“Well, it was an awfully big yacht,” I said. “Almost as big as a house.”
“Yes. Almost as big as Vanderbilt’s.” She paused solemnly. “Do you know how he used to describe a yacht?”
“No.”
“A hole in the water, into which you pour money.”
“You’ve got to pour it somewhere, don’t you? Otherwise it just sits there in the bank, getting bored and reproducing.”
“Money’s such a lovely thing to have. I don’t know what I’d do without it. Work or something, I guess.” She yawned. “Except what? I’m just like Daddy, no good for anything except decoration and conversation. And dancing. I’m a terrific dancer.”
“Horses,” I suggested.
“But I only know how to ride them. Not to care for them or feed them or anything useful.” She lifted her left hand and admired the diamond on her finger, which glittered in the moonlight. “Can I confess something awful to you?”
I didn’t think there was any need to reply—either way, she was going to tell me—but I said, Of course, just to fill the air.
Isobel wriggled the ring from her finger and held it out before us both. I hadn’t seen it this close until now; I didn’t want to be caught staring at such a thing, like a poor country cousin. Now it was a relief to indulge my curiosity. I saw the central diamond was round, or else slightly oval, about the size of an especially plump raisin and surrounded by smaller dark stones that must have been sapphires.
“I came out here last night, by myself,” Isobel said. “Right on this very spot. Clay and I had a fight after dinner.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“It was after you left. He drove me home from the Club, and we fought in the car. I can’t remember what it was about. We were both rather drunk.” She laughed. “Surely you noticed today?”
“Didn’t you make up or something?”
“No, of course not. You’ve got to make them stew, Peaches, you’ve got to make them suffer for their sins. Anyway, I came out here last night, all drunk and wretched, and sat on this exact spot on the dock. I took off my ring just like this, and I held it above the water, just like this …”
In the instant before her fingers opened, I saw what she was going to do. I flung out my hand desperately, almost pitching myself into the water, just as her own left hand darted forward to catch the heavy, glittering fall of the ring. Our two hands bumped and the ring bounced from one of those eight outstretched fingers—I’m not sure which—and Isobel gasped. Together we fumbled, and for a terrible, infinite second, the ring crashed crazily between us like some kind of ping-pong ball, off my knuckle and her thumb, the round bone of my wrist, spinning in a strange, weightless midair suspension.
Then somehow, miraculously, Isobel’s hand closed around it.
We both slumped forward over our knees, panting.
“Jesus Christ, Peaches! What the hell were you doing?”
“I thought—”
“For God’s sake, I wasn’t going to drop it!”
“But you did. You did drop it.”
“Not for real.” She straightened and opened her hand to reveal the panes of the diamond, sheltered from the moon by her curled fingers. “I was only imagining, Peaches. You know, picturing what it would be like. I’d never do it for real. What do you take me for? Some kind of dope?”
“Of course not. We’re just—we’re awfully drunk, aren’t we?”
“Awfully. But not that drunk.” She shoved the ring back on her finger. “Listen, Peaches. You mustn’t ever try to save me, all right? I like to sail close to the wind, as close as I can, but I won’t capsize. You know what that means, capsize?”
“Of course I do.”
She laughed. “Don’t be sore. I know you’re not a sailor, that’s all. Capsize means to flip the boat over, Peaches, to land yourself in the drink because you weren’t careful enough. You didn’t know how to save yourself. But I know how to save myself, never fear. I know what I’m doing.”
“All right, then.”
“Don’t be sore,” she said again. She placed her hands on the dock and hoisted herself up to her feet, wavering so deeply I thought she might topple, in the same way her engagement ring had hung above the brink of disaster. But she didn’t. She just yawned. “I’m so dreadfully bored, now that it’s all over. Aren’t you bored, Peaches?”
“Not really. It’s a beautiful night.”
“Well, I haven’t got your brains, I’m afraid. I need a little action to keep me happy.” She turned and started down the dock.
“Where are you going?”
“To the boathouse,” she called back. “For a flashlight.”
She returned in a moment holding this flashlight, which she aimed out to sea in the direction of Flood Rock, switching it off and on in an irregular rhythm. The air was still warm, and a slight salt-laden breeze came off the water, lifting the edges of our dresses.
“Is that Morse code?” I asked.
“Silly. It’s just a private signal.” She lowered the flashlight and stared across the channel. The moon was not quite full, but the sky was so clear that the whole world seemed gilded in silver, and the rocks of the lighthouse etched by so fine a line, I couldn’t breathe for the beauty of it. The light revolved slowly from the top of the building, streaking across our quadrant every ten or fifteen seconds. It arrived twice before Isobel lifted the flashlight and sent another signal.
“Maybe he’s asleep,” I said.
“No, he’s not. He stays up late, reading Portuguese novels to his mother.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“It’s the only thing that puts her to sleep, apparently.” She flashed the signal again and checked her watch. “She’s a queer old bag. But I guess anyone would go a little nuts, living out there on a rock.”
I cupped my elbows with my hands and watched the lighthouse. For what, I wasn’t sure. Some kind of answering signal, I guessed. For some reason, the whole exercise came as not the slightest surprise, as if I’d been expecting some communication of this nature between Isobel and the vital young inhabitant of Fleet Rock, after all that had been said and not said in the kitchen that morning. My dress was damp and dirty and stained by the grass, thanks to a game of croquet that Isobel started up right after Mama and Mr. Fisher had disappeared in their yacht around the tip of Long Island. Headed all the way to Europe together, just the two of them and a silent, devoted crew. Mama wore a beautiful suit of sky-blue summer tweed, and as she’d waved goodbye from the railing, she looked almost too perfect, like somebody had painted her there as a kind of ideal, a magazine advertisement or something, sky-blue dress matching the sky-blue sky, while the deeper hue of the sea cast them in relief. The clean white railing. I imagined I presented a wholly different image, so stained and ragged as I had made myself during the course of the ensuing hours. Now it was almost midnight, and surely we were flashing our torch into a void. Surely the whole Island had gone to sleep, and Joseph Vargas too.
A tiny light flickered from the side of the lighthouse.
Isobel made a triumphant noise and grabbed my hand. “Quick,” she said. “Before he says no.”
9.