Jule took an onion from the bowl.
“When I first got my flat in London,” continued Imogen, “I had these two girlfriends from my program who were a couple. They had just come out, you know, being away from their families, and they were staying with me for August. I walked in on them absolutely going at it on the floor of the kitchen one day, like fully nude and yelling. I must have walked in at just a major effing moment, if you know what I mean. I thought, good Lord, are we ever going to be able to look each other in the face again? Like how could we all go out to the pub later, after this, and eat fish and chips? It just didn’t seem possible, and I had this feeling like maybe I’d lost these two amazing friends just by coming home at the wrong time. But one of them was like, ‘Oh, sorry for the porno show,’ and we all burst out laughing and it was actually fine. So I figured I’d say that, too, if ever I got into the same kind of situation.”
“You have an apartment in London?” Jule looked at the onion while she was peeling it.
“It was an investment,” Immie said. “And kind of a whim. I was in England on a summer program. My money person had advised me to put something in real estate, and I loved the city. This flat was the first place I looked at, an impulse buy in totally the wrong country, but I’m not sorry. It’s in a very cute area: St. John’s Wood.” Immie pronounced it like Sin Jahn’s Wood. “I had the most fun ever, decorating it with my friends. And we went around town and did tourist things. The Tower of London, the changing of the guard, the wax museum. We lived on digestive biscuits. It was before I learned to cook. You can borrow the place anytime. I never use it now.”
“We should go together,” said Jule.
“Oh, you’d be into it. The keys are right here. We could go tomorrow,” Immie said, and patted the bag that sat on the kitchen counter. “And maybe we should. Can you imagine? Just you and me in London?”
Immie loved people who were passionate. She wanted them to love the music she loved, the flowers she gave them, the books she admired. She wanted them to care about the smell of a spice or the taste of a new kind of salt. She didn’t mind disagreement, but she hated people who were apathetic and indecisive.
Jule read the two orphan books Immie had put on her bedside table, and everything else Immie brought home for her. She memorized wine labels, cheese labels, passages from novels, recipes. She was sweet with Forrest. She was scrappy yet willing to please, feminist yet feminine, full of rage yet friendly, articulate yet not dogmatic.
She realized that the manufacture of herself to please Imogen—it was like running, really. You simply powered through, mile after mile. Eventually you developed endurance. One day, you realized you loved it.
When Jule had been at the Vineyard house five weeks, Brooke Lannon showed up on Immie’s porch. Jule opened the door.
Brooke walked in and threw her bags down on the couch. Her blue flannel shirt was threadbare and old, and her silky blond hair was up in a topknot. “Immie, you still exist, you witch,” she said as Immie came into the living room. “All of Vassar thinks you’re dead. Nobody believed me when I said you texted me last week.” She turned to look at Forrest. “Is this the guy? Who…?” She left a question mark in the air.
“This is Forrest,” said Immie.
“Forrest!” said Brooke, shaking hands. “Okay, let’s hug.”
Forrest hugged awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”
“It is always nice to meet me,” said Brooke. Then she pointed to Jule. “Who’s this?”
“Don’t be mean,” said Immie.
“I’m being delightful,” said Brooke. “Who are you?” This, to Jule.
Jule forced a smile and introduced herself. She hadn’t known Brooke was coming. And Brooke clearly hadn’t heard about Jule being there, either. “Imogen says you’re her favorite person from Vassar.”
“I’m everyone’s favorite person from Vassar,” said Brooke. “That’s why I had to drop out. It was only two thousand people. I need a bigger audience.”
She dragged her bags upstairs and made herself at home in the second-best guest room.
END OF JUNE, 2016
MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MASSACHUSETTS
Five weeks before Brooke arrived, on her seventh day on Martha’s Vineyard, Jule splurged and took a tourist bus around the island. Most of the people on the bus were the kind who want to check off the sights on a list from a travel website. They were in family groups and couples, talking loudly.
The afternoon brought the tour to the Aquinnah lighthouse, in an area the guide explained was first inhabited by the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head and later, in the 1600s, by English colonists as well. The guide started talking about whaling as everyone poured off the bus to gaze at the lighthouse. From the lookout, they could also see the colored clay cliffs of Moshup Beach, but you couldn’t get down to the water without a hot walk of about half a mile.
Jule wandered away from the lookout to the Aquinnah shops, a cluster of small ventures selling souvenirs, Wampanoag crafts, and snacks. She wandered in and out of the low buildings, idly touching necklaces and postcards.
Maybe she should stay forever on Martha’s Vineyard. She could get a job in a shop or a gym, spend her days by the sea, find a place to live. She could give up trying to do anything with herself, stop being ambitious. She could just accept the life that was on offer right now and be grateful for it. No one would mess with her. She didn’t have to look for Imogen Sokoloff at all, if she didn’t want to.
As Jule exited one shop, a young man stepped out of the place opposite. He was carrying a large canvas tote bag. He was about Jule’s age. No, a little older. He was lean and narrow-waisted, not muscular at all, but graceful and loose-limbed, with a slightly curved nose and nice bone structure. His brown hair was tied up in a bun. He wore black cotton pants that were so long as to be shredded at the bottoms, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that read LARSEN’S FISH MARKET.
“I don’t know why you want to go in there,” he called to his companion, who was presumably still inside the shop. “There’s not any point in buying things that have no use.”
There was no reply.
“Immie! Come on. Let’s go to the beach,” the boy called.
And there she was.
Imogen Sokoloff. Her hair was cut short and pixie-ish now, blonder than in the pictures, but there was no question of her identity. She looked exactly like herself.
She walked out of the shop like it was nothing, like Jule hadn’t been waiting for her and looking for her for days and days. She was lovely, but more than that, she was at ease. As if loveliness were effortless.
Jule half expected Imogen to recognize her, but that didn’t happen.
“You’re so fussy today,” Immie said to the guy. “It’s boring when you’re fussy.”
“You didn’t even buy anything,” he said. “I want to get to the beach.”
“The beach isn’t going anywhere,” said Imogen, digging in her bag. “And I did buy something.”
The guy sighed. “What?”
“It’s for you,” she said. She pulled out a small paper parcel and gave it to him. He pulled the tape off and lifted out a woven bracelet.
Jule expected the boyfriend would be irritated, but instead he grinned. He put the bracelet on and buried his face in Imogen’s neck. “I love it,” he said. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s a trinket,” she said. “You hate trinkets.”
“But I like presents,” he said.
“I know you do.”
“Come on,” he said. “The water should be warm.” They walked down through the parking lot toward the path to the beach.
Jule looked back. The tour guide was waving at the crowd, gesturing for people to get back on the bus. It was scheduled to leave in five minutes.
She had no way to return to the hotel. Her phone was nearly out of battery and she didn’t know if she could call a cab from this part of the island.
It didn’t matter. She had found Imogen Sokoloff.
Jule let the bus leave without her.
THIRD WEEK OF JUNE, 2016