Chapter Eighteen
Mom plops heavily down on the couch as Nic and I describe what happened with Em, both of us trying to take a bigger share of the blame as though it’s the last slice of pie.
“This was all me, Aunt Luce. I was stupid-focused—didn’t even get that he didn’t have a life jacket—”
“No, Mom, it was my fault. I was”— distracted by Cass in his swim trunks and this weird truce we keep zigzagging in out out of—“not paying attention when I should have—”
“It shouldn’t always have to be Gwen, Aunt Luce. I dropped the ball completely, ’cause I—” Nic’s face turns red.
“I was the one who was on the dock with Emory—I was the one who brought him there. With no life jacket.”
Finally, as we both stutter to a halt, Mom sighs, her eyes tak-ing in Em, already nodding to sleep on the corner of the couch, long eyelashes fluttering, still clutching Hideout. She brushes her hand under her eyes, then ruffles Nic’s hair, cups my chin.
“I ask too much of you two, I know. I look at you both, good kids, and I want you to have everything I ever wanted and didn’t get. But we can’t let Emory slip through the cracks. We have to keep him safe. He can’t do that for himself.”
Grandpa Ben, who is punching tobacco into the pipe he 175
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hardly ever smokes, a rare sign of extreme agitation, points the barrel of the pipe at me, then Nic, in turn. “Our coehlo needs the swimming lessons. We will get the young yard boy. He talked to me about it the other day.”
Nic bristles. “I can teach him. Why do we have to bring in Cassidy Somers?”
“You tried, Nico.” Mom pats his knee. “So did Grandpa. And Gwen. Sometimes these things are better when it’s not family doing the teaching.”
“Yeah, remember when Dad tried to teach me to drive?” I shudder.
“It would have been better if it wasn’t Mrs. Partridge’s fence you hit,” Mom says. “She still brings it up every single time I clean her house, the old battle-ax.”
Grandpa holds the lighter to the bowl of his pipe, takes deep breaths in and out. At last he settles his pipe in the corner of his mouth and says, “We talk to the yard boy. You”—he points to me—“you ask him tonight. He is here on the island, yes?”
“At the Field House,” Nic says. “I’ll tell him.”
“No, I need you to drive me to Mass,” Grandpa Ben says.
“My coelho had a lucky escape today. Thanks must be said.
Guinevere can work it out with the yard boy.” His brow crin-kles. “Perhaps we can pay him in fish?”
I wince at the mental image of me slapping a dead mackerel into Cass’s arms at the end of a lesson. “We’ll work something out,” I say. “And, guys, his name is Cassidy. Not Jose. Not the yard boy. Why is that so hard for everyone to remember? Also, he’s not that young. He’s our age. I mean, I think he’s a little older than me but it’s not like he’s ten. I mean, obviously. Look 176
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at him. And you should remember him anyway, because he spent the summer here once—that crazy one, with the weather, and . . . and . . . remember? Not to mention the fact that he’s on Nic’s swim team, for God’s sake.”
Grandpa, Nic, and Mom are all staring as though I’ve sprouted an additional head. Green, with pink polka dots.
“This the polite one with the abs?” Mom asks.
Grandpa says, “You know how hard it is for us to get to meets. And all boys look the same with those little caps and those bathing suits muito pequeno.”
They do not.
Emory is still sleeping when I leave, so I haul along Fabio as a handy excuse to make my visit brief. Cass is not going to want our aged, flatulent, over-excitable dog hanging out for long. A quick business transaction, that’s all this needs to be.
But when I knock on the door of the Field House apartment, it’s not Cass who opens it. It’s Spence. He’s looking particularly toothpaste-ad perfect. It helps that he’s in tennis whites.
“Helloooo,” he drawls, propping the door open with the heel of his foot and doing his full-body survey maneuver.
Must be a reflex. From what I’ve heard, Spence never does anything—any one—twice. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Fabio licks his leg, then nudges against him lovingly, wait-ing for a pet behind the ears. Spence bends down and scritches him, and Fabio immediately rolls over on his back. Traitor.
“Just had something to ask Cass. He home?”
“Making like Sleeping Beauty.” Spence jerks his thumb toward a closed door. “I thought I’d get a game out of him, but 177
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he crashed. Said he just needed a power nap, but it’s been an hour now. Come on in.”
I tell him I’ll come back another time. Spence, not even bothering to argue, just dismissing this, opens the door wider.
“I won’t bite. Unless you ask very nicely. C’mon. It sucks that he’s a working stiff this summer. He’s tired all the time and not up for anything decent. Or, more to the point, indecent.”
“Poor guy,” I say sarcastically. Then Fabio is charging into the room, all eighty-five pounds of him dragging me behind, launching himself onto the couch in one of his ill-timed bursts of youthful energy. I need to get him, and me, out of here, now. Fabio has been known to “mark his territory” on strange couches.
“Way to make an entrance, Castle. Yeah, it stinks, my boy being all blue-collar.” Spence sounds completely sincere, oblivious to the irony of complaining about the evils of having a summer job to a person who obviously also has one. “I’d never do that. Weeding, mowing. Lousy way to spend three short golden months of no school. I’d tell the old man to shove it. But you know our Cass. He does what he’s told.”
Yeah, especially by you.
“He’s not ‘our’ Cass.” I look around the room. Nasty.
Avocado-green appliances, heinous bright yellow walls, faux cherry-wood cabinets with the veneer peeling back to reveal the sticky plywood underneath, fake brick linoleum that’s cracking and curling up at all the corners. Seashell has its tennis courts resurfaced annually and spent a fortune 178
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to have some former golf pro analyze the course. And then give private lessons. The yard boy’s apartment is apparently not on the punch list.
“As you wish, princess. Popcorn? I’m starving, and Sun-dance has nothing else to offer us.” He clangs open the microwave door, shoves the bag in, slams it shut. “This job is sucking the life out of him. Worse than damn school. Personally, I’ve got no intention of doing anything worthwhile this season. I’ve spent the past two at Middlebury language school or Choate tennis camp. This can be a sea change. My summer to get tan and lazy, fat and happy.”
I toy with the idea of making a cutting remark about his lack of ambition, but, honestly, that all sounds nice if you can swing it. Except the fat part. Which I can probably manage on my own.
“I’ve rarely been tan,” Spence continues over the whirring cycle of the microwave. “Hardly ever lazy. Never fat.” He pulls the bag out, sucks his fingers, cursing under his breath.
“You forgot happy.”
He shrugs, a dark look crossing his face.
Fabio is still entranced by the couch, which has a big pile of laundry tumbled on it. Many pink items. It occurs to me that this is the first time Spence and me have been alone since that party.
I need something to do with my hands, so I pick up a T-shirt and fold it, then another, match up a pair of socks, roll them into a ball.
I hear this exhalation of breath, like a snort, from Spence 179
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and look up to find him watching me. “How domestic. What a nice little wife you’ll make.”
I drop the second pair of socks. What am I doing, morph-ing into Mom? I flush, but when I check Spence’s face again, he’s just smiling at me, extending the bag of popcorn.
“Something cool to go with?” he offers. “A six of Heineken was my housewarming gift for Cass. You’re fun when you’re loaded.”
“The swim team tradition, yeah, I know, Spence,” I say. “Like you’ve said.”
“I apologized for that, Castle. Just being a dick. What I do best. Well, second best.” He waggles his eyebrows at me.
I resist the urge to stick out my tongue at him, settling for shaking my head.
“How’s your brother?”
That he would ask, which seems unlike him and also implies that Cass talked about Emory, throws me.
“He’s fine,” I say shortly. “That’s why I’m here. I want to take Cass up on his offer to teach him to swim. So you can just . . .
pass that on, and I’ll get going and—”
“Cass nearly drowned when he was eight,” Spence says. “Rip tide at the beach. We were there with my dad, who was . . . But whatever, I got the lifeguard and saved him.” He looks at his watch. “Hell, it’s nearly seven now and I’ve got to be at the club at eight. I’m gonna wake him up.”
He heads toward the closed door. I hurry after him. “No, don’t. I’ll come back.”
But Spence keeps going and I follow him right into the bedroom. Which is painted the same eyesore green-yellow as 180
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