away, on the Southeast end of the Island. Jack’s aunt and uncle lived in Cythere.
It was a pleasant morning, not as chilly as usual coming across the sound, so Jack took off his parka and placed it on a white steel bench next to Veronica. They were up top in the open air. Veronica sat, busily trying to push her camera back into her over-stuffed backpack. Jack stood at the rail, watching as the boat glided over the water, searching ahead for the outline of Taylor Island. He wore a long sleeved white linen shirt, tan khaki pants and penny loafers. As the sun rose, it made his hair shine reddish gold. His clear blue eyes eagerly looked out toward the island.
With the commotion Veronica made, Jack turned to watch as she wrestled with the back pack, determined by sheer force of will to get everything into it. Amused, Jack commented, “V, no sense stuffing the camera back in, you’ll just be taking it out again in a minute.”
Veronica hesitated, not sure whether to put the camera in the bag or use it at that moment to snap a photo. She scanned the view before her.
“You said it’s lovely here, and it is,” she commented, the camera now raised and ready to shoot.
“I said lovely? That sounds like your word. I said it’s cool here,” Jack responded, eyeing Veronica. She wore a light silk rainbow scarf to keep her neck warm, and her chestnut hair cascaded around her shoulders and over the top of her iris-blue blouse. She had on thick, black, sunglasses Jack had bought for her. She could have been an Arabian princess, and Jack loved looking at her. “Veronica,” he said, “you look great this morning. Maybe we can get someone to take our photo.”
A young ship’s assistant passed by and Jack asked him to take their picture. Standing against the railing of the boat, with the sun rising and the island coming into view behind them, and with the calm, aquamarine water in the background, they looked splendid.
In a few moments the ferry horn sounded and the ferry slowed as it came into the channel to dock. The captain swung the boat around to back it into its slip and that gave Jack and Veronica time to get their things together. Veronica scudded about, picking up her things, looking around for anything she might have left behind, making a small uproar by her anxious movements. She started putting the camera away again but stopped when she noticed Jack watching her. He was just about to laugh.
“What?” she asked. “What’s so funny?”
“You, you seem altogether discombobulated.”
“Thanks a lot,” Veronica grinned, “guess I’m nervous about meeting your aunt and uncle. Do you think they’ll like me?” she asked beseechingly, at the same time abandoning attempts to control everything around her and trying to relax for a moment.
“I know they’ll like you,” Jack said confidently.
“How do you know that?” Veronica asked.
“Because they’re nice,” Jack insisted.
“But why will they like me?” Veronica pleaded, raising the sunglasses off her eyes so they rested on her forehead and Jack could see her anxiety.
“Because you’re nice,” he said, walking up to her and warmly gazing into her eyes to reassure her, “and you have nothing to worry about and we’ll enjoy ourselves, right?” Jack had placed his hands on Veronica’s shoulders so as to steady her and he felt her body relax under his touch.
“I’m being absurd, I know,” Veronica said.
At the dock it had suddenly begun sprinkling even while the sun still shone.
“Island weather,” Jack said, “you never know.”
Uncle Browne wasn’t there yet. Jack had called the night before and given the arrival time. He explained to Veronica, “He’s never on time. I think he goes by a different clock.” But Veronica’s insecurity had resurfaced.
“I hope it has nothing to do with my coming. You’re certain they know I’m coming, right?”
At school she was usually confident, doing Dean’s list work every semester. But she was insecure about Jack’s family and their affluent background. And recently she’d started to imagine Jack’s aunt and uncle as aloof snobs, probably because they lived on this well-to-do island, out of circulation with the average world, where many of the islanders were, in fact, rich. “Stop it, Veronica,” Jack laughed, “you remind me of a kid about to perform in front of an audience. Trust me; you’ll like my aunt and uncle.” Just as he said that a car horn beeped. It was a high pitched, squeaky sounding beep, as if the horn had just inhaled helium or came from a child’s bath toy.
“That’s my uncle’s car,” Jack said excitedly, “no mistaking it.” They turned together. At the curb a tall, thin, man exited a cobalt blue Mercedes coup.
“Jacket!” he called out.
The Mercedes had its top down and the driver waived a hello with one hand and held an open, pink, umbrella in the other. He had silver hair with bushy, protruding, eyebrows that looked like white caterpillars resting horizontally above his eyes. He wore a pale blue blazer and navy polo shirt and had a red bandana tied around his neck in a makeshift ascot. When he spoke his eyes moved all around with great animated interest—up and down, then wide open, and then almost closed. And the eyebrows, with all of this expressiveness, resembled white moths jumping around a wild-eyed flame. Uncle Browne walked over to Jack.
“Damn switch to the convertible top is broken and I never know when the top will go up or down. I was lucky your aunt left this umbrella in there,” he said, waving the umbrella like a sword at the sky and letting go a burst of laughter in his frenzied jubilation.
“Uncle Browne,” Jack said affectionately, shaking his uncle’s hand.
“Jacket, boy-you’re the spitting image of your young dad, and even more handsome if that’s possible. Sorry I didn’t make it to your graduation but we had one of our own, you know. I’m so happy you came up,” he said, embracing Jack. Jack stepped back to stand beside Veronica.
“Uncle Browne, this is Veronica,” Jack offered proudly.
Uncle Browne took a step backward. He was a tall man at six foot four, slender and genteel looking. His silver hair was long and brushed back and he had an aquiline nose. When he stood tall and held his chin up to contemplate something, he looked distinguished and formidable, like some early American aristocrat poised around a table as some important document is signed.
“Veronica,” Uncle Browne said dramatically, “how nice to see you. My nephew talks about you with hyperbole, you know. But I must say it turns out to be understatement.”
“My uncle’s an English professor at the community college here,” Jack explained. “He’s the only person I know who talks about usual things in unusual terms. He once told me I was the personification of youthful splendor. Isn’t that what you said, Uncle Browne?”
“I did and still do,” Uncle Browne proffered.
“I think he’s some kind of word wizard,” Jack said to Veronica.
“I tend the un-penned garden of words that grow all around us, Jacket. That’s my stock and trade. But what I say about you and Veronica, like all good verbal blooms, grows out of the truth.” Uncle Browne punctuated his statement with a wink, and then continued. “Now are you two hungry at all?” He asked
