into the water to push the boat onshore. Jule chose a path, and they started walking. Immie was silent.
“Which way?” Jule asked her at a fork in the trail.
“Whatever you want.”
They went left. The hill was steep. After a fifteen-minute walk, Immie scraped her instep on a rock. She lifted her foot up and rested it against a tree to examine it.
“You okay?” Jule asked.
Immie was bleeding, but only slightly. “Yeah, fine.”
“I wish we had a Band-Aid,” said Jule. “I should have packed some.”
“But you didn’t, so it’s fine.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Immie.
“I mean, I’m sorry it happened to you.”
“Leave it,” Imogen said, and continued walking up the hill. Cresting it, they arrived at the black rocks.
They were different than Jule expected. More beautiful. Almost frightening. They were dark and slippery. Water flowed in and around them, making pools that looked warm in the sun. Some of the rocks were covered with soft green algae.
There was no one else around.
Immie stripped down to her bathing suit and slid into the largest pool without a word. She was tan and wore a black bikini with a string around the neck.
Jule felt like a thick, masculine person suddenly. The muscles she worked so hard on seemed oafish, and the pale blue suit she’d worn all summer tacky.
“Is it warm?” she asked, about the shallow pool.
“Pretty warm,” said Immie. She was bent over, splashing water up her arms and across the back of her neck. Jule was annoyed with Immie for sulking. After all, it wasn’t her fault that Imogen had scraped her foot. All Jule was guilty of was saying she wanted to rent a boat and see Culebrita.
Immie was a spoiled child who pouted when she didn’t get her way. It was one of her limitations. No one ever said no to Imogen Sokoloff.
“Shall we go up to the lighthouse?” Jule asked. It was the highest point on the island.
“We can.”
Jule wanted Immie to show enthusiasm. But Immie wouldn’t.
“Is your foot okay?”
“Probably.”
“Do you want to walk up to the lighthouse?”
“I could.”
“But do you want to?”
“What do you want me to say, Jule? ‘Oh, it is my dream to see a lighthouse’? On the Vineyard I saw an effing lighthouse every single day of my life. You want me to say I am dying to hike up there with my bloody foot in this crazy heat to see a tiny building that looks like a million tiny buildings I’ve seen a million times before? Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I was just asking.”
“I want to go back to the hotel.”
“But we just got here.”
Imogen climbed out of the water and pulled on her clothes, shoving her feet into her sandals. “Can we please go back? I want to call Forrest. My phone doesn’t work here.”
Jule dried her legs off and put on her shoes. “Why do you want to call Forrest?”
“Because he’s my boyfriend and I miss him,” said Immie. “What did you think? That I broke up with him?”
“I didn’t think anything.”
“I didn’t break up with him. I came to Culebra for a break, is all.”
Jule shouldered the bag they were sharing. “You want to go back, let’s go back.”
Jule felt drained of all the joy she’d felt the past few days. Everything seemed hot and ordinary.
They had pulled the boat pretty far onshore, and when they returned to the beach they had to push it across the sand. Then they jumped in and dislodged the oars from the rack, using them to guide the boat into water deep enough that it began to float and they could start the motor.
Imogen didn’t speak much.
Jule started the engine and pointed toward Culebra, which was visible in the distance.
Immie sat at the front end of the boat, her profile dramatic against the sea. Jule looked at her and felt a surge of affection. Immie was beautiful, and in her beauty you could see that she was kind. Good to animals. The type of friend who brings you coffee made just the way you like it, buys you flowers, gives you books, and bakes you muffins. No one knew how to have fun like Immie. She drew people to her; everyone loved her. She had a kind of power—money, enthusiasm, independence—that glowed around her. And here Jule was, out on the sea, this crazy turquoise sea, with this rare, unique human being.
Nothing of their quarrel mattered. It was fatigue, that was all. People argued in the best friendships. It was part of being real with one another.
Jule cut the engine. The sea was very quiet. There was not another boat anywhere on the horizon.
“Everything okay?” Imogen asked.
“I’m sorry I made us rent this stupid boat.”
“It’s okay. But listen, please. I’m going back to the Vineyard to be with Forrest tomorrow morning.”
Jule felt dizzy. “How come?”
“I told you, I miss him. I feel bad about the way I left. I was upset about…” Immie paused, hesitant to put it into words. “About what happened with the cleaner. And about how Forrest handled it. But I shouldn’t have run away. I run away too much.”
“You shouldn’t go back to the Vineyard because you feel obligated to Forrest, of all people,” said Jule.
“I love Forrest.”
“Then why are you lying to him all the time?” snapped Jule. “Why are you here with me? Why are you still thinking about Isaac Tupperman? That’s not how you act when you’re in love. You don’t leave a person in the middle of the night and expect they’ll be glad when you turn up again. You don’t get to leave them like that.”
“You’re jealous of Forrest. I get that. But I’m not some doll you can play with and not share.” Immie spoke harshly. “I used to think you liked me for myself—without my money, without anything. I thought we were alike and that you understood me. It was easy to tell you things. But more and more, I feel like you have this idea of me, Imogen Sokoloff”—she said her name as if it were in italics—“and it’s not who I am. You have this idea of a person you like. But it’s not me. You just want to wear my clothes and read my books and play pretend with my money. It’s not a real friendship, Jule. It’s not a real friendship when I pay for everything and you borrow everything and it’s still not enough. You want all my secrets, and then you hold them over me. I feel sorry for you, I do. I like you—but you’ve become, like, an imitation of me half the time. I’m sorry beyond sorry to have to say this, but you—”
“What?”
“You don’t add up. You keep changing the details of the stories you tell, and it’s like you don’t even know it. I should never have asked you to come stay with us in the Vineyard house. It was good for a while, but now I feel used, and even lied to, somehow. I need to get away from you. That’s the truth.”
The sense of dizziness increased.
Immie couldn’t be saying what she was saying.
Jule had been doing whatever Imogen wanted for weeks and weeks. She had left Immie alone when she wanted to be alone, had gone shopping when Immie wanted to go shopping. She had tolerated Brooke, tolerated Forrest. Jule had been a listener when required, a storyteller when required. She had adapted to the environment and learned all the codes of behavior for Immie’s world. She had kept her mouth shut. She had read hundreds of pages of Dickens.
“I’m not my clothes,” Imogen said. “I’m not my money. You want me to be this person—”