Life Guards in the Hamptons by Celia Jerome

I’ll have a—”
    “Ham and Swiss on rye with mustard, no mayo.”
    “Yup.”
    No raised eyebrow, no questions about how she had one waiting for him.
    He knew?
    We had to walk past the barber shop on our way to the village green. Vincent, the barber, was out closing his awning. He smiled at me, pointed to Matt and gave a thumbs-up sign. “But … but that means …”
    I couldn’t finish.
    Matt did. “That I have an aura.”
    How could he know? “Everyone has an aura. That’s what the television psychics say, anyway.”
    “Yes, but Vincent only sees the auras of talent.”
    “You are a good veterinarian.”
    “Not that kind of talent. I’m trying to show you that I’ve changed. The town has changed. Thanks to you.”
    “No way.” I dragged him around the corner to Kelvin’s garage. Kelvin’s son, K-2, had a bag of potato chips and his schoolbooks open in the little office. I pulled Matt right up to the kid’s chair. “He has talent.”
    K-2 didn’t sneeze, didn’t wipe his nose, the way he would if someone told a lie. He crammed another five potato chips in his mouth and swallowed. “So? Can he do algebra?”
    Kelvin came out of the mechanic’s bay, wiping his hands.
    “Matt has talent.”
    Kelvin didn’t flinch, and didn’t try to rub one foot against the other, the way he itched at falsehoods.
    “Seems so. He got you to come back, didn’t he?”
    “I came back for his veterinary skill.” I looked around, saw no one but Matt and K-2, Matt wearing a grin, K-2 wearing a chocolate milk mustache. I lowered my voice anyway. “But I mean the other kind of talent. You know, Royce Institute stuff. Department of Unexplained Events talent.”
    “Yup. Their agent Lou says some expert is coming next week to figure it out. They want to test you, too.”
    “No way.”
    “You did it.”
    “No way.”
    “That’s what we all think. Matt’s not a native, not related to one, never showed esper ability before. How else can you explain it?”
    Matt told him. “She wished it.”
    Kelvin smiled at me. “Well, you can wish me luck for the poker game tomorrow night. You coming, Matt?”
    “Wouldn’t miss it.”
    I led him outside. “They cheat.”
    He knew.

C HAPTER 6

    “S O HOW MUCH DO YOU KNOW?”
    “Know or understand? There’s a world of difference.”
    We were sitting on a bench, enjoying the lowering sun. His ham and Swiss looked and smelled a lot more inviting than my veggie burger. I’d lost my appetite, anyway. “No one I know understands much, including me. Just talk.”
    “About the town or about us?”
    “There is no us. What do you know about Paumanok Harbor?”
    “Whatever I know is because of us. You. Before, I found some of the people odd, standoffish, cliquish. You know, like an old boys club or a secret society. And they were damned eccentric, too. Every time I went to a concert or a barbeque, I felt they were telling insider jokes the rest of us could never understand. I supposed it to be locals versus tourists, natives versus newcomers, even well-off versus those less fortunate. No one theory fit the facts, though, so I gave up wondering. Give them time, I figured. I had friends, my practice had patients, people were generally polite.”
    I nodded. That sounded like Paumanok Harbor. When I summered here as a kid, I always felt like an interloper, too. I attributed the residents’ peculiarities to the Harbor’s isolation from the rest of the world, like Shangri-La or some unstudied tribe in the outback. “Youdidn’t notice the weird stuff that happens here all the time?”
    “I forgot.”
    “You forgot how it never rains on the Fourth of July or how the judge knows if someone is guilty or innocent before he opens his mouth?”
    “I forgot. Everyone did, it seemed. Like when half the people in town had nightmares at the same time. Or that horse show you helped put on. No one I talked to could remember the finale.”
    “So what changed?”
    “I didn’t forget our time