Page 23 of Seven Summer Weekends

“I rent a room by the weekend—and have a few still available for this coming summer, if you’re interested. He can sign anything you want then!”

“Oh my God,” Katie had squealed. Jessie, the more restrained of the two, took the card and smiled. “We definitely will.”

And they did.

“Tickets, please!” the conductor now bellowed, before announcing the stops along his route like he was calling out the winners at Belmont.

“Lynbrook, Rockville Centre, Baldwin, Freeport, Merrick, Bellmore, Wantagh, Seaford, Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst, Babylon, for points east, transfer at Babylon.”

They were points east, by one stop. Bay Shore.

“Let’s do today’s post from the train,” Jessie suggested, pulling up their shared Instagram account on her phone. Yesterday’s post: One line fromLady Chatterley’s Lover—a book that had its author, D. H. Lawrence, entrenched in a decade-long censorship trial—received 7,632 likes. On their signature Pepto-pink background with white lettering, it read:

“Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside.” —D. H. Lawrence (1928)

For this weekend, their entire stay on Fire Island, they were featuring only Benjamin Morse books. Katie pulled the complete collection from her bag. She arranged them and rearranged them on the burgundy leather seat until she was satisfied withthe picture. She held it out to Jessie—who agreed that it was perfect, and they went back and forth collaborating on the caption.

They decided on:

BOOKING out to Fire Island to find Benjamin Morse!Followed by a plethora of crossed-finger emojis.

Jessie hit Post, and they agreed not to look at the results for the rest of the ride.

Neither had been to Fire Island before, and both loved the beach, but the promise of hobnobbing with Benjamin Morse aroused them more than the thought of Oliver Mellors nibbling on Lady Chatterley’s thigh.

They arrived at the ferry with a rolling bag of books and looked for the gray-haired woman they had met at the signing on the other side. When they didn’t find her, they stopped into the market, where they were given the bad news and directions to the house.

They were already at 2,300 likes.

Chapter Thirteen

On her third day entrenched in the clay, Addison heard a knock on the door and jumped a good ten feet in the air before opening it. It was sunny again. Her eyes adjusted to the light outside the studio and then to the two women, who looked to be in their mid-twenties, standing in front of her.

The first paying weekend guests, Jessie something and Katie something else, and she’d forgotten to pick them up at the ferry. She wiped her hands on her cutoffs and apologized.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. How did you ever find the place?”

“People pointed us in the right direction, and, you know.” The blonder of the two reached into her bag and pulled out a well-worn copy of a book calledOn Fire Island. Addison recognized it from her aunt’s bookshelves. She had planned on reading it, but hadn’t picked it up yet.

“We kind of took your place for its location,” the woman said.

She winked, leaving Addison to wonder if the blonde had something in her eye, aside from their obvious twentysomethinghopefulness. She fought the urge to grab both by the shoulders and shake it out of them.

“Let me show you to your room,” she said instead.

She was eager to impress them after the faux pas of not meeting them at the boat.

She pointed out the fresh towels and travel-size toiletries she had stocked the bathroom with after Paresh left. She had chosen the shampoo, conditioner, and body wash bottles lifted from the Capella Shanghai from a small trunk full of tiny toiletries. It seemed that her aunt had documented her lifetime of travel by swiping the contents of maids’ carts and hotel bathrooms the world over. Every day Addison spent among her things fueled more resentment toward her parents for keeping this electric, eclectic relative away from her.

She returned a few minutes later with a vase of cut flowers and a pitcher of water. A bunch more books sat on the bed—all by the same author. Her eyes darted from one to the other, not wanting to appear nosy but too curious not to look.

“We’re hoping to get them autographed. I’m sure you’ve read them all,” Katie said, running her finger across the chain of the gold necklace that said her name in the same font as Carrie Bradshaw’s. It made Addison laugh that twentysomethings were still moving to New York City, hoping to emulate a decades-old television show.

“I haven’t,” she answered, surprised that her guests were so literary.

“I’m new around here. I recently inherited this place from my aunt. Just finding my way, really.”

Why am I telling her all of this?

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