“Oh Arthur,” she said, loving the sound of his name in her mouth, loving that he knew what he was doing to her. “I promise. I promise! How could I possibly ever forget about you?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Despite her promise, as she entered the full swing of summer at the resort, Arthur, so far away in a place she couldn’t even imagine, sank deeper into the recesses of her mind with every shift she worked, and every late night.

She hardly recognized the season—it bore little resemblance to the quiet breeziness of the summer days she’d known from her childhood. Back then she could spend hours with Roberta swimming, playing hopscotch, drinking malts at the Dairy Bar, and sunbathing on blankets in Roberta’s backyard on Hodunk Road, talking about boys like Trent Eagan while searching for four-leaf clovers or racing grasshoppers. The quiet of East Troy and the peacefulness Sherri had experienced at Arthur’s cottage didn’t exist at the resort. Soon the smell of the old pine beadboard and gas off the motors of the trolling fishing boats just beyond Arthur’s pier was replaced by the mingling odors of cigarette smoke, carpet cleaner, chlorine, and men’s cologne.

Everything was in movement: golf carts scooted around the grounds, guests rode horses at the stables, musicians arrived to record records at the studio in the basement or to perform at Alpine, and the lobby was so packed with guests that it was, as Rhonda described it, like a shopping mall before Christmas. She no longer ran into Rhonda in the dorm, because she’d moved in with Frank, but Sherri saw her multiple times a day as she passed her in the lobby, where Rhonda was now stationed, and also in the bathroom, where she threw up almost nonstop. Sherri felt awkward and nervous around her friend, as though she’d been diagnosed with a contagious disease.

One evening, Sherri took her break outside on the chunk of cement overlooking the golf course. What started out as an occasional cigarette when she was drunk had turned into a constant craving. She loved everything about smoking, right down to the crinkling sound of the thin plastic wrapper around the package. Smoking gave her jittery hands something to do, and at parties the ashtray was something to gather around, like a campfire.

Sherri took in the warmth of the evening. People always complained about the humidity in the Midwest, but she loved the thick, sensual quality of the summer air, the way it held everything in suspension. “Hey,” someone said. She jumped and saw Gwen sitting in profile at the employee picnic table, her legs crossed. She had a long neck and slender wrists and ankles, and looked glamorous when she smoked, like a movie star.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Sherri said, sitting across from her.