What was that about? I’m not even sure who provoked who more. Grandpa Ben reaches over and pats me on the shoulder. “Seja gentil, Guinevere. By Nico’s age, Mike owned a business, was about to be a father, pai.”
His dark brown eyes look old, watery, full of too much sorrow. “Then with two little babies. He didn’t have much chance for horsing around.”
I know every child of divorced parents is supposed to secretly hope their parents fall back in love and reunite. But I never have. Dad’s leaving removed a buzzing tension from the house, like a downed wire that might be harmless but could suddenly shock you senseless if you tripped over it. Grandpa Ben, Mom, Nic, me, Em . . . we’re peaceful together. É fácil ser gentil. Easy to be kind.
The Ellington house is eerily quiet when I arrive. I knock on the door, tentatively call “Hello!” but am met by nothing but silence. Do I just march in?
After several minutes of knocking, I kick off my shoes, head into the kitchen. The teakettle’s whistling on the stove, there are breakfast dishes on the table, a chair pushed back. But no sign of Mrs. E.
She’s not on the porch. Not in the living room or any of the downstairs rooms. Now I’m starting to panic. It’s my first day and I’ve already lost my employer. Did she go off to the beach alone? I’m right on time . . . wouldn’t she be expecting me?
Then I hear a crash from upstairs, along with a groan.
I take the steps two at a time, panic rushing up as fast as I do, calling Mrs. E.’s name.
“In here, dear,” she calls from a room at the back corner of the house, following that up with what sounds like a muffled curse.
I dash into the room to find her sprawled on the floor in front of a huge open closet door, covered with dresses and skirts and shirts. Seeing me, she lifts a hand in greeting and gives an embarrassed shrug.
“Guinevere, I must say, I am not enjoying being incapacitated! I was reaching for my beach hat with my cane, overbalanced, and took half the closet down with me. Just trying to get a hat. How I shall contrive to change into my bathing suit, I cannot imagine. And the ladies will be here any minute.”
I take her hand and try to pull her to her feet, but she’s too wobbly for that to work. Finally, I have to put a hand under each arm, haul her upright.
“Dear me,” she mutters, swaying, “this is pure bother. I’m so sorry, dear Gwen. How undignified!”
I assure her it’s fine and, limping, she makes her way slowly to a green-and-white sofa in the corner of the room. I walk behind her, which is awkward because she keeps stopping, so I bump into her back three times in the short distance. Luckily, she gives a low chuckle instead of getting angry or falling over again and breaking her hip. Reaching the couch, she sits down heavily, grimacing and rotating her ankle, shoving aside a big green leather case. It’s flipped open to reveal what looks like our junk drawer at home crossed with Pirates of the Caribbean—a crazy tumble of diamond rings, pearl necklaces, gold chains, silver bracelets, coral pins, an emerald necklace. I can’t help noticing this enormous diamond, so large, square, gleamingly clear that it reminds me of an ice cube. That thing could choke a pony. I would be afraid even to touch it. What would it be like to be so used to priceless things that you don’t set them carefully against the velvet, just toss them in like we do to the jumble of pens that don’t work, takeout flyers, flashlights, Grandpa Ben’s old pipes, discarded plastic action figures of Emory’s?
Mrs. E. gives another little groan, rubbing her ankle with a grimace.
“Should I get some ice—for your ankle? Or something to rest it on? Are you okay?”
She reaches out to pat my cheek. “My dignity is slightly sprained, but I shall recover. My wardrobe is in far more need of assistance than I—” She jabs her cane in the direction of the spill of clothing. “If you would be so kind?”
Rehanging the closet is like traveling through time—there are sequined dresses and wild seventies prints, sheaths Audrey Hepburn could have worn to Tiffany’s, full-skirted, tight-waisted outfits, bell-bottomed pants. Mrs. E. has evidently never parted with a single outfit. I have a flash of an image of her trying them on in front of the mirror like an aging little girl playing dress-up. When I finally rehang the last of them, I turn around to find her completely nude.
Before I can stop myself, I let out a little screech. Mrs. E., who was bending over, picking something up off the floor, sways and nearly falls. I rush over to steady her, and then don’t know where to grab hold. Luckily, she catches herself on the arm of the couch as I wave my hands ineffectually behind her.
“Gwen, dear,” she says serenely, stretching out her wrist, from which a black bathing suit is dangling. “I fear I am going to require your assistance here.”
This is not how I imagined my first day at work. Flipping burgers, sprinkling jimmies, and frying shrimp is looking really good. Or weed-whacking. Or simply hijacking one of the lawn mowers and getting the hell off island.
“Close your eyes, dear,” Mrs. E. says briskly, possibly seeing me visibly brace myself. Her own eyes look sad.
I squeeze them shut, then immediately realize I actually have to see what I’m doing in order to pull black spandex onto an octogenarian with a broken foot and a cane.
So, okay, I’m not that comfortable with my own body. Who would be when their best friend is Vivie the Cheerleader? When their school job is timing for a bunch of buff boys in Speedos? When your mom marks time by saying things like, “That was before I was such a blimp”?
But this takes body consciousness to a whole new level.
I’m bending over, yanking the suit over her soft, blue-veined calves, when she makes a little sound.
“Am I hurting you?” Oh God. I should have stayed at Castle’s, should have scrubbed toilets with Mom, should have. . . .
“No, no, dear girl, it’s just that after a certain age, one barely recognizes oneself. Especially in a state of undress. It’s rather like the portrait of Dorian Gray, if he were female and wore a swimming suit.”
“Yoo-hoo!” calls a voice from downstairs.
“That will be the ladies,” Mrs. Ellington says, a bit breathlessly, as I tug the swimsuit over her hips. “Go let them in. I believe I can manage from here.”
I open the door to find Big Mrs. McCloud, as she’s always called on Seashell (her daughter-in-law is Little Mrs. McCloud), Avis King, Mrs. Cole, as always clutching her tiny terrier Phelps like a purse, and, surprisingly, Beth McHenry, who used to work with Mom cleaning houses until she retired. They’re all wearing straw hats, sunglasses, and bathing suits. Among the ladies, there are no cover-ups, no sarongs, just brightly flowered suits with skirts, freckled skin that’s seen a lot of sun, wrinkles, and what Mom would call “jiggly bits.” I didn’t imagine my day would involve so many octogenarians in swimwear, but it’s kind of nice to see it all displayed so proudly. I usually wrap a towel around my waist when I’m in my suit in public. Avis King, who is built like an iceberg—small head, ever widening body—marches in first.
“Where’s Rose?” she growls, sounding like Harvey Fierstein with bronchitis. “Don’t tell me she’s still asleep! It’s high tide and perfect weather.” She looks me up and down critically. “Lucia’s gal, am I right? You’re the one hired to be her keeper this summer. Ridiculous waste of money, I say.”
Keeper?
“Hello, Gwen!” Beth McHenry says, smiling at me, then furrowing her brows at Avis King. “Lordy, Avis. Rose did get a concussion just a week ago. Henry’s only being careful.”
“Pish. Just because Rose has a few memory lapses and a bum foot!” Mrs. McCloud pronounces. “Twice last week I hunted for my reading glasses when they were on my head, and put my car keys away in a box of saltines. No one’s hiring me a watchdog.”
“I’d like to see them try,” Mrs. Cole murmurs in her sweet voice.
“Typical of Henry Ellington, though. Just like his father. Won’t come take care of the situation himself, hires other people to do it.” Avis King shake
s her head. “How can you possibly know you’ve got good help unless you look them straight in the eye and interview them yourself? Any fool knows that.”
Help? My shorts and gray T-shirt suddenly morph into one of those black dresses with the ruffly white aprons servants wear in Grandpa Ben’s movies. I resist the urge to bob a curtsy.
Then I hear the slow thump and drag of Mrs. Ellington descending the stairs and hurry to reach her, but before I can, she appears in the doorway, smiling at her friends. “Shall we move on, girls, before the tide turns? Come, Gwen!”
After the beach, the ladies scatter, Mrs. E. lunches and naps. Then asks me to read her a book, and hands me—I swear to God—something called The Shameless Sultan.
Yup. Whatever else it may be, calm, quiet, well-ordered, lucrative . . . apparently the Ellington house is not going to be a refuge from the overdeveloped muscles and half-naked torsos that decorate most of the books at home.
But at least I don’t have to read aloud to Mom.
“‘Then he took her, as a man can only take a woman he yearns for, pines for, throbs to possess,’” I read softly.
“Speak up, dear girl. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
Oh God. I’m nearly shouting the words now—over the sound of the lawn mower rumbling from the front lawn. At any moment Cass could come around the corner to find me pining and throbbing.
I read the next sentence in a slightly louder voice, then halt again as the mower cuts off.
Mrs. Ellington waves her hand at me impatiently. “Gracious! Don’t stop now!”
That sounds frighteningly like a line from the book. I doggedly continue. “‘With every movement of his skilled hands, he took her higher, hotter, harder—’”
“Just with his hands?” Mrs. E. muses. “I was under the impression more was involved. Do continue.”
Was that the sound of the carport side door opening and closing? No, I’m getting paranoid.
“‘Waves of rapture such as Arabella had never dreamed existed swept through her ravished body as the Sultan moved, ever more skillfully, laving her supple curves with his talented—’”
Someone clears their throat loudly.
Mrs. E. looks over at the porch door with her expectant smile, which widens even further at the sight of the figure standing there. “My dear boy! I didn’t know you were coming.”
“No,” a male voice says, “apparently not.”
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve closed my eyes, waiting/hoping to literally die of embarrassment. But the deep, rumbling voice does not belong to Cass.
Instead it’s a middle-aged man wearing a pale blue V-neck cashmere sweater, creased khaki pants. He walks farther onto the porch with an air of ease and authority. Do I have to explain what I was reading, or do I just pretend it’s all good, la-la-la?
I have no idea who this even is until he looks me over with Mrs. Ellington’s piercing brown eyes.
Henry Ellington. Whom I barely remember and who just caught me reading virtual porn to his elderly mom.
He reaches down to hug Mrs. E. “I had a meeting in Hartford this morning. I’ve only got a few minutes before heading back to the city for another one, but I wanted to check on you.”
“Poor boy—you work too hard.” She pats his cheek. “Even when you’re on vacation here. I cannot imagine how anyone can think of numbers and balance sheets and the stock market with the ocean only a few feet away.”
“That may be why I hardly ever vacation.”
I stand up, slide The Shameless Sultan discreetly, cover side down, onto the table next to the glider, and edge toward the screen door. “Mrs. Ellington—I’ll give you two some time to . . . um . . . catch up. I’ll just go—”
Henry immediately straightens up and holds out a hand. “Guinevere?”
“It’s just Gwen.”
“Gwen, then.” He sweeps his arm to one of the wicker chairs. “Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. You look like your mother—I’m sure you hear that all the time. A fine woman.”
I smooth my hands on my shorts, which suddenly seem really short, especially when I see him glance quickly at my legs, then away.
“Mother,” he says suddenly. “Would you be so kind as to give me a private moment with Gwen?”
I blink, but Mrs. Ellington doesn’t seem remotely surprised. “Certainly, dear heart,” she says, reaching for her cane. “I’ll be in the parlor.”
Listening to the slow scrape and thump of her receding, I sense I’m losing an ally. Henry looks at me somberly from under lowered brows.
“Um . . . the book . . . Your mom picked it out. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. I don’t read that kind of thing. Well, not a lot, anyway. I mean, sometimes you just need . . . that is . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of book, I mean, they’re actually really empowering to women and—”
He cuts me off with a raised hand and the ghost of a smile. “I’m well aware of Mother’s taste in literature, believe me. You don’t need to worry about that.”
His tone’s flat. I try to interpret his last sentence. What do I need to worry about?
He shifts back in the glider, looking out at Whale Rock. Lifting 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 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 breaking 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.”
I’m not sure what he means, so I have no idea how to 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.
He seems to be waiting for me to say something.
Yassir, we poor folk can’t be trusted with all your shiny stuff.