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Emory upends his shovel full of icy water onto my leg, making me gasp. “Em, no!”
He smiles at me, scoops, pours out another chilly trickle.
Viv stretches drowsily, her skin already lightly golden against the graying wood of the pier, her small spattering of freckles looking as though someone flicked a paintbrush over her nose. Nic calls it her “constellation” and is always pretending to discover new shapes in it, tracing them with a finger.
“Nic was so tense after catering. I had to drive him out to the bird sanctuary to . . . calm him down.” She points her toes, stretching further, then scoops her fingers around her instep, lengthening the stretch with a balletic grace.
“Uh-huh. My cousin, the ornithologist. I’m sure the binoculars got a lot of use.”
“Well . . . it is secluded there.” Her slightly wicked private smile overtakes the sweet and i
“You, Nic, and the plovers doing the dance as old as time.” I start giggling. She lets go of her foot and gives my hip a gentle shove.
“It’s not like we can snuggle up in the bedroom Nic shares with Grandpa Ben and Emory.” She looks down at the tossing gray-green water, worrying her bottom lip, waxy with cherry ChapStick. The only thing Nic ever complains about with Viv is her addiction to that and sticky, flavored lip gloss. “I was probably more stressed than Nic, anyway.”
“Any reason why?” Without looking at her, I dip my finger in Em’s bucket, trace a circular shape on a wood slat, press my thumb down in a diamond shape, a subliminal suggestion.
She takes a deep breath, opens her mouth as though she’s going to say something, then closes it again. “Nothing big,” she says finally. “Just . . . you know . . . Al . . . being all up in my face about forgetting to make sure everybody’s water glasses were full and so on.”
That makes me think of Spence’s dickish “team tradition” comment. “Did Nic tell you—”
“Nic always tells me to just blow him off,” Viv says. “And he’s right. So my stepfather is the poster child for Type A. Doesn’t mean I have to be the same. Even if I am taking over the biz when Al and Mom retire.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say. “You’re not an indentured servant in medieval times. You don’t have to be the heir to the throne at Almeida’s.” Dipping my finger into the bucket again, I write my name in cursive. Emory watches me, then writes curves and loops himself, but they don’t spell anything.
Viv shakes her head, her brow smoothing out again. “Aah, Gwe
“Yeah, you’ve totally whipped that guy into shape. At least ten percent of the time he’s on time. Sometimes even wearing a clean shirt.”
“I like him without the shirt,” Viv says.
“Keep your twisted perversions to yourself.”
She laughs, sits up, and pulls the cooler closer, flipping open the lid. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t share that one, babe. I’ve watched you at meets, and whatever else you might say about Cassidy Somers, you can’t deny his assets there. That? The boy does well.”
I flush. Viv’s instantly contrite. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to talk about him. Think about him. Or whatever.”
“Just because you and my cousin have mated for life doesn’t mean I have to,” I say.
Viv raises her eyebrows. “I was just talking about noticing when someone was cute. You’re the one going straight from shirtlessness to mating. Interesting.”
“Stop it. Don’t go making me and Cass into you and Nic. Clearly, that’s not what’s going on here.”
“And that would be . . . ?” she asks, burrowing into the cooler, then making a face. “Goat cheese? Not in the mood. Is there a mood for goat cheese?”
I take the cooler from her, rustle around to find the foil-wrapped brownies, pass them to her. She puts her hand on her heart, mock sighing with relief.
“Maybe I’m just not the kind of girl who—”
Viv shakes her head at me. “Shit. Stop. I hate it when you do that. It’s not like you’re Spencer Cha
“Is that story even true? Because when you think about it, it sounds like a ton of work. You’d have to feed them and talk to them and find a way to entertain the girls who’re waiting while you’re busy with one or two—”
“Right—so they don’t leave or . . . or molest the pool boy out of sheer boredom,” Vivie continues, smiling.
“Yeah, you’re getting tired . . .” I add.
“It’s more work than you expected,” she sighs, brushing chocolate off her fingers.
“Makes a great rumor . . .” I say. “Not much fun in action.”
She looks down at her hands, her face going serious. “Speaking of action . . . Gwen . . . do you think Nic really wants the Coast Guard? Or it’s just . . . an escape fantasy? Like touring around the state painting houses this summer, when he’s really better off working steady right here. Have you seen the things those Coasties do? They’re freaking Navy Seals. If he gets into the academy, that’ll be Nicky . . . all that stuff with helicopters and tow ropes. Why not just take a sensible job, like at Almeida’s?”
I try to imagine Nic going into the flower-arranging and food service business, for real. It’s so much easier to picture him dangling fifty feet above the churning ocean during a hurricane.
I’m distracted by something far out to sea. Moving. Bobbing. A seal?
We don’t see them often around here. The water’s too choppy—cold and unpredictable even at the height of summer, and there aren’t enough rocks. Straightening up and squinting harder, I follow the motion. Whatever it is disappears under the water with a flick of surf. A cormorant? No, no long neck.
I nudge Vivien, who has rested her cheek on her knees and closed her eyes. “What’s that?”
“Oh God, not a shark!”
Three summers ago, a great white was seen off the coast of Seashell and Vivie, traumatized by Shark Week on Discovery Cha
Whatever it is bobs back up again.
“No fin,” I report. “Besides, it’s moving up and down, not gliding menacingly forward, ready to leap onto the dock and have you for di
“Don’t even joke about that.” Vivien shields her eyes with her fingers. “Not a shark. Just some crazy person who doesn’t mind being shark bait.”
We watch in silence as the head rounds the breakwater, coming our way. Now I can see brown shoulders glisten in the sun, arms pumping rhythmically. A man. Or a boy.
“Today’s Nic’s and my four-month a
“Five months? Try twelve years. I was the one who married the two of you when you were five.”
One glimpse of Vivien’s downcast eyes and the slight smile playing at her lips and I get it. Right. Five months since they’ve been doing it.
“Nic’s taking me to the White House restaurant. What do you think I should wear?” Vivien answers herself: “My navy sundress. I know Nic likes it. He couldn’t keep his hands off me last time I wore it.”
The swimmer has reached the dock and as I watch, he disappears while climbing the ladder, then, at the top, plants his hands flat on the slats, and swings his legs to the side, the way Olympic gymnasts vault over the horse. Then he stands up, shaking his hair out of his eyes.