MARTHA’S VINEYARD
One week earlier, a guard stopped Jule at airport security. “If you want to carry this bag on, miss, you have to put the toiletries in a clear plastic bag,” the man told her. He had a flabby neck and wore a blue uniform. “Didn’t you see the sign? Everything has to be three point four ounces.”
The guard was going through Jule’s suitcase wearing a pair of blue latex gloves. He took her shampoo, her conditioner, her sunblock, her body lotion. He threw them all in the trash.
“I’ll send it through again now,” he said, zipping the bag shut. “Should be okay. You wait here.”
She waited. She tried to look as if she’d known how to pack liquids for air travel and had simply forgotten, but her ears grew hot. She was angry at the waste. She felt small and inexperienced.
The plane was cramped, with plasticky seats worn down by years of use, but Jule enjoyed the flight. The view was exciting. It was a cloudless day. The shoreline curved down the coast, brown and green.
Her hotel was opposite the harbor in Oak Bluffs. It was a Victorian building with white trim. Jule left her suitcase in the room and walked a few blocks to Circuit Avenue. The town was filled with vacationers. There were a couple of shops with nice clothing. Jule needed clothes; she had the Visa gift cards, and she knew what looked good on her, but she hesitated.
She watched the women as they walked by. They wore jeans or short cotton skirts and open-toe sandals. Faded colors and navy blue. Their bags were fabric, not leather. Their lipstick was nude and pink, never red. Some wore white pants and espadrilles. Their bras didn’t show. They wore only the smallest earrings.
Jule took out her hoops and tucked them in her bag. She returned to the shops, where she bought a pair of boyfriend jeans, three cotton tank tops, a long flowing cardigan, espadrilles, and a white sundress. Then a shoulder bag made of canvas printed with gray flowers. She paid with the card and got cash from a machine.
Standing on the street corner, Jule transferred her ID and money, makeup and phone to the new bag. She called her phone’s billing service and arranged payment with the Visa number. She called her roommate, Lita, and left a voice mail saying she was sorry.
At the hotel, Jule worked out, showered, and put on the white dress. She blew her hair out in loose waves. She needed to find Imogen, but it could wait until the next day.
She walked to an oyster bar that looked onto the harbor and asked for a lobster roll. When it arrived, it wasn’t what she expected. It was nothing but lobster chunks in mayonnaise on a toasted hot dog bun. She had imagined it would be something more elegant.
She asked for a plate of french fries and ate those instead.
It was strange to walk through town with nothing she needed to do. Jule ended up at the carousel. It was indoors, in a dark old building that smelled of popcorn. A sign claimed that Flying Horses was “America’s Oldest Carousel.”
She bought a ticket. It wasn’t crowded, just a few kids and their older siblings. Parents were looking at their phones in the waiting area. The music was old-fashioned. Jule chose an outside horse.
As the ride started, she noticed the guy sitting on the pony next to her. He was wiry, with developed deltoids and lats: possibly a rock climber, definitely not a weight-room guy. Some white and some Asian heritage, Jule guessed. He had thick black hair, a little too long. He looked like he had been out in the sun. “I’m feeling like a loser right now,” he told her as the carousel started moving. “Like this was a crazy bad idea.” His accent was general American.
Jule matched it. “How come?”
“Nausea. It hit me right away, as soon as we started moving. Blech. Also I’m the only person on this thing who’s over the age of ten.”
“Besides me.”
“Besides you. I rode this carousel once when I was a kid. My family came here on a vacation. Today I was waiting for the ferry and I had an hour to kill, so I thought—why not? For old times’ sake.” He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “Why are you on here? Do you have a little brother or sister somewhere?”
Jule shook her head. “I like rides.”
He reached across the space between them and held out his hand. “I’m Paolo Santos. You?”
She shook awkwardly, since both their horses were moving.
This guy was leaving the island. Jule was only talking to him for a minute or two; then she’d never see him again. It didn’t make much sense; it was an impulse—but she lied. “Imogen Sokoloff.”
The name felt good to say. It would be nice, after all, to be Imogen.
“Oh, you’re Imogen Sokoloff?” Paolo threw his head back, laughing and raising his soft eyebrows. “I should have guessed. I heard you might be on the Vineyard.”
“You knew I was here?”
“I should explain. I gave you a fake name. I’m really sorry, that probably seems crazy. Just a fake last name. It’s really Paolo. But not really Santos.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.” He rubbed his forehead again. “It was a strange thing to do, but I figured we were only talking to each other for the next couple minutes. Sometimes when I’m traveling I like to be someone else.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’m Paolo Vallarta-Bellstone. My dad, Stuart, went to school with your father. I’m sure you’ve met him.”
Jule raised her eyebrows. She had heard of Stuart Bellstone. He was a big financial guy recently sent to prison for what the news sites called “the D and G trading scandal.” His picture had been all over the news two months ago when the trial ended.
“I’ve played golf with your father and my dad a number of times,” Paolo went on. “Before Gil got sick. He always talked about you. You went to Greenbriar and then you started at—Vassar, was it?”
“Yes, but I dropped out after fall term,” said Jule.
“How come?”
“That’s a long and boring story.”
“Come on. You’ll distract me from my nausea and then I won’t be sick on you. It’ll be a win all around.”
“My dad would say I got in with party people and didn’t work up to my potential in my first semester,” said Jule.
Paolo laughed. “Sounds like him. What would you say?”
“I would say…that I wanted a different life than the one that was supposed to be my lot,” said Jule slowly. “Coming here was a way to get it.”
The carousel slowed to a stop. They got off their horses and walked out. Paolo grabbed a large backpack from a corner where he’d stashed it. “You wanna go get ice cream?” he asked. “I know the best ice cream place on the island.”
They walked along to a little shop. They argued about hot fudge versus butterscotch topping and then agreed that both at once would solve everything. Paolo said, “It’s so funny, your being here right now. I feel like we nearly met a million times.”
“How did you know I was on Martha’s Vineyard?”
Paolo ate a spoonful of ice cream. “You’re a little bit famous, Imogen, leaving school and going missing—then turning up here. Your dad asked me to call you when I was on the island, to be honest.”
“He did not.”
“Yeah. He emailed me. See? I called your number six days ago.” He pulled out an iPhone and showed her the recent calls.
“That’s a little creepy.”
“No, it’s not,” said Paolo. “Gil wants to know how you are, is all. He said you haven’t been picking up your phone, you’d left school, and you were out on the Vineyard. If I saw you, I should report back that you’re okay. He wanted me to tell you he’s having an operation.”
“I know he’s having an operation. I was just in the city with him.”