What I Thought Was True (8 page)

brownies. Not maple-basted bluefish.” No one wants maple-

basted bluefish. Blech.

His gaze sharpens on me. “How do you know this, Guine-

vere Angelina Castle?”

Um, I’m a teenager? I go to high school?
“Health class.”

Dad shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go down that dead-

end road, mess with your brain.”

“Don’t worry, Dad. I stick to cocaine.”

He scowls. “Well, knock it off. That stuff’s wicked expen-

sive. And pull up your shirt—there.” He jerks his head at my

neckline. It’s not even low. I tug it up anyway. Dad tosses me

my purple apron, even better coverage, and tells me to man the

side booth. “And put on your hat.”

Within ten minutes, we’re totally overwhelmed. Nedda,

who must have the patience of all the saints, because she’s

worked here for three years, is slaving over the grill. A busload

of tourists headed to Foxwoods is taking up two-thirds of our

parking lot and three-quarters of our burger supply. A skinny

new guy named Harold is languidly manning the fry basket.

I’ve got Emory parked at a back table now, with a grilled cheese.

“Gwen, table six, fast. We’re running behind,” Dad barks.

“I’ll handle the orders, you hustle ’em out there. We get more

tips if a pretty girl does the running.”

Dad rarely dishes out compliments, so they always hit hard

when he does. I’m blushing a little as I gather up the tray of

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burgers and birch beers and head out to six. Which . . . natu-

rally . . . is Cass. And someone who looks a lot like him. Not

his dad. Dark-haired, but with the same lean-muscled look and

piercing blue eyes.

Cass has his back to me, hands braced on the table. “We’ve

been through this a million times, Billy. What more do you

want from me?”

“Some sign that you’ll listen to your own brain instead of

Channing’s. We all know how well that worked out at Hodges,

squirt.”

I suppress a smile at the nickname.

“That was a year ago, Bill—and it was just a joke. That place

takes itself way too seriously.”

“A joke that got you out on your ass. Still pretty damn

embarrassing for Jake too, since
he works there
. Spence’s dad might have finessed it so expulsion didn’t show up on
his

record, but it’s on yours, little brother. For keeps.”

Cass is now digging a thumbnail into the wood of the picnic

table. The backs of his ears are flushed. I’m standing there with

their food, blatantly eavesdropping. I always kind of wondered

why he and Spence came to SBH last fall as juniors. Prepped-

out Hodges is where Stony Bay kids go when price is no object.

“Look, you’re smarter than this, squirt. I’d hang it up if I felt

like you’d learned your lesson, but you haven’t. This garbage

with your grades looks like more of the same screwing up

to me. To everyone. I love Spence, but he’ll always come out

smelling like a rose. You won’t.”

“You’re my brother, Bill, not—”

“Dad and Mom would tell you the same thing.”

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“They have. Constantly. You know Mom, she loves to

over-explore. Look, I’m paying my dues—working on the

island, mowing freaking football fields’ worth of lawns. I did

a dumbass thing, got a few lousy grades. Let’s move on, for

Chrissake,” Cass says, standing abruptly. “Shouldn’t the food be

here by now?”

He whirls around and almost directly into me. One of the

drinks splashes tsunami-style into the plate of fries and onto

my apron.

“I—was just bringing you this.” I start mopping at the fries,

but they’re hopeless. Then I brush at my shirt, totally frazzled.

“I’ll get you some more. No problem. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Is that ours?” his brother calls out.

“I’ll take it,” Cass says, reaching for the tray. “You don’t have

to wait on me.”

“It’s my job,” I say. He’s got his hands on the tray, and mine

are there too in a kind of flashback to our near-wrestle over the

lobsters. And my peacoat, last spring. I drop my hands, wipe

off my palms, shove the soggy napkins into my apron pocket.

He stands there balancing the tray in one hand, looking out

at the cow pasture that’s directly behind Castle’s, jaw clenched.

“You heard all that, right?”

I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, nothing to do with me.”

He examines my face, then grins. “I call bullshit. You want

to know.”

“Ha. Don’t kid yourself. I couldn’t care less what you did

then.” My turn to look off at the cows, try to absorb their barn-

yard zen. “Or now.”

He sets down the tray, slants a hip against the table. His

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brother’s gotten up and is heading for the service window, no

doubt to complain about the ditz who ruined their fries.

“Ever been inside Hodges—aside from the pool area?”

“Other than the girls’ locker room, no.”

“Pretentious as hell for small-town Connecticut.” He shrugs.

“Not to mention that you had to call the teachers ‘master’

and ‘mistress’ whatever. Should be called ‘Stodges’ instead of

‘Hodges.’” He tugs at his collar as though the mere memory is

choking him.

I’m smiling despite my determination to project complete

indifference.

Cass cocks his head at me, folding his arms. “Oh, never

mind. Why am I telling you this? You don’t care.”

“Do
not
do that. Now you have to tell me.”

He rocks back on his heels, smiles. “Careful, Guinevere. You

might forget you hate me.”

“I—”

I look over to see if Dad has noticed my dawdling, but he’s

apparently in some sort of near altercation with a vendor, who

is holding a huge cardboard barrel of ice cream. Automatically,

I check the table where Emory was drawing, but he’s not there.

Oh God.

The parking lot.

The road.

I whirl around.

Then I feel a soft brush past me, and my little brother steps

in front of Cass, head titled. He’s so small, even though he’s

eight, that reaching up to Cass’s chest is a big deal. He touches

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it lightly, moves his finger across it in a slow, snake-like motion.

I have no idea what he’s doing.

“Superman,” he says proudly, like he’s seen through Cass’s

disguise. He traces the shape again—it’s an
S,
I realize—and beams at both of us.

Cass looks down, game face on, but not freaked out. I hope.

“Hi, Superman,” Emory repeats, invisibly drawing the shield

thing around the
S
.

I don’t know why he’s doing this. Cass has neither dark hair

nor a cape waving in the wind. Maybe the blue of his shirt or

the way he stands with his shoulders back, chin lifted.

Now Dad looks over. “Sorry,” he calls to Cass and his

brother, who’s returning with a fresh order of fries, then to

me: “Gwen, don’t let your little brother pester the customers,

for God’s sake.”

“It’s fine,” Cass calls. His brother sets the fries down on the

table and immediately Em’s reaching for them.

“Superman,” he repeats, popping one in his mouth and

chewing cheekily.

“Em, no!” I struggle as I usually do when people meet him for

the first time, whether to explain or just let them take Em as Em.

“My brother is—”

Cass cuts me off. “We bumped into each other on the beach

yesterday. He was with your grandfather. I gave them a lift up

the hill. They seemed tired.”

I blink. “Before or after your rescue attempt with the lob-

sters?”

“Before.” Cass winks at Emory, who is eating another fry.

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“The Man of Steel never rests. Or maybe that’s Jose the yard

boy. I get my alter egos confused.”

“Hi there,” his brother says to me, with a short wave. “Bill

Somers.”

“This is Gwen Castle, Billy. She’s the one I was saying should

tutor me for that English makeup.”

Wait. This was
his
idea? Not Coach’s?

“Good to meet you. And—don’t pull your punches with

squirt here. He deserves it.”

Cass’s ears turn red. He shoots Bill a swift death-glare.

“Gwen!” Dad calls. “Get your little brother back over here.

You don’t have time for screwing around.”

Bill tells me it was a pleasure, Cass has retreated into his

bland, neutral look, and Emory’s made a major dent in their

fries. I stammer out an apology, take Em’s greasy hand, and

turn to go, only to run into the solid wall of Dad. He’s got yet

another new plate of French fries, not having missed a thing.

“Sorry about this. These’re on the house too,” he says. Then,

stern, to me: “Get back where I can keep an eye on you, kid.

Emory’s
the one who is supposed to need a babysitter.”

God, Dad.
I feel my face burning. But Cass is looking down at the ground, not at me, nudging at the pebbles with the toe

of his sneaker, all neutral face. Dad’s bristly and defensive, Bill faintly amused. Only Emory is completely at ease. He sidles up

to Cass, traces the shield design once again, sweeps his finger

in an
S
. “Superman,” he says.

“I wish,” Cass mutters.

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The first thing I see when I get home, sticky with spilled soda

and French fry grease, are Nic’s big bare feet sticking over the

edge of Myrtle. Vivien is crouched over them in dark purple

bikini bottoms and a low-cut black tank.

Good God. It’s four in the afternoon and they’re in our liv-

ing room. On the couch under the wedding picture of my

no-doubt-virginal grandmother. Not exactly the time or place

for . . . having a foot fetish? Please tell me my cousin has clothes on. I clear my throat.

Vivie glances up, smiles, completely unembarrassed, then

bends back over Nic’s toes.

And blows on them.

“Uh, guys?!” I say. “Maybe you could . . . take it somewhere

else. Officially dying here.”

Nic sits up—thank God, dressed. “I’m doing penance,” he

explains. “Making up for my sins.”

My glance shoots to the crucifix, my grandmother’s sweet,

serious face.

“Uh . . .” I haven’t moved from the doorway. Viv sits back

on her heels, squints at Nic’s foot, and then picks up a bottle

of—“Oh my God, you guys, really!” I practically shout—clear

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nail polish and begins applying it to Nic’s other foot.

Nic looks at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look

so incredibly freaked out,” he manages, then starts laughing

again.

“Nico, hold still!” Vivie slaps at his leg.

“Gwen, Gwen, listen. Viv and I were schlepping a bunch

of fish chowder over to the Senior Lunch at St. Anselm’s, and

Speed Demon here is doing her thing—”

“I was only going fifty.”

“In a thirty-mile-an-hour zone, Vee.” He nudges his toes

lightly into her stomach, turns back to me, more serious now

but still smiling. “She’s wigging out because we’re late and she

doesn’t want Al to get all over her—but I can hear the chowder

sloshing and if my little felon here racks up any more tickets

she’ll be answering to the law, never mind Al.”

Viv wrinkles her nose, sticks her tongue out at him. “You

totally exaggerate how bad my driving is.”

“Uh, no, I don’t. You’re a maniac. And I like having you in

one piece. So she’s barreling along and then we get to this

stoplight and the light turns green and the truck in front of us

isn’t moving. So Vee leans out the window and says, ‘What are

you waiting for, asshole?’ and flips the driver off.”

“God, Viv,” I interrupt. “Don’t
do
that. We’ve told you like a billion times. You never know when you might run into some

psychopath.”

“Exactly. ’Cause this guy gets out of the car and he’s like

eight feet tall, three hundred pounds, tattoos, leather vest,

chains, and he is effing furious. He comes over to the window

and gets in Viv’s face and says, ‘Gonna repeat that?’”

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“And I, like, burst into tears,” Viv says. “I’m picturing him

killing Nic and then God knows what he’d do to me. My life is

flashing before my eyes.”

“So I know I need to talk this guy down because I sure as

hell can’t
take
him down.”

“But it’s the
way
you did it, Nic. He gets all chummy and

buddy-buddy with this jerk.” Viv’s voice deepens. “‘So sorry,

man. My honey here is a little touchy today. Normally she’s

sweet as pie but she gets kinda high-strung at that time of the

month, you know what I’m saying?’ And then this Neanderthal

is clapping Nico on the back all-man-to-man and saying yeah,

he has a wife and four daughters and he’s thinking of getting

an RV that he can park in the driveway because their cycles are

all the same and on and on and on—”

I’m laughing now, and so is Nic again. “Well, he did save

you,” I point out.

“Yeah, but then they spent ten minutes telling women-are-

cray-zee stories, which, I’ll have you know, Nic completely

made up. He’s telling the guy that I once threw a pizza at him

because he got the wrong toppings. That I threw his ball cap

in a wood chipper because I was jealous of the time he was

spending watching Sox games.”

“But again, I did save you,” Nic says, reaching for her hand.

“By making me sound like an out-of-control crazy hormonal

bitch,” Viv says. “So having to get a pedicure is his penance for

being Captain Macho. And so is wearing flip-flops next week

so Hooper and Marco and Tony can admire his pretty tootsies.”

“They do look
dreamy,
Nico,” I say. “And anyway, if she were really mad at you, she would’ve gone for pink.”

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Vivie winks at me—and then pulls a bottle of Day-Glo fuch-

sia polish out of her purse. “That was just the undercoat,” she

says.

“Aw.” Nic ruffles her hair. “You’re so cute when you’re all

riled up, honeybun.”

“Watch it, or you’ll get a
manicure
too.”

He leans over and kisses her . . . and kisses her . . . and kisses her. On and on and on. I might as well be in the next county.

Still, it’s good to know that this exists—true love—in my

world. And not just in Mom’s books.

Al Almeida is telling us what he expects of his catering crew

tonight in a hushed, urgent tone, shifting his eyes to each of us

in turn. The group of us is in a respectful circle outside the turreted canvas tent set up for the rehearsal dinner on Hayden Hill,

the highest point of Stony Bay, windblown, exclusive, over-

looking the water but from far, far away. We soberly observe

him, appropriately dressed in our black-and-white outfits,

peasants at the gates of the palace. Al’s intimidating, actually,

with beetle-y brows and military-short hair. “All right—listen

up.” He checks his watch. One of his watches. He always wears

one on each wrist.

“Showtime is in ten minutes. Seven o’clock. We’ve got a

ton of littlenecks. Sorta skimpy on the oysters and the jumbo

shrimp, but we’ve got extra-large for backup. You”—he points

at me, Vivien, Melissa Rodriguez, and Pam D’Ofrio—“keep

that raw bar stocked and ready. Empty spaces look cheap, and

they don’t want cheap.” He pauses, lowers his voice further,

and adds, “The bride’s family’s loaded, groom’s is running on

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fumes and Mayflower ancestors. Something to prove there.”

He glares at Vivien, who has taken Nic’s hand and is absently

kissing his palm. “You, young lady—pay attention. This will be

up to you when all’s said and done.” Viv drops Nic’s hand and

stands at attention, mock-saluting her stepdad. She throws me

a quick glance, flipping her braid and nodding down at her left

hand, where her middle finger is discreetly extended. Viv gets

along with Al, but oh, how she hates his lectures.

“You”—Al points to Nic—“keep the water glasses stocked

and the ashtrays empty. Dominic—keep the wineglasses full.

Two-thirds. Not completely. Don’t trade places.” He glares at

Nic and Dom, who is Pam’s older brother. “You’re twenty-two,

Dominic; you’re underage, Nic. We don’t need any legal hassles.”

He turns back to Vivien, Pam, and me. “Keep those apps

coming. We want them to fill up on the passed hors d’oeuvres

before we bring out the lobster. Got it?”

We nod.

Al jerks his chin in satisfaction. “Go get ’em, team.”

He always adds this at the end, as though he’s suddenly

morphed into Coach Reilly.

I’ve helped cater for Almeida’s for years and in all that time,

I’ve never seen anybody I knew well at any of their events.

Stony Bay is a small town, but the people I know don’t have

events catered. Unless you count takeout from Castle’s.

Tonight my luck runs out.

I’ve finished passing out the garlic toast with Boursin and

sundried tomatoes—only one lone straggler left—and am

going back for another trayful, looking around for Vivien so I

can complain about the man who just spent ten minutes star-

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ing down my shirt while demolishing the tray, when, for the

second time today, I bump right into someone. “Shoot, oops,”

the guy says, at the exact moment I say, “Sorry, I wasn’t looking

where I was—”

Then I stop dead. Because it’s Alex Robinson, tall, dark, and

elegant as he was last summer. Despite how things ended, I get

goose bumps. But Alex . . . he’s looking at me with absolutely

no acknowledgment on his face, like I’m some random side

dish he didn’t order and is wondering how to send back. Is it

possible he doesn’t recognize me? How many half-Portuguese

girls did he hook up with last summer?

“Oh. Uh. Hi.” Alex wipes at the slosh of ice water I’ve

spilled on his blue-and-white striped seersucker jacket. “It’s,

uh, Gwen, right?”

That’s a bit much. I debate saying “No, Suzanne.” Instead, I

widen my eyes. “Do we know each other?”

Alex blinks at me, a preppie owl. “Er . . .”

I school my face to look patient and baffled.

His eyes dart around, finally settling back on me. He clears

his throat. “Look, I know it’s Gwen. Your . . . your mother was

cleaning our house today. I thought maybe you’d come along

with her.”

I open my eyes still wider. “Really? You missed me? Aw,

that’s so sweet! I
would
have come, honest, but I had to stay home with Alex, Jr. He can walk now, and he’s just getting into

every
thing, the little rascal!” I channel Mom for a look of weary maternal pride.

He pales. “Now . . . wait . . . I—”

I’m enjoying this, because I am a mean and spiteful person.

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“Were you like that too, Alex? What a chip off the old block

our little cutie is.” I let one hand drift to my stomach and

smile, Madonna-like.

Alex blinks, then shakes his head. “Ha-ha. I’d forgotten your

sense of humor. If—er—
that
had happened, it would have just, uh, been born.” His eyes flick to my cleavage. Two guesses what

he does remember. “How, uh, have you been, really?”

I balance the tray on my hip, brush away a strand of hair the

light breeze has blown against my lips. “Fine. You?”

“Terrific,” he says. “Great. A good year at Choate. Headed to

Princeton in the fall. My dad went there, so that’s . . . all . . .

good.” His gaze once again drops to my chest, as though it

exerts some sort of magnetic pull.

“Hmm” is the only thing I can think to say.

After Alex ended things last fall, when I imagined seeing

him again, I always looked fantastic and he groveled at my

feet. I was never wearing my ill-fitting Almeida’s Arrangements

T-shirt—complete with mermaid extending a plate of stuffed

quahogs—sweating, and with my unruly hair escaping its

ponytail. I did
not
imagine how hard it would be to think of anything to say to him. Maybe I should have remembered how

little actual talking we did.

“So.” Alex’s gaze roams down again, then off toward the raw

bar. “I just, ah, thought I’d go try the—um—shrimp.”

“Sure,” I respond. “Why not? You’ve already sampled all
I’ve

got to offer.” This is too much, I know, but as usual, once I start talking, I can’t stop myself. The kiss-off text he sent me still

makes me pissed, even nearly a year later.

“Now, look,” Alex says, “I—I—” His eyes dart around the

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tent again. “I have to . . . I think I hear someone calling me.”

He wheels away from me, walks off—practically sprints.

“That was enlightening,” says a voice in my ear.

I turn and stare into laughing ocean-blue eyes. “Wouldn’t

it have been more efficient to castrate him?” Cass continues,

filching the last piece of Boursin toast.

“I considered it.” I pick up the butter knife on my tray and

wag it at him. “But I didn’t think this was up to the job.”

“Sounds like Alex wasn’t either,” Cass says. “Maybe some-

body beat you to the castrating.” Then he reddens, like he just

realized we’re talking about Alex’s penis, which I have clearly

gotten to know.

When he blushes like that—now it’s spreading from his ears

all over his cheekbones—I remember the Cass of that sum-

mer on the island. His hair is so many shades of blond now—

gold and amber and yellow and dark blond at the roots—but

the season he spent on Seashell, he was a towhead with fair,

unfreckled skin. It was one of those crazy-weather summers,

sheets of rain for days on end, high winds. Instead of the usual

activities run by the island “camp counselor” that Seashell used

to hire—kayak lessons, bike races, scavenger hunts—they had

kids’ movies in the Club House every Saturday night to keep

everyone under fifteen busy and distracted. The first time I met

Cass, he opened the door for me as we were walking in. Then

he turned bright pink.

“His castration would be no loss to anyone, trust me,” I say, and