by Mariah Dietz
“I’m Joey,” he tells my sister. “I didn’t see you guys in the water when I jumped in. I hope it’s okay that I’m here.” His gaze locks with mine again, and somehow I know he’s lying. Maybe it’s because he’s fully dressed, when yesterday he was prepared to swim nude, or perhaps it’s the way his lips fall from a smirk into something far grimmer.
“Joey DeLuca,” Grace says his name, drawing my attention. “I heard you’re a cop.”
He nods.
“And that my sister ran into your truck in a parking lot.” Her blue eyes dance as she looks to me.
Rather than laugh or tell her to shut up like I would any other time, all I can do is stare back at her and focus on not losing it and bursting into tears.
“Sadly, it wasn’t the first time that’s happened to me. My sister reminded me I’m the common thread since this was the third time.”
“The third time?” Grace cries. “How’s that even possible?”
He slowly shakes his head. “Apparently, that’s a question I need to spend some time exploring so it doesn’t happen a fourth time.”
Grace’s laughter filters through the air, so genuine and real it brings with it a million memories of us right here, enjoying one another and the stories we’ve shared. “How are you enjoying Haven Point?”
“It’s been full of surprises,” he says.
My sister stares at him for a moment, and I wonder if she’s finally also wondering what all Joey heard or saw. “It is full of surprises. Isn’t it?”
Grace stares at Joey while I stare at her. Seconds stretch into minutes.
“One of them being this weather,” I finally say, uncomfortable with both the staring and the silence. “It’s nearly September, and I swear it’s getting warmer.”
“You always rush summertime. Always have.” Grace swims forward, creating more space from where Joey and I remain treading water just a few feet from each other. “You always want to have your cake and eat it, too.”
I don’t want to have a casual conversation with her. I don’t want to have a conversation at all. Everything about trying to smile feels like a lie, but I do it and try to come up with a response that sounds normal. “I love summer,” is the best I can manage.
Grace’s eyes narrow, moving her critical stare to me.
I try harder. “The pond, Nan’s homemade honey ice cream—which, by the way, we have yet to make. I love the fireworks, flip-flops, brown cows, the fair . . . I’m a big fan.”
“Yeah, but you’re always ready for the next season. You always start talking about apple picking, warmed applesauce with caramel, and Halloween costumes by about August, and you start wanting cooler nights and sweatshirts.”
I nod. “Yes, but the weeks where it’s on the cusp between summer and fall are my favorite. I feel like I get to live the best of both worlds for that short time. Ice cream and the pond during the day, pie and electric blankets at night.”
“You guys are making me hungry,” Joey says. “I don’t know what I want to try first: the warmed applesauce with caramel, the honey ice cream, or the pie.”
“The applesauce,” I tell him at the same time Grace answers, “Pie.” She laughs, and I try to smile again.
A shrill ringing makes me jump.
“When’d you get so skittish?” Grace teases, swimming toward the shore. I follow until my feet can touch the ground. “That’s just Mom’s ringtone,” Grace says, stopping me. Out of the water, her scratches become visible as blood turns the water dripping down her right arm red. She ignores it and reaches for her phone, which she had tucked into one of her shoes.
My stomach falls. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I have no idea what to say to my sister or my parents. Suddenly my fears of failure seem to multiply as I realize the severity of the situation.
“What’s going on? What happened?” The heat from Joey’s chest burns the back of my biceps as he stands too close.
Grace has her back to us, chatting animatedly into the phone, but I still fear saying anything out loud.
“What is she seeking safety and refuge from?” he asks when I don’t answer him.
I turn my chin just enough so that I can still see my sister as I face him. “Herself.”
His shoulders fall with a sigh. “For how long?”
“I’ve got it under control.”
“You can’t put that weight on your shoulders. That’s not a responsibility any one person can bear.” His whispered words tickle my ear.
I quickly move forward as Grace lowers her phone. Goosebumps skate across my skin with the loss of Joey’s heat, and the air suddenly smells plain in contrast to the spicy sweetness he had flavored it with.
Grace turns with an exaggerated frown and rounded eyes. “Mom said dinner was ready thirty minutes ago. You’re in trouble.”
The water sloshes and drips from me in wide rivulets as I make my way farther up shore. Thoughts of what I’ll say to my parents or to Grace on our way back to the house filter through my mind, each scenario worse than the last.
“By the way, you’re invited over, Joey. You and your clan.”
My breath gets stuck in my throat as I turn to look at him, terrified of what he’s going to say or do. I have no idea what he might be required to report or what he might tell others. I found out what I know about him simply by the customers who preceded him the first day I met him at the hardware store, all volunteering information merely because he’d been there. In one way, I want him to come so he can see that everything is all right. In other ways, I’m terrified he’ll see that nothing is all right.
“I’d just delay your dinner even more because I’d have to go change and gather everyone up.”
Grace shakes her head. “Kennedy and I have to shower anyway. And there’s a shortcut. Dad said your brother bought the old farmhouse off Sunset Lake, which is right over there—” she points in the direction of the playground—“and if you cut through here, you’ll find Fisher’s Point, which is where we are. It’s the big white house with what looks like a parking lot in the driveway.” She smiles at her joke.
I swivel to stare at him. Surely he’s not going to agree to coming. We don’t like each other, and no one accepts a last-minute invitation like this.
He raises his chin, and his already-high cheekbones and straight nose are etched and highlighted by the sun, becoming more defined. I blink the realizations away and focus on his brown eyes, which are thickly rimmed with dark lashes I’d trade with him in a second. My own are such a light brown, they have to be coated several times with mascara.
“Sounds like a great plan.” He keeps his attention on me, still void of emotion.
Flustered, I turn to my sister, waiting for her to realize this is a terrible idea, but she’s smiling at Joey, reminding him of how to get to our house.
Chapter 9
Joey
I break through the brush and find Coen and Ella sitting in lawn chairs, their feet in a plastic kiddie pool that Shakespeare has practically been living in. They’re deep in a hushed conversation, and I wonder if it’s about us having to cancel installing the insulation today because Coen had to unexpectedly go back into work.
I walk over to where Hayden is a few feet away, checking on a box lined with aluminum foil.
“Whatchya doing?” I ask, ruffling his light-brown hair that has grown out enough to reveal his curls.
“Trying to make s’mores with the sun.” He sounds disappointed.
My eyebrows rise at the contraption he’s jerry-rigged and the opened s’more that hasn’t melted. “I bet it will still taste good.”
Hayden shrugs, and picks it up, taking a large bite. He nods. “Not bad.”
“Someone spray you with a garden hose?” Coen asks me.
I turn around and laugh, looking over my wet cargo shorts and T-shirt. “It got a little hot on my jog through the woods.”
My brother stares at me, waiting for a better excuse.
“We got invited to
the Wallaces’ for dinner,” I continue. “All four of us. We’re supposed to head on over and just bring ourselves.”
Ella’s bright-blue eyes widen with panic. “Tonight?”
I nod. “Yup.”
“Like now?” Reflexively, she brushes a hand through her shoulder-length dark-brown hair.
I nod again. “Come on. We need a night away from takeout and Hot Pockets in the microwave.”
“Should we run to the store and grab dessert or some wine?” Ella looks to Coen.
My brother shrugs. “If they said to just bring ourselves, I think we’re okay.”
Ella’s eyes grow wide with disapproval. “We can’t just show up.”
Coen frowns. “Of course we can.”
“We would be failing every basic rule of etiquette by showing up empty-handed.”
“Forget etiquette,” Coen says, shaking his head.
Ella pulls her head back. It’s a look I’m realizing is universal with all females when we men say something they find stupid. Ironically, we rarely say things that are intended to make us sound or look stupid.
“Want me to earmuff Hayden?” I tease.
She turns to face me, her chin still pulled back and now tilted. In her eyes I’ve just crossed that line past stupid and straight into ridiculous. “No. He needs to hear this, too. Bringing something over isn’t just proper etiquette. It’s having good manners. It’s being polite. It’s showing your appreciation for them buying groceries, making you a meal, and cleaning up after you.” When I first met Ella, she looked about twenty. It shocked the hell out of me to learn she was twenty-seven, but she often offers advice like this that reminds me age is often misleading.
Coen looks to me. “Do you bring something when you’re invited over for dinner?”
“They call it supper here, and I will be going forward,” I tell him.
Ella nods. “There’s hope for you DeLuca boys after all.”
“Boys,” I scoff. “Hayden, get over here and flex with us. Let’s show your mom we’re no boys—we’re men.”
“I’m staying out of this one.” Hayden lifts his hands in surrender. The three of us have to muffle our laughs because he’s completely serious.
“You’re wise beyond your years,” I tell him.
“I’ve got it!” Ella stands. “We can bring over that ice cream and root beer we picked up for floats.”
“We’re walking,” I tell her.
“Well, we’d better walk fast. Let’s go get dressed.” She claps, and like that, they turn toward the RV and I move to the garage, climbing the stairs to the small apartment I’m staying in.
While showering, I picture Grace’s nails scratching layers of her skin off. Hear her screaming about something being on her. And recall the way Kennedy’s hands pinned her down.
I pull on a clean pair of jeans and the only shirt I brought with me that has a collar. My shoes are limited to work boots, sneakers, or flip-flops, so I slide my flip-flops on and head back down to the front yard, where Hayden’s kicking around a soccer ball.
Within seconds, Coen and Ella are out of the trailer, Coen carrying a paper grocery sack.
The pond is only a five-minute hike from their house, and the Wallaces’ isn’t much farther.
“Are we sure this is it?” Ella asks, reaching for Hayden’s hand as we draw closer.
“That’s definitely the car that hit me,” I say, pointing out Kennedy’s car. “See, it’s got a little of my truck’s paint still on the bumper.”
Coen reels around, his eyes bright. “You didn’t tell me it was someone you knew who hit your truck.”
“I barely know her.”
“Then why are we here?” Coen asks.
“I was being neighborly. You’re welcome.”
Coen’s chin tips, and I can hear the tirade of obscenities he’d say right now if Ella and Hayden weren’t mere feet away.
“Good evening!” A woman comes and stands on the porch, waving an arm. “Come on in!”
“You don’t even know who that is, do you?” Coen asks as he steps in line behind me.
“I’m guessing that’s her mom.”
“You like the librarian, don’t you?” Coen whispers.
“See, you do think she looks like a librarian.”
“I’ll pay you fifty bucks to call her that again tonight.” His dark eyes shine with humor.
“Don’t make me tell Ella what a punk ass you were as a kid.”
Coen connects his elbow with my ribs. “Good evening, Mrs. Wallace. It’s nice to see you again.”
It would figure Coen knows her. For the first time, I’m regretting not getting to know more of the residents when I spent so much time here.
“Oh please, call me Christine.” Her hair is darker than both of her daughters’, and she’s far shorter. But then she smiles, and I can see both of her daughters instantly. The curve of her lips is Grace, and the brightness in her eyes is Kennedy. “I’m so glad you were able to make it. Supper isn’t fancy, but it’s a family favorite.”
Years of my mom boxing my ears makes it impossible for me to call someone’s parent or grandparent anything other than their surname, but I don’t mention this as we walk in pairs up the porch steps and Mrs. Wallace opens the screen door. “Come on in.”
Inside, the air conditioner feels so good I nearly forget I’m not in the comfort of my own family. The walls are painted white; blue and white gingham couches face each other with a large brown recliner sitting at one end across from a large TV. The space looks comfortable with a southern charm, and welcoming—and nothing like Kennedy.
“Come on into the kitchen,” she says, leading us through a doorway and into a large white kitchen and dining room, where the scent of home-cooked food makes my stomach grumble.
“Wow, does it smell good,” I say.
Mrs. Wallace glows. Kennedy’s dad stands from where he’s seated at the table, a plaid shirt buttoned down his middle. He is no longer Tom, but Mr. Wallace.
“We’re glad you guys were able to make it on such short notice,” he says, approaching us with his hand extended. “It’s nice to see you both again and to meet your beautiful family.”
Coen’s quick smile turns into a full beam as he turns and introduces Ella and Hayden.
“Well, Hayden, do you like fishing?” Mr. Wallace asks, his hands on his knees as he speaks directly to Hayden.
Hayden’s bright-blue eyes shine with enthusiasm and excitement as he nods.
“We’ll have to get the best fisherman in town to take you. I’ll bet she’d love to take you.”
As if on cue, Grace and Kennedy come in from an adjoining doorway. Grace wears a smile that stretches nearly to her eyes, while Kennedy’s lips are barely forced into a grin. Her green eyes lock on me as soon as she takes a quick look around the room.
Mr. Wallace points a single finger toward his daughters, prompting Kennedy to tear her attention from me and push a long strand of her blonde hair behind an ear. “These are my daughters, Grace and Kennedy. And Grace is the best fisherman you’ll ever meet.”
Grace pulls her head back and tilts it with the same telltale sign he’s just said something she finds ludicrous. Kennedy’s narrow eyebrows slant over her eyes with confusion, but she says nothing as Grace laughs. “He’s pulling your leg. You’d be way better off with Kennedy.” She touches Kennedy’s shoulder with the pads of her fingers.
Mr. Wallace shakes his head. “She might be if she’d apply herself, but you can’t get her to stand still for more than five minutes at any given time.” He turns so his back is to both of his daughters. Grace’s cheeks grow red, and her eyebrows draw low over her eyes.
The situation makes not looking at Kennedy nearly impossible. I feel like I’m being a traitor by hearing these words and then looking for signs of recognition, rage, or hurt, yet I can’t seem to stop myself. Mr. Wallace has essentially provided me with the opportunity to see her while vulnerable—a state that makes it far easier to truly see
someone’s inner self. Things people don’t mean to ever expose and actively try to hide are often visible when vulnerable. Kennedy’s shoulders are back, her entire upper body is bowed backward, as if his words were a blow that her body is recovering from. She blinks rapidly, confusion and pain circulating for a second before she looks to Grace, and the anger dissolves into concern. Kennedy takes Grace’s hand from her shoulder and holds it securely in her own before her lips part. It’s obvious she’s searching for the correct concoction of words to piece together, but before she can, their father continues.
“Grace is also a great swimmer. She can show you where all the best spots to swim are. In fact, there’s a place between our houses she’s been swimming in since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“Both of our daughters are very strong swimmers and fishermen . . . women . . . fisherwomen?” Mrs. Wallace looks at her daughters with knit brows. “Is there a term for women who fish?”
Kennedy shrugs.
“There’s also some great biking trails here in Haven Point,” Mr. Wallace continues. “And Grace knows all about canoeing and kayaking. Have you ever been in a canoe or a kayak?”
Though it’s doubtful Hayden can read the resentment and subdued passive-aggressiveness in the room, it’s clear he can tell something is off, as he takes a step backward toward Ella and Coen.
“Dad, I hate kayaking and canoeing. I also don’t like fishing.” Grace stares at him, an underlying mountain of words silently passing to him as she waits for him to acknowledge her.
“But you’re so good at all of them,” he says.