Nat looked at Gabe’s daughter: young, vulnerable, hopeful. Nat should say no. She should tell this girl to work things out with Fern. Or to focus on her graduation, or her trip to Honduras. But Violet was her conduit into Gabe’s world. He could not dismiss Nat if she had a hold on his daughter. Nat could not set Violet Turnmill free.

“I feel something,” Nat said. “But we have to take it slow.”

Violet moved closer. “I don’t want to take it slow. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You’re just a kid.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m an adult.”

“You have to deal with Fern. You’re about to graduate. You’re leaving soon . . .”

“I don’t have to leave.” Violet moved closer still. “I was only going to Honduras to piss off my dad.”

Mission accomplished.

“I could move into the city for the summer,” the younger girl suggested, tentatively touching the pendant on Nat’s chest. “We could hang out. Get to know each other better.”

“Maybe.” Nat pulled the necklace away, dropped it into her T-shirt. “I have to go.”

“Stay . . . Please.”

“I can’t. You should be with your friends.”

“I’ll tell them to leave. I want to be with you.” And then, Violet leaned in and, gently, timidly, kissed Nat on the lips.

The girl tasted like weak cranberry punch and smelled like sunscreen. Her lips were full and soft, and Nat felt a stir of arousal. But she didn’t respond, didn’t kiss Violet back. Her lips were still sore from Gabe’s hungry mouth on hers. Moments ago, he’d had her pressed up against the wall, about to roughly take her from behind. And now, his daughter was kissing her, so softly, so tenderly. It was weird and sick and depraved. How had Nat’s life gotten so fucked-up?

Violet pulled back, and Nat seized the opportunity. “I’ll text you,” she said, moving toward the door.

“Promise me I’ll see you again.”

Nat paused. “Of course. I’ve got your shirt.”

She raced down the stairs to find Gabe.

39

The Luxury Liner

Gabe drove Natalie to Bridgehampton, where she could catch the Luxury Liner back to Manhattan. He had to speed to make the last departure at four forty-five. The Jitney had later shuttles, but that would necessitate a drive to Montauk. He didn’t want to be stuck in a car with Natalie for more than ten minutes. He didn’t trust himself around her. If he spent too much time alone with the crazy bitch, he would either fuck her or kill her.

Celeste had still not returned from delivering the distraught Fern when he’d stuffed Nat’s sodden shirt and bikini top into a plastic bag, bundled Natalie into his Mercedes, and hit the road. Violet had stood in the driveway, watching Natalie leave like a lovesick puppy. He’d rolled down his window and yelled, “Get back to your party! Get back to your guests!” The girl glared at him but strolled back toward the pool.