“Yes, I understand. Yuh-huh. Extensive cleaning. Yes. Top to bottom. Of course. By four o’clock tomorrow? Oh, well, that is a Saturday and—uh-huh. Okay.” Mom sighs, rustling the pages of the book on her lap. “Allrighty then.”
When I come back out in a baggy shirt and an even older pair of shorts, Mom’s off the phone and buried in her latest bodice buster. She carefully marks her spot with a finger. “You’re going out?”
I shrug. “Beach with the guys. What was that? Someone already giving you hell?”
Mom sighs again. “It’s those Robinsons.”
I’d already turned toward the door, but stop in my tracks.
“They’re back?”
“Renting the Tucker house again for the next two weeks. Some wedding in town—cousins of theirs. Want the house to sparkle. By tomorrow.” She rubs her thumbs over her temples. “Here for only a few weeks every few summers, and I swear, they’re more trouble than half the regulars put together.”
“Can you pull that off? By tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “No choice, really. I’ll manage.” Mom’s theme song. Her glance drops to her book once again and she smiles at me wickedly. “I’ll think about it later. I’m pretty sure this Navy Seal is about to find out that the terrorist he’s been sent to capture is his ex-wife—and she’s pregnant with his triplets . . . and married to his brother.”
When I slide into the backseat of the car, there is the necessary interval of waiting while Nic and Vivien make out. I hum under my breath, trying to ignore the kissing noises and rustle of clothes. After a couple of minutes, I lean forward, tap each of their shoulders. “I’m right here,” I whisper.
Nic looks back, wiping Vivien’s shiny peach lip gloss off, winks at me. Vivien just smiles in the rearview mirror, eyes bright. Then she reads my face. “What’s wrong?”
“The Robinsons are coming back,” I say flatly, digging in my pocket for the mascara I grabbed from the bathroom.
She blows out a breath, ruffling the little strands of hair stealing out of her pigtails. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Shit,” Vivie says, turning the key in the ignition, squealing backward with a jolt. Nic and I brace ourselves, his hand against the dashboard, me with my feet flattened against the back of the driver’s seat. Viv jerks the car forward and revs the motor like she’s in the Indy 500. She flunked her driving test three times.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Nic’s leaned back now, his elbow resting on the sill of the open window. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.
I swallow, shrug, scratching at a mosquito bite on my thigh. Vivien roars into the driveway of Hooper’s house, narrowly missing the mailbox, and leans heavily on the horn, blasting so loudly I expect it to blow leaves off the nearby trees. Without looking, Nic reaches over, lifts her hand, and kisses it. “I think you’ve made your point.”
Hoop bounds down the steps, his hair sticking up in all directions. As usual he looks like he dressed in the dark—plaid shirt, ratty striped shorts. He whacks Nic on the back, then slides in next to me, too close. “Yo Gwenners!” he says, nudging me with a pointy shoulder.
“Hey, Hoop, whoa, can I have some space?”
“Sure, sure.” He slides a fraction of an inch farther away, then smiles at me goofily. We peel down the hill, headed for the less ritzy of the Seashell beaches. The summer people stick to Abenaki, which is shielded from the open sea, has gentler waves and a less rocky beach. That’s where they moor their boats. But Sandy Claw is where the local kids go, the place for illegal fireworks and loud music from someone’s car speakers. In fact, the sound of the music as we drive close is so loud Vivien has to shout to be heard. “This catering thing, tomorrow? It’s got a black-and-white theme. The uniforms work fine for us, Gwen, but Nico, you’ll need a dinner jacket.”
Nic groans. “Tell me no tux. Please, Vee. I lose half the cash I make renting the damn thing.”
“If I have to wear a monkey suit, I’m out,” Hoop says. “Turns off the ladies.”
Vivien’s eyes widen at me in the rearview mirror, comically large. Five-foot three-inch, clothing-challenged Hoop, the chick magnet. Maybe if he’d stop calling them “the ladies.”
Sandy Claw’s already crowded when we get there, kids we’ve grown up with milling around the bonfire and the shore.
Hoop springs out of the car and heads for the cooler, brushing aside the cans of Coke and orange soda with single-minded purpose, rummaging for the beer. Vivien hauls a plaid picnic blanket from the back of the truck. She hands it to Nic, giving him her glowing, mischievous smile. After laying out the blanket, they immediately begin doing their thing. It’s a testament to . . . something about Nic and Vivie that no one even bats an eye at them macking all over each other. Nic calls to me as they lie down, “Grab me a brew, cuz?”
“To drink or should I pour it on you?” I call back. He ignores me, all wrapped up—literally—in Vivien.
Pam D’Ofrio walks over next to me, says only, “Really keeping it PG tonight, aren’t they?” in her flat, deadpan voice.
We’re joined by Manny Morales, Marco’s—the head maintenance guy’s—son.
We talk for a few minutes about summer jobs—Manny’s doing dishes at this place called Breakfast Ahoy, Pam’s working at Esquidaro’s Eats, one of Castle’s rival restaurants.
“It beats babysitting,” Pam says. “Last year I sat for the Carter twins. They were four and so crazy their mom insisted I put them on those leash things when I took them out. My first day, we were walking to the playground and they wrapped their leashes around a telephone pole, tied me up like a spider with a fly and ran off. Took me ten minutes to undo the knots. Little SOBs.”
“Didja quit?” Manny asked.
Pam shakes her head. “No guarantee what I quit for wouldn’t have been even worse.”
Manny asks, “You gonna rat me out to my dad if I snag a beer?” He’s sixteen and Marco’s strict.
We shake our heads.
He comes back, settling down heavily next to us against the waterlogged old tree trunk that’s been on the beach forever. Nic and Vivien carry on like our own private floor show.
“Must be nice,” Pam says. “Being comfortable doing that. In public.” She shakes her head. “Can’t imagine.” Pam has been with Shaunee, her girlfriend, since eighth grade.
Manny drains half the bottle, wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “At least they’re putting a ring on it,” he says, lifting his elbow at Nic and Vivien.
“What?” I ask.
“Getting hitched, right?”
I scoot back in the sand, staring at him. “What?” I say again. Then laugh. “No way. Why would you think that?”
“My brother Angelo works at Starelli’s Jewelers, in the mall. Nic and Vivien were in this weekend, checking out engagement rings.” Manny scratches the back of his neck, looks uncomfortable, like he just said more than he should have.
I peek over at Vivien and Nic. He’s smoothing her hair back and giving her these nibbling kisses along her jawline.
It can’t be true. Vivien’s incapable of keeping anything to herself about Nic (way more than I want to know about my cousin). And Nic, while he doesn’t tell me everything . . . he’d never keep a thing that big from me. Ever.
Manny’s pushing at the sand with his feet, avoiding my eyes, and I realize I should have said something in return, but I can’t even find words.
Getting married?
That’s crazy.
I mean, I imagine they probably will eventually. Eventually. Vivien is seventeen. Nic just turned eighteen last month. . . .
Mom and Dad were seventeen and eighteen when they got married. But look how that turned out. And that was years ago. A whole different time. Nic and Viv . . . now?
“Not that crazy. It happens,” Pam comments quietly. I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud. “Dom married Stace right out of SBH.”
Yeah, and Stacy took their one-year-old and moved t
o Florida two years ago.
What about senior year? What about the Coast Guard?
Is Vivien pregnant? No, impossible, she’s on the Pill and Nic is hyper-responsible.
I lie back on the blanket, rest my arm across my eyes, listen to the general blur of conversation. It’s still warm, but the angle of the sun has that flat, end-of day slant. When I peer through the canopy of my arm, I can see that Vivien has temporarily disentangled herself and is toasting a marshmallow, carefully turning it to the perfect puff of brown on each side, just the way Nic likes it. At cookouts this summer, I know he’ll nearly burn her hot dog—Viv likes it charcoal-briquet style—and load it down with ketchup, mustard, mayo, relish. After the Fourth of July parade on Seashell, when everyone eats Hoodsie Cups, she’ll snag two but eat the chocolate half of both, swapping with Nic so he gets both vanillas.
Now he’s watching her lazily, sifting through the sand next to him, probably in search of another flat skipping stone.
But . . . an engagement ring?
Hooper is attempting to get Ginny Rodriguez to give him the time of day by asking her to bet on whether he can drink five beers in ten minutes without barfing.
Manny scratches the back of his neck again, red-faced and uncomfortable. The flush could be the beer, but he seems to know he put his foot in it. “Gwenners,” he starts, then looks up and jumps to his feet. “Dude. You came.”
I shield my eyes and peer over at the newcomer.
Great.
I mean come on. Three times in one day!
“Sure I did,” Cass says easily, lifting a hand to greet Pam. He gives me a quick glance, then looks down, lashes shielding his eyes. “I’m an island guy now, right?”
“You are not,” I practically growl, “an island guy.”
Manny straightens, startled. Pam’s eyebrows rise and she looks back and forth between us.
“Course he is, Gwenners. He’s working for my dad. He’s an honorary Jose, aren’t you, dude? Nab something from the cooler and take a load off. The first days are killers.”
“Ah, it’ll be okay,” Cass says, “once I figure out the whole horizontal thing.”
That’s it. I feel suddenly exhausted. Cass. Nic, Viv, engagement ring. The Robinsons. The lobsters. I clamber to my feet, feeling as though I weigh about a thousand pounds—and, let’s face it, probably looking like it in my baggy, so-attractive clothes. I walk over to Nic and Viv, nudge Nic sharply with my toe, jerk my thumb toward the pier. “Let’s head out.”
Like Pam and Manny, Nic does a quick double take at my tone, checking Vivien for translation. She glances over at Cass, wrinkles her nose, then stands up, pulling Nic with her. We walk to the edge of the pier, dangle our legs over. Well, Nic and I do. Vivien slides her legs over Nic’s, entwines her hand in his. I open my mouth to ask, then think: If they haven’t told me, they don’t want me to know, and shut it again.
“Check that out,” Vivien says in a hushed voice, pointing out across the water. It’s low tide, shoals of rippling sand peeking up out of the sea-glass-green water, ancient-looking gray-brown rocks, the sun burning low and pale orange in the sky. “This is the most beautiful place in the world, isn’t it? I never want to leave. Everything I love is right here.” She rests her head on Nic’s shoulder.
I look at our legs lined up together. Viv’s skinny and already tan, Nic’s well-muscled and sturdy, and mine, long and strong.
Nic scrounges in his pocket for the skipping stones from earlier, hands me one, nods at the ocean. I squint, slant the stone to what seems the perfect angle, fling it out. One. Two. Three . . . sort of a sinking four. Nic edges Vivien off his lap, cocks his head to the side and throws.
Six.
“Still the champion.” He hauls Vivien to her feet, swoops her in for six kisses.
“It’s not as though Gwen is after what you are,” Vivien points out, a little breathless after kiss number four.
No, it isn’t. But . . . God, I wish, for the millionth time, that I could be like her and Nic, so sure of what they have, what they want. That I didn’t always feel jangly, restless, primed to jump off a bridge and let the current carry me away. I glance over my shoulder at the distant blond figure standing by the bonfire.
Especially tonight.
Chapter Eight
Dark’s just starting to glow into light the next morning when I bike down to the beach. I can barely make out the figure standing at the end of the pier, hands on hips, surveying the water. Only that familiar stance tells me it’s Dad. As I get closer, I see his tackle box open, a big bag of frozen squid beside him. He called last night, told me to meet him at Sandy Claw early.
I’d expected him to get on me for bailing on him at Castle’s this summer. But when I’d said on the phone “Hey Dad, I’m sorry that I—” he’d cut me off.
“You gotta do what you gotta do, Gwen. But, since you’re not gonna be around every day, I want to do this. I’ve got something for you.” Now he looks up from the hook he’s baiting as I scramble over the rocks. Noting the cooler I’m carrying, he gives me the flicker of a smile.
“What’d you bring me, Guinevere?”
He takes the loaf of zucchini bread with a grunt of satisfaction, motioning to me to pour coffee from the thermos. I stayed up late last night, following the directions in Vovó’s stained old copy of The Joy of Cooking, and turning that engagement ring over and over in my head. When she’s worried, Vivien gives herself pedicures and facials. Nic lifts weights. I bake. So, Vivien ends up looking more glamorous. Nic gets fitter. And I just get fat.
“Damn good thing you can cook. Not like your mom. A woman who can’t cook . . .” He trails off, clearly unable to think of a terrible enough comparison.
“Is like a fish without a bicycle.” I was on debate team last year and we used that quote from Gloria Steinem as a topic.
“What does that mean?” Dad asks absently, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. I guess you could say he’s handsome. Not stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks gorgeous, but good-looking enough that I can squint and understand what Mom was thinking. He’s still fit and muscular in his mid-thirties, his hair thick. Nothing soft about Dad. He wears flannel shirts, year-round, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ropy muscles of his arms. He’s got high cheekbones and full lips, which both Emory and I inherited. “Did you bring cream cheese?” he asks.
“No, I did not, because cream cheese on zucchini bread is disgusting.” I hand him a tub of butter and a plastic knife.
“Sorry I haven’t seen much of you lately, pal. I’ve been doing the grunt work, gettin’ set up for the summer crowd. Sysco trucks coming and going to restock—they never tell you what time, keep you hanging all damn day—and I’ve got the new summer bunch for training—you know what that’s like.” Even though it’s been twenty years since Dad moved here from Massachusetts, his er’s are still a’s and his ar’s are ah’s. In fact, his accent gets stronger every year.
I refill the cup of coffee he’s already gulped down and pour one for myself.
“Start cuttin’ up the bait,” he directs, mouth full, handing me a box cutter and jerking his chin at the bucket of squid.
It’s still early June and not all that warm in the mornings yet. I feel as though my fingers are freezing to the slippery squid as I try to slice them—harder to do on the jagged rock than it would be on a flat surface. The tide is high, so the air’s not as briny yet, there’s a fresh breeze coming off the water, and the waves slap gently against the rocks. The dark blue sky overhead is fading fainter in the east.
“Good coffee.”
“Thanks.”
“Gwen.”
“Yes?”
“You’re making the pieces too big. The fish’ll just run off with the hook like that.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
More silence as he polishes off half the zucchini loaf and I deal with freezing cold slimy bait.
“Dad,” I finally say. “You were eighteen when you and Mom got married, right?”
/>
“Barely,” he says. “Here, let me bait your hook.”
“Would you say that was . . . too young?”
He gives me a sharp look from under his thick brows. “Wicked young. We had no business getting hitched. But . . . well . . .” He clears his throat. “You were on the way and—why are you asking me this? You’re not in any kind of trouble, are you?”
“No! Of course not. Jeez. I’m on the Pill.”
He winces, and I realize I should have said I’d never even held hands with a boy, not reassured him about my effective birth control. Whoops.
“It was a medical thing. For my complexion and because my period was—”
Dad holds up a hand, hunching his shoulders in pain. “Stop! As for me and Luce, we were kids. Had no freaking clue what we were getting into.” He holds out his coffee cup. “Got more?”
I splash hot black liquid into his cup, the plastic top of the thermos, then ask something I’ve always wondered about. “Do you regret it? Marrying Mom? Like, if you had a do-over, would you?”
Dad takes a sip of coffee, screws up his face as though it’s burned his tongue, blows out a breath. “I’m no good at this garbage”—the way he says it sounds like gahbage—“imagining things fell out some different way than they did. Waste of time. That’s your ma’s territory, with all her foolish books. If you mean, do I regret you, no.” He hands me my pole, reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a wad of bills. “Your back pay.”
I take it from him, count it out, then hand him back half. Our tradition. He’ll put it into his pocket, then take it to the bank for my college fund when he deposits Castle’s income. Dad’s big on the fact that it matters that I see the money before half of it is gone. I’ll give most of the rest to Mom.
“You can have first cast, kiddo.”
I hoist the pole to my shoulder, fling it out, watching the fragile transparent line shimmer in the air as the hook dips into the waves.