What I Thought Was True (31 page)

“God, sorry. Cramp. You mean, you mean if I were you?

About this?”

“If Mrs. E. were your grandmother or something and you

saw what was going on?”

He looks past me, out at the water for a moment as though

reading the answer from the waves. “Hm. Tough one. It’d be a

different situation then—family instead of someone you work

for. ‘Not my place’ and all that crap.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, smiling at him. “You’re admitting you
have

a place. Seashell’s brainwashed you at last, Jose.”

“This is my place.” He settles his head more forcefully on

the cushion, nestles my head more firmly onto him. “Right

here.”

As if I’m a destination he’s reached, searched for. The
X
on a treasure map. “Cass . . . does this mean . . . Are we . . . ?”

My words are coming slowly, not just because of the lazy

afternoon, the lullaby rock of the water, but because I have

no idea which ones to use. I’m fumbling with how to put it,

what to ask, hoping he’ll somehow read my mind, fill in the

blanks—

“What’s Nic afraid of, Gwen?”

“Um, Nic? Not much. Why?”

“Because he’s doing the same thing with swim practice you

were doing about tutoring me. And I know in his case it’s not

fear of succumbing to my deadly charm. I keep texting him

to set up a time when we, he and Spence and me, can get on

with it. We need to practice as a team, the three of us. He keeps

blowing me off. Spence too. But I can deal with Chan. I need

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you for Nic.”

“It’s really important to Nic. Getting the captain spot.”

“That’s why I don’t get the blow-off. It’s important to all of

us. Nic has no monopoly.”

“But he needs . . .” Here I falter, stumbling on the old lines.

Nic needs it more. If he falls or fails, there’s no safety net. But then there’s Cass’s brother Bill, saying how Cass has to work

harder, how he won’t come out of things smelling like a rose.

His voice roughens, less drowsy. “Speaking of what matters,

in case you haven’t figured it out—this does. Us. To me, any-

way. Your cousin and I are not going to be blood brothers. My

best friend may not be your favorite person. Fine. But no more

reversals of fortune—not with you and me.”

He says this last sentence so forcefully, I’m a little stunned.

When I don’t answer instantly he moves to sit up, looks me in

the eye. “What?”

“So are we . . . ?”
Dating? A couple? Together?
“Seeing each other? It’s not that you have to take me home to your family

or—”

Cass groans. “Are all island girls this crazy, or did I luck

out?”

I sigh. “Well, you know. Picnic baskets.”

“Gwen. I mean this is in the nicest possible way. You will

never be a picnic. Which is one of the things I lo—” He stops,

takes a deep breath, starts again: “Can we just put the whole

picnic basket thing away with the lobsters? For the record, to

be clear, we’re doing this right.”

“The man with the maps.”

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He shakes his head, moving to his feet, tipping back against

the railing of the boat so he can pull out the lining of first one of his pockets, then the other, then extend his open palms.

“Map free. Know what that means? Need SparkNotes? You’re

my girlfriend, not my picnic basket, or any other screwed-up

metaphor.”

He says all of this firmly, his logical voice.

After a minute or two, he adds, “I mean . . . unless I’m
your

picnic basket.”

I laugh. But he’s not even smiling. He seems to be waiting

for something. And I don’t know what it is. Or exactly how

to give it to him. Instead I say lightly, “I think of you more

as a Dockside Delight.” I slide over, lean into him, my hand

tight against his heart, wishing that how I feel could just flow

between us that way, without getting tangled up in words.

On the way home after sailing we don’t say much. I’m yawn-

ing—a long day of being in the sun and the water—and so is

he. We hold hands. It feels perfect.

It’s only after I’m home, scrubbing off in the outdoor

shower, that I realize he never did tell me what he thought the

right thing to do was.

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Spence and Cass are on their way over to Sandy Claw, and Nic’s

already swimming drills. He’s working on the one that helps

your elbow-bending at the start of the pull, which involves

swimming with his fingers closed into a fist. His eyes are

tightly shut too, giving him this look of total absorption, com-

plete intensity.

The sky’s sharply blue, summer at its shiniest, sun glint-

ing off the waves, horizon bright with spinnakers, schooners,

every size of boat at home on an ocean big enough to contain

them all. As I’m squinting out at Nic, Viv slides into place

next to me, her dark hair wind-blown and loose today, none

of her usual contained styles. Our legs swing side by side over

the edge, like old times. “He never forgets,” she says, touch-

ing the pile of flat stones next to the piling. “That Nic.”

“He was looking around to claim his kisses before he got

started.”

She casts a quick look out at the water, then starts chipping

at her nail, flicking at one of the little flowers painted on her

ring finger. “Has Nic seemed . . . okay to you lately?”

I’ve never needed to be Switzerland, respecting boundaries

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and borders with Nic and Viv. When we were younger, we all

told one another everything. When they became a couple, there

were different retellings, from Nic to me, from Viv, but it was

all the same story. Now . . .

I didn’t think, ever, that I’d have to scramble about which

truth to tell. I never thought “other people’s stories” would

apply to the three of us. We
are
one another’s stories.

“Tense,” I finally say. “With you too? I thought maybe he

was being weird with me, because of . . . well, because of me

being with Cass. Has he talked about that with you?”

She shrugs, chews her lip. I recognize the look on her face,

the “torn between loyalties” one.

“He’s sort of macho-macho with Cass, giving him these

‘don’t lay a finger on my cousin’ looks . . .” I say, trailing off so she’ll talk.

“Yeah.” Viv sighs. “He’s pretty testosterone-heavy lately.”

I wait for her to make a joke about not minding
that,
but instead she asks, “You don’t think he’s . . . on anything, do you?”

“On . . . you mean drugs? Like steroids? God no. This is Nic,

he would never . . .”

I know that’s not it. But . . . Nic’s moodiness, his darkness,

his obsession with weight lifting, the tension with Dad . . . No.

He wouldn’t.

Vivien doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the water, on

Nic. He’s now rolled over and is doing the backstroke, his

form so perfect, it’s almost mechanical, like the wind-up scuba

Superman who swims doggedly in Em’s baths.

“He would never,” I repeat again. “You know that, right?

You know him. Better than anyone.”

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I pull on her hand, bringing her gaze back to me. Then I

realize it’s like I’m asking her for reassurance when I should

be the one giving it. I put my arm around her, give her a little

shake. “Nico doesn’t even take aspirin.”

She’s picked up one of the rocks, studies it, turning it over

and over. Dark orange, worn smooth by countless waves, marked

by holes. A brick. Probably from the steps of one of the houses

on Sandy Claw, unwisely built on the beach, long ago swept out

to sea in some forgotten hurricane. “You’re right. Ugh. Don’t

pay attention to me. Al got the contract to some big political

thing and was spazzing out all over me today. I kept calling Nic

to talk and getting bounced to his voicemail. I thought maybe he

was . . . I don’t know. Doing the same thing with me that he does

with your dad. Mike was calling him the other day when Nico

was helping me pack up for a clambake and he kept checking his

phone but not picking up. I’m just being paranoid.”

“Yeah, Dad . . .” I shake my head. “Do you guys talk about

that?”

Viv’s pretty green eyes are sad. “Not much.”

I reach out my pinkie, hook it around hers. “At least
we’r
e good. Right?”

She knots her pinkie with mine, pulls, still staring out at the

water. “Yeah . . .”

“Viv. Look at me.”

She turns immediately, gives a reasonably accurate version

of her glowing smile. “We’re golden.”

I pick up one of the skipping stones, spiraling it over and

over in my hand. The mica in it flashes bright in the sun. I slant it and skip it out to sea.

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Once, twice . . . It goes all the way to seven, touching down

lightly, glancing up, winging out hard, far, far, far, the farthest I’ve ever skipped.

Viv nudges me with her thin brown shoulder. “
You
gonna

grant some kisses now? Come on, babe. I want to see how

much you’ve picked up from Cass Somers.”

I roll my eyes. “Ever think maybe
he’s
learning from
me
?”

Someone clears his throat, and—fantastic—there are Cass

and Spence. Cass has his game face on, and Spence a simi-

larly untranslatable expression. How the hell did they walk this

close on the dock without us hearing? Nic climbs up the lad-

der from the water, scattering droplets as he shakes his head

like Fabio after a bath.

Spence: “Getting a jump on us, Cruz? Hear you like to do

that. Shave a few seconds off your time. Any way that works

for you.”

Nic (deadpan): “Just more dedicated, I guess.”

Cass (neutral): “How many drills did you do already?”

Nic (shrugs, like he’s so fit it doesn’t matter): “Some.”

Cass: “A few more, then.” (Glancing at Spence) “What do

you think, Chan, crossovers? Or single-arm drill?”

Spence: “Single-arm, since Cruz has this entering too early

problem . . . so he’ll wind up driving down instead of extend-

ing forward and that’ll increase his drag and slow the whole

team down.”

Impressive the way they can make drill techniques into

insults.

“Boys,” Vivien says to me, loudly enough for the three of

them to hear. “We’re so lucky we’re not male, Gwen.”

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“At least two out of three of us agree with you, Vivien,”

Spence says smoothly, then winks at her.

Viv looks at Nic’s somewhat thunderous face, makes a shoo-

ing motion toward the water, then claps her hands together

briskly. “Get on with it, guys. I think you
all
need to cool off.”

“Hang on,” Cass says to the other two. He takes my hand

and pulls me over to the corner of the pier, out of earshot of

the others. Bends to my ear. “Let’s declare the ‘who’s teaching

and who’s learning’ thing a tie. You can one-up me in other

ways.”

I smile. “Hedge clipping?” I ask.

“Not my first choice.”

“Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all

need to relax here and do this.”

“Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.

“I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”

Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least

we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting

hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass

comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into

the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to

the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we

both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are

splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impos-

sible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their

laughing face.

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“Far too beautiful to go back indoors,” Avis King says deter-

minedly. “I propose we have our reading session on the beach

instead of some stuffy porch.

A chorus of agreement from the ladies, although “stuffy” is

the last thing anyone could call the Ellington porch.

“I personally am in favor of being rebellious and forgoing

my nap today. My word, Henry is becoming fussier than any

old woman. He called last night to make sure I was going to

rest from one to three. I dislike being nagged,” Mrs. Ellington

says crossly.

But, since we didn’t bring any reading material to the beach,

I’m dispatched back to the house to fetch
The Sensuous Sins of
Lady Sarah
.

When I get there, I am not at all surprised to see Henry’s car

parked in the driveway.

As I push open the screen door, I have a wave of weariness,

then near fury.
Other people’s stories,
I repeat to myself.

The door slams behind me and I shout, “Hello!” The way I

learned to make noise coming home when Nic and Viv might

be there alone.
Hello. I’m here. A witness. Don’t let me catch you.

Henry Ellington turns, startled, from the kitchen sink,

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where he’s standing, drinking a glass of water. He doesn’t look

well. His skin’s pale, almost gray, and a sheen of sweat marks

his forehead.

Spread out all over the kitchen table are silver bowls and

all those complicated pieces of the tea set and these little cups

with handles and engraved initials and silver bears climbing

up them. Over the summer, they’ve become more than things

to polish and wash. I know their stories. The powdered sugar

sifter Mrs. Ellington’s father used, “on Cook’s day off” to top

off the French toast, the only thing he knew how to make

for Mrs. E. and her brothers. The ashtrays she and the captain

bought at the London Silver Vaults. “They were so lovely. Nei-

ther of us smoked, but look at them.” The grape shears. “We

got five of these as wedding presents, dear Gwen. I enjoyed

thinking that everyone, so proper, who danced at our wedding,

imagined us dangling grapes over each other’s mouths, like

some debauched Greek gods.”

So many moments of Mrs. E.’s are laid out on the table, like

silver fish resting on ice at Fillerman’s. I wonder if Henry even

knows the stories. And if he does . . . how can he possibly sell

them?

“Guinevere? Where’s Mother?” His brow draws together.

He straightens, somehow seeming to make himself taller. “I’d

assumed she was napping, but there was no sign of either her

or you.”

“At Abenaki with the ladies,” I say flatly. God, I’m suddenly

so tired. I could sit at the blue enamel painted chair, rest my

head on my arms, just go to sleep. Except that I’d have to move

aside the silver first.

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“You left my nearly ninety-year-old mother on the beach.

With a bunch of eighty-year-olds to watch over her. This

seemed like a responsible choice to you?”

He’s peering over his reading glasses, literally looking down

at me.

It isn’t until I shove my hand into the pocket of my jean skirt

and hear the crackle of paper that I remember what it is. Dad’s

had extra loads of laundry lately. This was my one clean skirt. I

didn’t think twice when I put it on this morning.

I pull out the check that Henry Ellington gave me, holding

it out of sight.

I took it, that day Henry offered it. I don’t need to open it again to see the amount, scrawled firmly in blue ballpoint pen. I haven’t deposited it. But I didn’t tear it up either. I never threw it away.

“Do you have an answer for me, Guinevere?” he asks.

Last night, I finally asked Mom why she named me Guinevere,

after a woman no one admired. We were eating ice cream on the

porch, passing the spoon back and forth, nearly over our heads

to avoid the hopeful, slightly toothless leaps of Fabio.

“Really, Gwen, honey? I always liked her. She wasn’t a wimp

or a simp like that Elaine. Not helpless, asking someone to res-

cue her. Knew she loved them both. Mr. Honorable and Mr.

Heroic. Arthur and Lancelot. I always thought she was the star

of her own story. At least she knew what was really going on.”

Which, of course I do.

So yes, I do, in fact, have an answer.

I smooth the check out on the kitchen table. Next to the fish

knives. The silver ashtrays. All the stories. Henry Ellington looks down at it, his face showing nothing at all.

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The day Dad gave me his “she’s loaded and she’s losing it”

advice, I never thought it would actually apply to me, and defi-

nitely not like this.

I take a breath.

“Mr. Ellington,” I say. “You told me you were giving me this

because I deserved a little extra. I don’t think you meant that.

I don’t think you admire my work ethic. I don’t think you like

me or value my service. I think you expect my silence.”

His face crumples for a moment, the lines of his cheeks, his

eyes, all contracting, freezing. Then he holds out a hand, palm

outraised, like my words are traffic he’s stopping. “I don’t think you understand my position here, Guinevere. I’m protecting

my mother. A helpless old woman.”

Helpless old woman, my ass.

“Mr. Ellington.” I close my eyes. Another deep breath. Open

them. “Does she really want . . . does she really need . . .

your”—I raise my fingers to form air quotes—“protection?”

Henry’s face flushes crimson. “It’s my job,” he says. “My

mother is . . . elderly. Not in full possession of her . . .” He

darts a look out the window, as though making sure we won’t

be overheard, even as his own voice rises. “Damn it, why am

I explaining this to
you
? Mother’s getting older, times have changed, and she just won’t make allowances for reality. When

she goes, I’m going to have this entire estate to deal with, all

of her promises, her debts of honor that don’t matter anymore.

Her special bequests to schools she hasn’t been to for seventy

years, to people like Beth McHenry, who cleaned the house—

cleaned the house,
scrubbed the toilets, and changed the sheets, while I was spending all my time working in a job to support

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this summer home”—he says “summer home” as though it’s

an expletive—“a place I barely get the chance to visit, a life-

style that’s run its course. Yard boys and night nurses and sum-

mer help, cooks and cleaners, you, and that damned expensive

end-of-the-summer party she always has. Her finances,
all
of our finances, have taken a hit in the market. But try telling my

mother that! She’s never even had to balance a checkbook!”

He crosses over to the bar, splashes some amber liquid into

a glass, goes to the freezer for ice. Instead of taking the time

to smash the pieces with his little hammer thing, he just drops

them into the sink, hard, then picks up the shattered bits and

dumps them into the glass, tips it back, swallows.

“All this . . . drama . . . would upset her,” he mutters.

Don’t upset your mother.
Dad’s refrain from that summer with Vovó.

“I can’t tell her,” he repeats.

Can’t. Won’t. Are afraid to?

I know all about all three.

“Have . . . have you tried?” The words seem to catch in my

throat, it’s so hard to say them. Just a job. Not my place. But . . .

He doesn’t answer. Takes another sip.

There’s a very long silence.

He watches me over the rim of his glass. And I stare back

down at the check. Set my finger down on it, deliberately, slip-

ping it across the table as though I’m passing him a napkin,

just doing my job.

“Am I fired, Mr. Ellington? Because if I’m not, I’d better get

back to the beach.”

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Mrs. E. has survived my neglect. She and the ladies are quite

happily ensconced in their beach chairs, watching with a

frightening level of appreciation as Cass rakes the sand.

They’re in a circle, towels swooped around their shoulders,

bobbed gray hair, permed white hair, long braids meant to be

coiled up into buns, styles that went away generations ago.

“If I were thirty years younger . . .” Avis King says, nodding

approvingly as Cass flicks seaweed into the tall grass.

Big Mrs. McCloud shoots her a look.

“Fine. Forty,” she concedes. “Is this your boy, Gwen? He’s

adorable.”

Adorable
seems like a fluffy-kitten word, defanged,

declawed—not Cass and all these feelings at all. He glances over

at me, catches me looking, grins knowingly, then keeps raking.

“Ad-or-able.” Mrs. Cole sighs. “Good lordy lord lord.”

“Beach bonfire tonight, I’m hearing,” Avis King says.

“Isn’t it nice that those still go on? Remember ours? Oh,

that Ben Cruz. With his lovely shoulders. Always so tanned.

Those cut-offs.”

Okay, disturbing. I think she just referenced my grandfather

as the hot yard guy.

“He’d get the lobsters. Who was it who brought the

bread from that Portuguese bakery in town? Sweet bread

and regular? Ten loaves each. We’d toast them on sticks, dip

them in butter.”

“Glaucia,” Beth McHenry says. “She got her license first of

all of us. Remember? She used to whip around town in that old

gray truck, bring potatoes and linguica and malassadas from

Pedrinho’s out to the island.”

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Mrs. Cole nods. “I was always partial to the meringues.”

“Remember when the captain brought the volleyball net

down from the court and we decorated it with those tiny white

Christmas lights?”

“Labor Day . . .” Mrs. E. says. “The final summer party. We

all decided to dress in white because in those days you weren’t

supposed to wear it after Labor Day. It was our last hurrah. Our

big rebellion.”

“The boys wore their white jackets. If they had them,” Big

Mrs. McCloud reflects. “Arthur had too many, he loaned them

out to Ben and Matthias and whoever needed one. He’d lend

his tan bucks too. But then a lot of them went barefoot. That

seemed so rebellious.”

“We played volleyball in our long skirts,” Avis King says. “I

beat the pants off Malcolm. He proposed later that night.”

“Was it easier then?” Mrs. Ellington asks. “I do believe so.

Our revolts were so much smaller. Our questions so much eas-

ier to answer. There were rules to it all.
May I call on you after
your European tour?
That was how I knew the captain cared for me. I don’t believe that translates into texting.”

They debate back and forth about it. Whether it should be

one of those island rituals that sticks, the Labor Day party. Or

whether its time has come and gone.

“We could do it again,” Mrs. Cole says. “We’re the entertain-

ment committee on the board now. No rules to say we can’t.

Well, none like the rules we used to have, anyway.”

From a distance, from the movies, I know these rules too—

white bucks and blazers, don’t wear white after Labor Day,

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controlled social calendars, when all of that seemed as though

it mattered . . .

We still have those, though. Not so much what we wear, but

how we act and what we do.

Other customs, rituals, rules. New important things unspo-

ken.

Will Henry say anything to his mother? More impor-

tantly . . . will I?

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