Franny laughed. “It sounds like a great story.”
The parking lot was empty. The air was misty, and the ocean’s steady roar got louder as we walked up the path between the low dunes, reminding me how unpredictable and inconsistent the Cape weather was, that it could be clear at the bay and blustery here. We had the beach to ourselves. The wind was stiff, and the surf was still churned up from a recent storm. Waves crashed in every direction, ruffling the shore. We left our shoes by the entrance path and walked to the water. A buoy from a lobster pot was bobbing in the foam. It was unusual to see one so close to shore; it must have been pulled in by the storm. Franny looked at the buoy, then at me, and, with a whoop, ran into the water. I stood on the wet sand and watched as he jumped around like a little kid. Every time he got close to the buoy, the ocean sucked it under, and he would spin around, bewildered.
“There!” I yelled, as it popped up again. “There!”
He leapt at it again and again, waving for me to join him. “Come on!” he called.
I’d been warned more times than I could remember about the dangers of a riptide, even in shallow water. But Franny was having so much fun. Before I could change my mind, I ran and leapt into the foamy water and waded through the surf until I was beside him as he continued trying to grab the buoy. Chasing it, we bumped into each other and fell into the surf. Franny grinned and slapped his hand down on the water, sending a big splash up onto my face and shoulders. I shrieked and scooped water toward him, throwing it at his already-drenched T-shirt. He seemed not at all surprised that I was there, as if this were the kind of impulsive thing I did all the time.
Finally, the buoy surfaced in front of Franny.
“Grab it!” I yelled.
He lunged, fell onto his knees in the surf, and then came up, holding the rope. I jumped through the waves and grabbed the rope, which was slick with seaweed. We held on, bracing our legs in the sand and trying not to fall forward as the waves receded. The pull of the water was strong and the lobster trap was heavy. But when the water rushed in, we were able to run toward the beach and drag the trap behind us. We were pulled in, and pushed back, and in again, and out again until finally an enormous wave rolled in, and we managed to run and pull in enough rope to drag the lobster pot into shallow water and then carry it onto dry sand.
We threw ourselves down beside the wooden trap and looked at each other, soaked and triumphant, catching our breath. I turned around to see an old couple up on top of the dune waving at us. They were yelling something, their words lost in the wind and the crashing of the surf.
Franny threw his head back and hollered, “That was incredible!”
He was panting and smiling like a child. I was brimming with energy and excitement, feeling as unlatched as I had dancing in the dining room the night before. “Incredible!” I agreed. I whipped my head back and forth like a dog to get the water out of my hair. Franny laughed. And then we turned our attention to the lobster trap. Inside were two dark brownish lobsters.
Franny unhooked the pot and grabbed the lobsters by the tails and tossed them onto the sand. I glanced back toward the couple, worried they would warn us against taking the lobsters, but their hands were raised over their heads. They were applauding.
“Are you sure we should?” I asked.
“It’s fine,” Franny said, looking at the lobsters with pride. “It’s not like we swam out and pulled the pot from the ocean. It practically washed up at our feet.”
Franny took the lobsters and, facing the water, stretched his arms up into the air above his head, the lobsters nearly touching each other. The wind lifted his hair in a swirl. He dropped his arms and turned toward me with a mischievous grin.
“Boiled or baked?”
We started back to the house, each of us holding a lobster by the tail in one hand and our shoes in the other, comfortably silent on either side of the line in the road.
4
The inside of the house was dark and worn, like an old ship. A candle burned on a table in the kitchen, its wax dripping into little mountains on a faded cotton tablecloth. We put the lobsters in the sink. Franny gave me a pair of sweatpants and an old wool sweater to change into and directed me to the hall bathroom, where I was amused to find a stack of old New Yorkers in a basket by the toilet. The sweater, which smelled like whiskey, was big and soft, the V of its neck dipping almost too low. In the mirror, I was pleased to see that the wind and the water had left me with pink cheeks. I unclipped my barrette and let my hair hang down in unruly waves.
In the kitchen, Franny was filling a big pot with water. He looked up at me and hesitated for a second, which made me blush. And then he asked, “What’s your method? Boil them alive or knife them first?”
“Oh, definitely the knife,” I said. “It’s harsh, but humane.”
He put the pot on the stove and took a long knife from a drawer. The lobsters were trying to claw their way out of the sink, but they kept slipping down the sides. Franny grabbed one and jabbed the knife in. I was standing close to him, our shoulders touching. He took the second lobster and held the point of the knife right at the joint of the shell where he would plunge it in. Then he offered the knife to me. I couldn’t stand to watch when my father killed lobsters this way, but I took the knife. I inhaled and pushed the tip through the lobster. We put them in the pot and Franny covered it. He looked at me and tilted his head. I moved my head in the opposite direction, mirroring his angle.
“What?” I asked.
“Just … nothing,” he said.
I wanted to touch his face, his still-damp hair.
We were setting the table when the woman I’d seen dancing with Henry the night before came into the kitchen. Her thick hair was loose and fell almost to her waist. Her eyes were dark brown and piercing, her nose long and thin. In a kimono-like robe and flip-flops, she managed to look attractive, even somewhat regal, yet also like a distracted poet who had more important things to consider than her own appearance. She looked at me imperiously. “Who’s this now?”
“This is Eve,” Franny said, and then introduced me to his mother, Tillie. I didn’t say that I had read her poems in college, or that I knew her latest collection had been well reviewed. I didn’t mention that I worked at Hodder, Strike and had read the first chapters of Henry’s memoir, with his breathless account of their steamy courtship and coming together as “literary soul mates.” I didn’t say anything about being at the party the night before or peeking into her bedroom. Franny told her about the surf and how we had pulled in the lobster trap. She lifted the lid on the pot. “You know, technically, you’re poachers.”
Franny shook his head. “Nah, these little lobsters were children lost in the storm.”
“We’re not really thieves, are we?” I asked.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Tillie said, opening the refrigerator and bending down to reach for something in the back. “Here, you can christen your bounty with this.”
She stood up and held out a black bottle. “Freixenet,” she said. “You drink, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Good girl.”
She handed the bottle to Franny and put two wineglasses on the table. She said she and Henry were going to work for another few hours and have dinner in Provincetown at Napi’s. I wanted to know what they were writing and if they took turns reading their drafts aloud. Did they share an office, sit side by side?