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By Mark Mills

While a first-generation Basque fisherman pulls within the physique of an attractive younger girl, his close-knit manhattan group could be irrevocably replaced. As sweeping and haunting as its backdrop, Amagansett is an unforgettable evocation of life's epic forces.

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Almost immediately the spectators started to dissipate. The Basque was rolling a cigarette by the Model A; the Kemp boy appeared to have left already. Hollis strolled over. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ’ Damn right, thought Hollis. ’ he said. The Basque eyed him flatly, then slipped the rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it with a steel Zippo. ’ asked Hollis, nodding at the lighter. ’ The Basque climbed behind the wheel of the Model A, fired the engine and pulled away. Hollis stood watching the vehicle, the trailer dancing over the ruts, until it turned east on to Bluff Road and was lost to view.

This threw Hollis. She had never smiled at him. In fact, she had only ever scowled at him in the past, usually when she was berating him for the mortal danger posed to village residents by speeding motorists, as if somehow he were personally to blame. In fairness to Mary, accidents were an increasingly common occurrence, and it was little more than a year since one young resident had indeed lost her life, her coltish body shattered by a motor car, the impact so violent that she’d been thrown twenty feet through the air into the hedge beyond the verge.

The Basque stopped and turned. ‘It’s best,’ he said. Hollis was too far away to hear the specifics of the exchange. At a certain moment, the Basque must have mentioned Hollis, because everyone glanced over at him. Not long after, the young fisherman with the beard became agitated, raising his voice. With a dismissive sweep of his arm, he turned on his heel. He had taken all of two steps when the Basque placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. The younger man spun back, swinging a roundhouse as he did so.

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