“What’s up with you?” I looked up. It was George, taking a fresh-air break, something I’d encouraged him to do. I’d told him it didn’t matter that he was on crutches, he needed to hobble around the block every six hours or so. His skin had started to look yellow.
“I think I finally get Emily Dickinson,” I said.
“That makes one of us,” he said. “Hey, will you come listen to this? I need your young ears to decipher part of Lilly Carmichael’s interview. I’ve been to too many White Stripes concerts or something.”
“Sure.” I closed the diary and followed George into the annex, which was officially on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
He played the digital recording on the computer. Mrs. Carmichael’s voice was smooth, like one of Mom’s books on tape: “Boaty’s proposal was very romantic. It came as a great surprise. I’d had a mad crush on him all summer. But that hardly made me unique; so did all the girls.”
“Yada yada yada,” George said, skipping ahead. “She goes on about this for a while. Tell me something I don’t know.” He pressed PLAY. “Okay, now listen.”
“Boaty and I went for a sunset sail. I didn’t even want to go! Can you imagine? I kept telling him that there was a big clambake I’d been looking forward to and we could always go sailing tomorrow night, but he insisted that the sunset that evening was going to be the best of the summer. And it was. It was glorious. As I was admiring it, he pulled from his pocket a ring made out of seaweed. He had no money then.” Lilly’s voice softened. I could hear her smiling. “It was such a surprise! The only thing on my mind the whole day was getting to Paul Morgan’s clambake, always the party of the season.” On the recording, George asked who Paul Morgan was. Lilly answered. “Paul was the boy my parents wanted me to marry. He was from an old Nantucket family, had all the money in the world, all the right credentials. My mother always thought he was the one for me because—” Here the voice became indecipherable.
“Oh, Paul Morgan!” I said as the familiarity of the name landed.
“You know him?” George asked, pausing the interview.
“Yeah, I do.” This wasn’t true; I just felt like I did. “Well, not really. I’ve just met him and I’ve heard a lot about him.”
“From whom?”
“My mom. They dated at one time.”
“Oh.” George tilted his head. “Interesting. Okay, so listen hard; this is the part I can’t understand. It sounds like she’s saying her mother always thought Boaty was interested in Lilly’s ‘local vision.’ But that makes no sense,” George said. What the hell is ‘local vision’? And why would that be a bad thing for him to be interested in?”
“Play it again.” I said. He did. “One more time.” He watched me as if I were a medium. I clapped my hand on his shoulder. “Social position. She’s saying social position.” My eyes widened. “Her mom thought that Boaty was a social climber!”
“I think you’re right.” George played it again, his face frozen in concentration. He sighed with relief. “That’s it.” He scratched his neck. “No wonder she mumbled.”
He was waiting for me to respond, but my mind wasn’t on the recording. It was on Paul Morgan.
I hadn’t realized that Paul Morgan was such a prominent, wealthy man. I wondered if that would scare Mom away. She said she didn’t trust rich people. I’d have to make sure they met someplace low-key. How was I ever going to make it seem like this was all her idea?
Thirty-two
“WHAT’S THIS?” I asked, the next afternoon. Liz and I were in the kitchen. I was staring at a neat little package wrapped up sweetly in pink tissue paper. It was tied with a strand of lace. Liz and I were relaxing after a long morning. All the beds were made, all the toilets had been wiped clean, and all the wicker wastebaskets emptied.
“Early birthday present,” Liz said. “Go on, now. Open it.”
“Liz, you didn’t have to,” I said. “My birthday isn’t until Tuesday.”
“Open the damn present,” she said, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. Gavin wandered into the kitchen with a stack of mail.
“Something came for you, Cricket,” he said, handing me a fat manila envelope with my name and the inn’s address written in my father’s familiar chicken scrawl.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Gavin, did you know that it’s Cricket’s birthday next week?” Liz said. “She’s going to be eighteen years old.”
“Is that so?” Gavin said. “I’ll have to make a cake. Chocolate with a raspberry filling okay?”
“Yum. Thanks, Gavin,” I said as I worked at the knot of lace that was binding my gift. Gavin turned on the teakettle and sorted through his bills, not knowing how relieved I was that I was going to have a birthday cake—a chocolate one, with raspberry filling! I needed something to replace the tradition Jules and I had started five years ago.
Ever since Jules came to Rosewood, we did pajama birthdays. On our birthdays, Jules and I always brought each other waffles with strawberries and whipped cream in bed. And the breakfast tray was always adorned with Lulu, a stuffed pig we’d bought when Nina took us to FAO Schwarz in New York.
We were way past the age of stuffed animals, and neither of us was a stuffed animal kind of girl, but we both loved this pig. There was only one left in the store, and we’d fought over who would get to buy her, or “adopt” her, as Jules insisted. Nina suggested we split the cost and have joint custody. So every birthday we traded her back and forth. Whoever had Lulu in her possession had to take care of her and give the other “mother” monthly reports on her well-being. Lulu has thrived this spring, Jules had written in one note. She continues to be fuzzy and friendly and has developed a passion for Bruce Springsteen.
Lulu has experienced her first crush, I wrote to Jules the next year. On a stuffed giraffe in our attic. He’s a little old for her, I think, but these sorts of urges are natural in a young pig.
The teakettle whistled. Gavin poured the water and dunked the teabag.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Liz said, using kitchen sheers to cut the ribbon.
“I love watching people receive gifts,” Gavin said as he blew on his tea. It was some weird medicinal tea, and its bitter aroma filled the room. “Go on, open it.”
Very slowly, I unwrapped the tissue paper, which smelled faintly like perfume, and lifted up a delicate, minuscule black lace thong.
I crumpled it in my hand, hiding it from Gavin. Liz squealed with glee.
“You set me up, Liz,” Gavin said, shielding his eyes and walking back into the living room. “That’s not nice.”
“Didn’t want to rob an old man of a thrill,” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
“Liz!” My face was burning up. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Do I have to explain?” she asked, cackling. “Don’t act like such an innocent. We share a wall. A very thin wall. I know what you’re up to at night, and I can’t stand the thought of you shagging in your cotton knickers.”
“How do you know I wear cotton underwear?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, what do you wear, then?” Liz asked. I stared at the table. The only underwear I owned were cotton. Mrs. Levander told us other materials led to yeast infections. “Just as I thought. Well, not anymore. Cotton knickers are for little girls, and you, my dear, are about to become a woman.”
Thirty-three
ZACK AND I WERE AT THE BEACH when I finally opened the manila envelope from Dad. I couldn’t wait until next week, but there was something about opening a birthday present alone that was just sad. Half the fun is someone watching.
“Let’s see what you got,” Zack said. Inside was a birthday card with a sparkly fairy on it, something more appropriate for an eight-year-old. But I didn’t mind that. Dad still thought I loved girlie-girl stuff, and I smiled thinking of him searching the card aisle in CVS for something he thought was glittery enough for me. It was signed Dad and Polly, each in their own handwriting. There was als
o a note that said Alexi was having a sixth birthday party at their house, and if I wanted to come home for the party, they’d pay my way.
“‘Alexi wants to spend more time with his new big sister,’” I read aloud to Zack. “Yeah right. That kid doesn’t like me.” It was true. Whenever I sat at the kitchen table for dinner, he turned his chair to face the other way.
“What’s the gift?” Zack asked.
I unwrapped the present: a pair of jeans. Not just any pair. Clover, the new brand I’d seen in InStyle magazine that all the celebrities were wearing. I squealed with happiness. “Check it out,” I said, and held them up. “Oh my god, they’re awesome. I actually like them.”
“You sound so surprised,” Zack said as I slipped them over my bathing suit and spun around. They fit perfectly.
“This is a first,” I said. “My Dad met the Great Birthday Challenge.”
“What’s that?” Zack asked.
“Every year since I was twelve, Dad has bought me an outfit that he picked out himself,” I explained as I pulled the jeans off and folded them back up into the envelope. It was way too hot for jeans. “He said it was one of the great challenges of a father’s life to buy his teenage daughter clothes that she actually liked and wore. The true test would be if I didn’t exchange it.”
“What was the worst gift?” Zack asked.
“My fourteenth,” I said, and lay back in the sand. “It was a sparkly pink jean jacket.” I looked up at the clouds, remembering some of the other “fashions.” “And another time, he bought me one of those knitted dresses, but it looked like it’d been made by someone’s drunk grandma.” Zack laughed and started pouring sand over my legs in loose fistfuls. Zack was definitely a guy who thought girls were funny.
“But last year he actually came really close with this T-shirt dress thing.” I shut my eyes and pictured it. It was the absolute best version of the scoop neck, cap-sleeve, empire waist style that everyone was wearing last summer. It looked so good but also had that “I’m not even trying” look.
“So what was wrong with that one?” Zack asked, patting sand around my legs.
“It was the color of mustard.”
“Dijon or French’s?”
“Grey Poupon.” I ran the warm sand through my fingers. “I told him I loved it when I unwrapped it.”
“Why?” Zack asked. He was covering my knees now.
“It was my first birthday since the divorce, and we were eating lobster at a nice restaurant and he was looking happy again. I didn’t want to ruin it.” I realized now that Dad had probably just started dating Polly around that time. I remembered noticing how cheerful Dad had been, that the color had returned to his face. Zack scooped sand around my thighs. I continued the story. “Dad was like, ‘You really love it? You’re not going to take it back?’ and I was like, ‘Yup, I love it.’ But he didn’t believe me.” I could picture him narrowing his eyes and studying my face. The more I tried to convince him, the more obvious it was I didn’t actually love it. “I finally fessed up after the chocolate mousse.”
“Was he sad?” Zack asked, patting the sand over my legs.
“No,” I said. I remembered Dad laughing and slapping the table with his hand. “God, I came so close!” he’d said. “So close and yet so far. I’ve failed the Great Birthday Challenge again, and I don’t have that many more years left. I have to get it right while you’re a teenager.”
“It just made him more determined,” I told Zack. “He said, ‘Next year, on your eighteenth, I’m going to nail it. Mark my words. Next year I’ll have a victory, even if I have to get a subscription to Vogue.’”
“He did it,” Zack said. He was now carving a design into the sand that covered my legs. “He met the Great Birthday Challenge.”
“Yup,” I said.
“Why do you sound disappointed?” Zack asked.
“I don’t know.” Even though I loved the jeans and I wouldn’t have traded them for anything, I kind of missed the sparkly jean jacket, the floral overalls, the purple jumper. I was too old for them now. For the first time on a birthday, I actually did feel older. Zack pulled my arms so that I was sitting upright. He’d transformed my legs into a fishtail, with scales and fins.
“I’m a mermaid,” I said.
“A mer-chamber-maid,” Zack said. “A very rare species. One hasn’t washed up on these shores in a hundred years, and you need to get back in the water before the evil scientists spot you and take you to their lab for experiments.”
“Oh,” I said as he stood and opened his arms. I looked up at his eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile that was meant just for me. Warmth flooded my chest. I broke out of my sand encasement, put my arms around his neck, and hopped up. He caught my legs. “Hurry,” I said. “Get me to the sea! We don’t have much time!”
As we charged toward the water, a family of shorebirds scattered. I screamed as he dropped me in the cold salty water.
Thirty-four
THE NEXT DAY, I was cleaning off the tables on the patio after the breakfast rush when my phone buzzed in my back pocket. A text. I thought it was going to be Zack, who’d sometimes send me a quick message when he woke up; or maybe Liz, who sent me ridiculous sex tips throughout the day with suggestions for various positions. But it was Jules.
Meet me for lunch at the Even Keel?
I texted back immediately. My hand was shaking.
Yes! When?
Noon.
I work until 3
We usually finished by two thirty, but I’d need some time to get my head together.
3:30?
OK C U then.
“Put that phone down,” Bernadette said as she wiped down the tables, piling dirty cloth napkins in the laundry basket. “This isn’t break time.” I was too stunned to let Bernadette’s tone bother me. I slipped my phone back in my pocket and carried an armload of dirty dishes into the kitchen, where Gavin was mixing something up in a ceramic bowl.
“Try this,” he said, handing the batter-covered rubber spatula for me to sample. He was expanding his afternoon cookie repertoire lately, experimenting with new flavors. I ran my finger along the spatula’s edge and tasted the sweet batter.
“Lime?” I asked.
“New recipe,” Gavin said. “What do you think?”
“It’s sweet and tart. It’s kinda…complicated,” I said.
“Complicated, huh? That’s not exactly what I’m going for with my cookies.”
“I mean complex,” I said. I was mixing up my own recipe inside as I thought about seeing Jules. There was a half a cup of guilt over the fact that I was secretly dating her brother, a tablespoon of ice-cold fear that she’d found out about Zack and me, two pinches of boiling anger when I remembered how she’d acted at that party, a teaspoon of whipped hope that she missed me as much as I missed her, and a sprinkling of giddiness that I might get my best friend back.
Gavin sighed. “Well, I guess ‘complex’ could be good.” He used a tablespoon to drop the batter on a cookie sheet.
“Lime cookies will taste so good with your sweet peach sun tea.”
“Now, that’s a good idea, Cricket.” Gavin’s face brightened, his big smile deepening the lines around his mouth and revealing his slightly tea-stained teeth. “I knew I hired you for a reason.” If I thought sweet peach sun tea would make this conversation with Jules easier, I’d have downed a gallon.
I was shaking when I entered the busy café. It was noisy with fifty conversations. It was 3:28 and the place was still slamming. I scanned the room for Jules, hoping that I’d arrived first. She wasn’t inside, so I walked to the back patio. Jules was sitting at a shady table, a cup of coffee in hand. My ears started to hum. She looked up and waved, a half smile on her face.
“Hey. How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said. I was so relieved when the waitress approached almost immediately. I ordered a chicken Caesar salad and an iced tea.
“I’m all set with coffee,” Jules sai
d to the waitress.
“Oh,” I said, feeling dumb that I was going to be the only one eating. She had said lunch in her text, right? Shit. I wasn’t even hungry.
“I already ate,” she said with a shrug. “So, what’s going on with you?”
I’m wearing a thong! I want to tell her. I went swimming with a boy! Buck-ass naked! I think I’m in love. With your brother!
“Not much,” I said, folding my hands in front of me on the table. We were like those people we would see at The Coffee Exchange in Providence on Internet dates. While we were doing homework we listened to people on coffee dates have the world’s most awkward conversations. We’d pass notes back and forth with our commentary. He just wants to squeeze her big boobs, Jules once wrote on my social studies folder as a girl went on and on about feminist theory and her bearded date made noises of pretend interest. She’s refusing to mention his vampire fangs! I scribbled to Jules on the corner of her math homework another time when a guy at the next table polished his fake fangs with his index finger while his date talked about her dance class. And he’s dying to discuss!
We sat there for another thirty seconds in awkward silence, each of us taking in the café surroundings as if we were foreigners observing American island culture. Finally, I just came out with it. “Let me just start by saying that I’m really glad you texted me. I’ve been so, so worried about you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Cricket.”
“But, Jules. I care about you. I’m your…friend.” I’d stopped myself from saying best friend.
“My mom died,” she said. “You can’t expect me to act normal.”
“No,” I said. “I know.”
“You have to let me act how I want to,” she said. The tips of her ears reddened.
“But even if you want to act mean? Like telling Jay what I said about his brother. Do you like him?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Why did you do that?” The waitress dropped off my iced tea. I looked her in the eye and smiled. “Thank you so much,” I said. If she overheard any of this, I wanted her to be on my side. I pounded the straw out of its paper case and took a long drink.
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