The Best American Short Stories 2015 Read Online Free Page B

Georgie said.
    â€œWe always make a big show when Marlene comes,” Hannah said in her low, hoarse voice. Her white hair was wrapped. She spoke matter-of-factly, slapping the johnnycakes between the palms of her hands.
    â€œWho’s Marlene?” Georgie asked, leaning over to stick a finger in the stew. Hannah waved her off.
    Hannah nodded toward a section of the island invisible through the dense brush, toward the usually empty stone house covered in hot pink blossoms. Joe had never explained the house. Now Georgie knew why.
    She felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy, cut short by the roar of Joe pulling up behind them on her motorcycle. As Joe worked the brakes, the bike fishtailed in the sand, and the women were enveloped in a cloud of white dust. As the dust settled, Georgie turned to find Joe grinning, a cigar gripped between her teeth. She wore a salmon-pink short-sleeved silk blouse and denim cutoffs. Her copper-colored hair was cropped short, her forearms covered in crude indigo-colored tattoos. “When the fastest woman on water has a six-hundred-horsepower engine to test out, she does,” she’d explained to Georgie. “And then she gets roaring drunk with her mechanic in Havana and comes home with stars and dragons on her arms.”
    â€œI’ve never had that kind of night,” Georgie said.
    â€œYou will,” Joe said, laughing. “I’m a terrible influence.”
    Joe planted her black-and-white saddle shoes firmly on the dirt path to steady herself as she cut the engine and dismounted.
    â€œDidn’t mean to get sand in your stew,” Joe said, smiling at Hannah.
    â€œGuess it’s your stew anyway,” Hannah said flatly.
    Joe slung an arm around Georgie’s shoulders and kissed her hard on the cheek. “Think they’ll get too drunk?” she asked, nodding toward the islanders. “Is a fifty-five-gallon drum of wine too much? Should I stop them from drinking?”
    â€œYou only make rules when you’re bored,” Georgie said, her lithe body becoming tense under Joe’s arm. “Or trying to show off.”
    â€œDon’t be smart, love,” Joe said, popping her bathing-suit strap. The elastic snapped across Georgie’s shoulder.
    â€œHannah,” Joe shouted, walking backward, tugging Georgie toward the bike with one hand. “Make some of those conch fritters too. And get the music going about four, or when you see the boat dock at the pier, OK? Like we talked about. Loud. Festive.”
    Georgie could smell fresh fish in the hot air, butter burning in Hannah’s pan. She wrapped her arms around Joe’s waist and rested her chin on her shoulder, resigned. It was like this with Joe. Her authority on the island was absolute. She would always do what she wanted to do; that was the idea behind owning Whale Cay. You could go along for the ride or go home.
    Hannah nodded at Joe, her wrinkled skin closing in around her eyes as she smiled what Georgie thought was a false smile. She waved them off with floured fingers.
    â€œFour p.m.,” Joe said, twisting the bike’s throttle. “Don’t forget.”
    Â 
    At quarter to five, from the balcony of her suite, Joe and Georgie watched the
Mise-en-scène
, an eighty-eight-foot yacht with white paneling and wood siding, dock. Georgie felt a sense of dread as the boat glided to a stop against the wooden pier and lines were tossed to waiting villagers. The wind rustled the palms and the visitors on the boat deck clutched their hats with one hand and waved with the other.
    Every few weeks there was another boatload of beautiful, rich people—actresses and politicians—piling onto Joe’s yacht in Fort Lauderdale, eager to escape wartime America for Whale Cay, and willing to cross 150 miles of U-boat-infested waters to do it. “Eight hundred and fifty acres, the shape of a whale’s tail,” Joe had said as she brought Georgie to the