Page 51 of Songs of Summer

“Bea and V in the Fourth of July wagon parade, me and Caroline at a seventies disco party.”

Maggie met each image with a smile.

“This one’s a camp show,Kiss Me Kate, I believe. They both loved being in camp shows. They would sing those songs all summer long. Caroline used to refer to those summers by the name of the show—TheOklahomasummer, thePippinsummer, theFiddlersummer. Those years—the Broadway years when the girls were young—they were the best of our lives.”

“What’s this one?” Maggie asked, pointing to a photo of what looked like a hippie dinner party.

“That one comes with some story. Summer of 1969. The summer I met Caroline. She came to the beach with her friend Florynce Kennedy. Ever heard of her?”

“I have not.”

“She was an amazing gal—a radical Black feminist—she once led a mass urination protesting the lack of ladies’ rooms at Harvard. Not her greatest accomplishment, but my personal favorite.”

Maggie laughed. She had known him for all of five minutes and she had already fallen in love. “How did you meet Caroline?” she asked.

“We were in a share house together, filled with civil rights activists. I didn’t really fit in at the start of it, but by the end I became assistant counsel for the Black Panthers.”

“The Black Panthers? Oh my God!”

“What I wouldn’t do to impress Caroline!”

“That’s them”—he pointed to the photograph—“in the berets and button-down shirts. We had decided to take the Panthers to a restaurant in a town on the island that didn’t permit Blacks or Jews. It caused quite a ruckus. We ended up coming back with more friends the next day, demonstration-style. We jokingly demanded they serve us herring and ham hocks and yelled things like ‘Guess who’s coming to dinner?’ The sixties. That was some time in this country. Some time.”

Maggie was blown away that this man was her grandfather. And more than a little excited to be the beneficiary of his miraculous genes.

They moved farther down the wall to more family snaps. A gorgeous shot of the four of them on the ferry. A big group of kids with Bea and V in the center on the swimming dock on the bay, and some older pictures of their forbears, she assumed, more sepia-toned than black-and-white.

It was the first time Maggie had looked at old photographs and been able to think about where she came from. She studied them to see if there was something of herself in the smiles she saw on the wall, or in their physiques or expressions. She stopped in front of one photograph that showed a young woman around her age wearing one of those old-fashioned one-piece bathing suits that look like modern-day workout gear. The woman had her same dark curls, her same broad smile. Maggie leaned in.

“That’s my mamma,” Shep said, with a mixture of longing and pride.

“Is that on Fire Island?”

“No. Coney Island, by way of Yemen. I was the first to come to Fire Island. First to go to college and law school too. I adored my mother. My Beatrix takes after her.”

As if on cue, Beatrix flew past them down the hall, giving off a frazzled energy.

“Oh my God, Dad. Why are you torturing this poor girl?” Bea looked toward the room below. “Where’s Matt?”

“Outside playing Ping-Pong with Dylan and some of the others.”

Bea was very distracted.

“It’s time to serve dinner,” she told them.

“Veronica’s not back yet?” Shep asked.

“Please, Daddy. Let’s not.”

“I can help,” Maggie volunteered, twisting a brown curl around her finger nervously.

“I’m fine, honey, don’t worry.”

“That’s a good idea,” Shep whispered in Maggie’s ear. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Maggie smiled. “Thanks for showing me all of this.”

“Thanks for pretending you were interested.”

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