Ramona rolls her eyes. “You could’ve asked for fifty cents an egg, Christina. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”
One by one I slide the eggs into a bag, counting out twenty-four as he teases: “Not that one! It’s not oval enough,” and “They must all be exactly the same size.” He is standing quite close to me and his breath smells of butterscotch. Ramona’s talking about the weather, how dull a winter it was and how she counted the days until June, what a beautiful day it is today, but do you think it might take a turn? Will it be calm enough to go out for a sail later on? She wonders what her mother will do with all these eggs if breakfast is over by the time they get back: a soufflé, perhaps? An omelette? A lemon meringue pie?
“Come with us,” he says.
Ramona and I both look up.
“What?” I say, confused.
“Come sailing this afternoon, Christina,” he says. “The wind will be perfect.”
“You might’ve said that when I was fretting about the weather,” Ramona mutters.
I don’t usually take off afternoons, especially to sail with strange boys I’ve only just met. “Thank you, but—I . . . can’t. I have to make bread. And my chores . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, come along,” Ramona says. “We have to entertain Walton somehow. And bring your brother Sam. He’s such fun. I need someone my own age to flirt with.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”
“My word, you’re a hard sell. Look, I’ll sign your hall pass,” Walton says.
“Hall pass?”
Seeing my puzzlement, Ramona laughs. “They don’t have hall passes in one-room schoolhouses, Walton.”
“I can’t,” I say.
He shakes his head and shrugs. “Ah well. Another day, then.”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Ramona tells him with the confidence of a girl accustomed to getting her way. She flashes me a smile. “We’ll try again. Soon.”
When I return to the house from the brightness of the yard, I lean against the wall in the dim foyer, breathing heavily. What was that?
“Did I hear voices?” Mother calls from the kitchen.
I touch my face. Smooth the front of my blouse. Take a deep breath.
“Was somebody here?” she asks when I come in, untying my apron and taking it off.
“Oh,” I say, straining for a casual tone, “only Ramona, to buy eggs.”
“I could’ve sworn I heard a male voice.”
“Just a friend of the Carles’.”
“Ah. Well, the dough’s ready for kneading.”
“I’ll get to it,” I say.
OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Ramona and Walton, sometimes with Eloise and Alvah, stop by every other day or so, seeking eggs or milk or a roasting chicken, staying longer each visit. They bring a picnic basket and an old quilt and we sit on the grass, drinking tea steeped in the sun. I come to expect the sight of them sauntering up the field in the late morning or early afternoon. My brothers, with their gentle ways, tend to shy like deer from the summer folk, but the Carles and Walton gradually win them over. When they’re finished with chores, Al and Sam often join us on the grass.
One morning, when it’s just Walton and Ramona and me, Ramona says, “We’re kidnapping you, Christina. It’s a perfect day for a sail.”
“But—”
“No buts. The farm will manage without you. Alvah is waiting. Off we go.”
As we make our way down the path toward the shore I feel Walton’s eyes on me from behind. Aware of my awkward gait, I concentrate carefully on my movements. In front of us Ramona chatters away—“The sun is so bright! Mercy, I did not even think of it, but we do not have enough hats; maybe Mother left one or two on the boat”—seemingly unaware that neither Walton nor I say a word in response. And then the very thing I fear happens: I trip on a root. My legs buckle; I feel myself pitching forward.
Before I can make a sound, an arm is under mine. In a low voice, so Ramona won’t hear, Walton says, “What a long path this is.”
Though only moments ago I was flushed with anxiety, now I am oddly calm. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I have never been this close to a boy who isn’t related to me. My senses sharp, I notice everything in the clean morning light: daffodils pale and bowed; guillemots gliding overhead, black, with bright red legs, squeaking like mice; the trees in the distance, red spruce and firs and juniper and slender scotch pines, that frame the field. I taste the salt on my lips from the sea. But mostly I am aware of the warm mammal scent of this boy whose arm is ballast: sweat, perhaps, and the musky smell of his hair, a whiff of aftershave. Sweet butterscotch on his breath.
“I hope you won’t think this impertinent, but did you know that the blue flowers in your dress match your eyes exactly?” he murmurs.
“I did not,” I manage to answer.
The Carles’ boat is a single-mast sloop, with a jib in the front and a large white mainsail attached to the back of the wooden mast. They keep a wooden dinghy on the shore near Kissing Cove, paddles tucked inside, to row out to the sailboat. When we get to the beach, Alvah is waving from the deck of the sloop, about a hundred yards out in the bay. We drag the dinghy to the water. Walton insists on taking the oars and we meander toward the sailboat, this way and that. I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing: his strokes are choppy and inexpert, nothing like Al’s rhythmic motion. When we arrive at the boat, Ramona ties the small craft to the buoy, and Walton, taking Alvah’s proffered hand, jumps up first so the two of them can assist us.
“Gallant of you, I suppose, but unnecessary,” Ramona says, batting away Walton’s hand. I don’t protest. I need all the help I can get.
Once aboard, I’m more at ease. It is a mild, warm morning, with a gentle wind, and I know how to sail, having learned with Alvaro on his small skiff. Alvah hoists the mainsail, which flaps dramatically in the wind like a sheet on a clothesline, and I pull down firmly on the halyard until it stops. He turns the boat to starboard, weaving away from the wind, lessening the tilt to bring us to a more comfortable sailing angle as we approach open water. I have to warn Walton to duck so he won’t get hit in the head by the boom.
He seems surprised and a little impressed that I seem to know what I’m doing. “So many hidden talents!”
It’s a miracle I’m any help to Alvah given how distracted I am by the skin on Walton’s neck, slightly sunburned just above his collar. The small flaps of his ears turning pink in the sun. The quick flash of his gray-blue eyes.