by Alexis Bass
No one asks what we think of all this. Because to them, it’s normal. A beach of amenities. A beach for losing track of time, for floating through the afternoons fueled by the freedom of having no real agenda.
We take the Jet Skis out first. Edison carefully helps Chelsea slide on her life vest and tosses mine to me across the sand, where it lands at my feet. It came off ruder than he must’ve intended it because he rushes over to help, but Sepp beats him to it, picking it up before I get the chance, shaking off the sand, and holding it while I slip my arms through.
“This isn’t really a two-person job,” I say.
“Oh, I know that. But it’s all about the optics.”
“So you look like a gentleman and I look helpless?”
“Exactly that.” He reaches over and yanks on the strap in front of my life vest to secure it tighter. Edison watches a few feet away; his head snaps in the other direction when I meet his eyes.
We circle the cove on the Jet Skis and take a lap past North Point Beach and the lighthouse. I love all this speed and freedom, the easy handling of the Jet Ski and the spray of the water. Sepp leads us, but I cut corners and race in front of him once in a while to keep the optics balanced. He laughs like he knows what I’m thinking.
We are as vibrant as the sun when we return to the Duval beach, except Edison, who turns methodical as he puts away the life vests and wipes down the Jet Skis.
A white-and-navy boat pulls up to the dock. Oswald stands and points to it, and Warren rushes over to greet them.
“Sepp.” Edison nods toward the boat.
Sepp notices it, says, “Oh shit, they’re early,” and jogs over to meet them with Warren.
A guy and girl seeming about Sepp’s age walk up the dock to the beach. The boy chats with Warren, and Sepp keeps pace with the girl. He stands very close. The two new guests are in their swimsuits, and take nothing from the boat with them, like they knew this beach would have whatever they could possibly need. After spending five minutes with them, it’s apparent why. They are the same breed as the Duvals, wealthy enough to assume that a private beach will come with essentials and extras.
The introductions they give us are formal: Michael and Katherine Ellis, children of Richard and Linda Ellis, of Ellis Exports. George excites at this, familiar with the company because of the work they do with Goodman Pharmaceuticals. Oswald is surprised that George has knowledge of the export business the pharmaceutical company uses since George is in the sales division. George seems to take this as a compliment and explains he is familiar because of the higher-ups he knows who work in logistics.
Michael and Katherine’s maternal great-grandfather was a famous Korean poet, who George claims he’s heard of even though I’ve never seen George read poetry in my whole life.
Katherine keeps her long dark hair back in a bun and has an infectious smile that seems to have even rubbed off on Karen. Sepp calls her Kath. He helps her put on her life vest, glancing at me with a smirk as he does so, though this time the scene doesn’t at all portray Katherine as helpless, so much as it makes Sepp look like he’s needlessly doting on her.
Michael stays for only a quick drink, a few slices of flatbread, and a story about how he got the scar on his left knee falling off a table during an Oktoberfest in Munich.
George is still talking about how nice it was to meet them when Michael is speeding away and Katherine is making her second lap around the cove on the Jet Ski with Sepp.
This is what impresses George, I guess. The Duvals, the heirs of the Ellis fortune. Chelsea readjusts her hair for the third time in the last five minutes, and I wonder if she is also impressed with Katherine, if it has her feeling insecure.
“You look great,” I say, passing her on my way to the paddleboards, her hands fussing with her hair again. I don’t look back to see if I’ve helped her to quit worrying or not, but as I’m walking my board out to the water, I see Edison taking her hands from her hair and weaving their fingers together as he leans in for a kiss. Probably a much more effective way of boosting her confidence and making her stop obsessing about her hair.
I paddle out past the shore, leaning into the waves as I drift forward.
Chelsea and Edison ride the same paddleboard. She sits in front, waving to me as they glide my way. They slide up next to me, and we all sit down, rest our paddles over top of the boards, bobbing up and down with the waves. Chelsea talks about how beautiful it is, the sun sparkling on the water, the bold blue of the ocean in the distance.
“It’s like living in a postcard,” Edison says, a stolen line from that night we met at the half-built house. He doesn’t look at me when he says this, but a small smile forms on his lips, like he’s sure I noticed. What did I think the summer would be like if he was Finn and our only tie to each other was from meeting on the island? Nothing like this. Certainly not this extraordinary. Even still, the memory of that fantasy gives me a sharp hit of longing for that boy I thought he was and how I thought we were going to be together.
We retreat back to the beach around the same time as Katherine and Sepp do and raid the food cart for crab and avocado wraps, caprese poppers, and watermelon slices—items that are refilled throughout the day by the Duval staff, who swiftly appear and disappear before we can catch their faces or anything distinguishable about them. They are the magicians of the beach. Anything we could want, they make it manifest before us. The towel valets are always full, the sun chaises always brushed free of sand, the cushions always dry. There is always a full pitcher of cucumber-infused water and never any dirty dishes lying around.
Edison flops down between Chelsea and me, sitting in the sand, not even bothering with a towel, not caring how hot it is or that it sticks to his wet skin. The sand on the Duval beach is white and soft, like maybe they’d had it brought in. I’d put nothing past them.
Kath and Sepp sit together on a towel. Her hair is down now, long and dark and damp and wavy. There are smatters of sand clinging to her legs, and she doesn’t care enough to brush them away. She and Sepp start speaking French to each other; whatever they’re saying has them cracking up. Of course, this is who Sepp Duval entertains at his family’s beach.
I can sense the pressure Chelsea might feel to be a certain kind of girl worthy of this kind of outing. She squints uncomfortably against the sun, even under her shades, and takes careful bites of her watermelon so the juice won’t drip down her chin. Sepp and Kath seem so in sync, sophisticated in the same way, with so much to say to each other and in more than one language. And here she is, with the new sister she doesn’t quite know how to talk to and the new father who’s all too impressed by everything that is considered normal to the families on the cove. Edison at the very least is still trying to distract her from all that. Today, he is Edison at face value. He is only Chelsea’s rich boyfriend with an easy smile, who laughs like he knows he’s charming. But this is what makes her happy.
Sepp’s margarita is done quickly, and he’s on his way to get another, asking Kath if she’s ready for her second, though hers is not even halfway done. A glare from Oswald stops him before he gets a refill, and he veers off his path to the cart, asking if anyone is interested in playing badminton instead.
Chelsea and Edison play against Sepp and Kath, who win and then play against Warren and George. After their second victory, Kath tags herself out to let me in—she’s thoughtful, too. Sepp and I win, and I lose track of the teams after that because we keep switching. There is one odd person out, but it creates a flow in the game, the way we all rotate person by person, so our teams are always changing, but each person keeps track of the games they won. In the midst of this, I’ve become competitive, downright obsessed with collecting the most wins. It feels like we’ve all become this way, enthralled in the game, cheering when our temporary team wins, and hyper to get back in after we’ve been tagged out.
I like all the excitement. I like that we’re all yelling and that time is moving both quickly and slowly and that every sec
ond counts. I like that when I’m on Edison’s team and I dive in the sand to make a play, he yells, “You’ve got it!” and, after I’ve made a successful hit, will swoop down to help me up and hold my hand in the air as a display of victory. I like that he doesn’t let go right away. I like that when I’m on George’s team he gives me these big double-handed high fives, and he genuinely looks proud of me.
When it comes down to it, the four of us with the most wins play in the final game—George, Sepp, Kath, and me. George is quick to pick me as his partner, and it makes me smile, even though it is an obvious pairing given the four of us.
“I don’t know how you lost. Your backhand is incredible,” Edison is saying to Chelsea on the sidelines.
“I haven’t won a single game,” she says.
“Give yourself a break. You’re new to sand sports. I promise, after this summer, you’ll be ready for badminton domination. By next summer, you’ll be undefeated.” This makes her smile. With Chelsea, much of what Edison says is in the spirit of encouragement. And talk of the future. One day and someday. A lot of promising.
For the final game, George and I shuffle and splinter in the hot sand and beat Kath and Sepp by four points.
“I’m new to sand sports, too.” I bow in victory, opening my mouth so they can tell I’m winking even though I have sunglasses on. They all like it when I’m sassy. And it gets a careless laugh out of Edison. Though George is the one who laughs the loudest.
“Maris hates to lose,” George says after I let him hoist me into the air to celebrate. George says it, so therefore it’s true about me, his daughter remade, someone he likes, the girl I’m becoming in his eyes.
“I’m not accustomed to losing!” I can give him what he wants.
More laughs all around, especially from George.
Here in the sun, on this make-believe beach, I pretend that I’m a radiant girl with a contagious smile. Sassy and hilarious and a jokester. Someone who transforms regular conversations into inside jokes. A good daughter. George pretends this is what I am, too.
Chelsea and Karen join Trisha under a beach umbrella. They build sandcastles, then let Phoebe knock down the towers with her hands. They smile at me as I walk past them.
I stand for a while in the ocean, the water up to my waist, letting my palms skim the top, staring out at the houses dotting the beach on the other side of the cove, the side that is flat, the side where the sand isn’t as soft. For as much as I liked that there was no weirdness with George, that we were happy for the moment that I was the daughter he always wanted and he was the father I used to dream he would be, I feel a tug of sadness. That pesky reminder that he isn’t usually that happy with me and whatever was between us during that game could all dissolve when we return home, out of this paradise.
Here is an idyllic backdrop to be the perfect stepsister best friends that Chelsea dreamed we could be, to get along with her the way I was getting along with George. But I can’t stop thinking about Edison’s smile, his hand lingering on mine, the few stolen glances.
I take a deep breath. And then I start to swim.
I don’t stop until my arms are tired and I can hardly breathe.
Chapter 22
I lay myself out to dry on the Duval dock, which is made of a gray material that looks like wood but feels like wax. I run my fingers over it and smile when there are no splinters.
After a few moments, I hear footsteps coming from the shore, and soon Chelsea is lying on her back next to me. She is dry now, too, and her hair has settled into wild beachy waves that keep falling in her face. Edison sits on her other side, letting his feet dangle over the edge.
“Dad is still gloating from his win.” She calls him Dad so easily.
“That’s George,” I say. “He loves winning.” I don’t know if that’s accurate, but it seems like something that must be true of everyone.
She frowns slightly at hearing me call him George.
“He was having so much fun. I love when I get to see that side of him, and he can really let loose. Isn’t he the best?”
The silence when I don’t answer her stretches on for the length of five waves hitting the dock.
“I hated growing up,” Chelsea says to the sky. I wait for her to treat us to another set of stories about the father she never got to meet, the one-bedroom apartment she had to share with her mother, the lights being turned off every other month when they were late with payments. But when I look at her, she’s wearing a small smile. “When I was in sixth grade, George told me that life would get better one day and that it would keep getting better. He was right. He’s always right.”
My whole body flashes hot with anger. When Chelsea was in sixth grade, I was in sixth grade, and George was still mine. I still had a family back then. I’m not stupid enough to think that Trisha’s pregnancy was a result of only one sexual encounter between Trisha and George, but I didn’t realize he’d replaced us long before I thought we needed replacing. I knew he wasn’t happy with my mother and me. I have a lifetime of evidence—missed dance recitals, the long, exasperated sighs, the yelling, the general disinterest in anything we thought was fun, from the movies we loved to our favorite place to eat out. When he took that sales job that kept him constantly traveling, even though I was young, I knew it had more to do with us than work. I knew he was running from us. But I didn’t know he’d already found refuge with them, that he’d given up that fast on us. When we traveled with him to the town where Trisha and Chelsea lived, George’s current home, the trip with the cheap motel and the fortune-teller neighbor—he had already found them. When he left me for hours, sometimes not coming home until after eight, sometimes staying gone past midnight, was it because he was spending time with them?
“It’s too hot,” I say, standing quickly—too quickly, because my erratic gesture brings Edison to his feet and has Chelsea sitting up.
“I can get you some water,” Edison is saying.
I am trembling but frozen in fury on this damn dock with Chelsea and her stories that could break my heart.
But I could break her heart, too, I think. There’s a thudding in my chest that reaches my ears. Oh, why not? Why not abolish this perfect day, let the New Browns see all the ways I despise their happiness? Burst this bubble they’re in thinking I’m acting better, that it’s doing me some good being out here, and tell her all about Edison and the sneaking out, the champagne and the blanket, the kiss that I will gladly blow out of proportion just for her.
She stares at me, her expression full of uncertainty, like she can see it—the monster in me trying to escape.
I open my mouth, ready to tell her everything I really wish, everything that would peel away her happiness about George and Edison and me. But I’m cut off by a splash. A blast of water hitting the side of my face and then filling all the space around me. I break the surface in time to see Chelsea scrambling to stand up, saying, “Eddy, why did you do that?”
He is next to me in the water, pushing his wet hair out of his face.
“Sorry,” Edison says, not even trying for sincerity. “I thought Maris looked like she could use some water.”
She stares at him, shaking her head. She would definitely be rolling her eyes and smiling, except she’s worried that I’m upset about being knocked into the water.
“Are you okay?” she asks me.
I nod. The water has stolen my tears and washed away my anger. My head is clear. The monster is in its cage. I don’t want to hurt her; I don’t want to be isolated. I don’t want to ruin this summer for them or for myself.
Edison stares at me, trying to read my reaction.
I have a horrible thought: I’m glad he’s here.
I slap against the water, sending a sizable splash right in his face. Chelsea laughs, exultant now that she knows I’m not mad about being pushed in the water.
I splash him again. For having it so easy.
He wipes the water out of his eyes again, and this time when he looks at me, he
nods. Like he knows. Like he could tell I needed to be stopped, the way I could tell on the island that he needed me to stay.
“Let’s race,” I say.
“Maris,” he says so quietly I don’t think Chelsea can hear him above the sound of waves hitting the dock. “We don’t have to.”
“Come on.” I send a final big splash his direction and kick off toward the shore. “I hate to lose, remember?”
He shakes his head. Edison’s smile sprouts on his face. “Fine. But you won’t beat me.”
He lets me win.
Chapter 23
We eat dinner on the Duvals’ grotto surrounded by tea lights, the smell of charcoal and the sound of our laughter crisp as the night’s air. The ocean is far below us, but we can still hear it roaring.
After the meal is over, I wander to the edge of the grotto, where Sepp is leaning against a brick retaining wall that holds up a row of round hedges for the garden on the other side. Kath left right before dinner, and the second she was out the door, he downed two margaritas and hasn’t let up since dinner.
“Hey,” I say.
He is already part gone. When you have money and no real responsibilities for the day, I guess there’s no harm in being listless and drunk the way he is.
“Kath was nice,” I say.
“Glad to have your approval.”
“She seems like the type that gets everyone’s approval.”
“That, she is.” He stops to examine me, pointing and saying, “You don’t miss a damn thing, do you?”
We both turn at the same time to the sound of Edison and Chelsea laughing. Maybe we’re both thinking that she is also the type that gets everyone’s approval. Not a red mark on her record. Nothing to be held against her but naïveté.