What I Thought Was True

“Sorry!” says Cass, sliding out from under the beach plum bush by the side of the Beinekes’ house. “I was weeding. You didn’t seem to see me.” He slides back, stands up and beams at me.

Suppress goofy smile. “Um. Hi. Cass.”

He brushes off his hands—still gloveless—and comes around to the gate, slipping through it. Today he’s in shorts and a black T-shirt. “You can do better than that.” He loops his arms around my waist and pulls me to him.

“Where are your gloves?”

“Better than that too.” He drops a kiss on my collarbone. “Good to see you, Cass. I dreamed about you, Cass. . . . Feel free to improvise.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing those work gloves? When you’re working? Because otherwise your poor hands won’t . . .”

Gah. I sound like Mom, or the school nurse.

I’m no good at this.

Luckily, Cass is good enough for both of us. “I missed you, Gwen. It’s good to see you, Gwen. I dreamed about you, Gwen. Yeah, haven’t gotten around to the gloves. More important things to focus on. Want me to tell you what they are?”

“Can I have a do-over?” I ask.

He nods. “Absolutely. Thought we got clear on that.” He shifts his hands over my back. I want to tell him not to do that, it’s got to hurt, but I’m not going to be the nurse anymore.

I trace the scar in his left eyebrow. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother Jake threw a ski pole at me in Aspen when I was seven. In fairness, I was making kissing noises while he helped his girlfriend put her boots on. Back when he had girlfriends. You were saying?”

“I—I—” Give up. “I don’t have any words today.”

“Good enough.”

Lots of kissing after this. Apparently too much, as a pair of ’tween boys walking by whistle, though one of them mutters, “Give her the tonsillectomy in private, man.”

Laughing, Cass pulls back, his hands still locked around my waist. “I have a bad feeling the yard boy is going to be more useless than usual today.”

“As long as you steer clear of the hedge clippers, it’s okay, Jose. I can think of a few uses for you.” I graze the corner of his mouth with my lips, nudging it open.

“Killing spiders,” he mutters, kissing back wholeheartedly. “Opening jars.”

“And so on,” I whisper.

“Look,” he says, pulling back after a while, for the first time seeming awkward. “I can’t see you tonight. I have another . . . family thing.”

“Oh, yeah, I understand,” I say hurriedly. “No problem. I have to—”

He catches my hands and waits till I turn my face back so I’m looking at him.

“This got set up before you and I figured things out—a command performance kind of deal. I’d much rather be with you.”

“Your grandmother?”

“And a few trustees from Hodges,” he says. “Fun times.”

Dad slams the screen door behind him that night, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper, laundry bag over his shoulder. “What exactly is this?” He drops the bag, flicks his hand against the paper. Irritation crackles off him as palpably as the smell of fryer grease. It’s eleven o’clock at night, so Castle’s must have just closed. Not his usual laundry drop-off time.

“What’s it look like?” Mom asks, unperturbed, barely glancing up from her book. “It’s a flyer for my business.”

I click off the television, looking from one of them to the other.

“You clean houses. That’s not a business.”

“Well, it sure isn’t a hobby, Mike. I clean houses and I want to clean more because We Need the Money. Like you keep saying. So I’m advertising.” She plucks the paper from his hand, ru

Dad clears his throat. When he starts speaking again, his voice slows, softens. “Luce. You know Seashell. They see these posted around, get the idea you’re hard up for work, for cash, and next thing you know, the minute something disappears, some little gold bracelet from Great-Aunt Suzy, every finger will be pointing straight at you.”

“Don’t be silly.” Fabio hurls himself onto the couch, gasping for breath from the effort, climbing into Mom’s lap. She ruffles his ears and he snorts with pleasure, eyeing the melting ice cream in her bowl, ears perked. “My clients know me better than that. I’ve worked for most of the families on Seashell for more than twenty years.”

Dad collapses next to her on Myrtle, rests elbows on his thighs, bows his head into his hands. A streak of white skin gleams at the back of his neck above the sunburn he probably got last time he went out on the boat. “Doesn’t matter. When the chips are down, you’re not in the Rich Folks Club.”

“Mike, you’re such a pessimist. Have a little faith in human kindness.” To my complete amazement, she ruffles Dad’s hair, nudges him on the shoulder. I don’t think I can ever remember seeing them touch, much less exchange an affectionate gesture. It actually gives me a lump in my throat, especially when Dad looks up, his hazel eyes big and pleading, a little lost, so like Emory’s.

“You never get it, do you, Luce? You still think that the whole damn world is full of happy endings just waiting to come to you. Haven’t you noticed Prince Charming hasn’t showed up yet?”

Mom’s voice is dry. “Yes, honey. That I’ve noticed.”

Dad actually cracks a smile.

I’m almost afraid to breathe. My parents are having a minute of truce. An instant of genuine co

There’s a loud knock on the door. “Betcha that’s him now,” Mom says, smiling at Dad.

But it’s Cass. He grins at me, then looks a little sheepish. “I know it’s late,” he starts.

“Almost midnight.” Dad comes up behind me. “And who the hell are you?”

Cass introduces himself.

“Aidan Somers’s son, right? Coach Somers your brother? Lobster roll, mayo on the side, double order of fries?”

Cass blinks, momentarily confused. “Uh . . . Yeah, that’s Jake.”

“Bit late for a swimming lesson.” Dad surveys Cass, who is wearing a blue blazer, a tie, neatly creased khakis. “And you’re not exactly dressed for one, kid.”

“Don’t be silly, Mike. He’s come for Gwen,” Mom says, sounding as though this is the most natural thing in the world.

“I wondered if she’d want to take a walk with me,” Cass explains. “I know it’s late,” he repeats in the face of Dad’s glare.

“I’d love to,” I say instantly, grabbing his hand. “Let’s go!”

“Wait just a second,” Dad says. “How old are you, Cassidy?”

“Seventeen.”

“I was seventeen once too,” my father begins unpromisingly. “And I took a ton of girls to the beach late at night—”

“That’s great, Dad. You can tell us all about it another time.” I pull Cass out the door as Mom says, “A ton? That’s a bit much, Mike. It was just me and that trashy Candy Herlihy.”

“Are we ever going to leave my house without me having to apologize for my family?”

“Not necessary. I’m the one who showed up late.” Cass yanks at his tie, loosening it, hauling it off, then shoves it in his jacket pocket, opens the door of the old BMW, which is parked in our driveway next to Dad’s truck and the Bronco, pulls off the jacket and tosses it in. Then starts unbuckling his belt.

“Uh, strip in our driveway,” I say, “and Dad’s definitely going to think this is a booty call.”

He laughs, tosses the belt in, followed by his shoes and socks, pulls his shirttails out, bumps the car door shut. “Just felt like I couldn’t breathe in all that. I was headed home, saw your lights on . . . just wanted to see you.”

He takes my hand again and we head down the road. I love nighttime on Seashell . . . all the silhouetted figures of the houses, the hush of the ocean. It feels like the only time the whole island belongs to me.

“How were the trustees?”