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surprisingly intimate gesture that sent Sydney into a nearly hyp-
notic swoon.
Your skin is delicious, Jeff whispered into her ear, causing a
shiver all along her spine.
Each imagined Julie s Hélène, neither of them getting it right.
Sydney pictured, having all too briefly seen the real thing, a
wiry athletic woman with slick black hair. Jeff imagined
surely a male fantasy, Sydney thought a lipstick lesbian with
blond curls, an image in which he persisted in believing even
when presented with Sydney s meager evidence to the contrary.
Jeff remained in their hotel room while Sydney took a taxi to
the address given. Hélène, who met Sydney at the door of her
fifth-floor walk-up in the old quarter of the city, was neither a
lipstick lesbian nor dark-haired, but rather a petite woman with
light brown hair and distinctly European features (the wet suit
had elongated; the water darkened). Julie hopped off her stool in
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Body Surfing
the corner and embraced Sydney with ferocity. Not the ferocity
of the relieved, Sydney thought, but rather that of the newly
liberated.
Hélène, mindful of the sensitivities, did not touch Julie during
the visit no caresses, no gestures of possessiveness but did
allow Julie, in her exuberance, to embrace her from time to time
as she managed tea from a spartan kitchen, an indication of
household discipline that held throughout the small apartment,
even to the simple bathroom with the good accoutrements: the
Frette towels, the marble pedestal sink, the cut-glass dispenser of
remarkably effective hand cream.
The most extraordinary feature of the otherwise modest flat was
an expanse of windows on the street side. They were set above
dark-paneled wainscoting and had sixteen leaded-glass panes per
window. In certain lights (Sydney visited often), she felt trans-
ported to seventeenth-century Holland, as if, turning her head,
she might find Julie, with her Dutch-beauty face, in layered
robes, embroidery hoop in hand.
I m sorry, Sydney. I m so sorry. I should have told you. I just
thought . . . Julie stumbled through her apology, heartfelt and
contrite.
It s okay, Sydney said. I understand. I do. It s just that
the way you did it was frightening for your parents. For all of
us.
But you d all have stopped me! Julie protested, nailing her
defense.
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Anita Shreve
* * *
Sydney summoned Jeff from the hotel room. When he appeared
in Hélène s apartment, Sydney had the unnerving sense of being
on a double date.
While Sydney had been restrained but polite with Hélène (not
wanting to precipitate a crisis that wasn t warranted), Jeff was
harsh. He demanded to know how Hélène could have persuaded
Julie to leave her home and family, and it was only after a lengthy
discussion over tea and excellent pastries, Hélène s accented
English and the Vermeer windows lending a distinctly foreign
note to the occasion, that Jeff could be persuaded that Julie had
begged to go to Montreal.
Jeff called home with the news. Though Mr. Edwards, under-
standably, could hardly be expected to view the bulletin as wel-
come (he missed his beautiful daughter and would be lonely,
Sydney suspected, not to mention the fact that Julie would be
dropping out of school), a compromise was agreed to.
Julie would return to the beach house the following weekend
with Hélène and Jeff and Sydney. A civilized detente would be
the goal.
Julie s passport was mailed so that she could legally cross the bor-
der. (One could cross the border into Canada without a passport,
Sydney learned, but one could not get back into the States.) Jeff
and Sydney spent the week Jeff s vacation week not at the
beach house, where all was suspended chaos, but rather in Mon-
treal, in the small hotel room with its two exceptionally narrow
iron beds.
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Body Surfing
* * *
Returning from that first visit to Julie, Sydney noticed that Jeff s
hands were trembling.
Do you think they re lovers yet? he asked as they entered the
early-twentieth-century hotel elevator.
Yes, I do, Sydney answered, minding the slight dip with
each stop. She didn t like elevators in which she was reminded of
the possibility of cords snapping, pulleys malfunctioning.
I just . . . It seems so . . .
I know, she said.
Jeff leaned against a padded bar at the back of the small compart-
ment. He seemed spent. Did she look happy to you? he asked.
Very.
She s only eighteen.
I m happy for her, Sydney added.
You don t think Hélène s just using her?
Using her for what?
For sex? As someone she can control?
Sydney thought. Both might be true. The sex is obvious. Julie
is beautiful. She s also trusting. But I m not sure that controlling
Julie is as easy as you might think. I didn t do a very good job of
it. I was with her essentially all day, and yet I never knew she was
seeing Hélène.
Should I worry? he asked.
We should worry some, Sydney said, including herself. And
keep an eye on them. I did manage to extract a promise from
Hélène to let us know if they planned on traveling. I don t want
your father to have to go through all that again.
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Anita Shreve
Did you . . . , Jeff began, seemingly considering how exactly
to phrase what might be a delicate question. Did you notice
anything that would have led you to believe that Julie was gay?
It was as surprising to me as to you.
I just wondered if she d ever . . .
. . . made a pass? No.
The elevator dipped and stopped. How old do you think
Hélène is? Jeff asked.
She s twenty-five. I asked.
The door opened and Sydney stepped out into the dark corri-
dor of the old hotel. Jeff led her through a warren of wallpapered
hallways to their room. He unlocked the door and stepped aside
to allow Sydney to enter. A maid had already drawn the curtains.
Are you hungry? Jeff asked. Do you want to eat? I should
have asked you before.
I just want to lie down, Sydney said. She slipped off her san-
dals and lay on the narrow bed. Jeff, too, removed his shoes.
Sydney felt the relief of the bed. She watched as Jeff undid the
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