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Cadence

August 1942

B ess and I stood bottom-to-bottom in the snack-shack kitchen of the Bayside Beach Club, each cooking with one hand and reading a novel with the other, an art we’d perfected during our summer of hard labor there.

By August 1942, the war had changed so much at the Bay, as it was known by locals, a private beach-and-sailing club situated along the harbor in Vineyard Haven. Our colleague Delia Murray was fired after her naval-aviator brother flew so low over the club that the manager, Mr. Wespi, called the Coast Guard. And then the cook, Roscoe Olivera, went off to enlist, leaving us to both cook the food in the barely ventilated kitchen and serve it, for no additional pay. The war had even taken Tom, and we would miss him stopping by every day at lunch.

I crossed the bluestone terrace, where a group of clubwomen sat lunching at one of the glass-topped tables, and took in the chaise longues lined up along the perfectly smooth beach that a hired man combed each morning. Here the toddlers, their blond hair bleached white by the sun, shoveled shells into pails and staggered across the beach, sand clinging to their terry-cloth diaper covers. The lucky ones. Insulated from much of the hardship of the war. And, come fall, they got to go home to Boston or New York.

Beyond the beach in busy Vineyard Haven Harbor, sailboats of all sizes bobbed as the steamship Martha’s Vineyard arrived at the dock to discharge her passengers from the mainland. The boat Tom had left on that morning.

I tried not to think about Tom heading to war soon and approached the table of clubwomen, whom Bess called “the Richies,” since they were all from elite families around the area, most from nearby West Chop . They were holding one of their last book-club meetings of the season, and Lindy Carmichael, their leader, sat at the head of the table. It was hard to stand before them dressed in my baggy uniform dress and dirty apron and—the worst part—hairnet. Each of them wore the same sleeveless shift dress from the Tog Shop in Edgartown, just in slightly different colors.

I asked them if they needed anything else, and one said, “Ketchup, I suppose,” as if doing me a favor, finding something for me to go fetch.

With so many of the male club members enlisted or engaged in war-related business off-island, that place felt more like a girls’ summer camp for wealthy women, who shared bottles of chardonnay after tennis while their children played under the lifeguard’s care. I marveled at their rigid pecking order, in which wealth, it seemed, mattered most, then physical appearance.

Not that I counted in all of it. Once, the nephew of a West Chop matron well known at the club had asked me to a bonfire on Black Point Beach. I told him, “Maybe,” reluctant to inform him that staff were forbidden from socializing with club members. When his aunt got wind of it, she immediately shipped him back off to school, where he’d be safe from the draft, and from me, of course.

Lindy held up the book. “Next week, we’ll be reading this— The Song of Bernadette. Everyone have their copies?”

I had already read the book, given to me by a club member, and wrote that it had the directness and verbal clarity of a drama, while at the same time the na?veté of folklore. I maintained a healthy side business writing book summaries and reviews for the members who enjoyed the social aspect of these meetings more than the actual books. Mr. Wespi had no idea that I had provided those to six Bayside members the previous month, earning more than my weekly snack-bar check. And it was good practice if I was to ever get to New York City and find a publishing job, something that would solve so many problems for our little family.

But the publishing world was in flux and not hiring for many entry-level spots. The war had created shortages of paper along with the other things required to produce books, like cloth for covers, the copper used to make the printing plates, and chlorine that bleached the paper white.

Bess and I collected books that members left behind, or we found them at the dump, where we went for a variety of items.

Do these women even know how lucky they are to have new books?

Winifred Winthrop lay out on the beach on a chaise longue, in all her bronzed glory. From New York City, she’d been on the island all summer at her house on West Chop, after she and her husband separated when he moved to a banana plantation in Honduras. She was Bess’s and my favorite customer, since she said little and tipped generously, out of the sight line of Mr. Wespi, and left us her Vogue magazines once she’d read them. She raised one thin-wristed hand and shook her gold charm bracelet, as she did whenever she needed ice water or a whiskey sour, and I hurried over.

“Thank you, darling,” Winnie said, as I poured water into her glass.

Winnie represented physical perfection to me: tall, perfectly tanned, and impossibly chic in the sandals she had custom-made in Mykonos. I marveled at the idea that somewhere in Greece there was a shoe pattern hanging in a cobbler’s shop with Mrs. Winthrop’s name written on it in Greek.

Winnie picked up the newspaper and read aloud. “?‘Up-Island Happenings,’ by Cadence Smith. Your column is very funny, you know. I look forward to it every week.”

I barely breathed. “Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop.”

“Humor is much harder than straight drama. It’s very well done.”

She moved on to the obituaries, and I hurried into the kitchen to find Bess. “You won’t believe what Winnie said.”

“Did she sleep here last night? That woman doesn’t leave the beach. She’s getting wienie-roast skin.”

They say you should have one friend who always makes you laugh and one who lets you cry, and Bess Stanhope was both. I shared everything with Bess. My books. My father’s old razor, which we used to shave our legs. Even a bed once Tom shipped out.

“She said my column is well written.”

“Well, of course it is. Everyone reads it. Even Mr. Wespi.”

Just the thought of the club manager running about the place with his springy step, tilted forward on the balls of his feet, made my stomach hurt. The Wesp had almost fired me the week before for eating a quarter of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich a child had left on a plate.

“He’s vile,” I said.

Bess ate the last of her French fries. “Let’s just make it to the end-of-season closing. Every penny counts.”

Our paychecks were laughably small, but combined they were vital to keeping the farm afloat.

“Hey—there’s a new officer up at Peaked Hill. Supposed to be good-looking.”

Somehow Bess always knew the minute a new male under fifty stepped onto the island.

“Oh, really?” Not that we had much contact with officers, since they kept to themselves more than the enlisted men did.

I looked out the one window toward the club’s front path, to the little white wooden restricted sign. Mr. Wespi stood there pointing it out to a young couple who’d tried to enter club grounds. He always made such an embarrassing scene, thrilled to flex his manager muscle with anyone even vaguely non-white or with a name like Cohen, unless they were some sort of royalty, however obscure.

“Members only,” I heard him say, as if they’d failed his unspoken test. He firmly steered them back toward the street, while the members pretended not to see.

Bess turned a page. “Did I tell you Mr. Wespi said I should put socks in my bra to fill out the uniform better?”

I slid a stack of plates into the dishpan. “Don’t tell Tom that. He’ll run back here and defend your honor.”

I wished I could stuff those words back in my mouth. Bess was keeping a brave face, but I knew from our talk late last night that she was having a terrible time with Tom’s departure, having expected a ring from him before he left. We’d all cried as Tom left that morning, but she had sobbed in such a heartbreakingly pitiful way, long after the ferry had sailed out of sight, and her face was still swollen. At least work was a distraction for us both.

The screen door banged open, and Mr. Wespi bounded in. “Miss Stanhope, I’ve warned you about reading on the job.”

A compact, mole-like man, who wore his orange hair swooped across his forehead and had freckles that comingled to give his skin a blotchy look, Mr. Wespi seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

Bess shut the book and looked at him with the benign expression she’d developed during years of humoring boarding school teachers at Brillantmont in Switzerland. “Yes, Mr. Wespi.”

“And shake that fryer basket. Mrs. Rayburn said the fries were too greasy.” He leaned closer to Bess. “And I know you two have been helping yourselves to them.”

Bess frowned. “How can you say that, Mr. Wespi?”

“Well, we’re going through an extra quarter bag a day, so someone’s eating them.” He turned to me. “Now, I know your family has come on hard times, Miss Smith, but food has gotten expensive because of this war.”

I sent him a little salute. “Understood, Mr. Wespi.”

“Good. Now get out there and take the burgee down.”

Since the war began, the job of tending to the club flag had fallen to Bess and me. Each morning and night we trudged to the flagpole near the beach at the back of the club. There we raised and lowered the little burgee, which was embroidered with the Bayside Beach Club insignia, crossed white oars on a navy-blue field. We found the ritual embarrassingly pretentious, since all present were required to stand and salute, and we thought there was enough of that sort of thing happening in Germany already.

Mr. Wespi left, the metal service bell tinged, and I turned to find club member Holly Jantzen’s head and shoulders framed at the service window. A Jantzen of the sportswear Jantzens, she wore a beach cover-up and a straw hat with ball fringe along the brim. I liked the hat very much and hoped I’d see it at the West Tisbury dump soon, since the Richies had their maids bring their castoffs there at the close of each season. According to dump etiquette, we followed the “give-a-little-take-a-little rule,” always leaving something in exchange. It was a pretty nice dump and had become our department store of sorts. First floor, women’s clothing. Books on mezzanine.

Holly put her arm around her thirteen-year-old son, who stood next to her. “I just wanted to tell you it tastes like there’s sand in little Reggie’s ice cream again.” The pom-poms on her hat shook as she handed me a white cup—chocolate, I could see through the fluted paper.

I took it. “So sorry, Mrs. Jantzen.”

Holly pressed her chest against the window shelf. “Go ahead, taste it. I’ll tell Mr. Wespi I gave you permission.”

I wondered how I’d gotten to a place in my life where, at nineteen years old and more widely read than Oscar Wespi would ever be, I had to seek his permission to taste ice cream. I dipped a fresh spoon into it and held back a groan at the creamy chocolate goodness.

“It’s just a few ice crystals, Mrs. Jantzen.” I took a second bite and resisted knocking back the whole cup. I had to admit it was excellent soft-serve ice cream, though I despised Mr. Wespi’s unnatural love for the hulking machine that produced it.

“Oh, yes—this happened by the end of last summer, too. I guess you need to clean out the machine again.”

“Actually, I just did it this morning.” I had come in at the crack of dawn to clean out the machine, to make sure I didn’t spend a second more than I had to at that place.

“Well, looks like it needs to be done again. I’ll tell Mr. Wespi.”

“Oh, please don’t bother him with it, Mrs. Jantzen. I’ll get right onit.”

“And one other thing.” Holly checked her surroundings and slid a paper bag across the shelf of the service window toward me. “I need to give you this.”

I peeked into the bag. “A book?”

“I’d like to hire you if I can. Left a dollar on the title page.” She leaned in farther and lowered her voice. “Isn’t that how this works?”

“What?”

“You read it for me. And I get, you know, a summary. I’m not accustomed to doing this sort of thing, but Dot Higginson said—” She reached to take the bag back. “But if it’s too much trouble…”

“No.” I grabbed the bag. “I’ll do it.”

“And there’s another fifty cents in it for you if you can get it to me by Friday.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. Jantzen.”

Once she left, I showed the book to Bess, who’d resumed her reading at the fryer basket.

Bess glanced at the cover. “ Song of Bernadette ? They get all the good ones. Can I have it when you’re done?”

“Sorry. It has to go back to the customer so she can bring it to her meeting.” I opened the book and inhaled the new-book scent—my favorite. “I wish we could just sit around and talk books all day.”

Bess sat on the counter. “We should start our own book club.”

“And we’ll actually talk about the books.” I tasted a fry and then shook more salt onto the batch.

“We can have a burgee of our own,” Bess said. “I’ll embroider our new symbol on it—a book and a wineglass full of Ginny’s beetlebung-honey wine. We’ll sit on the beach at the farm and eat the leftover potato chips from here.”

I took another fry, picturing the two of us sitting on Gram’s faded canvas beach chairs, gorging on books all day, the waves lapping our toes. “We can call it the Island Book and Wine Club.”

Bess dumped frozen French fries into the fryer basket. “How about the Martha’s Vineyard something?”

“The Martha’s Vineyard Book and Wine Club?”

“The Martha’s Vineyard Beach and Book Club,” Bess said. “No Richies allowed.”

I adjusted my hairnet. “ You’re a Richie, Bess.”

“Not anymore. And promise me we’ll vet our members carefully.”

“Done,” I said, as we each toasted our new club with a French fry.

I hurried back out to the terrace to clear the tables and Winnie strolled by, now dressed in a black piqué shift over her swimsuit, her raffia tote in one hand. She stepped closer to me, bringing a lovely wave of patchouli and clove. “You know, I read The Sound and the Fury review you wrote for Lindy. It’s quite good. I have a proposition for you. Have you ever thought about working in publishing?”

I blinked, a bit lightheaded. “You mean for money?”

“I’m having some friends over for drinks at the yacht club.”

The Edgartown Yacht Club was the Vineyard’s most exclusive enclave, and it made the quaint Bayside Club look like a sandwich shop. Despite the yacht club’s fondness for thrifty soup swaps, its membership was reserved for those of Mayflower lineage—“the Pilgrim People,” as Bess called them—and for longtime yachtsmen whose ancestors had once sailed home to Edgartown Harbor, hulls laden with sperm oil and baleen, after whaling the Pacific. I had only seen the yacht club from the water, when we’d sailed our catboat into the harbor, all the beautiful people sipping their cocktails on the porch, the pennants flying.

“They’re Putnam girls,” Winnie said. “Coming up on the company yacht to entertain some clients.”

By Putnam did she mean G. P. Putnam’s Sons? Putnam published all the greats. James Fenimore Cooper. Edgar Allan Poe.

“Do you work there, too?”

“Not yet, though they never stop trying to hire me. We’re friends from school. They’ll want to talk shop, but it might be fun for you. Cocktails at four.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, completely and pleasantly numb. “Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop!” I called out, but Winnie had already gone off to the parking lot.

I hurried back into the snack shack. “Can you cover for me? Winnie just invited me to cocktails with her publishing friends.”

Bess grabbed my hands. “You’re kidding.”

“I have to be there at four.”

“You’d better go soon so you can change. I’m assuming you’re not planning to wear that uniform.”

“I’ll leave now. Gram can drive me.”

“I heard that, Miss Smith.” Mr. Wespi came to the service window. “If you want your paycheck, you won’t be going anywhere.”