Islands, Reedsy

Fucking Kiawah Island again, Andrea thought. Couldn’t they come up with somewhere new for once?

Her family had been going to the same vacation place each summer since she was eight years old. The beach was pleasant, and you could ride a bicycle from one end of the island to the other, but that grew tiresome after two days. She had agreed to stay for five nights, cutting her time with her family short, but it would still feel like an eternity.

She was arriving two days later than the rest of her family. Her parents and brother had probably already slipped into a comfortable routine, which she felt would exclude her. Her father seemed equally detached from his children, but she wondered why her mother favored her brother. Andrea was the successful one. She had excelled in math at school and now was a trader with a large Wall Street bank. Andrea was swimming in lucre. Her bonuses were obscene, but she deserved them. She worked hard for her firm, and they profited from her trading skills. And she had to put up with all the shit from her male colleagues.

Frank had none of that. He was a poet who worked as a bartender to make a living, a cliché if there ever was one. Yes, he had published one slim volume of poetry and did well at some of the New York poetry slams, but really—what had he accomplished? Like her, he was still unmarried, but unlike her, he dated successfully. Well, of course, he was a heterosexual bartender in New York. How hard could it be to find a date when you’re serving beautiful, single, sometimes desperate women every night? In contrast, she could not hold on to a relationship. All her male colleagues at work unequivocally wanted trophy wives, not someone independent, assertive, and alpha. All the dating apps seemed to supply only wimps and clones of her colleagues, nothing in between.

Occasionally, Frank would bring his latest squeeze to Kiawah, but—fortunately—he wasn’t dating anyone significant lately. The last one, Angela, had garnered so much attention, Andrea had felt invisible to her parents, who cooed endlessly over Angie. So what if she was knock-down, drop-dead gorgeous, and always Pollyannaish? She had the brain of an acorn. With that IQ, she couldn’t be a trophy wife, so she was stepping up big-time to date a pretentious poet, masquerading as a bartender.

***

Andrea’s limo delivered her late on Monday morning, but her dad Eugene had waited to prepare breakfast, which included crêpes—Andrea’s favorite—until she got there. Her mother, Laura, greeted her warmly with a hug, while Eugene waved nonchalantly and rubbed her back before returning to the stove. Frank looked up from his book and beamed a megawatt, blinding-white smile her way. He was handsome. And he knew it. 

“How was your trip down, honey?” Laura asked Andrea.

“Just fine,” Andrea replied. “The plane was on time, and the limo was waiting for me.”

“That’s lovely,” Laura said. “I’m so happy you can afford limos. I’m very proud of how well you are doing at work.”

“We’re both very proud,” Eugene said as he flipped the first crêpe.

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. It’s hard work, but I enjoy it.”

“I wish I understood how you made so much money just buying and selling securities,” Laura said.

“It’s not complicated,” Andrea replied. “I buy low and sell high.”

“Yes, but where does the money come from?” Laura asked.

“I’ve explained it before. Right now, I’m starving.”

“Here you go,” Eugene said, placing the first crêpe on Andrea’s plate. Andrea sprinkled powdered sugar on it, squeezed a lemon half over it, and began eating.

Frank rose from the sofa to join his mother and sister at the table. The second crêpe landed on his plate shortly thereafter.

“No girlfriend this time?” Andrea asked her brother.

“I’m taking a break from dating and concentrating on my next book of poems,” Frank said.

“Oh, what’s it about?” Laura asked. “Tell us, dear. Can you read us one of your poems?”

“It’s a set of apocryphal stories of love, but I haven’t completed any yet, and I don’t like to share unfinished poems.”

“Why not about genuine liaisons?” Andrea asked. “You’ve had many,” she added, trying to be subtle.

“Touché,” Frank said. “Perhaps I’ve been reflecting on your dating experiences.”

“Stop it, you two,” Laura said. “We have only all just come together. This is family time. Please try to be civil to one another.”

Eugene had been busy and arrived at the table with a stack of crêpes. “Bon appetit!” he said as he sat down. “More, Frank, please. Have you found a publisher? How many poems will the book include?”

“The volume is somewhat inchoate at present,” Frank said. “I have put out some feelers to a couple of publishers, but they want to see the finished pieces. They’d also love it if I had many of them published in a variety of literary journals.”

“How convenient that your work is still so undeveloped,” Andrea said.

“Andrea, that’s enough!” Laura said. “You’re sniping will be the death of me.”

“Unlikely, but duly noted,” Andrea replied.

“In any case, I’m happy with the progress I’ve made so far,” Frank said. “I like a lot of the ideas and phrasing I have in my drafts.”

“We look forward to reading it when you finish it,” Eugene said. “Laura and I thoroughly enjoyed your first volume. You liked it too, didn’t you, Andrea?”

“They’re good poems, but the big-city angst theme was not my cup of tea,” Andrea said.

“Too close to home?” Frank asked.

“Too banal,” Andrea replied.

“Ouch,” Frank said.

“What have you been doing on your weekends, Andrea?” Laura asked.

“Do you mean, have I been dating someone? The answer is ‘no.’ I’m pretty tired from work, but I go to yoga classes and see my friends for drinks or meals.”

“You look fit,” Eugene said.

“I stay in shape. It helps me think clearly at work. I try to exercise as often as possible.”

“You look great,” Frank said.

“Thanks,” Andrea said, arching her brow as she gazed at her brother.

***

Andrea looked at the fish and felt empty. She’d never much enjoyed eating them, but Dad loved to buy fresh-caught shark, bass, and redfish. They were at a roadside stall, the angler proudly displaying his morning catch on a bed of ice which was melting rapidly. It was morning, but already the heat was oppressive on the mainland. The humidity drenched your clothes no matter how thin the fabric, making it cling to your body. A half-hearted breeze only made you wish for a stronger wind.

Dad selected a redfish, his favorite. He’d cook it on the grill with corn and zucchini. Mom would slice ripe peaches, dust them in powdered sugar, and they’d have that for dessert with ice cream.

It’s so fucking conventional! Like we’re an ordinary family.

They spent the rest of the day doing the usual island things—bike ride in the morning, sunbathing and reading in the afternoon, a drink while the grill warmed up. This unit had a Weber grill requiring charcoal. Dad had selected some with hickory in it. Andrea had to admit it smelled divine, like a smoky hug from a giant teddy bear.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Andrea said. Frank always acted as the family bartender; after all, it was his profession. “With a twist of lime.”

“Twist or a slice?” Frank asked.

“You’re right. I meant a slice.” Andrea said, her brow tightly knit, her mouth a frown.

“Thanks. It’s easier. Dad. Mom. What will you be drinking?”

“A white wine would be lovely. I’m sure your dad will have the same. I’ll take it to him,” Laura said as she exited the living room to the back porch.

“And I’ll have the same as you, Andrea,” Frank said. “It’s refreshing after the heat from the sun, the sand, the humidity.”

“Do you always have to speak as if you’re reciting a poem?”

“I aspire to be a poet, so I practice whenever I can. Do you think a lot about your trades and the markets?”

“After the markets close and I turn off my terminal, I try to shut it all out. I’ll go to a yoga class or for a run.”

“I collapse in a heap after work. It’s physically demanding being on your feet all evening and emotionally draining dealing with the customers. It’s a performance; I can understand why so many actors do it in between gigs.”

“Or do it as their permanent gig.”

“Yes, not many can make a living as an actor. Or poet,” Frank said, laughing.

“I don’t know why you even try; wouldn’t it be smarter and more lucrative to get a real job—something with potential for advancement?”

“It may come to that. But, for now, I’m giving it a few more years. My dream is to teach creative writing at a small college.”

“Ugh. I can’t imagine anything more horrid. You’d be trading your drinking customers for students. I’m not sure that’s a step up.”

“Fair point. But I’d have a lot more time for my writing.” Frank topped up their depleted glasses with gin, tonic and a couple of ice cubes.

“And what makes you think a college would hire you?”

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I’m enrolled in an MFA program.”

“Huh.” Andrea said, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Dinner is ready!” Laura said, entering the living room and putting a large platter of fish and vegetables on the dining table. Like most beach houses, the kitchen, living room and dining area were all in one large space.

They all sat down, with Eugene at one end and Laura opposite him. Frank and Andrea sat across from each other.

“Frank tells me he is taking an MFA course,” Andrea said, before taking a bite.

“Yes,” Frank said, glaring at Andrea.

“That’s wonderful!” Laura said. “I’m so happy for you. Are the courses interesting?”

“I’m enjoying them.”

“He hopes to teach creative writing at a college someday,” Andrea said, with only a hint of derision.

“Yes, that’s the plan,” Frank said, attempting to stab his sister with his eyes.

“How long have you been in the program?” Eugene asked.

“About a year. I’m taking it part time, so I’ve finished one-quarter of the two-year course. I was going to tell you earlier but was waiting for an opportune time.”

“Well, I propose a toast to the successful completion of your master’s degree and the job of your dreams,” Eugene said, lifting his wineglass high in the air.

“Yes, cheers,” Laura said, lifting her glass. Andrea was silent but lifted her glass, tilted her head, and arched an eyebrow.

“Again, we have Frank as the center of attention,” Andrea said. “I’ve always thought you favored him over me.”

“Dear, you brought up his studies,” Laura said in as hard a voice as she could muster. “And we love you both equally.”

“Mmm. My bonus this year was three hundred thousand dollars. Better than nearly all my fellow traders. But I never feel you care about me or my successes.”

“We love you and we want you to be happy,” Laura said.

“Yes, we care about you; not the money you make,” Eugene said, pouring himself another glass of wine. He offered the bottle to Laura, who was nodding at his comment, but shook her head at the wine. 

“Do you?” Andrea said. “I wonder.”

“We do care,” Laura said. “But you often seem sad, sometimes angry, and that worries us.”

“You don’t worry about me. I can still remember the time I tripped Frank and he cut his knee. You and Dad practically accused me of attempted murder. It was an accident!”

“We may have overreacted,” Eugene said. “It was a nasty cut on a piece of glass, and we were upset and didn’t know if we could stop the bleeding.”

“Well, I didn’t understand that at the then. I was six-years old!”

“Andrea, why are you bringing this up now?” Laura asked. “This is so far in the past.”

“I don’t know!” Andrea said. “I just feel unloved.” She burst into tears, stood up and looked around for a tissue. Laura rose and moved to hug her, but Andrea dodged her and headed for a box of Kleenex on the kitchen counter. Laura walked over and rubbed her back; Andrea shirked away.

“The fish is superb, Dad,” Frank said. “Cooked to perfection.”

“Thank you, son.”

“Come back to the table, Andrea,” Laura said. “You’ve hardly had a bite.”

“Yes, come back,” Frank said. “I’m terribly impressed with your bonus; it’s four times what I make in a year.”

Andrea shook her head, blew her nose, but her family could see the faintest of smiles creasing her face.

“I’m sorry,” Andrea said. “I must be stressed out from work. I’m exhausted.”

“Eat your dinner,” Laura said. “You’ll feel better.”

“I hate fish,” Andrea said.

“I’ll make you a burger,” Eugene said, leaping up and heading for the kitchen.

“No, no, that’s okay.”

“Not a problem at all. I’m sure the fire is still hot.”

While Eugene cooked, Laura and Frank talked about the weather, what they would do the next day and how much they enjoyed the corn and zucchini. Andrea tried the fish but could only get one bite down. For the rest of the evening, she was subdued, mostly nodding at the surrounding conversation. She ate all of her burger after Eugene presented it to her with a flourish. 

***

Andrea struggled through the days of sunbathing, biking, and—for her—the insufferable family meals. Although she tried to be friendly and cordial, she found Frank’s cheerfulness, her father’s remoteness, and her mother’s insistent pleasantness unbearable. The unclouded weather and heavy humidity did not help. She thought she needed ultra-dark glasses to protect herself from both the sun’s glare and her mother’s probing questions about her dating life, or lack thereof.

Why do I bother? she asked herself. She lasted three days, then rearranged her flight and sent for a car. Each of her family gave her a goodbye hug after the vehicle pulled up. Then, they helped her load her luggage and blew her kisses.

Could it be me? Andrea thought as she stepped into the limousine.