He shifts back in the glider, looking out at Whale Rock. Lift-ing a hand to his forehead, he slides it down to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“We’re all grateful—my sons and I—that you’re available to look out for her. She’s always been very capable. It’s hard for her to accept that things change. Hard for all of us.”
I can’t tell if he’s simply speaking thoughts out loud or wants some answer from me. “I’m happy to help,” is all that comes to mind.
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t; still gazes instead at the waves flipping over the top of Whale Rock—high tide— where a cormorant is angling its dusky wings to dry.
Eventually, I look out too—at the grass running down to the beach plum bushes, which part to make way for the sandy path to the water. Then there’s Cass, kneeling, edging the weeds away by hand from the slated path, about ten yards from the porch. He’s now wearing a—it can’t really be pink?—shirt that sticks to his back in the heat. I watch the muscles in his back flexing.
After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Henry seems to pull himself back from some distant place, clearing his throat. “Well then, er, Guinevere, tell me a little about yourself.”
Flashback to my conversation with Mrs. E. I get this awful, familiar tingle, like a sneeze coming on, but worse—a sense of terror about my impulse control. Like when it’s incredibly still in church and your stomach rumbles loudly, or you just know you won’t be able to suppress a burp. I dig my nails into my palm, look Henry in the eye, and desperately try to give appropriate answers to bland questions about school and 130
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career plans and whether I play a sport, without offering that my most notable achievement so far appears to have been becoming a swim team tradition.
The questions trail off. Henry looks at my legs again, then out at the water. Over by the bushes, Cass swipes his forearm across his forehead, then his palm against the back of his pants, leaving a smudge of dirt. I count one, two, three waves break-ing over the top of Whale Rock.
Then Henry leans forward, touches his hand, rather hard, to my shoulder. “Now listen carefully,” he says. Up till now he’s been shifting around in his seat, kind of awkward and ill-at-ease. Now his eyes spear mine, all focus. “This is crucial.
Mother needs her routine kept consistent. Always. I’d like to be able to count on knowing that you will give her breakfast at the same time every day, make sure she gets out in the fresh air, eats well, and takes a nap. It was in the evening that she had her fall, and she hadn’t rested all day. She managed to get herself to the phone, but she was very confused. If one of the neighbors hadn’t come by . . .” He rubs his chin. “Mother will just go and go and go. I need to make sure these naps happen like clockwork from one to three.”
“I’ll look out for that, Mr. Ellington. Um . . . sir.” It actually isn’t that different from Em . . . he too goes till he can’t, gets overwhelmed and overtired. Although I doubt “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and the Winnie-the-Pooh song will do the trick for Mrs. E.
He flashes me his mother’s smile, incongruous in a face that seems like it was born serious. “You appear to be a sensible girl. I imagine your life has made you practical.”
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respond. Inside the house, Mrs. E.’s cane taps close, up to the screen. “May I come out now, dear boy?”
“A few more minutes. We’re nearly finished,” Henry calls.
The tapping recedes. Catching my raised eyebrows, he says, “I didn’t want to discuss Mother’s fragility in front of her. She’d be embarrassed—and angry.”
Back still to us, Cass stands up and stretches, revealing a strip of tanned skin at his waist. His shirt, definitely pale pink, clings to him. He shades his eyes and looks out at the water for a moment. Dreaming of diving in and swimming far out beyond Whale Rock? I know I am. Then he sinks to his knees again and continues weeding.
“One more thing you need to know.” Henry’s head is downcast; he’s fiddling with a crested gold ring on his pinkie.
“Everything in the house is itemized.”
At first, this seems like some random comment.
Like, “We’ve had the picture of Dad appraised.”
Some rich-person thing that doesn’t mean anything to me.
Then I get it.
Everything is itemized, so don’t slip any of our family treasures into your pocket.
“Every spoon. Every napkin ring. Every lobster cracker. Just so you know,” he continues. “I thought you should be clear on that.”
Cass rears up, flips his hair off his forehead, that swim-team gesture, then kneels back down.
Did Henry Ellington actually just say that?
Heat races through my body, my muscles tighten.
Take a deep breath, Gwen.
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He seems to be waiting for me to say something.
Yassir, we poor folk can’t be trusted with all your shiny stuff.
I shut my eyes. Not a big deal. It’s nothing. Forget it. God knows I ought to be used to Seashell. When I helped Mom clean Old Mrs. Partridge’s house a few summers ago, Mrs. P.
took me aside. “Maria, just so you know, I will be checking the level of all of the liquor bottles.” But Henry should know bet-ter. Mom’s so honest that when she finds change scattered on a desk or a bureau she has to dust, she writes a note saying she picked it up and dusted underneath it, then replaced it, then lists the exact amount. Even if it’s four pennies.
It’s just a job. Know your place, take the paycheck, and shut up. Other people’s stories—issues, whatever—are their own.
But no matter how I try to tamp them down, hot embarrassment and anger scorch my chest. I want to tell him where he can shove his lobster pick. But then I hear the slow beat of Mrs. E.’s cane moving around the kitchen. The halting thump-slide of it and her injured foot. The little rattle of her pulling out china, still determinedly independent. I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I understand.”
Henry gives me a slightly sheepish smile. “I’m glad you’ve got that straight. We’re all grateful for your help.” He reaches out a hand and, after a hesitation, I shake it. Giving me a card with phone numbers on it, he tells me the first is his office line and to let his secretary know it’s “in regard to Mother” if there is any sort of problem. “My private cell number is the second one. Use that only in the case of dire emergencies.”
I promise I won’t call him for idle chatter (not exactly in those words). He brushes off his hands as though he, not 133
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Cass, had been doing manual labor, gives one last glance out at the water. “It is beautiful here,” he says softly. “Sometimes I think the only way I can bring myself ever to leave is by forgetting that.”
The minute the screen door slams behind him, I sink onto the glider, look out at the dive-bombing seagulls, close my eyes and breathe in, trying to let the familiar rolling roar of the waves calm and focus me.
“What the hell was that? Jesus Christ, Gwen!” Cass is leaning a palm against one of the porch columns, jaw muscles tight.
I sit up, shifting gears from one embarrassing moment to the next, my cheeks going hot. Does this boy have to be pres-ent at every humiliation? Worse, does he have to be part of them? He listened. Just like he eavesdropped about Alex . . . and knew all about what went down with Spence. Not to mention what happened with Cass himself. I swallow. “I need the job.”
I’m saying it to myself as much as to him. My voice wavers.
Cass’s dark eyebrows pull together.
“He treated you like a servant. A dishonest servant. No one needs a job that much.”
Though he’s been working hard, sweat dampening his hair, grass sticking to his knees, a smudge of dirt across his forehead, where he must have brushed his hair away, he still looks so good. All the anger I couldn’t show Henry floods in with a boiling rush.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Cass. I do. I do and so does pretty much everyone who works on Seashell. Including whatever island guy lost out on the yard boy job because your daddy bought it for you to teach you some Life Lesson.”
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He glares at me. “Let’s leave my dad out of this. This is you.
I can’t believe you just sat there and took that crap from him.”
“You haven’t been on the island very long. Don’t quite know your place yet. Taking crap is what we do here, Jose. ”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Lots of entitlement. Got it. But it’s not what you do. I can’t claim to know you”—he pauses, has the grace to turn red, then forges on—“but I know you don’t put up with crap. That made me sick.”
“Maybe you should take your break now and lie down. I’m sure it’ll pass.”
“Dammit, Gwen!” Cass starts, but then Mrs. Ellington is at the screen door, making her slow way onto the porch with her cane, tap, slow tap, tap. Her eyebrows are raised.
“Is there a problem, dear boy? You look overheated.”
Cass shoves his hair back again—leaving a bigger smudge of dirt, sighs. “It’s nothing.” Pause. “Ma’am.”
Mrs. E. studies us, the faintest of smiles on her face. But in the end, all she says is, “Henry really did mean it when he said he could only stay for a few minutes. He’s already rushed off.
Poor dear. I would love some iced tea, Gwen. Why don’t you get some for—” She pauses.
“Jose,” I say, just as Cass reminds her of his actual name.
“Maybe Jose should carry around his own water bottle,” I add, “like the rest of the maintenance crew. Then he wouldn’t need waiting on.”
“Jose dumped his water bottle on his head about two hours ago—it’s ninety-five today, no sea breeze, in case you hadn’t noticed, Maria.”
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