Down the Shore Read Free Page A

say: “Who knows how these things start. It’s funny, we used to give him shit about that French passport he got through your mom. I’m sure he’s having the last laugh, wherever he is. So where are you—”
    A door opened behind them, and Mr. Quinn flicked his cigarette into the yard as Paige’s mother stepped onto the deck, cinching her robe around her body.
    â€œAlan, who’s in the guest room? Do you know what time it is? What the hell is going on?”
    â€œGo back to bed,” Mr. Quinn said. “Everything’s fine. You remember Clare Savage, Michael’s son. Paige got sick in New York and he brought her home. Him and his friend. They’re spending the night.”
    Mrs. Baldwin stared at Clare in naked shock, and then looked back at her husband.
    â€œIt’s OK,” Mr. Quinn said to her. “We’re talking. I’ll be up soon.”
    â€œIs Paige all right? What happened?”
    â€œShe got a little carried away. She’s fine. She told me she left without saying her good-byes when I put her to bed. Go back to sleep, I’ll be right up.”
    â€œSorry, hi,” Mrs. Baldwin said to Clare, offering her hand. “Nice to see you. Thank you for bringing Paige home.” She turned back to her husband. “It’s four o’clock in the morning,” she said, and walked away.
    â€œShe’s a handful,” Mr. Quinn said, lighting another cigarette. “Paige, not Lydia. She’s a sweetheart when she wants to be, but you have to watch her every minute. How do you two know each other?”
    â€œWe don’t,” Clare said. “I just met her tonight.”
    â€œHell of a first date. You’re a senior, right? Following your dad to Yale?”
    â€œI was on the wait list, but he managed some of their endowment. That probably won’t help.”
    Mr. Quinn took a long breath.
    â€œYou’ll be fine, OK? You’re what, seventeen? Eighteen? I know this looks like the end of everything, but it’s not. Not even for your dad. Look, I’ve got a car coming in two hours, but tell Michael I say hello if you talk to him.”
    â€œI will,” Clare said, as Mr. Quinn stood up.
    I kicked off my shoes and pulled my shirt over my head while someone shut the door to the deck. When Clare came in, he stood in the middle of the room in the darkness before he undressed. I was in bed by then, facing the wall, feigning sleep. Clare shut the window and pulled back the sheets. They were soft and clean, and I imagined I’d have all kinds of pleasant dreams between them, but nothing came after I drifted off.

I t was bright as hell when I woke up, a hot rectangle of sunlight draped over my legs. Clare was sitting on the bed across from mine, already dressed.
    â€œHey,” he said. “You’re up.”
    I wondered how long he’d been awake, trapped up here in the air-conditioning, afraid to show his face downstairs. The front door slammed, an engine started in the driveway. Clare walked to the window and stared out at the yard while I stepped into my pants and pulled on my jacket. This was the most mileage I’d ever gotten out of a tuxedo rental. Clare’s tux looked like something he owned.
    Judging by the boxes and the sparseness of the built-in bookshelves, the Quinn-Baldwin family hadn’t lived here long. We walked softly on the ground floor, through the entryway and empty dining room, unsure what to expect. I had worked parties at dozens of new houses like this one with grandiose exteriors borrowed from another period and layouts with no imagination brought to bear, just a series of boxes to move through. A breakfast spread was laid out on the marble island in the kitchen. Between a plate of pastries and a bowl of sliced fruit was a note from Mrs. Baldwin informing us that she was at the gym. The coffee she had made was bitter, burnt.
    â€œLet’s go before they get back,”