What I Thought Was True

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.

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 better. 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 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 present 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.”

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.”

Mrs. E. has settled herself on the glider where Henry had been only a few minutes ago, regarding us, head cocked, the smile broader now. Her eyes are bright with interest. My nerves are still buzzing. At Henry—even though he’s just looking out for his mother. At Mrs. E., watching us like characters in a soap opera. At Cass, with his pink shirt and his attitude. At some random guy who zooms by on a Jet Ski, its buzz-saw sound cutting through the lap of the water. While I’m at it, at Nic, who ate the last of the Cap’n Crunch last night, which resulted in an early morning Emory meltdown, which could be soothed only by Dora the Explorer, definitely the most irritating cartoon character on the planet.

“All men need to be waited on,” Mrs. Ellington cuts into my thoughts. “Helpless creatures, the lot of them.”

“Nah, we have our uses,” Cass says. All the heat evaporates from his voice when he speaks with her. “Killing spiders, opening stuck jar lids—”

Caught between wanting to punch him and just laughing, I roll my eyes to heaven. I hate the way he flips the charm on—that he knows, damn well, just how effective it is.

“—starting unnecessary wars, that sort of thing.”

She gives her deep belly laugh. “Warming our bed at night. I do miss that. The captain was like a blast furnace.”

Cass’s eyes widen a little, but he says only, “I can get the iced tea myself. If that’s okay with you, ma’am.”

“Certainly not—Gwen, please get him some tea, and some for the two of us, of course.”

I stomp into the kitchen and throw ice cubes into glasses as if tossing grenades. Which reminds me of Dad rattling pans at Castle’s when he’s pissed off. A thought that makes me even more angry because I seem to be headed steadily down that highway of rage with no exit ramps.

“She said I should come help you slice the lemons.”

Cass is standing in the doorway, one elbow braced against the jamb. Considering how ticked he was only a few minutes ago, he looks entirely too calm and sure of himself.

“Oh? That another useful man-skill? Opening jars, slaying lobsters, slicing lemons. Well, thank God for the Y chromosome then, because we helpless womenfolk would surely perish without you.”

The corner of Cass’s mouth quirks up. “Technically, yeah, you would. That’s connected to the whole bed-warming thing, I believe.”

The last thing I want in my thoughts or my memories or my mind in any way at this moment is any association whatsoever with Cass’s bed. Of course, that means it’s right there, like a photograph. His bed, broad, dark wood dolphins carved into the four corners—those old-fashioned dolphins that look less like Flipper and more like gargoyles, riding smiling on the waves that curve to make up the top and the sides of the bed.

The heat of anger seems to be slipping into another feeling altogether. I’m flushing and trying to will that away. I look out the window over the kitchen sink, up at the faint water stain that looks like a beagle above the refrigerator, anywhere but at him. The deep blue eyes that are locked on my face. His faint smell of warm dirt and grass and salt and his sticky T-shirt.

“Why pink?”

“Huh?” He blinks.

“Your shirt. Why is it pink? Is that some ‘I’m comfortable with my masculinity’ announcement? Because it’s the sort of thing that could get an island kid beat up.”

“No statement. Unless my statement is that washing a red towel with your white shirts and your boxers and bleach is a dumbass move.” Cass’s eyes drop to my lips, and then take their own tour of Anywhere Else in the Room—down at the floor, out the side window as Marco speeds by, clanking garbage cans in the back of the truck, at the laminated sheet of hurricane prep instructions stuck to the side of the refrigerator.

Then back to my lips.

Now I’m just looking back at him, and the air in the kitchen is still and close. Ninety-five and no breeze. And the humidity has to be high today, because I can feel a trickle of sweat edge down between my shoulder blades down the line of my spine and I wonder if a hurricane might actually be coming, because the air has that kind of flat charged feel and what am I, a meteorologist?

My fingers twitch to reach over and brush the dirt and a lone blade of grass off his forehead. I can practically feel the heat and the dampness of his skin. I can’t read his face or his eyes, but I’m searching them. Cass takes a deep breath, wipes his upper lip with the back of his hand, his gaze steady on me.

“I’m positively parched!” Mrs. Ellington calls. “If I don’t have my tea soon, you shall return to find nothing but my desiccated bones lying out here.”

“That would certainly piss off Henry Ellington.” I hurry over to the fridge, pulling out a lemon and practically lob it at Cass, who catches it without even looking at it, still studying me. Unreadable but intent.