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“Well, yeah, that’s sort of a requirement if you have a pulse,” Vivien says. “But no one I know. At all. Forget I mentioned it . . . And, shit, don’t tell Nic.” Her voice is suddenly urgent. “Promise me you won’t.” She reaches out and grabs my sleeve. “Swear, Gwen. Never ever let Nic know.”
“I don’t think he’d be jealous, Viv. He knows your heart’s his. Always has been. Always will be.”
“That’s right,” she says firmly. “Completely. Always.” But there’s a little waver in her voice and she doesn’t look me in the eye.
Chapter Twenty
This could be bad. Very bad.
Dad’s house is on the water. I mean . . . on the water. It’s on the marshy, open-to-the-ocean side of Seashell, near Nic’s and my jumping bridge. You walk from the road through a patch of woods and then out across some double planks to his house, which is on wooden pilings, so it’s six or seven feet over the marsh to get to the tiny porch and his little ramshackle red house with buoys hanging outside, and fishing rods always stacked by the door.
“Hurricane bait,” Dad calls it, but kind of with love. He got it cheap from this island guy who was moving to Florida, just at the right time, when he and Mom were splitting up, the year after Em was born.
Tonight, when I take Em for our weekly di
I’m pretty sure, to him, the whole falling off the dock thing was much worse for Hideout.
I can smell pancakes as we come up the path. Dad always does the breakfast for di
“How’s the old lady?” Dad calls as we come in. “And what the hell is your brother doing in that thing?”
There it is.
I miserably explain about the fall. Mom and Grandpa didn’t blame me aloud . . . but this is much worse than not fixing a broken door. Dad’s not exactly one to hold back on the criticism.
Kneeling down, Dad unbuckles the life jacket, then hands Emory a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup frosting.
“Hideout fell in. Superman save him,” Em summarizes cheerfully, settling down at the card table where we eat.
“Yeah, fine.” Dad clears his throat. I left out the Cass part of the story, so he no doubt thinks that’s just another one of Em’s dreams. “Guinevere.” He stands, looks at me. “You screwed up, but you didn’t lose your head. Still, the kid doesn’t need a life jacket on dry land. You’ll get him all worried.”
This time I do tell him about Cass and the lessons. “Somers . . .” Dad says doubtfully, rubbing his hand against his stubbled chin. “Like Aidan Somers? The boat-building guy?”
“His son.” I turn to the cabinet, pull out more plates, haul out the syrup, start moving it all to the table.
“Rich kid,” Dad says flatly. “Don’t know about that. Besides, why isn’t your cousin doing this, Mr. Big Swimmer?”
“Nico already tried to teach him, Dad, and wanted to try again. Grandpa said no, he said it was easier to learn from someone who isn’t family.”
Dad grunts. “That’s hogwash. I taught Nic to change a tire, pitch a tent, drive. He learned all that just fine.”
“Well,” I venture. “You’re not technically related to Nic. I mean—he’s mom’s nephew, but—”
“Technically?” Dad says, dumping more eggs onto a plate and tossing the pan into the sink with a muffled sizzle. “I took that kid under my roof when he was a month old, changed his diapers, took him to the ER when he broke his arm, paid for his whole life. That makes me family, the way I see it.”
He hands me the big serving plate of pancakes, eggs shoved to the side, mutters “Technically!” again, and sits down at the table, immediately picking up his fork.
“What’s your interest in all this?” he asks, scraping his chair in with a loud squawk.
“Wha—?” I’m blushing again, picturing Cass asleep on his stomach, the smooth, taut lines of the muscles in his back, the look on his face when I blurted that question, his eyes flashing wide and ears going bright pink. Little boy Cass that summer, cheeks puffed, blowing a dandelion wish for me when I told him my secret about Vovó.
I stack pancakes on Em’s plate, adding butter and syrup. Cutting them up neatly and precisely, tasting a forkful to make sure it’s not too hot. Avoiding Dad’s eyes.
“How well do you know this guy?” he finally asks against my silence, whacking the bottom of the ketchup bottle to dislodge the last dregs.
Better than I should. Not at all. I knew him the summer we were eight. We go to school together.
“He’s on the swim team with Nic.”
Dad’s impatient. “How well do you know him?” he repeats.
There’s a warm, silty breeze blowing in from over the salt marsh, but I have goose bumps. Does Dad know? What does Dad know? We’re best off when I’m his pal, like when I was a kid. He stopped hugging me the year I turned twelve and suddenly looked much less like a kid than I still was. Every once in a while, he’ll look at some outfit of mine and say something like, “Pull your shirt up . . . there,” gesturing at my chest without looking at me. That time with Alex on the beach . . . he hardly knew what to say. Started with “Nice girls don’t—” and then went mute. He hasn’t mentioned it since. But it’s not forgotten. I can see it in his eyes.
“Gwen?” Dad’s voice is sharp now.
“Be nice to Gwe
“Look, I’m not asking for the kid’s résumé. He’s the yard boy. I’m sure Marco and Tony checked him out. But if I’m going to trust him with my son in the water, I want to know he’s responsible.”
Well, not with hedge clippers, that’s for sure. And not with . . . not with . . . I can’t think of an answer that isn’t totally inappropriate. My life lately seems to be an endless series of mortifying encounters. I push my pancakes around on my plate.
“Simple question, simple answer.” Dad’s snapping his fingers at me. “Gwen! You’re zoning out like your ma.”
“He’s responsible,” I say, glancing up.
“All I need to know. I’ll take your word for it, he’s a good egg. Finish your pancakes. I made a ton because I thought Nic would be coming. What’s the excuse this time?”
Nic has skipped the last three di
Pretty obvious why he’d want to bag out this time, but Nic is usually more gifted with justifications.
More engagement ring shopping? A marriage license? A blood test? A doctor’s appointment?
Viv and I have broken the ice. But every time I open my mouth with Nic I close it again without saying a word, this weird twist in my gut. He’s practically my brother and he can’t tell me? How come he and Viv can both confront me about Spence, but I can’t do the same to them?
Snapping fingers. It’s Dad again. “Where are you tonight, Gwen?” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s wrong? What’s going on with Nic?”
Em’s forkful of eggs and ketchup hovers halfway to his mouth. He peeps back and forth between us, big brown eyes alarmed.
I parrot Nic’s lame excuse, that same spiral in my stomach. I want to say, I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t know why I don’t know. And just talk to him and find out and fix whatever it is. Please just fix it, but what comes out is, “Yeah, what is going on with you and Nic, Dad? Why are you being such an asshole to him?”
Silence. Dad frowns over his plate, dicing pancakes with precision, his knife scraping loud.