So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (13 page)

“Bye, Lucas! I’ll see you soon,” Mary calls out, waving her hand. As he pulls out of the dirt driveway, she slumps down next to me on the step and clutches my arm. “Isn’t he so dreamy?”

“He’s fine,” I say.

“Oh Lydia, admit it!”

For some reason I think of Wes again, his eyes so dark they’re almost black, his lips soft over the strong line of his jaw. I shake my head, pushing the image away.

“Lucas isn’t really my type.” I stand up, running a hand over my hair, smoothing out the scattered strands. “C’mon, let’s go help your mom.”

The fundraiser is at one of the local churches, a few miles from the Bentleys’ house. I want to walk so I can see more of the town, and Mary grudgingly agrees to go with me.

It’s a hot, muggy day for early June. Once we leave the circle of trees surrounding the house, we’re on a dirt road with only a few single-level homes scattered along it.

I wipe at the sweat on my forehead, wishing I wasn’t wearing a heavy girdle under my dress. “It’s hot.”

“You’re the one who wanted to walk.” Mary pouts. Her dress is already sticking to her skin. She turns her head at the low rumbling sound of an approaching car. “Wait, I’ll fix it.”

An army truck passes and Mary sticks out her thumb. The truck honks but keeps moving, obviously in a hurry.

“Rats,” Mary says, trudging along beside me. She lifts her hair away from her neck. “We’ll melt out here if we have to walk all the way.”

“Did you just … try to
hitchhike
?”

“What?” Mary gives me a look. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“It’s dangerous,” I hiss. “You could be
murdered
.”

She laughs. “Are you kidding? No one has ever been murdered because of hitchhiking.”

I gape at her but don’t say anything else.

We walk around Fort Pond on a dirt road that leads into the center of town. Mary chatters about the USO dance that’s coming up, but my thoughts drift to Camp Hero, to Wes, to Dean’s approaching disappearance. I glance over at Mary, suddenly aware that her family will change forever in just a few short days.

Mary’s cheeks are flushed as she waves her arms around. “It’s this Saturday, June third, at the old tennis auditorium. All the soldiers will be there. Oh! We’ll have to get something for you to wear. Maybe my blue dress.”

Will Mary still be so carefree after Dean disappears? Will she think so much about clothes and boys and dances?

My grandfather told me so little about Mary and what her life was like after she eloped. I know she leaves Montauk, but I don’t know if she was ever happy again. I don’t even know who she’s going to marry.

I force myself to smile at her. “That sounds like fun.”

“Then why do you look like you’re about to cry, silly?” She giggles. “I hope Suze comes today. I cannot wait for you two to meet!”

She starts to skip down the road, her black-and-white saddle shoes kicking up the dirt. Dust hovers around her in a heavy cloud.

When we arrive downtown, Mary pulls me in the direction of the general store. “Let’s get some root beer before we go to the fundraiser,” she says. The store is in a small, shabby wooden building. Two old men sit on the sagging front porch. There’s a large radio resting on a table between them, the cord disappearing into the open window of the store.
“The frontlines are expanding as British soldiers in the three hundred fifty-sixth Infantry Division march on Italy …”

Mary waves as she pushes open the screen door. The old men nod but don’t take their eyes off the empty highway in front of them. “Tommy Sullivan’s family owns the store,” she says as we step inside.

It smells of dry wood, spices, and raw meat. A counter stretches along the left side of the shop, displaying sodas, beers, meats, and cheeses. The rest of the room is filled with wooden shelves.

Mary drops her voice, though we’re the only people in the store. “Tommy was my old beau. He was drafted last year before he even finished school. Now he’s in the Marines. I write him whenever I get the chance.”

Cans and tins of brands I’ve never seen before line the simple, mostly empty shelves—Brer Rabbit Gold Label Molasses, Van Camp’s Chili Con Carne, Armour Treet, Dromedary Gingerbread Mix. The walls are cluttered with brightly colored ads and local notices. Handwritten signs ask citizens to turn in any scrap metal or steel to the Montauk war effort. In an ad for Nestlé’s, a soldier bites into a bar of chocolate under the slogan
CHOCOLATE IS FIGHTING FOOD!
There are even propaganda posters. The words
DELIVER US FROM EVIL: BUY WAR BONDS
loom over a sad-looking little girl in front of a swastika. Another shows the lighthouse on Montauk Point:
THIS IS AMERICA—FOR THIS WE FIGHT: MAY ITS RADIANCE LIGHT SAFELY THE WAY TO PORTS OF FREEDOM
.

Mary heads toward the side of the counter and stops at a white, rectangular metal box with
ICE
printed on the side. She reaches inside and takes out two glass bottles, handing me one. I open my bottle and sniff at the brown contents. “Mr. Sullivan makes the root beer himself in their bathtub,” she says.

I sip at the liquid, surprised by the tangy, bittersweet taste. It’s nothing like the root beer I’ve had before, but it’s good.

I take a step toward the door, still holding the bottle, but Mary stops me. “Wait. We have to drink it here. Mr. Sullivan reuses the bottles.”

When we finish, she drops the empty bottles on the counter, then reaches into her pocket and places a nickel and a penny next to the register. “Have a nice day!” Mary smiles at the two old men sitting outside.

A car with a square black top drives past. It honks, a high, cartoonish sound. The old men wave in response as the tinny voice on the radio speaks of soldiers on the move.

W
e
enter the Montauk Associated Church through the back door. Women and girls crowd around tables piled with clothing and towels and blankets. Mrs. Bentley stands in the middle of the room, directing the other volunteers.

Her face lights up when she sees us. “Oh, girls, thank the good lord you’re here. There’s so much to do. Go over to a table and start folding. Clothes in one pile, sheets, towels, and blankets in another. When you’re done you can put them into a box. We’re trying to have everything ready by the end of the day.”

Mary and I find a table in the corner that’s piled high with fabric. I’m grateful to have something to do, and I like organizing the clothes into neat piles. Mary is less charmed by the project and gets bored after a few minutes. “I’m gonna find Suze,” she says, tossing a child’s shirt onto the table. “You’ll be okay alone?”

“Sure.” I pick up a towel and fold it into a neat square. “This is fun.”

“For cripes’ sake, Lydia, who wants to fold stuff? I’ll be right back once I find Suze—you stay right here.” She takes off into the crowd of women.

I watch the large group as I work. There are maybe twenty women and girls scattered around the room, and a few children are running back and forth. I’m surprised to see a couple of soldiers among the women. Most are in navy uniforms, blue with a white neckerchief knotted at their chests, while a few others wear army uniforms.

The women are in dresses or skirts. Their hair is short and curled, or long and softly waved, but no one is sporting an easy ponytail. No one is wearing sweatpants.

The castoff dress I’m wearing is nicer than most of the others in the room. Montauk, Amagansett, and even East Hampton are still poor fishing communities. No one has money to spare. The Hamptons that I grew up in, where the tourists pour in by the thousands, and where it takes hours to drive anywhere in the summer, clearly doesn’t exist yet.

I set a folded towel down in front of me. My hand stills on the fabric, and goose bumps rise on my arm. I can feel someone’s gaze. It’s a heavy feeling, and it reminds me of the night of the bonfire when I
knew
someone was out there.

I look up. In the far corner, a dark-haired soldier is staring right at me. I meet his eyes, and for a second I forget to breathe.

Wes.

I grip the table. I need to talk to him. I need to step forward. Only I can’t seem to move my feet. I can’t break his gaze. I’m anxious and a little scared, but there’s something else happening too. Something dark. Something powerful.

His face is blank, impassive, like a mask has been pulled over his features. But I recognize the look in his eyes. Intensity, surprise, and anticipation, all at once—it’s the same confusing mix of emotions he had written on his face when he forced himself to let go of my shoulders in the labs.

There’s a loud noise behind me and I jump. I tear my eyes from Wes. A chair has fallen over; a laughing, embarrassed woman bends to pick it up. When I turn back around, Wes has disappeared. I scan the room, searching for him in the crowd, but it’s useless—he’s gone.

My heart is racing, and I press my hand against my chest to stop it. Wes is the only one who can give me some answers about the Montauk Project. I can’t let him disappear again.

I start to walk around the table, but a small boy steps in front of me. I barely glance at him as I scan the crowd above his head.

“Hiya,” he says.

“Hi.” I keep searching. Women stand in tight groups, a soldier walks past carrying a large cardboard box, but there’s no sign of Wes. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to find someone.”

“I could help you. What’s your name? Who are you looking for?”

“Lydia,” I say quickly. “Have you seen a soldier with dark hair around here?”

“There are lots of soldiers with dark hair here.” He sticks a finger into the side of his mouth.

He’s right. I look down at him.

He stares up at me through a fringe of dark brown hair that falls across his forehead. He’s six or seven, wearing brown short pants, high socks, shiny black shoes, and a patterned short-sleeved shirt that matches his deep green eyes. “I’m Peter.”

Peter … I crouch down so that I’m level with him. “What’s your last name?”

“Bentley.”

I stand up slowly and put one hand on the table to steady myself.

This little boy is my grandfather.

“My dad is a soldier,” he tells me proudly, unaware of my distress. “When I grow up I’m gonna be in the war too. I’m gonna fly planes and shoot Nazis.”

When you grow up there won’t be a war anymore
. “That’s awesome,” I say, distracted. This tiny person is my grandfather. My tall, gray-haired grandfather. Now he barely comes up to my waist.

“Huh?”

“Awesome? Cool. Great. Neato.”

“Oh. I never heard that before. Awesome. Awwwesome. So is your daddy in the war too?”

I am saved from answering him by a slim blond lady who approaches, placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. I recognize her from one of the photos in the Bentleys’ living room. This is Elizabeth Bentley, Dean’s wife, and my great-grandmother.

“Is Peter bothering you?” She pulls him into her side. He curls against her tan, structured suit.

“Oh, no. Peter and I have been getting along great.”

“It’s been awwwwesome,” Peter drawls. I have got to watch what I say around here. I’ve created a monster.

“You must be Lydia.” She glances down at Peter, then back at me. “I’m Elizabeth Bentley. Dean Bentley is my husband.”

“I know.” I smile tentatively, not sure what she must think of me.

“Do you?” Her voice is suspicious.

“Mary pointed you out earlier,” I say quickly.

She gives me an assessing look and clutches her pocketbook tightly under her arm. “Dean thinks the Bentleys are foolish to take you in.”

I look Elizabeth directly in the eyes, refusing to be intimidated. “What do
you
think?”

She smiles slightly. “I guess I’ll have to figure that out for myself.”

I can work with that.

“Let’s go, Peter.” He waves as they disappear into the crowd.

My grandfather is a seven-year-old, my great-grandparents think I’m a threat, and I don’t see Wes anywhere. I grab a towel and start folding again as neatly as I can. If I can’t keep any order in my own life, I might as well try to create it elsewhere.