Blair can practically smell the marijuana smoke and taste the martinis and see the svelte body of a sexy brunette in a clingy red dress with a plunging neckline. A girl Joey met in Newport, no doubt, who works at the cosmetic counter at Filene’s. That’s who Joey should be dating. He was never really interested in Blair. Well, maybe at first, when she was single and free, but all of his recent attention, she realizes suddenly, is just old, unfinished business between him and Angus.

Blair hangs up without saying goodbye. She plucks the silver lighter from her purse, carries it out back, and throws it as far as she can—which, admittedly, isn’t far. It does clear the gate, however, and skitters across Plumb Lane. Some car will flatten it, or possibly a passerby will spy it, pick it up, read the engraved message, and wonder about this fellow Joey and the woman who was lucky enough to receive his eternal love.

Blair plans to call Angus first thing the next morning but she doesn’t wake until nearly ten. Jessie and Exalta are at the club for Jessie’s tennis lessons and Kate is shopping in town. (Or drinking, Blair thinks. And she hasn’t forgotten about the blowout.) The phone line is in use so Blair waits ten minutes, then fifteen, then she picks up the phone and asks, as nicely as possible, for the woman who is talking to wrap up her call because Blair has a rather urgent matter to deal with. The woman makes no promises to be brief, and, in fact, she stays on the line until ten forty-five, at which time Blair finally calls Angus at the office.

Ingrid says, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Whalen. I’m afraid he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Blair says. “What do you mean, gone?” For one ghastly second, she thinks Angus is dead, possibly by his own hand due to being banished from Nantucket by his mother-in-law.

“He flew to Houston early this morning,” Ingrid says. “He’ll be there until the mission is over. He isn’t scheduled to return to Boston until the twenty-fifth.”

Blair hangs up. The twenty-fifth is two weeks away. Blair spreads her hands across her belly.

“Stay put for two weeks,” she says. “Just stay put.”

A Whiter Shade of Pale

It’s Kirby’s belief that each summer is characterized not only by its special occasions but also by its routines. For example, the summer of 1957, when Kirby was nine and Blair was twelve, the girls owned and operated a lemonade stand they called Foley’s Finest on the corner of Main and Fair Streets and made at least a dollar fifty a day and often more. Blair saved her half of the money to buy an electric curling iron, but Kirby often walked with her mother or Nonny down to Robinson’s to buy bubble gum or a yo-yo or an Archie comic book. Then there was the summer Kirby was fourteen and Blair was seventeen. Blair was dating Larry Winter, whom Kirby had a painful crush on. Exacerbating the situation was that Kirby’s job in that summer of 1962 was to babysit Larry’s little sisters, Eve and Carolyn, ages four and two, which was done at the Winters’ house out in Quaise Pasture because the girls took a long afternoon nap. Often, Larry would be dispatched to drive Kirby home when he finished his shift at Aime’s Bakery, and these minutes alone with Larry in the car cemented Kirby’s ardor. Larry Winter was tall and good-looking and played varsity squash at Phillips Exeter. He was a shoo-in for the Ivies, though Kirby learned during these drives that he had his heart set on Georgetown; he wanted to study government and someday become president of the United States. Kirby had been dazzled at the time, though now she can see how unoriginal Larry Winter’s dreams were. It was 1962, and the papers were filled with images of the sun-kissed, carefree Kennedys summering over in Hyannis Port. Everyone had wanted to be president.

Larry used to bring treats home from the bakery, boxes of doughnuts or oatmeal cookies studded with dried cranberries. He always offered a little something to Kirby, but these were gifts of kindness rather than hints that he returned her feelings. Always, when Kirby got out of the car in front of All’s Fair, Blair would be waiting to get in, and sometimes she and Larry would neck right there in the car until either Kate or Exalta appeared in the doorway of the house to put an end to it.

This summer, the summer of 1969, the routine is different, obviously—Kirby is on a different island!—but she suspects that when she looks back on this year from a distance, she will remember the house on Narraganset—Patty, Barb, the three Ms, Evan; the porridge and brown bread for breakfast; the relief, after walking up two flights of stairs, of her air-conditioned lair. (The other girls, Patty has confided, are fiendishly jealous, and Kirby doesn’t blame them. She has gotten so lucky with her accommodations that she worries she’ll pay for it somehow and something bad will happen before summer’s end.) She will remember her tasks at the front desk of the Shiretown Inn—checking the bills, making the coffee, arranging the newspapers and doughnuts—and she will remember the kindness of Mr. Ames and Bobby Hogue and the hours she spent in half sleep as the transistor radio played “Up on Cripple Creek,” and “Crystal Blue Persuasion.”

As the first half of July unspools, it seems like Kirby will also remember starting a romance with Darren Frazier. Since the morning he picked her up outside the Shiretown Inn and drove her home, they have seen each other every day. Darren lifeguards from nine to five and he spends nearly every evening with his parents and the extended Frazier family, who keep a nonstop social schedule—lobster dinners, bonfires, house parties, boat parties, pig roasts, bingo, ice cream socials, dances, and steamers on Sundays. Darren doesn’t offer to bring Kirby to any of these events, which she understands at first—they’re still getting to know each other—but she assumes it’s only a matter of time. Darren leaves these social engagements early so that he can pick Kirby up at ten o’clock and drive her to work, and the next morning he’s always stationed out front at seven on the dot to drive her back to Narragansett Avenue before he has to report to the beach.

At night, they neck in the front seat of the car—they park on little-used Thayer Street—but in the mornings, they keep themselves to just a hand squeeze in case any of Kirby’s housemates are looking out the window. Kirby longs to be more intimate with Darren—sexually, certainly, but also emotionally. They talk in the car and they kiss in the car; the mere sight of the red Corvair turning the corner makes Kirby’s heart breach like a whale. But she wants another date. She wants to go to the movies or to dinner at the Boston House or even to shoot a game of pool at Lou’s Worry. She’d like to double with Patty and Luke, although ever since that night with Tommy O’Callahan, Patty and Luke have kept to themselves, and Kirby understands. All she wants is to be alone with Darren.