The Cousins

by Karen M. McManus

  “It’s not all that ridiculous,” I admit. “I might’ve helped if you’d told me.”

  “I should have.” He faces me head-on, and the sudden intensity of his expression makes my breath catch. “But I kept getting distracted by my third secret, which was that I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. So, you see,” he says, his hand brushing mine, “I remember everything.”

  The combination of his words and his touch make my skin buzz, but I draw back. “You don’t want to get mixed up with a Story,” I tell him. “We’re a mess.”

  He smiles crookedly. “Yeah, well, so am I. I even failed at being one of you. And I got us kicked out of the Summer Gala because of it.”

  Yes, and no. What did Uncle Archer say earlier? Give some thought to forgiveness too, okay? If there’s one characteristic I wish the Story family had more of, it’s that. He was right, but it hits me all of a sudden that he didn’t only mean that we should forgive other people—the way Mildred never could. Based on the exchange he and Oona had earlier, I think he was also talking about forgiving yourself. And you can’t do that without acknowledging you did something wrong in the first place.

  “That was my fault, too,” I admit. “I threw myself at you when you were just trying to help me. I mean, Uncle Anders was coming along to ruin everything anyway, so we would’ve been toast no matter what. But things would have been a lot less embarrassing if I hadn’t planted one on you in the middle of my grandmother’s party.”

  Jonah grins. “That’s the only part of the night I don’t regret.”

  My pulse picks up as I reach out and play with the hem of his T-shirt. “I don’t regret it either, except for the overdose of champagne. And the audience.”

  “Well, nobody’s here now.” His thumb traces my cheekbone and sends a chill down my back. “If you happen to feel like trying again.”

  And I do.

  As soon as I slip between the sheets in Uncle Archer’s spare room, I can tell I won’t be able to fall asleep right away. That happens to me sometimes; I get so overtired that an unwelcome second wind kicks in, keeping my eyes open even when I desperately need them to close. But I don’t want to go back outside, since I’m pretty sure Milly and Jonah would rather be alone.

  I pick my phone up from the nightstand. The battery’s low, and I didn’t bring a charger with me. I can probably make it through one phone call. It should be to my mom, to explain everything that’s happened and make arrangements to get home. Especially since I need to give her time to figure out travel logistics. My plane ticket back to Oregon isn’t until late August, and I have no idea how easy it will be to change.

  But my frustrated tiredness fuels a low, buzzing resentment that makes me dial a different number. I’m even glad when he answers. “Well, this is a surprise,” he says.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say, propping the thin pillow against the headboard so I can sit up. “I wanted to tell you that I’m really angry at you for cheating on Mom, and for doing it with my swim coach. I think you should apologize to me. If you would do that—and mean it—then maybe I could start trying to forgive you.”

  “You have no idea the complexity of the situation,” my father says. Just like I knew he would, but my chest still tightens at his tone. “It takes more than one person to keep a marriage going, and your mother—”

  “No.” I cut him off without hesitation, which is something I’d never have dared to do a month ago. It feels good. “You don’t get to blame her.”

  “If you’re not going to listen—”

  “I’m not.” I interrupt again and I’m strangely calm, my heart thumping steadily instead of pounding like it did the last time I spoke to him. “What did you do to Gran?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What did you do to make her disown you?”

  A bitter edge creeps into his voice. “I’ve told you a hundred times. Not a damn thing.”

  “I don’t believe you.” My mind’s eye is split in two; on one side, I see that old picture of Dad and Gran from Sweetfern, her smile glowing with maternal love and pride. On the other, I see Gran like she was today on the deck, her face full of remembered pain even before I spilled scalding coffee all over her. Do you think your father is a man worth knowing? “What happened to Kayla Dugas?”

  “How the hell do you know who Kayla Dugas is?” he demands.

  “People here keep talking about her.”

  “She got drunk and crashed her car into a tree,” Dad says. He sounds impatient and irritable at the question, but not particularly rattled. So I try a different tack.

  “What happened at Cutty Beach?” I ask.

  A pause. “What happened—where? You’re all over the place tonight, Aubrey. You must be overtired. I think you should go to bed.”

  “You put a beach just like it in your book. It’s the only place on Gull Cove Island you’ve ever written about. Why is that? Does it have anything to do with Matt Ryan drowning?”

  Dad’s sharp, shocked inhale is loud in my ear. “How do you—? Aubrey, you need to get a grip. I don’t know why you’re suddenly fixating on decades-old tragedies, but what happened to Matt was a terrible accident and has nothing to do with my mother.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” I say. I don’t know why I think that—there’s something creeping around the edge of my subconscious telling me so, but it’s refusing to show itself fully. My father is right about one thing: I am overtired. My eyelids are starting to droop like they did outside, but I force the sleepiness from my tone. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, Dad? What did you do? Be straight with me for once in your life.”

  “Aubrey.” His voice is pure ice. “Nothing. Happened.”

  “You’re lying,” I say, before I disconnect and drag the pillow back down to the mattress. I might be only seconds from crashing into sleep, but I’m sure I’m right.

  * * *

  —

  When I wake up, Milly is sleeping soundly beside me. Whatever might’ve happened between her and Jonah wasn’t an all-nighter, at any rate. My phone is half buried under her hair, and I free it carefully and put it in my pocket. Then I slide out of bed and pad my way into the living room.

  Uncle Archer isn’t on the futon anymore. He must’ve gotten up at some point in the night and made his way into his bedroom. There’s a red Solo cup on the end table, half full with clear liquid. I take a tentative sniff; definitely not water. I’m tempted to dump it, but I put it back down instead. My low-level interference won’t make a difference in the battle Uncle Archer is having with himself.

  The house is silent except for the loud ticking of a grandfather clock in one corner. It’s eight o’clock, too early to wake anybody else. I go into the kitchen and search the cabinets until I find coffee and filters. I don’t need coffee in the morning, but I know Milly can’t function without it. Once I have a pot brewing, I slip on the sneakers I kicked off at the sliding glass door last night, and pull it open.

  It’s beautiful outside. A perfect cool summer morning, the sky a brilliant blue swirled with wispy clouds. Last night, when we went looking for the grill, I noticed a bike propped against the wall of the garden shed. I can’t remember if the bike was locked up or not, but if it isn’t, I could ride around the neighborhood while everyone sleeps. Maybe even down to the nearest beach.

  I grin when I see that the bike is free for the taking. The tires are nice and full, and the seat’s the perfect height for me. I wheel it out of the shed and into the backyard, feeling a hum of anticipation to get moving and stretch my legs. Probably the best memory I have of my father is him teaching me to ride a bike when I was six years old, his big hands covering my small ones as I clutched the handles of my pink Huffy and— Oh.

  I almost drop the bike as I stare at my hands and a shocked understanding rushes straight into my brain. I almost had it last night, when
I remembered the Sweetfern picture of my father and grandmother, but I’d put the wrong mental image next to it. I’d been thinking about Gran’s face: half shaded like always by her hat, tight with sadness. I should have been thinking about her hands. Bare of gloves for once, wrinkled and age-spotted, but otherwise unblemished.

  I fumble in my pocket for the keycard to the Catmint House gate. It’s still there. Then I grab my phone, which is down to one percent battery. I’ve never been that low before, though surely I can still send a few texts? But I only get one out to Uncle Archer before the screen goes blank.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ll get what I need to prove that I’m right, and then I’ll tell them everything. I push the bike through the gate, hop onto the seat, and take off.

  I wake to the smell of bacon frying, and that gets me out of bed immediately. When I enter the kitchen Archer is standing in front of the stove, and Milly’s sitting at the table holding a steaming mug of coffee in both hands. She’s wearing the T-shirt I loaned her last night, her dark hair a little mussed and loose around her shoulders.

  “Where’s Aubrey?” I ask, taking a seat beside Milly.

  “Unclear,” Archer says. He uses a pair of tongs to transfer slices of bacon from the frying pan to a paper-towel-covered plate on the counter beside him. “She’s not here, and she sent me a strange text that raises more questions than it answers.”

  “What did it say?” I ask.

  Archer crosses over to the table and puts the bacon plate next to a rolled-up edition of the Gull Cove Gazette. “It said, There wasn’t a birthmark.”

  Milly snatches a slice of bacon before Archer has time to draw his hand away. I help myself to two and ask, “What does that mean?”

  “We’ve been puzzling about it all morning,” Milly says, breaking her bacon in half and nibbling at one of the edges. “I mean, Aubrey has a birthmark, so…” She shrugs. “There’s no reason she’d text us about it.”

  Archer takes a seat, looking pensive. “I wish she’d answer her phone.”

  “It’s probably dead,” Milly says. “Mine nearly is.”

  Archer opens the Gull Cove Gazette and starts flipping through it. “When I leave, I won’t miss that half the daily news is about my mother,” he mutters.

  Milly cringes. “They’re not talking about the gala again, are they?”

  “No. Some painting she sold at Sotheby’s went for a small fortune.” He turns a page. “You know, Mother always had terrible taste in art. We used to joke about it. Theresa must’ve been guiding her all these years to turn her into a connoisseur.”

  Milly and I exchange glances, and I can read an echo of what I’m thinking on her face: Theresa, again. We got more than a little distracted last night, but I think I was on to something about Theresa being unbalanced. There’s something creepy about a woman who spends most of her life in a seaside mansion with only her boss for company. But before either of us can say anything, the doorbell rings.

  Archer’s brows pull together as he rises to his feet. “Maybe that’s Aubrey.”

  “Is the door locked?” Milly asks.

  “I didn’t think so, but…” He trails off as he leaves the kitchen.

  My attention snaps back to Milly, who’s still eating her bacon slice. “Hi,” I say, feeling a quick, electric thrill at the thought of being alone with her again. Even if it’s only for a minute.

  She swallows and takes a sip of coffee. “Hello.”

  “I like your shirt.”

  “Thank you. It’s very comfortable.”

  My eyes stray to her legs. “It’s giving me…thoughts,” I admit.

  “Keep them to yourself.” But she smiles when she says it.

  The background murmur of indistinct voices grows louder, and Archer steps into the kitchen, with Hazel close at his heels, midsentence, “…sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” she says, then spots Milly and me and waves apologetically. “All your breakfasts. Hey, guys.”

  “Hi,” we both say as Archer waves to an empty chair.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” he says. “Do you want to join us?”

  “No thanks. I just wanted to give you this.” Hazel unzips the tote bag slung across her shoulder and digs into its depths. “You asked if there was anything else in Granddad’s files that was addressed to me or you. Well, I went through a bunch of stuff last night, and this had a Post-it with my name on it so—here.” She pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to Archer.

  Milly leans forward. “What’s that?” she asks.

  Archer scans the sheet of paper, then flips it over and keeps reading. “It looks like a medical report for my mother,” he says. “It’s a diagnosis for…” He breaks off, frowning. “That can’t be right.”

  “What?” Milly gets up to peer over his shoulder. “What is…hypertrophic cardiomyopathy?” she asks, pronouncing the words slowly and clearly.

  “It’s a condition where your heart muscles are abnormally thick,” Archer says. “It can be mild or deadly, depending on the degree. My father had it, but nobody knew until he died. So this must be a mistake. My mother’s name on a postmortem diagnosis for my father.”

  “When did he die?” Hazel asks.

  Archer pauses, thinking. “Toward the end of 1995.”

  “This is from 1996,” Hazel points out. “There was an echocardiogram done and everything.”

  “Huh,” Archer says, the crease between his eyes deepening. “So, if I’m reading this correctly, my mother has the same condition my father had. But she’s lived with it for…what? Twenty-five years? She must be managing it fine. I’m not sure why Dr. Baxter would have wanted you to see this, Hazel.” He hands the paper back to her with a kind smile. “I’ve been wondering—do you think his letter to you, and the autopsy report, might just have been the dementia talking? Confusion and disorientation is part of it, right?”

  “I guess,” she says uncertainly.

  “Donald Camden did say Mrs. Story was sick,” I volunteer. “The first time we ever talked to him. He wanted us to leave the island because of it. She seemed okay every time we saw her, though.”

  Milly rolls her eyes. “I don’t think we can believe anything Donald says unless it benefits Donald, and the only thing he seems to care about is…Oh. Wait,” she adds in a quieter tone, clearly working something out in her head. Her face is suddenly suffused with color, her eyes sharp and bright. “Uncle Archer, you said this morning that Mildred’s taste in art has gotten better over the years, right? That it used to be horrible?”

  “Yeah. So?” Archer asks.

  “And yesterday—I didn’t really think anything of it because everything else was so weird, but yesterday at Catmint House, I asked Theresa if she wanted to watch the Yankees–Red Sox game with me and she said no, that she doesn’t watch baseball.”

  “Really?” Archer blinks. “That’s weird. Theresa was a huge Yankees fan when we lived here. She and Allison were the only ones.”

  “I know,” Milly says, her voice gaining in urgency. “And Kayla had something to tell Theresa, right? Then she died. And Dr. Baxter had something he wanted to tell you, and he died. So what if…Uncle Archer, what if they’re not the only people who died?”

  Archer’s face is a total blank. “I’m sorry, Milly, but I’m not following you.”

  She grabs the medical report from Hazel’s hand and waves it at him. “Mildred had a deadly heart condition, right? Diagnosed in 1996. One year later she cuts all of her children out of her life and you’ve never known why. Well, what if she didn’t? What if she couldn’t?”

  Archer and Hazel are both looking at Milly like she’s lost her mind. But I’m starting to grasp what she’s implying. I look at Archer’s phone, abandoned on the kitchen table, and it hits me like a tidal wave. “The text,” I say. For a second, I can’t breathe. “Aubrey’s text. It said, There was
n’t a birthmark.”

  “I know,” Archer says. “I read it to you.”

  Milly whips around to face me. “Oh my God, you’re right. She was talking about Mildred.” She turns back toward Archer, her voice breathless. “Aubrey spilled hot coffee on Mildred yesterday, and she pulled off her gloves. I’ll bet Aubrey didn’t see a birthmark. That big wine-colored birthmark that Mildred has on her hand, and Aubrey has on her arm? Aubrey must’ve realized it wasn’t there.” She pauses, waiting for understanding to break over Archer’s features, but it doesn’t come. “Because I think…maybe…that the woman living at Catmint House isn’t your mother. She’s not my grandmother. She’s someone else. Someone who took Mildred’s place.”

  The kitchen goes so quiet that I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. “Took her place,” Archer finally says in a dead voice. “Milly, that’s insane. You can’t…a person can’t just take another person’s place.”

  “Why not?” Milly asks.

  “Because…because…,” Archer sputters. “Because people would know!”

  “Not if you refused to see them anymore,” Milly points out.

  Archer’s face is tight and haunted. “Stop it, Milly. You’re out of control.” He barks out a shaky laugh, running a hand over his mouth. “I need a drink. This is—you are—I can’t—” He turns, and starts rummaging through the cabinets. “My mother isn’t dead, for God’s sake. People would know. Theresa, and Donald Camden, and Dr. Baxter—”

  “Do you hear the names coming out of your mouth?” I interrupt. Milly needs backup, because Archer is losing his shit. “Donald Camden? Seems like his entire job is making sure nobody with the last name Story ever gets close to Mildred. Dr. Baxter? He was trying to tell you something’s wrong. And Theresa? She—”