high tide all you can see is the fin, but the water’s low now and almost the entire rock is visible. The view’s so stunning, I catch my breath, with the feeling I always have when I see the pret-tiest parts of the island—that if I could look out my window at this all the time, I would be a better person, calmer, happier, less likely to get flustered with school or impatient with Dad.
But that theory can’t really work, because Old Mrs. Partridge up the road has one of the best views on the island—I mean of the water, not of Cass Somers—and it doesn’t sweeten her disposition at all.
Mrs. Ellington clinks her glass against mine. “Here’s to another sunset,” she says.
I must seem puzzled, because she explains, “My dear father’s favorite toast. I’m quite superstitious. I don’t think I’ve ever had a drink on the porch without saying it. You must answer ‘Sunrise too.’”
“Sunrise too,” I say, with a firm nod.
She pats me approvingly on the leg.
“I imagine we should negotiate our terms,” Mrs. E. says.
Damn. I stammer out something about the salary Mom mentioned—she must have been wrong, it had to be too good to be true—and Mrs. Ellington chuckles. “Oh, not money.
That’s all been settled by your mother and my Henry, I suspect.
I meant terms as in how we will rub along together. I haven’t had a . . . companion before, so, naturally, I need to know what you enjoy doing and you need to know the same about me, so we don’t spend the summer torturing each other. I must say . . . it will be good to be around a young person again. My grandsons . . .” She trails off. “Are off, living their lives.” For a second, all eighty-plus years show on her face as her usual smile fades.
I have a flash of memory of some big party she held for one of the grandsons. His wedding? Twenty-first birthday? Big tent.
White with turrets. Almeida’s catered. There were fireworks.
Nic and Viv and I . . . and Cass . . . lay on the beach and watched them burst and glimmer into the ocean. A private party with a public show. Like the ocean, no one owns the sky.
After a moment, she continues, resolutely. “As they should be. Now, do tell me all about yourself!”
Uh . . . What “all” does she want to know? The kind of “all”
I tell Viv is different from the “all” I tell Mom, so God knows what the “all” is to someone who might want to employ me, and . . .
As if hearing my mental babbling, she again pats me on the knee. “For example, how do you feel about the beach, dear Gwen? Like it or loathe it?”
Does anyone on earth hate the beach? I tell Mrs. Ellington I love the ocean and she says, “Good then. My friends—we call ourselves the Ladies League, but I believe there are others on the island with less flattering names—the Old Beach Bats comes to mind . . . Anyway, we like to swim every day at ten and again at four—just as the light is shifting. Sometimes we make a picnic and have a day of it. The beauty of age—we really don’t need to worry about sunscreen and we can linger all day.” Her eyes get misty as they look out over the water, her wrinkled face soft-ening with a dreamy expression that makes it suddenly clear how beautiful she must have been back then. The Rose of the Island, indeed.
For the next half hour we cover Mrs. Ellington’s likes and dislikes, from her favorite and least favorite things to eat—“If you ever make me egg salad I shall reconsider my good opin-ion of you”—to her views on exercise—“I shall like good brisk walks when this silly ankle recovers but when I’m in the mood. I don’t wish to be prodded”—to technology—“You won’t be perpetually typing on or answering your cell phone, will you? When I’m in the presence of another person, I want them present.”
I guess I pass the test, because Mrs. Ellington finally pats my hand and says, “Good then. Our new regime will start on Monday.” She beams at me, lowering her voice. “I was dread-ing this. I am a creature who enjoys solitude. But I think, bless fortune, I may be lucky in my employee.”
I thank her, and then remember I have to cook the lobsters.
Hell. Does she even want me to do this now? Or am I dismissed? If I am, can I leave her with living lobsters? Should she even be using a stove? Nic got a concussion playing soccer in middle school and he was out of it for days. I’m about to ask her what she’d like me to do when there’s a knock on the screen door, forceful enough to rattle the loosely nailed boards. A voice calls, “Uh— hello? Seashell Services!”
“I wonder what that can be.” Mrs. Ellington’s eyes brighten as if a visit from the island maintenance crew is cause for excitement. “The hydrangeas aren’t due to be pruned and we had the lawn mowed only yesterday. Do let’s go see.”
Though her back is as straight as ever, her gait is so wobbly, despite the steadying cane, that I waver behind her, trying to be on both sides at once to break her inevitable fall.
“Hullo?” the voice calls again, slightly louder. More recog-nizable.
“Com-i-ng!” sings out Mrs. Ellington. “Do come in! My progress is gradual, but we will be there in good time!”
I wish her progress were nonexistent, because far too quickly we reach the kitchen, where, yes, Cass is standing, looking particularly tan against the dainty ruffles of the sheer white curtains.
“My dear boy!” Mrs. Ellington says.
How has he managed to be her dear boy after just one day spent mowing her lawn? Does she remember him from that one summer? Old Mrs. P. didn’t.
“Gwen, dear. This is Cassidy Somers, who will be keeping the island beautiful for us this summer. Cassidy, this is my new”— she hesitates, and then continues firmly—“this is Guinevere Castle.”
I wince. Concussion or not, Mrs. E. recalls my whole, real, hopelessly romance-novel name. Which I never use at school.
Or anywhere. Ever.
Unfazed, Cass extends his palm cheerfully. “Hello again, Gwen.”
I ignore his outstretched hand. “We’ve met,” I say, turning quickly to Mrs. Ellington. “We know each other. Um, not that well. That is, we’re not friends. I mean . . . We don’t have that much in common . . . Or know each other at all, really. We just . . . we go to high school together.” I conclude these rav-ings, not looking at Cass, and wait miserably for Mrs. Ellington to decide I’m a lunatic.
Instead, she smiles gently at me. “Schoolmates. How lovely.