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muddy, sweet drink. She licks the ends of her hair and pronounces them delicious.
    “Aunt Mable and my — my mother — Galadriel. They used to be best friends. And then they weren’t. That’s why I asked you about having a mug…” I show her the mug handle from Tink’s pottery place. “I thought Mable was making a point about valuing female friendship — everyone deserves a…what do you think it means?”
    Arabella holds the handle and then gives it back. “I haven’t got a clue.” Then she puts on a heavy Lord of Rings voice. “But I am not the mug barer.”
    “Okay — I’ll try someone else,” I say.
    “What makes you so sure it’s someone you already know?” she asks.
    I hmmm out loud and say, “I don’t know. I guess it could be anybody.”
    I look around the Endless Summer flat and smile. The afternoon light slices across the floor, casting blue and gold rays from the window ornaments. Every detail is taken care of — even the bathroom is wallpapered in old album covers. “Thanks for this, Bels. It really is great.”
    Arabella smiles shyly and nods, then goes back to sipping until a car horn beeps and she thumbs to the window. “That’ll be Henry. He won’t bother coming up.”
    I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, you’re intimate with his pick-up patterns?”
    Arabella ignores my hint and says, “Just get your car and come back in time to work. I did the early shift and I need to nap now. Off you go. And say hi to Henry for me.”
    I watch her walk to her room, flop down on her bed, and then I walk out the door.

Chapter Four
    Outside, drumming his hands on the steering wheel of his antique BMW, Henry mouths along to The Talking Heads’ “Same as it Ever Was”. I open the passenger door and jump in, putting on my seatbelt and giving him a quick hug in one fluid motion and sing a quick ba-dum-ba-dum from the chorus, even though it’s thoroughly annoying to anyone but yourself when you vocalize an instrumental bit.
    “How come you’re not singing?” I ask when we’re in stop and go traffic trying to exit Edgartown.
    Henry pushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand and downshifts into second gear. “My voice is just that bad. Trust me, as lame as I look lip-synching, it’d be worse if I tried to do it for real. Not like you. You’ve got a great voice.”
    “Thanks,” I say. It’s a nice compliment but one that’s causing me ever-growing worry. For so long I counted on my voice to carry me to adulthood; as if there were no other possibility of what I could do other than sing as a profession. But sine that certainty is hazy now, the compliment only makes me wish people would notice something else. I remember a girl named Lisa who had naturally near-platinum hair. She had lots of other qualities, too, but Lisa once told me offhandedly that her hair was the only thing people bothered to comment on — not her lacrosse skills, not her cum laude grades, not her speech team award (although, come on, who comments on speech team, seriously). So maybe that’s what I feel in terms of singing — of course I’m grateful for the kudos, even more grateful I can carry a tune and that singing makes me happy, but there’s an increasing awareness that I want more — not more compliments, but more awareness of my other strengths.
    “The ride’s not long,” Henry says and he gives a small wave before we pull out onto the street. I look back and see Arabella up in the window looking down at us and wonder why she was watching. “Let’s go!”
    We’re off and I breathe in the summer air. Once we’re out of the noise and hum of Main Street, we zip along back roads, past farms and houses until we’re driving alongside the water. Marshy views and the placid inlets make me feel calm and peaceful — kind of like I usually do with Henry. It’s not that he’s boring — he’s just really steady and sure.
    “Thanks so much for getting me — and for taking me…” I look around.