Doug had a photograph of Grandma and Aunt Doro on the beach, which he had kept on his desk throughout his four years at Columbia. Snapshots of various buddies and girlfriends had come and gone, and for appearance's sake he had occasionally also displayed a picture of his mother when he could stand to; but Grandma and Aunt Doro were there with him throughout the four years. "That's my grandmother and my great aunt," he would explain to anyone who asked. "I lived with them in high school because I wasn't getting along with my mom and my sister, and I think of them as more like my real parents." That photo was now in storage at his mother's place back in New Jersey along with most of his other belongings, and all spring he'd been missing it nearly as much as he missed New York. As he stared dreamily out at the beach, he once again wished he'd brought that photo up to display on his desk – the perfect contrast of past to present in his beloved Pascatawa Beach. As it was, he had only the present to admire out the window in the hot sunshine and cool waves.
No one needed to know what he had learned from his pissed-off mother that day when he was twelve – that "Aunt" Doro was not really his great aunt, that they weren't blood relatives at all. Doug had opted to keep that to himself as long as he did not know for sure about the true nature of her relationship with his grandmother. Grandma had passed while Doug was halfway through high school and he'd never had the nerve to ask Aunt Doro about it, so it was to remain a mystery. But the photograph – taken shortly after the end of World War II when they were both in their twenties – certainly offered its share of clues. Though it was in black and white, both young women seemed to be bursting with radiance through the tired old paper, the color in their cheeks and eyes and clothes as clear as the joy in their faces as they held each other close and posed for the camera. In the background, out of focus but recognizable to anyone who had been there, was Doug's beloved beach strip at Pascatawa. Probably including the exact spot in which he now sat in his air-conditioned office and admired the women out on the beach.
It was Monday. But it was also a week past Memorial Day, which meant summer had finally arrived on Pascatawa Beach, and Doug was happy. Though he had dreaded the feeling of being cooped up in his beachside office while the bathing beauties frolicked on the beach he had so loved as a teenager, Doug was pleasantly surprised at how much he was now enjoying the view from his tiny office. The first-floor window provided a lovely view of the bikini-clad frolics in the waves, complete with air conditioning and no sunburn. And he got paid for it all, which meant each week brought him closer to having the budget he needed to move back to New York to stay. Doug could hardly wait for that. Though he loved Pascatawa – which had provided a refuge for him when living with his mother and sister had spun out of control back in high school – one couldn't go home again and Doug knew it.
Forced to move back up north at the advanced age of twenty-three last winter when the exorbitant New York rents had proven to be too much for his just-out-of-Columbia resume, Doug had swallowed his pride and let Aunt Doro – he still called her that despite knowing the truth, and always would – pull her strings to land him a plum job in marketing for the new high-end resort that was finally opening. Somewhat less reluctantly, he had moved back in with Aunt Doro on the third floor of her mansion three blocks from the beach, known throughout town as "the old school" because decades' worth of locals had been educated there, ending just around the time Doug had been born. Doug had lived there with his grandmother and Aunt Doro while he was in high school: he'd had the run of the entire third floor as Grandma and Aunt Doro had moved to the second floor after the school had closed down. And for all his teenage angst in those days, he now had fond memories of it all.
He had no such memories of the unwelcome news that the resort would be built. For one thing, he had long been counting the birthdays until he would be able to go have a beer at Bob's By the Bay, the lowbrow but swinging bar that had once stood where the five star hotel and restaurant did now. That day had never come, as he had been just eighteen when it had been torn down. For another, Doug had always treasured the idea that Pascatawa had not changed all that much since Grandma and Aunt Doro had moved into the school mansion back in the forties and started teaching there, and now the real world had begun swallowing up his childhood stomping grounds.
But a job was a job. And, he admitted as he took a break from his latest marketing presentation to admire a couple of young women tossing a beach ball around outside, this was proving to be a good one.
"Enjoying the view?" came the vaguely disapproving voice he had come to enjoy so much.
Kelly, the attractive Greek-American gal from Smith who was also stuck at the club for the summer, was a plus as well. A hectoring, teasing pain in the ass, yes, but a plus nonetheless, for their debates were mostly cordial and fun. Doug turned to see her in his office doorway, dressed as usual in her tight black uniform slacks and crisp white blouse. Pleasantly plump with chestnut curls and a crooked smile, she was a relief to chat with and a joy to look at among their rich and snooty clientele. In the first week of their friendship she had tossed out every subtle warning he knew of that they would never be more than friends, but Doug didn't mind much. Having grown up in two otherwise all-female households, he knew his way around platonic relationships with women. But she did have a lovely figure, and Doug had vowed to at least get a look at her curvy body in a swimsuit before the summer was out.
"Yes," Doug admitted with a sheepish grin. "Yes, I definitely am enjoying the view. Chauvinist pig that I am."
"I never actually said you were," she needled him, "Only that I didn't know you weren't. You know that."
Doug laughed, enjoying as usual her good-natured teasing. "Yes, and I never said you were a hypersensitive politically correct brat either."
"Well, I am, after all." Now they were both laughing comfortably. "Ready to come out and do the final walkthrough on the dining room?"
"Perfect time for that," Doug said, standing up. "And hey, sorry about that," he added, pointing out the window.
"It's perfectly okay to look," Kelly said, though she had needled him several times by then about thinking with his dick. "You think I don't check out the guys out there?"
"Hadn't thought of that," Doug admitted. For all his experience with women and interest in them, his knowledge still consisted mostly of what he knew he
didn't
know. That, in a way, was what made Kelly's occasional feminist ribbing all the more welcome. "I learn something new from you every day."
"Something your Aunt Darlene never taught you?" Kelly shot back, not sure if he was sincere or not.
"Aunt
Doro
," he corrected her. "Don't get her name wrong, she's a legend in Pascatawa."
"And she's not really your great aunt, is that what you said?"
"That's right," Doug confirmed as he flipped through his clipboard for the dining room checklist. "I found out when I was about twelve, we're not related at all. She and Grandma were just old friends from way back."
"Just friends?" Kelly asked.
"Probably not," Doug said with a conspiratorial grin. "They lived together for fifty years or so before Grandma died, but no one ever said anything about...you know."
"Of course not, back in the bad old days," Kelly said as she made her last-minute checks on the silverware.
"Not again with the 'bad old days'!" Doug grumbled. "You should have seen Pascatawa back in the fifties, the sixties...I've seen pictures and it was gorgeous."
"You and your nostalgia!" Kelly said. "I've only known you a few weeks, and already I always know when you're going to say a thing like that."
