Free Body Surfing by Anita Shreve Page A

inconvenient revulsion to the leavings of the guests. Is this dirty fork one that Will had in his mouth? Is this Victoria's lipstick? Jeff works as if he's done considerable time in a restaurant kitchen. His organizational skills rival Sydney's, or perhaps she is a little drunk herself and it only seems that way. Dozens of glasses are smeared with lip and fingerprints, a forensic fantasy if only a crime had been committed.
    "Where's Vicki?" Sydney asks.
    "Upstairs. Lying down."
    "Is she okay?"
    "Works hard, plays hard."
    "Good plan," Sydney says, slightly embarrassed for having called attention to Victoria's altered state. For having even mentioned Vicki's name.
    "You don't like her, do you?" Jeff says.
    Sydney is startled by the abruptness of the question. Also by its accuracy.
    "I do," she protests.
    But the do is damning, suggesting an unnegotiable flaw.
    The space between the sink and the island is narrow, and a kind of dance needs to be choreographed so that no part of Sydney's body touches Jeff's. She is not aware of needing to perform such a dance when Mr. Edwards does the dishes.
    Claire and Will linger an unconscionable amount of time after dinner is over, a puzzle given that the couple seem to want only to be together. To do what? Sydney wonders. Talk? Unwind? Have sex? Watch SportsCenter?? The fact that they have so little to say to others fascinates Sydney, their offerings distinctly minimalist.
    "Lunch counter gone this year."
    "Noticed that."
    "You kayak?"
    "No, you?"
    Ben and Jeff and Sydney sit on the porch with the Edwardses, both of whom need their bed. Mrs. Edwards tosses subtle hints into the ocean air.
    "Mark, you'll have to get up early for the paper. They go fast on Sundays."
    Sydney's contributions to the conversation are nonexistent, her mind preoccupied with Julie. Only Jeff seems visibly to share her worry, occasionally glancing at his watch and once leaning over to her. "Did Julie say where she was going?" he asks.
    "No," Sydney says, "she didn't."
    At twenty minutes to eleven, Claire puts a hand on Will's knee, a sign everyone chooses to interpret as a wife's signal to her husband that it's time to leave. All present stand in unison, Mr. Edwards already unleashing a salvo of hearty good-byes. So glad you could come. Mutual boating trips are promised but without the requisite dates and times, all but guaranteeing the imagined journeys will not actually take place.
    "They weren't my idea," Mrs. Edwards says in the kitchen, snapping off her clip earrings and setting them hard on the granite counter.
    "He seemed a nice enough fellow," Mr. Edwards says, fetching a glass of water to take upstairs.
    "Nice enough where? On the golf course?"
    "He had quite a lot to say about old maps."
    Mrs. Edwards unfastens her banana clip. Sydney notes that not a single hair falls to her neck.
    Mr. and Mrs. Edwards climb the stairs, Mr. Edwards hanging on to the banister as he does so. It is understood that the remainder of the dishes--the after-dinner glasses, the coffee cups with the dark rings--will be left until the morning, when the first one up will empty the dishwasher and dispatch the detritus of the party. Sydney wanders to the kitchen window and looks out.
    "You're worried about Julie," Jeff says behind her.
    Sydney turns, smoothing her hair behind her ears. "I am. What time is it now?"
    "Ten of eleven." He answers quickly, a man who has recently consulted his watch.
    "I so wish I'd asked her where she was going."
    "You want to take a ride with me?" Jeff asks, tension in his eyes, on his brow.
    "Sure," Sydney says with some relief. "It's better than waiting here."
    "I'll just tell Ben we're going. He can call us if she comes in."
    A fair-weather mist, so fine as to be barely detectable, surrounds Sydney's face. In the distance, there are fireworks. There are always fireworks, Sydney has noticed, each township possessive about its displays. Sometimes at night, observing from an upper-story bedroom, Sydney can