The Days of Summer. Jill Barnett

buying me a drink was impression enough. That was very sweet of you.”

      “You looked thirsty.”

      “Did I?” She laughed softly. “I thought I looked embarrassed.”

      “That, too.” He sipped his beer and glanced out at the water.

      She stared down at the drink in her hands and felt every awkward second of silence. “So what do you like to read?”

      “After what I just said, I’m surprised you aren’t asking me if I can read.”

      “Actually, I was thinking your reading material might be the kind that has staples in the centerfold.”

      He burst out laughing. “I deserved that.”

      “You probably did.”

      “You’ve got a great sense of humor.”

      “You sound surprised.”

      “I don’t think I’m going to answer that. I’ll just get into more trouble.” He stood up. “I’d like another beer before they close. Do you want another drink?”

      “No, thanks.”

      She was smiling, probably a goofy smile that told the entire world what she was thinking. He was coming back. She sipped her drink at the railing, watching the island and the glimmering lights of Avalon, home after her mother moved them there when Laurel graduated high school. Moving was tough when she’d lived in a place where her friends had been her friends since they’d all played in a sandbox together. In a new town, Laurel was suddenly the outsider. All those lights before her and not a friend among them.

      “We’re almost there.” He walked toward her, a dripping beer bottle in his hand.

      “That didn’t take long.”

      “No line.”

      She felt different when he looked at her—like he was doing now—as if she weren’t a friendless, lonely thing. She longed to say something clever and memorable.

      “Okay.” He braced his arms on the railing next to her, his beer in his hands. “Time to come clean. You didn’t leave your wallet at home.”

      “No.”

      “So, I’m guilty of contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” There was a softness around his eyes and mouth, no judgment or censure.

      “You could say that.”

      “How minor?”

      Laurel contemplated lying. In the right clothes, she looked at least twenty, but wanting to be older didn’t make you older. She faced him. “I’m seventeen.”

      He choked on his beer. “Seventeen? You’re kidding.”

      “No. I’ll be eighteen soon.”

      He watched her, probably half hoping she would suddenly age five years, then swore under his breath. His gaze dropped to the drink in her hand. Without a word he took it and tossed it in the water.

      She drew back from the rail and crossed her arms in front of her, equally silent, her body brittle, her knees locked.

      He looked surprised at what he’d done, but not apologetic.

      “You paid for the drink,” she said. “You can do what you want with it.”

      He lifted his hand toward her cheek, almost approachable again, almost apologetic, and standing close enough for her to smell his aftershave. “You’re in high school?”

      “No, I’m in college.”

      “At seventeen?” Clearly he thought she was lying.

      “I skipped the third grade. I graduated high school just after I turned seventeen.” She could almost read the word “jailbait” in his expression.

      The loudspeaker crackled on. “Attention, please, we are now arriving at the Avalon dock, Catalina Island. Make certain you have all your personal belongings. All passengers will disembark on the starboard side of the ship. For safety, please securely hold the hands of all young children as you leave.” The loudspeaker cut off.

      She gave him a direct look. “Do you want to hold my hand securely as we disembark?”

      He didn’t laugh.

      “I guess my age killed your sense of humor.”

      For just a moment she thought he wanted to say something kind to her, but a group of young kids scattered away from the nearby railing and jumped up and down, shouting, “We’re here! We’re here!”

      “We’re here,” she said over their noisy little bouncing heads. The kids ran around them in rambunctious circles. She broke eye contact, and when she looked up again he was shaking his head.

      “I’m sorry.” He walked away and never once looked back.

      She stood there, empty, embarrassed, ashamed, and upset. Maybe because of him. Maybe because of her. Listlessly, she picked up her thick book with its conservative literary jacket and dark, unaffected type. The things you could hide … She slipped off the paper jacket. Hot pink lettering glared back at her from the real cover—The Adventurers, by Harold Robbins. She dropped the other jacket into a nearby trash can, tucked the book under an arm, and made her way toward the gangplank.

      Behind the hills the sunset glowed pink, and a noisy hum came from the crowds. Pole lights lit the dock and shone down on the boarding ramp. Only a few hundred feet down the dock was Crescent Street and the heart of town. Local boys sold newspapers and, for fifty cents, offered to cart suitcases in red wagons to side-street hotels and cozy island inns. The crowd split around girls in white shorts and sandals who handed out flyers with discount coupons for abalone burgers, lobsters, and pitchers of draft beer at two for one.

      But nowhere in that crowd below her did Laurel see a tall, handsome man in a lemon yellow shirt. He had disappeared as if he had never existed. And for her, he didn’t exist. Not really, because she didn’t even know his name.

      Victor checked the clock on his desk, stood—his foot on a floor button that buzzed his secretary—and effectively brought the magazine interview to an end. The interviewer’s questions had just gone in a direction he disliked. “I have another appointment.”

      “But I have more questions, Mr. Banning … Victor. It’s only five thirty. You know this is our cover story.”

      Victor laughed at him. “I wouldn’t be talking to you if this weren’t your cover story.”

      The door to his office swung open and his secretary recited, “The car’s waiting, Mr. Banning. You’re running late.”

      The journalist still sat there, a tape recorder on the arm of the chair and a shiny Italian pen in hand. He wore a clipped beard and his dark curly hair in a ponytail, which fell halfway down the back of a five-hundred-dollar suit.

      Victor came from behind his desk. “I see I’ve reduced you to silence, which is best. We don’t speak the same language, son.” He left the young man juggling his pad and recorder, stammering for him to wait, and headed down the hall toward his private elevator.

      The article would label him a corporate villain. At his center he was a hardscrabble oilman born in a boom-or-bust era, and the polar opposite of a journalist out to cauterize enterprise and whose radical point of view smacked of being all too trendy. An ill-fitting sobriety emanated from men like him, a languidness in the face of the real and vital things that changed the world around them.

      That reporter’s Berkeleyesque scorn was detectable even when cloaked by a professional voice. With high degrees from expensive schools, his kind persuaded courts to stop the building of freeways, put hundreds of people out of work, boondoggled, and stopped progress to save a damned frog. Victor could have respected them if they were actually doing it for the frog, but men like him were faux avant-garde—the ultimate