Page 51 of Seven Summer Weekends

And there was the woman he remembered! He summoned the bartender. “Make that a Bloody Mary instead.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he moaned.

Elizabeth pulled out her phone and quoted him.

“At first, one may be fooled by the seemingly sincere surfer, but in the end, I doubt a wave is the only thing Terrence Williams is hell-bent on riding.”

“Really? You usually love a good alliteration.”

“Benjamin!”

“Let’s see what my editor says.”

“He already called me. He’s not publishing it.”

Back to the bartender. “Drop a vodka floater in this, please.”

“Wait, he wants me to edit the article?” he asked defensively.

“He wants you to throw it out and start again. Every sentence is laced with acrimony.”

“He said that?”

“No. I said that. He said, ‘It’s a bloody hack job that isn’t worth a dog pissing on it.’ ”

“That sounds more like him.”

“He canceled your meeting. There will be a car waiting at your apartment at four to bring you and a photographer out to Montauk. He wants you to cover the tournament. Speak to other surfers about Terrence’s legend. Report with zero bias.”

She put her hand on his arm. No one brought out her faint thread of maternal instinct more than the widowed Ben Morse.

“What happened, Ben? When we spoke, you were all keen on this guy.”

“I don’t know,” he said unconvincingly.

She raised her eyebrows. In the old days she would have scared a confession out of him, but little scared him anymore, aside from possible heartbreak. He read her expression and threw her a bone.

“Fine. I do know, but I don’t want to talk about it except to say things got personal. I was wrong to be so harsh and judgmental, and I will do the rewrite.”

“OK. Let’s sit in a booth and eat like two human beings, please.”

And they did. But Ben barely spoke.

Chapter Twenty-six

The aftereffects of the vodka (and possibly not giving a crap) caused Ben to ignore the photographer and sleep for most of the ride out to Montauk. He was sure that his editor had set up the four o’clock departure time just to punish him. No one sets out for the easternmost tip of Long Island at rush hour. What usually took two and a half hours under these conditions took five.

They arrived at the Born Free Motel, a no-frills twenty-four-room inn within walking distance of the beach. He fell asleep in his clothes, with the unfortunate words to “Born Free” running through his head on a loop. The loop being a recap of the first few lines—“Born Free / As free as the wind blows”—because he couldn’t remember the rest.

The next morning, he was set to meet Terrence at the tournament. Word was, he had already made it to the semifinals.

If Ben were ever to leave Fire Island, Montauk would be the place. All the beauty, none of the poshness that makes the Hamptons the Hamptons. Montauk people surfed and fished anddrank clam chowder from coffee cups. The vibe was analogous to the vibe on Fire Island.

Bottom line: he didn’t mind being there so much—especially since he needed to get away from Addison.

The farther out east you went, the bigger the waves, and this was as east as you could get. Ergo, the town’s tag line, Montauk: End of the World. The excitement of the annual surfing contest vibrated in the air, but it barely permeated Ben’s sad-sack state. He sat on the shore, watching the waves crash onto the beach. Looking out past the break, the water was dotted with brightly colored boards as the surfers paddled out, each hoping to catch the perfect wave. The photographer walked toward the shore to capture it.

The contest was well underway, and the surfers were in the middle of the round. If Terrence made it to tomorrow’s finals, which was expected, Ben would stay around, write the piece, and never look back. Unless, of course, Terrence asked to hitch a ride back to the ferry, to see his girl on Fire Island. Ben’s stomach rolled over at the thought. Suddenly, someone buying Gicky’s house, knocking it down, and building a towering monstrosity that would steal his light seemed like the best outcome.

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