“That’s probably for the best,” she said.
“What is?”
“Not knowing what my parents get up to in the bedroom.”
The man said, “That’s a good idea.” Abigail didn’t know exactly what he was talking about but then he stood, lifted his own chair, and moved it closer to the firepit. “We’re the only ones left out here,” he said.
“You’re just noticing that now?” she said.
“I can’t take my eyes off of you,” he said, but in a mocking tone.
“I don’t even know your name, do I?” Abigail said, worried, as soon as she’d said it, that he’d already told her.
“If I tell you, will you answer a question?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You already know the question.”
“How many men have I slept with?”
“Right. How many men have you slept with?”
CHAPTER 2
Abigail Baskin lost her virginity to a visiting actor at her parents’ summer theater in Boxgrove, a small town in western Massachusetts. She was seventeen years old, and the actor said that he was twenty-two. A few years later, however, she’d looked him up on IMDb after he’d gotten a couple of small roles on television, and discovered that he’d probably been closer to twenty-six. Not that it mattered much. She’d been ready, and he’d been beautiful.
In fact, the moment that she’d seen him she knew that her longtime plans to lose her virginity to Todd Heron were out the window. She and Todd had been together since they were both fourteen years old, and Abigail had read enough adult contemporary fiction to know that Todd and she had already settled into a teenage version of a passionless marriage. They were best friends, made each other laugh, and had steadily progressed from a year of kissing to the occasional bout of sexual activity that included the proverbial “everything but.” These bouts usually ended in a conversation in which both parties agreed that the timing wasn’t right, or that the location, usually Todd’s parents’ semifinished basement, wasn’t, or that it wasn’t romantic enough. They began to plan scenarios in which they could each lose their virginity in an actual bed, and with the opportunity to fall asleep together afterward, no parents around. But Todd’s parents, his dad the chief of Boxgrove’s rarely used fire department, his mom a bookkeeper at the Congregational church, were never not around. And Abigail’s parents, who ran the Boxgrove Summer Theatre, were always around as well, working constantly, even during the months when there were no productions. They said they didn’t have the time to travel, but Abigail had begun to suspect that they also didn’t have the money.
The summer that Abigail turned seventeen she and Todd had resigned themselves to the status quo, Todd working long hours—early mornings—at the local golf course, and Abigail working long hours—the evening ones—as a hostess at the Boxgrove Inn. Their relationship became a series of texts in the rare hours they were both free. And when Abigail wasn’t hostessing, she was helping out, as she always did, at her parents’ theater. Lawrence and Amelia Baskin were putting on five productions that summer, up from their usual three, including a revival of Ira Levin’s Deathtrap. Zachary Mason had come up from New York—all the actors came up from New York—to play Clifford Anderson. Abigail, despite many crushes on television stars and film actors, hadn’t realized just how much she had a specific physical type until the moment she first saw Zachary. He was tall and thin, with high cheekbones and mussed hair. He reminded Abigail of Alain Delon in Purple Noon, her current movie obsession, and when she first saw him, as she was getting the room ready for the table read, her stomach flip-flopped like she was a heroine in a cheesy romance. It must have shown on her face, because Zachary looked at her and actually laughed, then introduced himself while helping her set up the room. A little bit of the sudden infatuation immediately went away when she realized just how much he was like all the other aspiring actors that came here for the summer. He wore skinny jeans and had a tasseled scarf wrapped twice around his neck even though it was July, and Abigail could make out a tattoo on the inside of his forearm that looked, without her being able to read all of the words, to be some Shakespearean text.
“Ah, the daughter,” he said.
“They haven’t thought of me as their daughter for a long time. I’m their unpaid intern.”
“Well, you look just like your dad.” It was the first time Abigail had heard this, since most people told her she looked like her mom, maybe because her mom, like Abigail, was tall and had dark hair. But Abigail did feel she looked just like her father. She had his large forehead, his downturned eyes, his short upper lip.
“Is that a good thing?” Abigail asked.
“Are you fishing for a real compliment?”
“Of course I am.”
There was activity in the hallway outside the conference room, a bustling of bodies and a few conversations starting up, and Zachary leaned in quickly to Abigail and said, “You are very pretty, but you’re probably only sixteen and I’m twenty-two, and I’m going to leave it at that.”
“I’m seventeen,” Abigail said as the room began to fill.
Deathtrap ran two weeks. It turned out to be one of the better productions of the summer; Abigail saw it twice, and was relieved that Zachary was not only good, but almost great. It didn’t hurt that he was playing opposite Martin Pilkingham, the soap actor who performed at least one role for Boxgrove every summer. Zachary and Martin had great chemistry. A critic from the city actually came up in order to review the play; “A Revival in the Berkshires Warrants the Drive” was the headline.
Halfway through the production Abigail was sitting on her front porch, in the swinging chair, rereading Red Dragon, when Zachary wandered by along the sidewalk. She checked her phone, realizing it was later than she thought, and shouted out a hello that made him turn in obvious surprise. At least he wasn’t purposefully walking by my house in hopes of seeing me, she thought, as she came down the front porch steps. Although why that would make a difference, she didn’t know. They walked together at least two miles that night, the night getting cooler, Zachary talking about all the parts he’d almost gotten in TV shows and commercials. When he dropped her off, Abigail swung quickly into his arms and kissed him. He kissed back, and with his arms lifted her almost entirely off her feet.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I do,” Abigail said, and half ran to her front door, not wanting to give him a chance to talk them out of what was happening.
The wrap party, like all of Boxgrove’s wrap parties, was held in the basement tavern at the Boxgrove Inn. Abigail got there early to help Marie, the bartender, set up the platters of snacks, and in return, Marie poured Abigail what looked like just a Sprite, but with vodka in it. The night before, after the second-to-last performance, Zachary and Abigail had fooled around once again, in his dressing room. At one point, Abigail thought they were going to have sex, and she broached the topic of condoms.
“You want to do this right here, right now, in my dressing room?” he’d asked. He already knew Abigail was a virgin because they’d discussed it.