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I didn’t think, ever, that I’d have to scramble about which truth to tell. I never thought “other people’s stories” would apply to the three of us. We are one another’s stories.
“Tense,” I finally say. “With you too? I thought maybe he was being weird with me, because of . . . well, because of me being with Cass. Has he talked about that with you?”
She shrugs, chews her lip. I recognize the look on her face, the “torn between loyalties” one.
“He’s sort of macho-macho with Cass, giving him these ‘don’t lay a finger on my cousin’ looks . . .” I say, trailing off so she’ll talk.
“Yeah.” Viv sighs. “He’s pretty testosterone-heavy lately.”
I wait for her to make a joke about not minding that, but instead she asks, “You don’t think he’s . . . on anything, do you?”
“On . . . you mean drugs? Like steroids? God no. This is Nic, he would never . . .”
I know that’s not it. But . . . Nic’s moodiness, his darkness, his obsession with weight lifting, the tension with Dad . . . No. He wouldn’t.
Vivien doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the water, on Nic. He’s now rolled over and is doing the backstroke, his form so perfect, it’s almost mechanical, like the wind-up scuba Superman who swims doggedly in Em’s baths.
“He would never,” I repeat again. “You know that, right? You know him. Better than anyone.”
I pull on her hand, bringing her gaze back to me. Then I realize it’s like I’m asking her for reassurance when I should be the one giving it. I put my arm around her, give her a little shake. “Nico doesn’t even take aspirin.”
She’s picked up one of the rocks, studies it, turning it over and over. Dark orange, worn smooth by countless waves, marked by holes. A brick. Probably from the steps of one of the houses on Sandy Claw, unwisely built on the beach, long ago swept out to sea in some forgotten hurricane. “You’re right. Ugh. Don’t pay attention to me. Al got the contract to some big political thing and was spazzing out all over me today. I kept calling Nic to talk and getting bounced to his voicemail. I thought maybe he was . . . I don’t know. Doing the same thing with me that he does with your dad. Mike was calling him the other day when Nico was helping me pack up for a clambake and he kept checking his phone but not picking up. I’m just being paranoid.”
“Yeah, Dad . . .” I shake my head. “Do you guys talk about that?”
Viv’s pretty green eyes are sad. “Not much.”
I reach out my pinkie, hook it around hers. “At least we’re good. Right?”
She knots her pinkie with mine, pulls, still staring out at the water. “Yeah . . .”
“Viv. Look at me.”
She turns immediately, gives a reasonably accurate version of her glowing smile. “We’re golden.”
I pick up one of the skipping stones, spiraling it over and over in my hand. The mica in it flashes bright in the sun. I slant it and skip it out to sea.
Once, twice . . . It goes all the way to seven, touching down lightly, glancing up, winging out hard, far, far, far, the farthest I’ve ever skipped.
Viv nudges me with her thin brown shoulder. “You go
I roll my eyes. “Ever think maybe he’s learning from me?”
Someone clears his throat, and—fantastic—there are Cass and Spence. Cass has his game face on, and Spence a similarly untranslatable expression. How the hell did they walk this close on the dock without us hearing? Nic climbs up the ladder from the water, scattering droplets as he shakes his head like Fabio after a bath.
Spence: “Getting a jump on us, Cruz? Hear you like to do that. Shave a few seconds off your time. Any way that works for you.”
Nic (deadpan): “Just more dedicated, I guess.”
Cass (neutral): “How many drills did you do already?”
Nic (shrugs, like he’s so fit it doesn’t matter): “Some.”
Cass: “A few more, then.” (Glancing at Spence) “What do you think, Chan, crossovers? Or single-arm drill?”
Spence: “Single-arm, since Cruz has this entering too early problem . . . so he’ll wind up driving down instead of extending forward and that’ll increase his drag and slow the whole team down.”
Impressive the way they can make drill techniques into insults.
“Boys,” Vivien says to me, loudly enough for the three of them to hear. “We’re so lucky we’re not male, Gwen.”
“At least two out of three of us agree with you, Vivien,” Spence says smoothly, then winks at her.
Viv looks at Nic’s somewhat thunderous face, makes a shooing motion toward the water, then claps her hands together briskly. “Get on with it, guys. I think you all need to cool off.”
“Hang on,” Cass says to the other two. He takes my hand and pulls me over to the corner of the pier, out of earshot of the others. Bends to my ear. “Let’s declare the ‘who’s teaching and who’s learning’ thing a tie. You can one-up me in other ways.”
“Hedge clipping?” I ask.
“Not my first choice.”
“Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all need to relax here and do this.”
“Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.
“I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”
Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impossible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their laughing face.
Chapter Thirty-four
“Far too beautiful to go back indoors,” Avis King says determinedly. “I propose we have our reading session on the beach instead of some stuffy porch.
A chorus of agreement from the ladies, although “stuffy” is the last thing anyone could call the Ellington porch.
“I personally am in favor of being rebellious and forgoing my nap today. My word, Henry is becoming fussier than any old woman. He called last night to make sure I was going to rest from one to three. I dislike being nagged,” Mrs. Ellington says crossly.
But, since we didn’t bring any reading material to the beach, I’m dispatched back to the house to fetch The Sensuous Sins of Lady Sarah.
When I get there, I am not at all surprised to see Henry’s car parked in the driveway.
As I push open the screen door, I have a wave of weariness, then near fury. Other people’s stories, I repeat to myself.
The door slams behind me and I shout, “Hello!” The way I learned to make noise coming home when Nic and Viv might be there alone. Hello. I’m here. A witness. Don’t let me catch you.
Henry Ellington turns, startled, from the kitchen sink, where he’s standing, drinking a glass of water. He doesn’t look well. His skin’s pale, almost gray, and a sheen of sweat marks his forehead.
Spread out all over the kitchen table are silver bowls and all those complicated pieces of the tea set and these little cups with handles and engraved initials and silver bears climbing up them. Over the summer, they’ve become more than things to polish and wash. I know their stories. The powdered sugar sifter Mrs. Ellington’s father used, “on Cook’s day off,” to top off the French toast, the only thing he knew how to make for Mrs. E. and her brothers. The ashtrays she and the captain bought at the London Silver Vaults. “They were so lovely. Neither of us smoked, but look at them.” The grape shears. “We got five of these as wedding presents, dear Gwen. I enjoyed thinking that everyone, so proper, who danced at our wedding, imagined us dangling grapes over each other’s mouths, like some debauched Greek gods.”