by E. Lockhart
I nod.
“We could see she was a Sinclair. She had that hair, but it wasn’t only that. It was the chin, the tiny hands. We knew she’d be tall. All of us were tall until Bess married that short fellow, and Carrie made the same mistake.”
“You mean Brody and Jonathan.”
“Good riddance, eh?” Granddad smiles. “All our people were tall. Did you know my mother’s side of the family came over on the Mayflower? To make this life in America.”
I know it’s not important if our people came over on the Mayflower. It’s not important to be tall. Or blond. That is why I dyed my hair: I don’t want to be the eldest. Heiress to the island, the fortune, and the expectations.
But then again, perhaps I do.
Granddad has had too much to drink after a long travel day. “Shall we go inside?” I ask. “You want to sit down?”
He picks a second peony and hands it to me. “For forgiveness, my dear.”
I pat him on his hunched back. “Don’t pick any more, okay?”
Granddad bends down and touches some white tulips.
“Seriously, don’t,” I say.
He picks a third peony, sharply, defiantly. Hands it to me. “You are my Cadence. The first.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your hair?”
“I colored it.”
“I didn’t recognize you.”
“That’s okay.”
Granddad points to the peonies, now all in my hand. “Three flowers for you. You should have three.”
He looks pitiful. He looks powerful.
I love him, but I am not sure I like him. I take his hand and lead him inside.
20
Once upon a time, there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. He loved each of them dearly. One day, when the young ladies were of age to be married, a terrible, three-headed dragon laid siege to the kingdom, burning villages with fiery breath. It spoiled crops and burned churches. It killed babies, old people, and everyone in between.
The king promised a princess’s hand in marriage to whoever slayed the dragon. Heroes and warriors came in suits of armor, riding brave horses and bearing swords and arrows.
One by one, these men were slaughtered and eaten.
Finally the king reasoned that a maiden might melt the dragon’s heart and succeed where warriors had failed. He sent his eldest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon listened to not a word of her pleas. It swallowed her whole.
Then the king sent his second daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, but the dragon did the same. Swallowed her before she could get a word out.
The king then sent his youngest daughter to beg the dragon for mercy, and she was so lovely and clever that he was sure she would succeed where the others had perished.
No indeed. The dragon simply ate her.
The king was left aching with regret. He was now alone in the world.
Now, let me ask you this. Who killed the girls?
The dragon? Or their father?
After Granddad leaves the next day, Mummy calls Dad and cancels the Australia trip. There is yelling. There is negotiation.
Eventually they decide I will go to Beechwood for four weeks of the summer, then visit Dad at his home in Colorado, where I’ve never been. He insists. He will not lose the whole summer with me or there will be lawyers involved.
Mummy rings the aunts. She has long, private conversations with them on the porch of our house. I can’t hear anything except a few phrases: Cadence is so fragile, needs lots of rest. Only four weeks, not the whole summer. Nothing should disturb her, the healing is very gradual.
Also, pinot grigio, Sancerre, maybe some Riesling; definitely no chardonnay.
21
My room is nearly empty now. There are sheets and a comforter on my bed. A laptop on my desk, a few pens. A chair.
I own a couple pairs of jeans and shorts. I have T-shirts and flannel shirts, some warm sweaters; a bathing suit, a pair of sneakers, a pair of Crocs, and a pair of boots. Two dresses and some heels. Warm coat, hunting jacket and canvas duffel .
The shelves are bare. No pictures, no posters. No old toys.
Giveaway: a travel toothbrush kit Mummy bought me yesterday.
I already have a toothbrush. I don’t know why she would buy me another. That woman buys things just to buy things. It’s disgusting.
I walk over to the library and find the girl who took my pillow. She’s still leaning against the outside wall. I set the toothbrush kit in her cup.
Giveaway: Gat’s olive hunting jacket. The one I wore that night we held hands and looked at the stars and talked about God. I never returned it.
I should have given it away first of everything. I know that. But I couldn’t make myself. It was all I had left of him.
But that was weak and foolish.Gat doesn’t love me.
I don’t love him, either, and maybe I never did.
I’ll see him day after tomorrow and I don’t love him and I don’t want his jacket.
22
The phone rings at ten the night before we leave for Beechwood. Mummy is in the shower. I pick up.
Heavy breathing. Then a laugh.
“Who is this?”
“Cady?”
It’s a kid, I realize. “Yes.”
“This is Taft.” Mirren’s brother. He has no manners.
“How come you’re awake?”
“Is it true you’re a drug addict?” Taft asks me.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re calling to ask if I’m a drug addict?” I haven’t talked to Taft since my accident.
“We’re on Beechwood,” he says. “We got here this morning.”
I am glad he’s changing the subject. I make my voice bright. “We’re coming tomorrow. Is it nice? Did you go swimming yet?”
“No.”
“Did you go on the tire swing?”
“No,” says Taft. “Are you sure you’re not a drug addict?”
“Where did you even get that idea?”
“Bonnie. She says I should watch out for you.”
“Don’t listen to Bonnie,” I say. “Listen to Mirren.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. But Bonnie’s the only one who believes me about Cuddledown,” he says. “And I wanted to call you. Only not if you’re a drug addict because drug addicts don’t know what’s going on.”
“I’m not a drug addict, you pipsqueak,” I say. Though possibly I am lying.
“Cuddledown is haunted,” says Taft. “Can I come and sleep with you at Windemere?”
I like Taft. I do. He’s slightly bonkers and covered with freckles and Mirren loves him way more than she loves the twins. “It’s not haunted. The wind just blows through the house,” I say. “It blows through Windemere, too. The windows rattle.”
“It is too, haunted,” Taft says. “Mummy doesn’t believe me and neither does Liberty.”
When he was younger he was always the kid who thought there were monsters in the closet. Later he was convinced there was a sea monster under the dock.
“Ask Mirren to help you,” I tell him. “She’ll read you a bedtime story or sing to you.”
“You think so?”
“She will. And when I get there I’ll take you tubing and snorkeling and it’ll be a grand summer, Taft.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Don’t be scared of stupid old Cuddledown,” I tell him. “Show it who’s boss and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
Part Three
Summer Seventeen
23
In Woods Hole, the port town, Mummy and I let the goldens out of the car and drag our bags down to where Aunt Carrie is standing on the dock.
C
arrie gives Mummy a long hug before she helps us load our bags and the dogs into the big motorboat. “You’re more beautiful than ever,” she says. “And thank God you’re here.”
“Oh, quiet,” says Mummy.
“I know you’ve been sick,” Carrie says to me. She is the tallest of my aunts, and the eldest Sinclair daughter. Her sweater is long and cashmere. The lines on the sides of her mouth are deep. She’s wearing some ancient jade jewelry that belonged to Gran.
“Nothing wrong with me that a Percocet and a couple slugs of vodka doesn’t cure,” I say.
Carrie laughs, but Mummy leans in and says, “She’s not taking Percocet. She’s taking a non addictive medicine the doctor prescribes.”
It isn’t true. The nonaddictive medicines didn’t work.
“She looks too thin,” says Carrie.
“It’s all the vodka,” I say. “It fills me up.”
“She can’t eat much when she’s hurting,” says Mummy. “The pain makes her nauseated.”
“Bess made that blueberry pie you like,” Aunt Carrie tells me. She gives Mummy another hug.
“You guys are so huggy all of a sudden,” I say. “You never used to be huggy.”
Aunt Carrie hugs me, too. She smells of expensive, lemony perfume. I haven’t seen her in a long time.
The drive out of the harbor is cold and sparkly. I sit at the back of the boat while Mummy stands next to Aunt Carrie behind the wheel. I trail my hand in the water. It sprays the arm of my duffel coat, soaking the canvas.
I will see Gat soon.
Gat, my Gat, who is not my Gat.
The houses. The littles, the aunts, the Liars.
I will hear the sound of seagulls, taste slumps and pie and homemade ice cream. I’ll hear the pong of tennis balls, the bark of goldens, the echo of my breath in a snorkel. We’ll make bonfires that will smell of ashes.
Will I still be at home?
Before long, Beechwood is ahead of us, the familiar outline looming. The first house I see is Windemere with its multitude of peaked roofs. That room on the far right is Mummy’s; there are her pale blue curtains. My own window looks to the inside of the island.
Carrie steers the boat around the tip and I can see Cuddledown there at the lowest point of the land, with its chubby, boxlike structure. A bitty, sandy cove—the tiny beach—is tucked in at the bottom of a long wooden staircase.
The view changes as we circle to the eastern side of the island. I can’t see much of Red Gate among the trees, but I glimpse its red trim. Then the big beach, accessed by another wooden staircase.
Clairmont sits at the highest point, with water views in three directions. I crane my neck to look for its friendly turret—but it isn’t there. The trees that used to shade the big, sloping yard—they’re gone, too. Instead of the Victorian six-bedroom with the wraparound porch and the farmhouse kitchen, instead of the house where Granddad spent every summer since forever, I see a sleek modern building perched on a rocky hill. There’s a Japanese garden on one side, bare rock on the other. The house is glass and iron. Cold.
Carrie cuts the engine down, which makes it easier to talk. “That’s New Clairmont,” she says.
“It was just a shell last year. I never imagined he wouldn’t have a lawn,” says Mummy.
“Wait till you see the inside. The walls are bare, and when we got here yesterday, he had nothing in the fridge but some apples and a wedge of Havarti.”
“Since when does he even like Havarti?” asks Mummy. “Havarti isn’t even a good cheese.”
“He doesn’t know how to shop. Ginny and Lucille, that’s the new cook, only do what he tells them to do. He’s been eating cheese toast. But I made a huge list and they went to the Edgartown market. We have enough for a few days now.”
Mummy shivers. “It’s good we’re here.”
I stare at the new building while the aunts talk. I knew Granddad renovated, of course. He and Mummy talked about the new kitchen when he visited just a few days ago. The fridge and the extra freezer, the warming drawer and spice racks.
I didn’t realize he’d torn the house down. That the lawn was gone. And the trees, especially the huge old magnolia with the tire swing beneath it. That tree must have been a hundred years old.
A wave surges up, dark blue, leaping from the sea like a whale. It arches over me. The muscles of my neck spasm, my throat catches. I fold beneath the weight of it. The blood rushes to my head. I am drowning.
It all seems so sad, so unbearably sad for a second, to think of the lovely old magnolia with the swing. We never told the tree how much we loved it. We never gave it a name, never did anything for it. It could have lived so much longer.
I am so, so cold.
“Cadence?” Mummy is leaning over me.
I reach and clutch her hand.
“Be normal now,” she whispers. “Right now.”
“What?”
“Because you are. Because you can be.”
Okay. Okay. It was just a tree.
Just a tree with a tire swing that I loved a lot.
“Don’t cause a scene,” whispers Mummy. “Breathe and sit up.”
I do what she asks as soon as I am able, just as I have always done.
Aunt Carrie provides distraction, speaking brightly. “The new garden is nice, when you get used to it,” she says. “There’s a seating area for cocktail hour. Taft and Will are finding special rocks.”
She turns the boat toward the shore and suddenly I can see my Liars waiting, not on the dock but by the weathered wooden fence that runs along the perimeter path.
Mirren stands with her feet on the lower half of the barrier, waving joyfully, her hair whipping in the wind.
Mirren. She is sugar. She is curiosity and rain.
Johnny jumps up and down, every now and then doing a cartwheel.
Johnny. He is bounce. He is effort and snark.
Gat, my Gat, once upon a time my Gat—he has come out to see me, too. He stands back from the slats of the fence, on the rocky hill that now leads to Clairmont. He’s doing pretend semaphore, waving his arms in ornate patterns as if I’m supposed to understand some kind of secret code. He is contemplation and enthusiasm. Ambition and strong coffee.
Welcome home, they are saying. Welcome home.
24
The Liars don’t come to the dock when we pull in, and neither do Aunt Bess and Granddad. Instead, it is only the littles: Will and Taft, Liberty and Bonnie.
The boys, both ten, kick one another and wrestle around. Taft runs over and grabs my arm. I pick him up and spin him. He is surprisingly light, like his freckled body is made of bird parts. “You feeling better?” I ask.
“We have ice cream bars in the freezer!” he yells. “Three different kinds!”
“Seriously, Taft. You were a mess on the phone last night.”
“Was not.”
“Were too.”
“Mirren read me a story. Then I went to sleep. No big whup.”
I ruffle his honey hair. “It’s just a house. Lots of houses seem scary at night, but in the morning, they’re friendly again.”
“We’re not staying at Cuddledown anyway,” Taft says. “We moved to New Clairmont with Granddad now.”
“You did?”
“We have to be orderly there and not act like idiots. We took our stuff already. And Will caught three jellyfish at the big beach and also a dead crab. Will you come see them?”
“Sure.”
“He has the crab in his pocket, but the jellies are in a bucket of water,” says Taft, and runs off.
Mummy and I walk across the island to Windemere, a short distance on a wooden walkway. The twins help with our suitcases.
Granddad and Aunt Bess are in the kitchen. There are wildflowers in vases on the counter, and Bess scrubs a clean sink with a Brillo pad whil
e Granddad reads the Martha’s Vineyard Times.
Bess is softer than her sisters, and blonder, but still the same mold. She’s wearing white jeans and a navy blue cotton top with diamond jewelry. She takes off rubber gloves and then kisses Mummy and hugs me too long and too hard, like she is trying to hug some deep and secret message. She smells of bleach and wine.
Granddad stands up but doesn’t cross the room until Bess is done hugging. “Hello there, Mirren,” he says jovially. “Grand to see you.”
“He’s doing that a lot,” Carrie says to me and Mummy. “Calling people Mirren who aren’t Mirren.”
“I know she’s not Mirren,” Granddad says.
The adults talk amongst themselves, and I am left with the twins. They look awkward in Crocs and summer dresses. They must be almost fourteen now. They have Mirren’s strong legs and blue eyes but their faces are pinched.
“Your hair is black,” says Bonnie. “You look like a dead vampire.”
“Bonnie!” Liberty smacks her.
“I mean, that’s redundant because all vampires are dead,” says Bonnie. “But they have the circles under their eyes and the white skin, like you do.”
“Be nice to Cady,” whispers Liberty. “Mom told us.”
“I am being nice,” says Bonnie. “A lot of vampires are extremely sexy. That’s a documented fact.”
“I told you I didn’t want you talking about creepy dead stuff this summer,” says Liberty. “You were bad enough last night.” She turns to me. “Bonnie’s obsessed with dead things. She’s reading books about them all the time and then she can’t sleep. It’s annoying when you share a room.” Liberty says all this without ever looking me in the eye.
“I was talking about Cady’s hair,” says Bonnie.
“You don’t have to tell her she looks dead.”
“It’s okay,” I tell Bonnie. “I don’t actually care what you think, so it’s perfectly okay.”