Late in the Season Read Online Free Page A

summer. What would he have done, Jonathan wondered, if the boyfriend had taken over? Probably nothing. Probably made his face-slapping gesture in disapproval, and stalked out to the rest of the party, where in the midst of serving someone—Mr. Locke, perhaps—Dan would casually mention that his daughter’s boyfriend had finally come to his senses and was going down on someone in the kitchen. No. He’d tell Jerry, that’s who he’d tell.
    Jerry Locke was a lost cause from the beginning. Jonathan could see that. The boy was irredeemably straight from the cradle on; certainly from the day he arrived here at Sea Mist, aged fourteen or so. Three years back, the summer Dan “discovered” Jerry, as he said it, the boy was sleeping with a half-dozen women here: Miranda, the cop’s wife; Mrs. McGrath; the two clerks at the boutique; Jill, who brought over the newspapers and sold them mornings at the harbor; how many more beach widows? They wouldn’t let him deliver a grocery carton without at least a fast hand job. Poor kid was worn out all the time. But who could blame them? Or Dan? Jerry Locke at nineteen was at his peak. A young god. Hair blonder than a Clairol ad. So ripe, so firm, his flesh almost demanded to be stroked.
    Come to think of it, all of Dan’s infatuations seemed to be unobtainable, one way or another. Little Raphael, the “Frog,” Jonathan called him. He hung around a few weeks, then just hopped off down the beach to another house. Sandy Wilks, the surfer. He was blond and beautiful, although something of a simpleton. Jerry Locke, of course. Perhaps if they were obtainable, truly available, Dan would have gone off with one of them. Instead, he would always turn back to Jonathan, feel comforted by his disdain of what Dan claimed to be a broken heart. Dan seemed to take real pleasure in Jonathan’s refusal to acknowledge his silly affairs, his refusal to even discuss them until long afterward, and then only with total objectivity.
    Ah! She was coming out of the water now, pausing in the surf to let the hot afternoon sun dry her off. The mist of the evaporation glittered on her like the ocean. Venus Aphrodite, risen from the sea. Even her position was like the Botticelli: the long fair hair swung out, one hand up to her breast, her hips slung down, one foot pointed in front. Lovely. No wonder ancient men thought some women were goddesses.
    She looked up now and, spotting Jonathan on the front deck, shaded her eyes to make sure, peered, then seemed to recognize him. A shy wave, then a more positive one. Jonathan stood up and waved back. The wind off the surf furled his words of greeting to her: a simple “Hi!” from her twisted back to him like a ribbon of sound. She said something else, pointing. Dan? Was she asking after him? Jonathan shook his head no; Dan’s not here. She tilted her head. Didn’t understand. Waved again, a little more hesitantly. Smiled. Then strolled to her beach blanket and slowly lay down. Lovely.
    Something lovely, shy, pointed, feminine. That’s what Giustina would sing. To hell with what Barry thought. It would be a barcarolle.

Chapter Four

    Halfway home from the grocery store—a longish walk—Stevie began to feel raindrops. She didn’t mind. It wasn’t a cold rain; rather refreshingly warm, in fact. She was only wearing shorts and a halter top. She could wring them out when she got home.
    It was pleasant being in the rain out here, seeing all the birds suddenly emerge from bushes and thickets and dive like small airplanes for denser cover. They would hide there, all bunched up, their heads sunk into their ruffled-up chest feathers. How nice it was in the rain out here! In the city it would be a mess: cars splashing, puddles forming at street corners, slippery subway gratings to tread cautiously over. How nice to walk barefoot over the warm wet boardwalks.
    By the time she arrived back at her family’s house, the raindrops had become a shower, and she was soaked. The