Tighter (3 page)

But the water between the bluffs was rougher than I’d anticipated, waves smashing in and out of the gullies. Black eelgrass noosed tight around my ankles as my jeans soaked to a watermark just past my knee, then climbed darkly higher.

At the roar overhead, I looked up to see a private jet wing past, so low and close that while there was plenty of space between us, I instinctively ducked, wetting my upper half to match my lower. The airport must be on this side of the island. It wasn’t hard to picture all the fabulous Little Blyers coasting in from the city on their propjets, right on time for lobster thermidor. Capital M Money lived here. I could see it in the peaked roofs along the coast, the lush gardens and hedgerows bordering properties spread out so far that not a decibel of someone else’s noise polluted the ears of his neighbor.

I didn’t know much about the Very Rich. The most glamorous kid in my class was Dex Benten, whose parents once attended the Academy Awards because they’d composed the sound tracks for the
Bourne Identity
franchise. Dex’s house had an eternity pool and he drove a used BMW, but that wasn’t much to throw around. That wasn’t private planes and homes with names, and for a sea-soaked moment, I felt completely manipulated onto this island. Who was I, some Victorian waif suffering from a Mystery Lung Disease, where the only cure was exile and isolation? This wasn’t my scene at all. And I didn’t know a soul.

When it had been an abstraction, Little Bly had sounded almost exhilarating. Here, in the tidal, crashing reality, I was struck by how desperately lonely I might be for the next six weeks.

What. The hell. Was I doing here?

Jerking myself from my thoughts, I began to move fast, wading out with long strides into the ocean, but I still couldn’t crack how to approach the hard profile of rock surrounded by its moat of sucking shoals. Eventually, I gave up, retracing my steps until I was back on land below Skylark again. The only other way in was to return to the house, then head down the hill on its opposite side and skirt around to the back of the lighthouse. Eating up another twenty minutes, minimum.

I measured it. Even an unsuccessful attempt was better than returning to Connie, who’d no doubt find me some mind-numbing, pre-dinner kitchen tasks. She was just that type.

Anywhere but back. I’d keep going.

And as it turned out, once I’d scaled the hill, I found a wooden walk secured on its ocean side by a rail. I took it and became instantly engrossed with watching my feet; my pedicure was so chipped it showed more toenail than polish. So when I finally did look up, I stopped cold, my heart jumping in surprise.

Either I was going deaf, or the kids hadn’t made a sound.

There were two of them, standing a dozen yards ahead where the rail ended, at the edge of a jut of overhang. I shaded my eyes. One painkiller’s side effect was occasionally a fuzzy double image, but this was no trick of the eye.

Two same-sized girls in shorts and T-shirts. Or maybe a girl and a skinny, shortish guy?

The longer I looked, the more I was sure, yes, definitely a guy, but not so shrimpy as the girl was tall. And they were sharing a private moment. There was a leaning-in-ness and face-to-face-ness about them. They must not have seen me yet, either, and so I started self-consciously clearing my throat—though neither of them reacted. Maybe they were neighbors—part of the “kick-back bunch” of Little Blyers that Miles McRae talked about. If I could make a couple of friends right from day one, then I wouldn’t have to

“Jamie!”

At the sound of my name, I snapped around.

She was a flit of white high above, her arms making broad arcs, as if she needed rescuing. Standing in front of the lighthouse, she seemed as matched to it as a Dutch girl guarding her windmill. I signaled back as I swerved off the walk and broke into a jog to meet her, glancing back over my shoulder at the couple.

Only they weren’t there, and in my next breath, the late afternoon sun had burned through the haze to shine harsh in my eyes. I spun around, confused—
whoa whoa wait wait
, where had they gone? Had they climbed down, or dived off that rock? No way, it was so high. But I had to know, and I veered in the opposite direction, running to look over the edge of the cliff. I hadn’t been too aerobic since my injury, and by the time I reached the place where they’d been, I could feel the burn in my lungs and gently used muscles.

Nothing. Nothing below but the phlegm of foam breaking over the peaks of rock. The tide was coming in. I caught my breath. Had they jumped? For real? The water didn’t seem deep enough; any kind of long-drop jump looked incredibly dangerous. Maybe they’d climbed down quick, a pair of romantic sand crabs, and then scuttled off to some secret grotto, but the timing of that was almost impossible.

“Jamie! Over here!”

I turned again to face Isa, who was now gliding down the hill. She was even prettier than the picture Miles had jpged. On our one phone call, he’d told me that Isa had been adopted as an infant from Vietnam (“though she reminds me of my late wife anyway. Something about her laugh, it breaks my heart, go figure”), and her sandalwood skin and gourmet-chocolate eyes looked as if they’d been warmed by sunshine. She radiated with such a näive, delicate sweetness that it was hard not to automatically want to reflect some of it as I smiled back at her.

“Jamie, right? You’re such a honey, coming out here to find me,” she said. Calling me a honey seemed like a quirky, almost antiquated thing for an eleven-year-old girl to do. Except Isa wasn’t your typical almost–seventh grader. I could tell that at once; she wasn’t one of those girls trend-surfing on wash-out henna tattoos, retro T-shirts or the glitter body makeup that I’d forever associate with Maggie’s and my junior high experience—a two-year recipe of Trying Too Hard with a major pinch of Not Getting It.

Isa’s nearly waist-length hair and eyelet cotton dress were more old-fashioned and whimsical than anything I’d have been caught dead in at that age. But when she briefly took my hand in greeting, the needy pressure of her grip reminded me of the way I’d once grasped Mr. Ryan’s fingers under the table at Ruby Tuesday. My squeezing hand, my urgent and devoted stare. I’d been just as much a child, in my own way. And yet it also seemed like a long time ago, too, when I’d felt such innocence.

“What’s wrong?” Isa stepped back to scrutinize me. “You looked at me funny.”

“I’m sorry.” I smiled. In the bright sun it felt like I was grimacing. “Nice to meet you.”

She squinted at me, then grinned. “Me too. It’s been maximum boring here, especially since Milo’s away at camp this summer, which leaves just me and the Funsicle, who hates to drive me places or do anything cool. The Funsicle even hates music. Once I asked her what kind, and she said the musical kind.”

“Who’s the Funsicle?”

“Connie. It’s her nickname. Jessie made it up because she said Connie’s the Grim Reaper of Fun. As in, if she thinks people are having a good time, she slices it to the ground.”

“I like that. Fun sickle. And who’s Milo?”

“My older brother.”

“I don’t think your dad mentioned him.”

“Probably since you’ll never meet him. You’re just for me, after all. Milo’s away till August. Which is too bad. Miley’s the man. He’s major gorgie—all my friends say. And he’s sweet when he’s not intense. Sucks he’s fourteen or you’d have fallen madly in love with him.”

“Maybe it’s better that he’s not around to distract me.”

I’d been kidding, but Isa seemed to take my comment sincerely. “That’s true.”

“Hey, Isa”—I said her name tentatively; she was the first Isa I’d ever known—“did you see those kids up there?”

“What kids? I’ve been alone all day, losing my mind from boredom. When I saw you drive up, I was, like, Fine-Ally.” She spun out in a twirl of black hair and white dress. “My dad told me he went out with your mom way back.”

“Over thirty years ago,” I said. “It’s weird to imagine those days—before the Internet, right?”

“It’s weirder to imagine my dad young,” she said, giving me a look like perhaps she’d overestimated me. “C’mon. Let’s go down. I made mint lemonade.” As she yanked me toward the walk, her shackle on my wrist was too intense for me to run more than a quick check over my shoulder, to where the kids had stood.

I had seen them, hadn’t I? I knew I had.

“Connie hates anyone to be late,” Isa warned as we approached the house. “ ‘Theven meanth theven.’ Jess always used to say Connie’d chop off three of your fingers if you’d let her, to remind you what time to be home for dinner.”

I snorted. I liked that. “So where is your Jessie this summer?”

Isa regarded me. Her face was a golden, heart-shaped locket, with every feature scrolled into place like a careful calligraphy. Pretty as she was now, in a few years she’d be a knockout. I was also struck, even before she spoke again, by the sadness in her face now that her smile was gone.

“Jessie’s dead,” she answered.

FOUR

We arrived at the house to find a van stenciled with the sign
LITTLE BLY LIVERY 1-800-BLY-RIDE
parked outside the wide-open front door, where Connie emerged clutching a fistful of bills.

“Dad’s home?” I heard the catch of hope in Isa’s voice. “Yes way! To surprise us!” She looked at me gleefully, but my mind was still reeling with the new information.

Jessie, this my-age girl who’d held my job, this fun-loving, Connie-defying girl with whom I’d felt an instant bond based on those few facts, was
dead
.

How? Why? When? Had she lived at Skylark? What happened to her?

Isa hadn’t wanted to go into details, so I’d played it casually. Letting her ramble about the lemonade she’d made for me—using mint she’d picked herself from the kitchen garden—and recount her past performance this spring when she and her friend Clementine had put on a play based on the Robert Frost poem “Mending Wall” for their entire sixth-grade class.

At my school, you’d get your butt kicked for inflicting anything that tedious on your fellow students. But I could already see that Isa was a more fragile specimen than Mags and me at the height of our wedgie-yanking, middle school powers.

“Here.” Connie was hopping down the steps to shove the money through the passenger-side window at the cab driver. “It’th not much but it’th not my fault, either, hadn’t got a chanth to get into town to …” Whatever she said next was obscured by wheels spinning as the driver took his lame tip and roared off.

Whoever had arrived, I wouldn’t be making a killer impression. Not in my wet clothes and sweaty face. Isa herself was adjusting one of her dress straps and shaking back her hair.

“Is it Dad? It’s Dad, right?”

“No,” said Connie, “it’th Dr. Hugh. And he’th only thtaying for dinner, and don’t bother him for caramel.”

“Dr. Hugh, cool.” Though Isa still looked disappointed as she darted into the house. “Dr. Hyoooooo! Did you bring me any caramels?”

“Her thychiatritht,” explained Connie. “He popped over to check in. Hardly enough dinner for everyone, but there’th nothing I can do.”

I followed her into the house and to the kitchen, where a man who looked like one of the Smith Brothers cough-drops guys—the one with the
Guitar Hero
beard—stood formally in his summer suit accepting the glass of lemonade Isa had poured him.

But as soon as I entered, the doctor’s eyes snapped like a terrier bite to my face. And I knew he’d come not just to check on Isa, but also to see about me.

“Hello! You’re the babysitter? Jamie Atkinson?”

I nodded. “ ’Scuse me. Just going to wash up.” I pivoted and ran for it. Up the stairs, down the three turns of hallway to my bedroom, where I locked my bathroom door and stayed there a few minutes, working on some calming breaths.

I hated doctors, I really did. I wasn’t even too crazy about Dr. Gamba, and she’d been the family doctor since forever. But the whole medical profession freaked me out the way they always wanted more from you. More answers about your health, more information about your weight and your eating habits and when was the last time you fill-in-the-embarrassing-blanked.

A quick splash of water on my face and a few drags of my brush through my hair ate up another minute or so.

“Relax,” I told my reflection. “This guy is just some country-fried shrink. He’s not out to dissect you.” But then I dawdled, rearranging the pink soap pigs on their dish. Why had Isa been seeing a psychiatrist? What was wrong with her? Did it have anything to do with what had happened last summer?

McRae certainly had been sparse with the details of this job. Talk about being thrown in the deep end. And I didn’t even have Mags. I didn’t have anyone.

Okay, deal. Game face.
One final, unnecessary flush of the toilet—
take that, Funsicle
—and I left.

Motoring out the door to the corridor, I smashed right into him.

“Oh! Sorry.” I jumped back. “Sorry, sorry,” I repeated.

Behind us, the three portrait children stared.

Maybe it was the slightly affected way he stood there, a bit defiant, a bit entitled, like a rock star at his microphone. Or maybe it was that he so sharply echoed my imaginings of his rogue charmer father. But I knew straight off that this was Milo McRae.

“No, my bad,” he said, uncaring. “Who’re you?”

“Jamie. The babysitter. Or au pair, whatever.”

“Hi-larious. You gonna spoon-feed me applesauce and put me in my pj’s?”

“I’m here for Isa.”

“Yeah, I know.” He appeared more relaxed than I was. “I’m the prodigal Milo.”

I didn’t answer. We took each other in. Most fourteen-year-old boys were a pathetic misery of blackheads and hormones. Not this one. Isa hadn’t exaggerated. He was handsome. More than handsome. I could see in a minute that this was the kid who bought the beer, the kid who broke the locks and knew the passwords, the kid who’d fooled around with older girls late night in the lodge during his last ski holiday. In some ways, he was also the kid I feared most—the ultimate prepster, with his braided rope bracelet and threadworn boaters that probably matched his S.S.
Trustpuppy
starter sailboat moored over at the Little Bly Yacht Club harbor.