Franklin starts playing “Carolina in My Mind,” by James Taylor, and a cheer goes up.
There’s a seat at the bar, despite the crowd. Tabitha sits and smiles at the bartender, a young woman with clear eyes and a friendly smile.
“Hey, Harper,” she says. “Long time no see! You want a beer and a shot?”
Tabitha opens her mouth to correct the young lady. I’m not Harper. But the bar is loud, and this girl actually seems to like Harper, so Tabitha sees no harm in nodding. Beer and a shot? Sure! Tabitha has never had a beer and a shot in all her life. Maybe she’s been missing out.
The drinks appear—a tall golden pilsner glass full of beer with a neat half inch of foam and a shot of some purplish-brown liquid. Tabitha lifts the shot glass for a discreet sniff.
Dear God: J?germeister.
She throws it back, trying not to cry, and chases it with a long draught of her beer. Her chest instantly warms. The Vineyard’s own Franklin Phelps segues into “Wild World” by Cat Stevens, which is a particular favorite of Tabitha’s, and she lets out a little fan shriek. She is so embarrassed that such a noise came from her mouth that she drinks more of her beer.
So this, she thinks, is what it’s like to be Harper.
A man sits next to her at the bar. He’s tall and good-looking in a wealthy-jerk kind of way. He’s wearing a pressed red-and-white gingham shirt turned back at the cuffs and a golf visor printed with the name of some bank, even though it’s dark outside.
He says, “What’s up, pretty lady?”
Tabitha rolls her eyes.
“You look like a tourist,” Visor Man says. He signals the bartender, and a gin and tonic lands in front of him. He takes most of the drink in one swallow. “Are you a tourist? Don’t tell me: let me guess. You’re from New Canaan, right? Or no, wait: Greenwich!”
Tabitha takes offense. If anyone looks like a tourist, or at least not like a local, it’s this guy. He’s wearing an Audemars Piguet watch with a black lizard strap, which Tabitha knows costs five figures. He has a way about him that broadcasts a lifetime of privilege, private schools, and money, money, money.
“Neither,” Tabitha says. “I live on Nantucket.”
Visor Man throws his head back and laughs. “What a coincidence!” he says.
She cocks an eyebrow at him. Coincidence? Does she know this guy?
“I’m the man from Nantucket!” he says. Tabitha closes her eyes and hopes that when she opens them again, this jerk will be gone. But… he remains. There is also, however, a second shot of J?germeister, which has materialized out of nowhere. She throws it back without hesitation.
“I’ve been to Nantucket, you know,” Visor Man says. “I’ve been to the Chicken Box. You ever been there? Great bar, live music, but no chicken. Not one piece of chicken.”
When the music stops, the noise of the crowd gets louder. Tabitha would like to get this guy off her shoulder; he’s drunk. But he is, at least, someone to talk to, so she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for thirty seconds longer. “I haven’t been to the Box in a long time,” she says. She peers over the bar into the kitchen. Is anyone working back there? “Do you happen to know if I can still order a burger? I’m starving.”
Visor Man is absolutely not listening to her. “Where’s your husband?”
“I’m not married,” Tabitha says.
“You’re divorced?” Visor Man asks. “Did you come out to the Vineyard with your big fat alimony check looking for some action?”
That’s it, Tabitha thinks. She’s done. This guy is such a jackass that he makes Captain Peter look like a catch. Where are all the nice, normal men? she wonders. The ones with interesting jobs, smart senses of humor, and compassionate, kind hearts? They’re at home, she thinks. With their wives and their well-behaved children. They’re certainly not out at a bar like this, looking to pick up someone like her. She needs to meet someone during the day. She should take up sailing, maybe—or golf.
She needs to break free of Visor Man posthaste, but the bar is crowded and there’s nowhere else to go. Then Tabitha feels a hand on her shoulder. She turns to see Franklin Phelps holding his guitar by the neck as though it were a strangled goose.
“Harper,” he says. “I thought maybe you’d gone for good.”
Visor Man slams back the rest of his drink and gets to his feet, swaying like a tree in the breeze. “Hey, I was talking to the tourist.”
“Back off, pal,” Franklin Phelps says. He elbows Visor Man out of the way and takes his stool. Then he beckons to Friendly Bartender Girl and says, “Caroline, can I get a Guinness, shot of Jameson, please?”
Beer and a shot, Tabitha says to herself. For a brief moment, she feels like she’s starting to figure things out.
Visor Man squares his shoulders. “I was sitting there.”
“Go home, bud,” Franklin says. “You’re drunk.”
“Are you the husband?” Visor Man says. He looks at Tabitha with the eyes of a wild killer. “Or are you just banging her?”
In an instant, Franklin Phelps is on his feet. He launches Visor Man across the bar so that he collides in a tangle with the mike stand and Franklin’s stool. Visor Man doesn’t even try to get up.
“That’s Tripp Malcolm,” Caroline, the bartender, says. “He owns that big fat house at the end of Tea Lane.”
“I could not”—here Franklin Phelps takes a sip of Guinness, winks at Tabitha, and throws back his whiskey shot—“care less. I do not pander to the summer money.”
Tripp Malcolm gets to his feet and charges Franklin like a bull. Franklin grabs his beer and moves deftly out of the way so that Tripp slams into the bar, where he breaks a glass.
“That’s it! You’re out, Tripp!” Caroline says. She shakes her head at Franklin and Tabitha. “I don’t pander to the summer money, either.”
Franklin points to Tabitha. “Put Harper’s drinks on my tab, Caroline. We’re leaving.”
Tabitha wakes up at three in the morning in an unfamiliar bedroom… next to Franklin Phelps.
This is happening, Tabitha thinks. She squeezes Franklin’s bicep, and he stirs and reaches an arm around to cup her ass. She throws her leg over his. This is happening!
He raises her chin and kisses her. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”