“You really are sensitive to noise,” Joel commented when the police car had disappeared.
Evie managed a smile.
“Do you realize we’ve passed, like, three or four tattoo parlors in one block?” Joel said.
“We have?” Daisy asked. “I didn’t notice.”
“Some of them are on the second floor. See that one up there? Hey, why don’t we get a tattoo?”
Daisy laughed. “One giant one covering all three of us?”
“The Three Stooges? No, silly. One for each of us. But wait. I think you might have to be eighteen to get a tattoo on your own.”
Daisy turned to Evie. “Evie, you’re eighteen. You could get a tattoo!”
Evie tried to laugh off the suggestion. “No thanks,” she said. It wasn’t that she was opposed to the idea of getting a tattoo (she thought that one day she probably would). But to try to get one now she would probably have to show her fake ID and risk being found out. Could she be arrested? Would Daisy and Joel also be in trouble? Sure, they knew she was using a false name, but they still thought she was really eighteen. They just didn’t understand the seriousness of her situation. Evie felt irritation rise in her again, in spite of the fact that she was the author of her friends’ ignorance.
“Come on,” Daisy urged. “Let’s see, what would you get? A heart? A rose? A skull?”
Joel laughed. “I don’t see Evie as the skull type!”
“No,” Evie said, with more force than she intended. “Stop it. I mean it. I hate tattoos.”
Joel shot a look at Daisy; Daisy looked down at her sneakers.
“Sorry,” Evie said, and she was. “It’s just that I’ve got this terrible fear of needles. Even the thought of a needle makes me freak out.”
Daisy looked up and smiled. “It’s a pretty common fear,” she said. “Hey, I think it’s time for the cupcakes Joel promised us. I’m starved.”
“And you just had two slices of pizza!” Joel turned to Evie. “The place is down on Fore Street, in the Old Port. There are some awesome shops on Exchange and Commercial. Se Vende is my favorite. We can browse if you want.”
Evie didn’t really see the point in browsing when there was absolutely no way she could afford anything other than the very basics (was a cupcake a basic?), but she agreed to the plan. These people were her friends. They were her only friends. And she would cherish them for as long as she had them. Nico would be back at the end of the month and after that . . . After that, unless some major miracle occurred, she would have to be moving on.
They passed a nicely landscaped square called Tommy’s Park where they saw two young mothers breastfeeding their babies, a man in a business suit sitting on one of the benches and talking into his iPhone, and a small group of cruise-ship passengers eating ice-cream cones. Passing through the square, muttering to himself, there was one very old man in a bulky army-style jacket, pushing a rusty shopping cart filled with plastic bags, some torn. Evie assumed they were stuffed with his possessions.
“Someone should be taking care of him,” Daisy said fiercely. “He should be in a place like Pine Hill, getting three meals a day and sleeping in a clean bed.”
Joel frowned. “Nursing homes and assisted living places cost a lot of money. The good ones, anyway. That’s the problem. If your family can’t take you in, then what?”
Evie said nothing because she couldn’t speak. The sight of the old man had made her think of her father, possibly alone, probably in need of help. Maybe homeless. How was her father eating? Was he able to get his meals at a shelter? Where did he keep his clothes if he didn’t have a place to live? Did he even have any more clothes than those on his body? Were his shoes worn through? Where did he sleep? Huddled under a dirty collection of newspapers in some doorway? Was he frightened?
By the time they reached the bakery on Fore Street Evie’s spirits had tumbled dangerously low and it was all she could do to keep from bursting out in tears. Joel asked her what kind of cupcake she wanted. She chose the chocolate mint chip though she wasn’t even a fan of mint. Joel insisted on paying for the girls. “My parents taught me how to be a gentleman,” he told them. “Daisy, you’ve got icing on your nose.”
Daisy laughed and wiped at her nose with a paper napkin. “I am such a goof!”
Evie managed a smile, as if she were really one of the group. But she wasn’t. She was essentially alone. Like the homeless boy. Like that old man with the shopping cart. Like Marion and Tommy from the television show. There was never any escape from the harsh reality that was her life, not here, not even back in Yorktide. No cupcake in the world, no matter how delicious, could change that.
She hoped they would be going home soon.
No, not home. She had no home.
Chapter 66
It was going on eleven when Ian ambled into the kitchen, scratching his stomach through a flimsy T-shirt. “Any coffee?” he asked.
Daisy looked up from her crossword. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Is there?”
“There was,” she said. “Like, at breakfast time.” If he asked her to make him a pot she was going to have to smack him. The thought had its appeal.
Ian opened the door of the fridge and proceeded to stare at the contents.
“Don’t keep the door open so long,” Daisy snapped. “You know what’s in there.” You’re in there often enough....
Ian shut the door and came over to the counter.
“What’s that you’re doing?”
Daisy sighed. “A crossword puzzle.”
Ian laughed and ran his hand through his long, bed-mussed hair. “I never could do those. My brain doesn’t work that way.”
Daisy wiped a nonexistent strand of hair from the page before her. “Hmm,” she said. And then, she couldn’t help herself. “In what way does your brain work?” she asked.
Ian shrugged. “Not that way.”
A brilliant riposte, Daisy thought, barely able to hide a grin of satisfaction.
“I think I’ll go into town and get some breakfast,” Ian said, ambling out of the kitchen.
When he was gone, Daisy put the cap on her pen (she was good enough by now to have abandoned a pencil) and brooded. What had her sister ever seen in Ian? He was such a loser. At least she wasn’t dating him any longer. Now, in Daisy’s opinion, Poppy should be dating someone like Jon, who was most certainly not a loser and who wouldn’t abuse the hospitality of a so-called friend by leaving dirty towels on the floor of his bathroom (Daisy had checked) and not replacing the milk when he had drunk the last of it.
Suddenly, Daisy realized that she felt kind of bad for her sister. Poppy was a good person who didn’t deserve being saddled with a so-called friend like Ian. And it occurred to Daisy that maybe Poppy hadn’t had her act together in Boston as smartly as she had assumed her sister had. Maybe Poppy had been lonely away from home. Maybe in spite of her physical beauty she had suffered from low self-esteem. Maybe she still did. All sorts of scenarios might be possible. Sure, since Poppy had been home the sisters had grown a bit closer; proximity alone helped the process of getting to know a person either for the first time or all over again. But Daisy was aware that there was still a significant gap that needed to be filled.
She heard the front door slam. Ian. Why did he always have to let the door slam? It wasn’t a guy thing. Her father had never let a door slam. It was a rude thing, that’s what it was.
Chapter 67
Day five and counting. Surely, Poppy thought, after the seventh day she could ask Ian to leave without appearing totally rude. Though why she was so concerned with his feelings she would never know.
They were in the garden. Poppy was trying to read a novel Julie had recommended, but the very presence of her unwanted houseguest stretched out on a lounge chair a few feet away prevented her from concentrating.
“Why don’t you come down to Boston for a few weeks?” Ian suggested suddenly. “You could probably stay at Allie’s. My place is a mess. Have
some fun. Shake the cobwebs off you. You’re atrophying here, Poppy.”
Atrophying? “I thought you said Boston was miserable.”
Ian shrugged. “Not necessarily at night.”
“No thanks. You might have noticed that I have two minors to care for.”
“Well, wait until school starts. They’ll be busy all day. They won’t need you.”
Poppy laughed incredulously. “They won’t need me?” Her gut told her it would be a total waste of time to enumerate for Ian all the simple and the not-so-simple daily duties it was her responsibility to enact. Making sure Daisy and Violet ate a good breakfast. Packing their lunches. Planning and cooking dinner. Maintaining her sisters’ after-school schedules, everything from Violet’s music lessons to Daisy’s jazz band rehearsals to Violet’s soccer practice (something Violet tolerated as it was mandatory she participate in some sport), to Daisy’s volunteer job. And then there were doctors’ appointments to be met and the household to be run and the checkbook to be balanced. And, just maybe, there was being a shoulder for her sisters to lean on after a tough day.
“Yeah,” Ian said. “You can, like, have those old women you told me about, what’s their names, check in on them once in a while.”
“That won’t be possible,” Poppy said evenly. She had deliberately kept Ian from meeting Freddie and Sheila. She didn’t think she could survive their inevitable censure. And she wondered, Would Jon Gascoyne ever in a million years suggest she choose to be derelict in her duties to her sisters? Would any right-thinking person suggest such a thing? And suppose she was stupid and careless enough to run off to Boston for a lark, what would Freddie and Sheila and Jon and Joel and Allie and Julie think of her? The idea made her shudder. Besides, she realized, she had not one tiny bit of interest in leaving her home on Willow Way, not for all the enticements Boston or any place else might offer.
Ian stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Suit yourself.”
I will, Poppy thought. Thanks.
“Your sister is pretty weird, you know.”
“Which one?” Poppy asked warily.
“Violet. Daisy’s just your typical moody teenager.”
Poppy bristled. “They’ve been through a lot. And Daisy is certainly not typical.”
“Whatever. Anyway, your dad’s death might explain Daisy but not Violet.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak ill of my sisters.”
Ian laughed. “I’m not ‘speaking ill’—really, what an archaic expression. I’m just stating observable facts.”
Poppy closed her book with a snap. “Then shut up.”
“Dude, there’s no need to—”
“Yes, Ian, there is a need. And don’t call me ‘dude.’ I’m not a guy.”
“Whatever.” Ian got up from the lounge. “I think I’ll go into town for a few beers.”
“Will you be back for dinner?” Poppy asked. Of course he will, she thought. Because I’m paying for the food.
Ian laughed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Poppy watched him walk around to the front of the house with a feeling close to revulsion. Though the memory was unwelcome she recalled the first time she had met him. It was shortly after her mother had died and she had decided to take a walk through the Commons. Ian had been leaning against a tree, listening to three guys playing acoustic guitar. They were pretty good and Poppy had stopped to listen, too. Ian introduced himself and after some conversation they had gone for a drink. And that was that. Now, three years later, Poppy wondered if her grief, her anger at herself for failing her mother by not being with her at the end, and her guilt about moving back to Boston and leaving her sisters had all worked together to badly cloud her judgment. Could it be that she had been punishing herself in some way by choosing Ian as a lover and a friend?
Her cell phone rang, mercifully interrupting her train of thought. It was Julie. Good, she thought. Someone entirely nice and normal. Someone of substance. The perfect antidote to Ian.
“Julie?” she said. “Hi.”
Chapter 68
“But you said you weren’t coming back until the end of August.” Evie knew her voice was shaking. “That’s almost three weeks from now.”
Nico sighed. “I know what I said, but things changed. Tangiers was a bore. I just had to leave and return to the beauty of home.”
Evie didn’t know much about Tangiers, but she knew enough to decide that anyone who said he found it a bore was probably lying. And she thought that Nico’s home was anything but beautiful (except in tiny bits and pieces). But there was no point in pursuing that part of the conversation.
Evie stared at the man before her. The one and only other time she had seen him had been the day she knocked on his door to ask for the job of house sitter. He had opened the door little more than an inch or two, enough for Evie to see a bit of a figure swamped by a huge white terrycloth robe, with a white terrycloth towel wrapped around his head.
“You’re the one Billy sent,” he had said.
“Yes. I—”
“What Billy wants, Billy gets. You have the job. I’m leaving tonight. Come back in the morning and the lady in the house to the left will let you in.”
Evie had been about to ask if there was any way she might stay at the house that night—he would be gone, after all—when he closed the door.
Now she had the opportunity to study her absentee employer. He was a small man, barely as tall as Evie, and skinny. His hair was very dark and very thick and he wore it pulled severely back from his face. Evie suspected he was wearing eyeliner, but she couldn’t be sure; his eyes, actually, were very nice. In fact, if it weren’t for the expression of intense weariness or martyrdom on his face, he would be a handsome man. But Evie couldn’t get past the expression. Or her sense that he was probably about to throw her out.
“So . . .” she began, but didn’t quite know how to ask the all-important question. What about me?
“So, I’m afraid you’ll have to be on your way, the sooner the better.”
“But can’t . . . Do you think I could stay on for just a bit? I won’t be a problem. I’m quiet. I could do some cleaning and . . .”
Nico sighed again. “Impossible, my dear. I must be alone to work. I must be alone to live.”
“But—”
“No buts. Anyway, I’ve already invited a few dear friends to join me here tomorrow. There’ll simply be no room for one more. Here.” Nico dug into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet. He extracted three twenty-dollar bills from it and thrust them at Evie. “This should . . . Well, it should do something.”
Pride warred with reason. Evie wanted nothing more than to throw the money back at Nico and tell him he was a skinny idiot jerk. And how did he reconcile the need to be alone with a house full of guests? A skinny idiot lying jerk! But reason prevailed. Sixty dollars wasn’t much, but it would buy her a new T-shirt at the thrift store in town and a new pair of socks, which she badly needed as the heels on one of the two pairs she owned were pretty much threadbare and she had gotten a bad blister the other day, and also, she hoped, a new hoodie to replace the stained one she was always embarrassed to be seen in.
“Thanks,” she said, hating the word and the false intent behind it. “I’ll go pack my stuff.”
“And I’ll go lie down for a while. This encounter has exhausted me.”
And off Nico went to his bedroom.
Chapter 69
Violet was watering the plants in the sunroom when Ian wandered in. Grimace, from his perch atop the breakfast table, growled.
“That beast has pretty strong opinions about people, doesn’t he?” Ian moved back toward the door a bit.
“Yes,” Violet said. As do all discriminating creatures. And then she pointed at his right arm; the sleeves of his plaid shirt were partly rolled up. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what that’s supposed to be.”
Ian laughed. Violet thought it sounded like a condescending laugh. �
�It’s a skull, of course.”
“It doesn’t look like a skull. What’s it a skull of?”
“A human. It’s the skull of a human.” He said this as if he were talking to someone very stupid, which Violet was not.
“Nope,” she said. “Can’t be.”
“Yes,” Ian said—now he sounded annoyed—“it can be and it is. I designed it myself.”
“You should probably take some drawing classes. I mean that as constructive criticism. What’s that other one?”
Ian pushed up his left sleeve to reveal a series of Chinese characters winding their way down his forearm. “Just a bit of ancient wisdom,” he said.
“What bit?” Violet asked.
Ian quoted sententiously. “A wise man makes his own decisions. An ignorant man follows public opinion.”
“That’s not what it says.” Violet had never considered herself a mean or nasty person, but at that moment she was having a very hard time maintaining her composure when what she wanted very badly to do was burst out in derisive laughter.
“Yes, it is. The guy who did the inking told me. He had a book of quotes from the ancient Chinese. The real stuff.”
“The book,” Violet explained, “was wrong. I don’t know what your tattoo really says, but it’s not what you think it is.”
Ian sneered. “You’re lying.”
“I never lie. I’ve been told that I should learn. I hurt people’s feelings sometimes.”
“How would you know what this says?” Ian demanded. “You don’t know Chinese.”
“I can recognize a little from a book my dad had. I have a very good visual memory, you see. It’s partly why I do really well on tests. The book is just over there, on that bottom shelf. I can show it to you if you want. The phrase you think is on your arm is on page twenty-three. No, twenty-four. But you shouldn’t be too upset. The man who did the inking probably didn’t know his source was wrong.”
Summer with My Sisters Page 24