“He claimed he was trying to be inventive.” Jacqueline started laughing, and the others joined in.
Curiosity nipped at me. CeeCee had referred to Fisherman’s Village in relation to Leo. I sat up, taking out my earbuds and taking off my sunglasses.
“What’s Fisherman’s Village?” I asked.
Three made-up faces turned toward me, six flawlessly plucked eyebrows shot up.
“Miranda! We thought you were napping!” CeeCee exclaimed.
“Well, now that you’re up, is there any T.J. news?” Virginia asked, adjusting the top of her green polka-dot bikini to better showcase her bust.
“Fisherman’s Village is that way, I think,” Jacqueline replied. She pointed her smoothie cup toward the craggy rocks where I had first seen Leo walking on Thursday. Once again, all I could make out was mist. “I’ve never been, but I know it’s where the Selkie Island locals live.”
“Don’t worry, Miranda,” CeeCee said, unscrewing the cap off her tube of sunscreen. “T. J. Illingworth would never dream of taking you there!”
“Exactly. So what’s the T.J. news?” Virginia repeated, zeroing in on me.
I bit my lip. After my evening with Leo, I hadn’t thought about T.J. once. I felt mildly guilty for forgetting about him.
“Nothing, really,” I said, shrugging. “I haven’t heard from him—”
“That’s because he and Mr. Illingworth are in Savannah for the weekend,” CeeCee put in. “There’s some big golf tournament or something.” She mimed yawning and her friends cracked up.
“What’s this about Mr. Illingworth?” Delilah called from behind us. I glanced back to see Mom swat Delilah with her copy of Vanity Fair. My stomach tightened.
“We’re trying to set Miranda up with his son!” Jacqueline replied cheerily, and Mom choked on her smoothie. She coughed into her fist before regaining her composure.
A grin spread across Delilah’s face. “Miranda and T. J. Illingworth? How…intriguing.” She snapped off her sunglasses and raised one eyebrow at Mom. “It’s like history repeating itself, isn’t it?”
Mom’s sunglasses hid her expression, but I saw her jaw clench as she intently turned the pages of Vanity Fair. Normally, she read Scientific American. “Delilah,” she said in a warning tone. My stomach constricted again.
“Oops.” Delilah brought her fingers to her lips. “My mistake,” she said, but her eyes were dancing.
“What do you mean, Mama?” CeeCee asked, spinning around on her towel. Virginia and Jacqueline rolled over, too, and we all stared at Delilah.
But it was my mother who answered.
“It’s not a big deal,” she replied in a clipped tone, pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “Mr. Illingworth and I used to date, back when we were kids. Ancient history,” she added, and met my gaze for a second before looking back at her magazine.
I’d suspected there had been something between Mom and Mr. Illingworth, but to hear her speak the words was startling. And if it was no big deal, why hadn’t Mom simply told me? And why was her face so pink?
“Oh, my gosh, can you say destiny?” CeeCee cried while Jacqueline grinned and Virginia looked stone-faced. “I swear I didn’t know that when I decided Miranda and T.J. should get together. Maybe I’m psychic!”
“You mean psycho,” Virginia muttered, flopping down on her back.
Delilah settled into her chair, clearly pleased. Just then, Felice reappeared, dripping wet in her age-inappropriate gold lamé bikini.
“The water was too cold for my taste,” she said, wrapping a towel around herself. Glancing at our little group of mothers and daughters, she clearly noticed the hovering tension. “What happened?” she demanded. “What did I miss?”
No one answered.
“CeeCee!” Mom spoke up loudly, flipping the pages of the magazine with force. “Was T.J. the young man I spoke to at the Heirs party? The one who told me where Miranda had gone?”
“Yup,” CeeCee replied, bouncing up and down a little. “Isn’t he divine?”
“He is very good-looking,” Mom concurred as Felice sat down beside her again. “Extremely polite, too.” Mom’s eyes flicked up toward me again, full of meaning.
My head spun. Was my own mother getting in on the matchmaking scheme? Not only was she suddenly involved in my romantic future, she apparently had a romantic past with my intended’s father. This was too weird.
“I have to pee,” I announced, setting down my empty smoothie cup and standing. I’d seen a restroom near the ice-cream stand on the boardwalk.
“Miranda!” Delilah exclaimed, slapping a hand to her bosom, and Mom shook her head at me. Felice looked outraged as well—or at least tried to look outraged.
“That’s not proper language for a young lady,” Mom told me, knitting her brow. “You can excuse yourself, but we don’t need the details.”
I heard the soft titters of CeeCee, Virginia, and Jacqueline, and I bowed my head. I felt like a five-year-old who’d been sent to the corner for talking in class. I’d never known Mom to admonish me in such a manner. Then again, I’d also never known her to have dated Theodore Illingworth the first.
“Excuse me,” I muttered, before turning and jogging away. As I went, I heard Virginia ask, “And why is she sunbathing in her sneakers?”
In the bathroom, I splashed water on my face and tried to calm down. Still, when I emerged, I didn’t feel prepared to rejoin Mom and the others.
The wind whipped through my hair as I walked down the boardwalk, drawn inexorably toward the marine center. I knew it was closed on Sundays, but I paused hopefully outside the screen door. My eyes traveled to the flyers on the window, and when I read one of them, my heart flipped in my chest.
Don’t Miss Our Sea Creature Beach Walks,
Wednesdays! Meet Intern Leo at the center
at 6 P.M. to purchase tickets.
Wednesdays? Leo had taken me on the beach walk on Friday. I remembered how he hadn’t wanted to accept my payment, and the suspicion that had crossed my mind. Now, comprehension descended. There had been no beach walk on Friday. Leo had fabricated it as a way for us to meet one-on-one.
I sucked in a sharp breath, at once flattered and freaked. No boy had ever gone to such lengths for me. On the other hand, I wondered if I had made an error in judgment, trusting Leo—could I trust a boy who was capable of lying with such ease? Would T.J. have done something similar? I doubted it.
I returned to my towel more confused than when I’d left. Fortunately, the three moms had moved on to discussing where to find the freshest lobster in town, and Virginia and Jacqueline were splashing in the ocean while CeeCee lay on her stomach, texting Bobby.
I reapplied my Banana Boat, stretched out, and put in my iPod earbuds again, but now I turned the music way up, filling my eardrums in hopes of clearing my head. T.J. and Leo ping-ponged around in there, competing for space with Mom and Mr. Illingworth. Even Greg, who I thought I’d pushed into the recesses of my mind, cropped up.
Were CeeCee and her friends—not to mention Mom and her friends—infecting me? Or was it Selkie Island? Maybe being so far from home was turning me into the kind of girl who could think only about boys, dates, and ancient history.
When the wind turned rougher and the tide began creeping farther up the sand, all the moms agreed it was time to pack up. As Virginia and CeeCee whined about uneven tans, I threw one last look around the beach. I was starting to wonder if Leo’s remark that I could find him anytime had been another fabrication.
Besides, I thought as I shook out my sandy towel, what would I have realistically done had I actually spotted Leo on the beach? Kissed him in front of everyone?
My limbs tingled at the thought.
As we headed up the boardwalk toward town, Mom and I lagged behind, our shared beach bag dangling from my shoulder. I knew why I was lingering, but it seemed odd that ever-efficient Mom was dragging her feet.
I glanced at her, thinking how quiet she’d been since t
he Mr. Illingworth revelation. There were two pink spots on her cheekbones—not a sunburn.
“So…I have a question,” she spoke after a minute, her voice low enough so that Virginia, Virginia’s brother, and Felice, who were ahead of us, wouldn’t hear.
“I thought I was the one with the questions,” I joked, trying to ease what felt like a blossoming hostility between us.
Mom gave me a perfunctory smile. “This T.J.,” she began, and my pulse instantly sped up. “Maybe he’s someone you’d like to get to know better? So you could have, you know, another friend on Selkie, besides CeeCee and the girls?”
And Leo, I thought, looking down at my Converse.
“He, um, seems nice enough,” I managed to say, realizing why I had never discussed boys with Mom—it was possibly the most awkward conversation one could have with a parent.
I breathed in the scent of boiled corn from The Crabby Hook as we passed by, recalling the Heirs party. T.J. seemed cast in a different light now that I knew our parents were linked—he was at once more familiar and more distant.
“Well, I was considering inviting him and his father over for tea tomorrow,” Mom said in a rush, and it was clear to me that she’d been pondering this proposal all afternoon. The pink spots on her cheeks darkened.
“You were?” A small knot formed in my stomach. Was Mom arranging this tea so I could hang out with T.J.? Or did she have other motives? I thought of her secretive phone call the night before. “Mom,” I went on haltingly, avoiding her gaze, “I know you and Mr. Illingworth used to—whatever, but…” I trailed off, and my face colored. Maybe this was the most awkward parent topic ever.
Mom nodded, her eyes distant. “It has been some time since Teddy—since Mr. Illingworth—and I were acquainted. But now that I’m back on Selkie, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the importance of mending fences. I suppose I made a few…mistakes in my youth.” Then she pursed her lips, as if worried she’d said too much.
“What mistakes?” I asked as I searched her face. Mom didn’t make mistakes. She was an accomplished plastic surgeon—she perfected people’s appearances for a living. And she was equally controlled and orderly outside the operating room. She did the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle with a pen. She was Mom.
“That’s not the point, Miranda,” Mom said briskly, quickening her pace. “The point is…” She seemed to grope for her next words. “I wanted to be sure you were all right with us having company over.”
“I guess,” I replied, excitement and anxiety washing over me in tandem. T.J., in The Mariner? With me? I tried to picture it: his big brown eyes surveying the chaos of boxes, his pressed blazer hanging on the anchor coatrack.
“All right,” Mom said, sounding much more relaxed as we entered the town square. “I’ll call Mr. Illingworth and extend the invitation.”
As Mom hurried to catch up with the others, I frowned at the strangeness of the scenario. When I’d told CeeCee that I’d wanted to go on a double date with T.J., this was not the kind I’d imagined.
“So then the caddy asked, ‘Sir, is that your son?’ and all I could say was, ‘I sure hope so!’”
Theodore Illingworth the first chuckled at his own story, and I cringe-smiled as I stood beside T.J., who was grinning modestly. Mom, stirring mint into the pitcher of iced tea, murmured something about T.J.’s talent, and I envied her social skills.
Monday afternoon—teatime—was here. The elder and younger Illingworths had arrived at The Mariner only ten minutes before and we’d already been regaled with two golf stories. I didn’t know how many more I could take.
In his sharp seersucker suit, smelling of Scope and cigars, T.J.’s dad cut a dashing figure as he stood in our kitchen. But I had yet to grasp what Mom had seen in him, even all those years ago. My dad, who wasn’t as classically handsome as Mr. Illingworth, came off as much more charming, if only for the fact that he told jokes well.
“This house is amazing,” T.J. said to me, gesturing to the marble counters. “I’ve heard about it, naturally, but visiting it is something else entirely.”
What was amazing, I reflected, was how smooth and shiny T.J.’s hair looked, how neatly he combed it back off his tanned forehead. After not seeing him for three days, I found his handsomeness almost jarring. And the fact that he was standing near me, so near that I could study the weave of his blue button-down shirt, made my neck prickle.
“It’s in disarray right now,” I replied, borrowing an apologetic phrase I’d once heard Mom use. I sounded weirdly…ladylike. Across the kitchen, Mr. Illingworth opened the refrigerator door for Mom and she murmured, “Why, thank you, Teddy.”
“It could use some sprucing up,” T.J. allowed, tapping a finger against his square chin. His gaze skimmed over me for a moment before he nodded toward the curling edges of the aquamarine wallpaper.
My belly turned over. Was I paranoid, or was T.J. implying that I could use some sprucing up, as well? I glanced down at my white V-neck, green capri pants, and black flats. Mom and I had spent the morning cleaning, and I’d barely had time to shower and throw together an outfit. I was now the most underdressed person in the room; Mom wore heels and a pale pink, full-skirted sundress that I didn’t even know she owned.
“I was shocked when my father told me you were planning to sell The Mariner,” T.J. went on, running his palm along the countertop. “True, you could earn a thick wad of cash, but a place like this is essentially a historic landmark.”
I shrugged, wondering how I could steer the conversation away from real estate. “Our lives are back in New York,” I explained, realizing how far off New York seemed then. How far it was from Leo. “Trying to keep up this house would be like—”
“An albatross around your necks?” Mr. Illingworth boomed. I’d had no clue that he’d been listening. He chuckled, rocking back and forth on his heels, and added, “Just like in that painting of the old mariner that hangs in the corridor off the study.”
I frowned. How did Mr. Illingworth know about the painting? We hadn’t passed by it when we’d gone from the foyer to the kitchen.
“Sort of,” Mom laughed, kneeling by the stove and checking on her blueberry cobbler. I couldn’t get used to the fact that Mom suddenly appeared to relish cooking and baking. She’d even asked me to help her with the cobbler that morning, but I’d declined; food preparation held no appeal for me.
“Say it ain’t so, Amelia Blue!” Mr. Illingworth said, putting his hand to his chest while T.J. chuckled appreciatively. “I’m not sure Selkie Island could bear you leaving again.” He paused, adding soberly, “I already let you get away once.”
Okay. No. I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears. I glanced at T.J. to see if he, too, was squirming in embarrassment, but he was nodding at his father earnestly.
“Who’s ready for cobbler and sweet tea?” Mom asked, her voice coming out high-pitched. She held the baking dish in her oven-mitted hands, wobbling in her pumps while her face got progressively pinker. She shot me a sheepish smile.
I wished The Mariner’s kitchen had a secret trapdoor that I could fall through.
Mr. Illingworth reached for the pitcher of iced tea. “Let’s carry everything onto the back porch. It’s cloudy out, but it probably won’t rain until later.”
I shrank back against the counter. The golf stories had been one thing, but the thought that Mr. Illingworth might throw out another flirtatious, too-much-information remark while we were on the porch wracked me with fear. No matter what Mom had said yesterday, it seemed that, to T.J.’s dad, their courtship had been a big deal.
Then T.J., my unlikely savior, spoke.
“Daddy, what were you saying before about a painting?” he asked. “Is there fine art here?”
“The finest,” Mr. Illingworth replied, lifting the pitcher. “I believe Roger St. Claire did the painting of Isadora that hangs in the study, did he not?” Mom nodded, and Mr. Illingworth said, to me, “St. Claire is one of the South’s best-known
portraitists.”
“Oh, Miranda!” Mom trilled, her voice still sounding funny. “I know! Why don’t you show T.J. the portrait in the study? And the mariner painting, too, of course. Wouldn’t that be fun?” She peeked at Mr. Illingworth, who gave her an understanding smile. My heart began to pound. Was Mom taking lessons from CeeCee?
“That sounds wonderful,” T.J. said warmly, turning to me.
“Yes, you kids run along, and we’ll save you some cobbler,” Mr. Illingworth said, shooing us toward the kitchen door while winking at T.J. “Enjoy yourselves.”
“Shall we?” T.J. asked, offering me his arm.
I hesitated. Taking T.J.’s arm seemed like a big step—like a commitment of sorts. Greg and I had hardly ever held hands—which, in retrospect, probably should have been a warning sign. But there was something heart-fluttering about assuming such an old-fashioned pose with a boy like T. J. Illingworth. And Mom was watching me so encouragingly that I somehow felt I couldn’t let her down.
Taking a breath, I slid my hand around T.J.’s elbow, and together we left the kitchen, and our parents, behind.
Eight
KISSES
You make a great hostess,” T.J. told me as we walked toward the painting of the mariner. My hand—clammy—was still on his arm and I was wondering when it would be appropriate to let go. I could feel a hint of T.J.’s muscles under his sleeve, which made me think of Leo, which made the backs of my knees grow warm.
“Um, thanks,” I replied, my lips twitching at T.J.’s overly polite manner of speech. “I haven’t really done much,” I added as we passed the staircase.
“A good hostess makes her guests feel comfortable,” T.J. said, sounding as if he were quoting from a book on etiquette. “I really feel so…at home here,” he went on, sweeping his arm through the dust particles in the air.
T.J. did look as if he belonged in The Mariner, I reflected, taking in his ramrod posture and the noble slant of his profile. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine him as the young master of a grand Southern estate.