Summer with My Sisters (16 page)

“I
met your Jon Gascoyne in town today.”

Poppy looked up from the bunch of carrots she was peeling. “He’s not mine,” she said.
He belongs to Yorktide
. “And how did you meet him?”

“I was chatting with the very friendly woman behind the counter at the convenience store,” Allie said, “when in came this incredibly beautiful man, to whom the very friendly woman introduced me as Poppy Higgins’s visiting friend from Boston. Nothing is secret in this town, is it?”

“No,” Violet said quite seriously. “It’s not.”

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” Daisy said, swiping a green bean Allie had just topped and tailed.

“Very nice. Why don’t you ask him out, Poppy? I mean, he was good enough to bring you lobsters and frankly, lobsters beat roses in my book any day.”

Poppy shook her head. “I don’t want a boyfriend, even one as generous and, yes, as handsome, as Jon Gascoyne.”
That’s the last thing I need right now
, she added silently.
Another complication to my already overly complicated life.

“Well, if you don’t want him, maybe I’ll make a play for him.”

“But he’s younger than you,” Daisy pointed out.

Allie raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And an older woman with a younger man rarely works out. I mean, unless you just want a quick fling. Or unless you don’t mind being called a cougar, which basically implies that you pay for sex.”

“Where did you get all this helpful information about romantic relationships?” Allie asked.

“The Internet.”

Allie shuddered. “Dangerous thing, the Internet. It once convinced me I had psoriasis and I’ve never even had a rash in my life.”

“It’s only dangerous if you misuse it,” Daisy argued, “and I don’t. Not much, anyway. Some days I spend way too much time watching videos of animals doing funny things. Like, this morning I saw this hilarious video of a kitten attacking a statue of a cat.”

“I saw that, too,” Violet said. “Grimace attacked the stone bird sculpture in the backyard once.”

Allie frowned. “I thought you said he was so smart.”

“He is. He was practicing.”

Poppy shuddered. “I just hope he sticks to killing stone birds and doesn’t start bringing us dead baby bunnies. Ugh.”

“He won’t. I’ve asked him not to.”

“What makes you think he’ll keep his promise?” Daisy asked. “That beast has a mind of his own.”

“I asked him nicely,” Violet explained.

“Was Mr. Gascoyne ever married?” Allie asked suddenly.

“I don’t know,” Poppy said. “I don’t think so or Freddie would have mentioned it.”

“Does it matter?” Daisy asked.

“No, just wondering.”

“He would make a good husband. And a good father.”

“Violet,” Poppy said, “I’m not going to marry Jon Gascoyne.”

Violet shrugged. “Maybe someday
I’ll
marry him. The interesting thing about life is that you never know what’s going to happen.”

“You mean,” Daisy said, “the lousy thing about life.”

“Only lousy sometimes,” Allie said. “Only sometimes. Right, Poppy?”

Poppy nodded; she was so grateful that Allie had journeyed north to Maine. “Right,” she said. “Only lousy sometimes.”

D
aisy had caught the summer trolley downtown. She supposed that Evie (whose last name, she had found out, was Jones), who lived much closer to the heart of Yorktide, would simply walk to their meeting place at the corner of Main Street and Vine Street. She checked her watch and the clock on her iPhone. Did Evie wear a watch? Daisy realized she hadn’t noticed. If Evie didn’t, then how did she know what time it was, with her phone not working?

Anyway, she had been right about Evie from the start. She
was
hiding something though for some reason she had trusted Daisy enough to tell her about her sad past. It had been right to approach Evie with an offer of friendship that day at The Clamshell. Daisy was sure it had given Evie the courage to approach her in turn.

And, they were actually having fun together. They had met at Ogunquit Beach after Evie’s shift one afternoon and walked down to the Wells town line and back. One evening they had gone to a free screening of
Casablanca
at the Yorktide library. The room was packed and they had to stand through the movie, but it was worth it. Doomed, super romantic love. The story was right up Daisy’s alley and she had unabashedly bawled, though Evie had been completely in control of her emotions. And one afternoon they had watched an episode of
The Daily Show
on Daisy’s iPad and had laughed so hard Evie had actually started to choke. Daisy hadn’t found anything so downright funny in a very long time (and she was pretty sure that it wasn’t all due to Jon Stewart, as hilarious as he was), definitely not since her father had died, and even before that, as Dad seemed to grow more sad, it had been difficult to find anything really amusing, let alone downright funny. Daisy sometimes wondered how Joel, even being as sweet-natured as he was, put up with her.

Daisy caught sight of Evie coming along Main Street and waved. She noted that Evie was wearing the exact same T-shirt she had been wearing the day before. Not that Daisy was at all into fashion or style, but for some reason this struck her.
Oh, well,
she thought as Evie joined her,
she’s already told me she doesn’t have a lot of money.

“Hey,” Daisy said. “I had an idea. Let’s see if my friend Joel is on a break. He’s on the groundskeeping crew at The Starfish.”

“Oh. I—” Evie fingered the hem of her T-shirt. “I guess . . .”

“You’ll love him,” Daisy assured her. “He’s a year ahead of me in school and I’m so going to hate it when he goes away to college.”

Daisy led the way down Main Street, toward the library and the town hall, and before long they turned into the lush grounds of the expansive resort. A graveled path lined with neat bunches of pink and purple flowers wound its way toward a large in-ground pool, beyond which was the ocean, sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Are we even allowed here?” Evie asked softly, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “I mean, we’re not guests.”

“Oh, sure. People cut through the grounds all the time on their way to the beach.” Daisy grinned. “The police don’t have a lot to do in this town, but they wouldn’t waste their time with us!”

To the right of the graveled path was a thick green lawn on which people in bathing suits were sunning themselves on chairs and lounges. “It must cost a lot of money to stay here,” Evie said.

“I guess. We’re lucky we live locally and don’t have to pay huge hotel bills just for a view of the ocean.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,
Daisy thought, when Evie didn’t answer.
I can’t forget that Evie doesn’t have all that I have . . .

“There he is,” Daisy said, “the guy with the Ray-Bans, over by the Wishing Well. There’s no water in it, by the way. Purely ornamental.”

“OMG, he’s gorgeous,” Evie whispered.

“I know. And he’s smart and a fabulous musician and really nice. And gay.”

“Oh. Too bad.”

“For womankind. Joel!” Daisy called. “Hi!” She turned to Evie. “If he’d been wearing his earplugs he never would have heard me.”

Joel looked up from the mower he was poking at, waved, and came jogging toward them.

“Hey,” he said when he had joined them. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. This is my friend Evie. The one I told you about, the one who works at The Clamshell.”

Joel put out his hand and after a tiny moment of hesitation (probably overwhelmed by his gorgeousness, Daisy thought) Evie took it. “Nice to meet you,” Joel said.

Evie smiled. “Thanks.”

“So how’s work going?” Daisy asked.

“It’s going.” Joel laughed. “Get this. One of the guests complained to the manager that we—the grounds crew—should be wearing nicer uniforms. Can you imagine someone caring what the guy mowing the lawn is wearing?”

“What did he—or she—want you guys to wear? Thongs?”

Evie giggled and quickly covered her mouth with her hand.

Joel grimaced. “That could be painful, especially around the rosebushes. I don’t know what she—it was a she—said specifically, but I guess chinos and a navy polo shirt just don’t cut it.”

“Well, we think you look fine, right, Evie? Hey, do you guys want to come over for dinner tonight?” Daisy asked. “My sister’s friend Allie is making tacos.”

“I’m there,” Joel said. “What time?”

“Come when you get off from work and we can hang out. Evie? What about you?”

“Thanks,” she said quickly, “but I . . . I promised Billy I’d come in later and help him do inventory.”

“Too bad. Well, another time.”

Joel glanced at his watch. “I’d better get back to work. Have fun, you two. And I’ll see you later, Daisy.”

Joel jogged back to his mower. Daisy watched him and felt a sharp pang of regret. Or was that a sharp pang of love? Someday someone would take Joel away from her. Someday he would fall in love. That’s what happened in life. Things changed and people left.

“He’s so nice,” Evie said.

Daisy didn’t respond for a moment. “Yes,” she said finally. “He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.” And then, fearing that her words might have put Evie off, she added: “But don’t worry. I need a girl as a friend, too.”

Evie smiled.

“C
oming,” Poppy called, though she had no idea if anyone on the doorstep could hear someone inside calling to him. It was just something you did, call out “Coming!” when the doorbell rang.

As she hurried down the hall she thought she recognized Jon’s truck through the etched glass on either side of the front door. Suddenly, she found herself smiling.

“Hi,” she said, opening the door to her—to her friend?

“I’m afraid it’s me again. Popping up like a bad penny.”

Poppy laughed. “I never understood that expression.”

“Me, neither,” Jon admitted, “but I say it anyway. Look, I’ve got a rare free hour. I was wondering if you wanted to grab lunch at my family’s restaurant. It’s nothing fancy, but I can vouch for the food being good.”

“Sure. I was about to vacuum the downstairs rooms, but believe me, it’s a chore that can wait. Let me grab my bag.”

Ten minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of The Friendly Lobsterman (“Not my choice of name,” Jon explained, cringing). Gray, weather-worn shingles. Colorful buoys hanging in clusters against the walls. Lobster traps stacked neatly nearby. A rowboat pulled up onto the pebble-covered shore of the inlet. The Friendly Lobsterman, Poppy thought, looked much like any other establishment of its kind in coastal Maine.

No sooner were they through the front door than they were met with a chorus of greetings. Jon waved to the room in general. “Look around,” he whispered. “Every cliché a tourist could want.”

Poppy looked. Strings of little red lobster lights were draped over the bar and across the tops of window frames. The walls were decorated with old photographs of local lobstermen and their vessels. Abandoned lobster traps and ripped nets were scattered on windowsills and tacked to walls and posts. Carved wooden seagulls and ducks were lined along shelves. By the hostess station stood a life-sized statue of a fisherman in a classic yellow slicker and hat. There was a pipe clenched between his carved wooden teeth.

“All you need now,” Poppy said, turning back to Jon, “is a life-sized pirate to be friends with the life-sized fisherman.”

“Don’t let my father hear you say that. He’ll be out buying one before the end of the day. And my mother would not be pleased. Come on. Let’s take that table by the window. There’s a perfect view of the marsh.”

“Marshes always make me think of ancient times,” Poppy said as she took her seat. “Burials. Ritual sacrifices. Bogs.”

“There’s definitely a sense of the primeval to a marsh,” Jon agreed, “especially at low tide when you can see all the different layers of earth. Everything that time’s built up.”

A waitress brought menus and asked Jon how his mother was feeling. “Better, thanks,” he told her. To Poppy he said, “My mom’s had a summer cold. She’s the worst patient ever. She hates being sick. It’s like she takes it as a personal affront by—well, I don’t know by whom.”

Poppy laughed. “Yikes. Well, I do hope she’s over it soon. For everyone’s sake. Now, I’m going to have a lobster roll. When in Maine . . .”

“Fish and chips for me,” Jon said. “My friend Marty caught the haddock this morning. Can’t get any fresher than that. That’s my brother over there, the guy in the blue baseball cap. Clark. He works with me on the boat and at the store with my mom.”

Poppy’s eyes widened. “He looks nothing like you!”

Jon laughed. “The milkman’s son. No, really, he takes after my mom’s side of the family, the Hauptmans. I’m all Gascoyne. Dad!” Jon waved to another man, who waved back and came across the restaurant to join them.

“Poppy Higgins,” Jon said, “this is my father, Albert Gascoyne.”

“Call me Al,” he said, extending his hand to Poppy. “I knew your parents. Lovely people. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.” Al Gascoyne was indeed the physical pattern upon which Jon had been fashioned. Poppy recalled what Freddie had told her about him, that he was a true pillar of the community. She thought he had kind eyes, much like his son.

“How are those sisters of yours?” he asked.

“Doing well, thanks,” Poppy said. “It’s been an adjustment for us all, but we’re doing okay.”

“You let me or my son here know if you young ladies need anything. We’re always happy to help a neighbor.”

Poppy felt tears threaten and with some effort she managed to thank him. When their lunch arrived at the table, Jon’s father went back to his position behind the bar.

“He doesn’t need to act as bartender,” Jon explained. “We have two on staff. But he likes to keep an eye on things and he feels that if the owner is visible and available for a chat his customers will feel they’re being well taken care of.”

“That makes sense,” Poppy said, watching as Jon’s father shook the hand of an elderly man in a tweed cap who had just taken a seat at the bar.

“Thanks for not mentioning the pirate.”

Poppy smiled. “No problem.”

“So, I know you told my dad you were all adjusting, but are things really okay on Willow Way?”

Poppy shrugged. “I guess. No one’s accidentally burned down the house or run off with a boyfriend so I can’t complain.”
And I won’t complain,
Poppy added to herself.
Not to Jon
.

“Do you miss Boston?” he asked. “Or has summer in this lovely little town in Maine erased all thoughts of the metropolis from your mind?”

The question took Poppy by surprise. “Do you know,” she told him, “I haven’t given Boston a thought in . . . well, in weeks. Some of the people I knew there, sure. That’s why I’m glad my friend Allie is staying with us. But not the place.”

Jon smiled. “I told you Yorktide could weave a charming spell.”

“It’s not so much that,” Poppy said thoughtfully. “Not that Yorktide isn’t beautiful, it is. It’s just that I’m not feeling as homesick for my life in Boston as I thought I’d feel.”

“I hope that’s a good thing. Maybe it means you’re finding enough to keep you satisfied in this new stage of your life.”

Poppy smiled. “Paying bills, making sound financial investments so my sisters can go to whatever colleges they want to, cooking dinner. When I don’t burn it. Trying to be—”

Their waitress appeared with their food then and took some care arranging the basket of rolls and the bottles of condiments before she left.

“Trying to be what?” Jon prompted when she had gone.

“Trying to be a substitute parent for my sisters.” Poppy fiddled with her napkin. “Trying to make new friends and get to know some old ones all over again.”

“Sounds like a pretty busy life. And, as I think I said when we talked at the gallery, a challenging one.”

“It
is
busy and challenging, but I have help,” Poppy said promptly. “Freddie for one. And Allie.”
And you,
she thought. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Jon might get the wrong idea. “I’m really pretty lucky,” she went on. “My parents left my sisters and me in good shape. We’re not exactly filthy rich, but we’re—safe. We have a roof over our heads. We weren’t abandoned.”

Jon frowned. “I’d almost forgotten . . . I was in Wells the other afternoon and I drove past this young kid hitchhiking. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen. And I got the distinct impression that he was homeless. A runaway maybe. He just didn’t look like a wild kid out for a day’s adventure. A wild kid looking for a ride to the beach wouldn’t be carrying a backpack and wearing long pants and a heavy jacket.”

“Carrying his possessions. Because he has no place to leave them.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t stop.”

“Hitchhikers can be dangerous,” Poppy said. “You hear stories. All those cautionary tales your parents tell you when you’re young.”

“And so can the people who pick them up,” Jon pointed out. “No, I wasn’t afraid. I . . . I’m embarrassed to admit this, but the kid was out of my mind the minute I drove by. Until you said what you did about being lucky and safe, I’d completely forgotten about him.”

“What if you had stopped?” Poppy asked. “What would you have done if he told you he was a runaway? Assuming he
was
a runaway.”

“Tried to convince him to let me drive him to a shelter.”

“He might have refused. He might have been scared.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t know what I would have done then. Taken him where he wanted to go. And then given him some money I suppose. It would be tempting to offer a kid like that a place to stay for a while, my house or my parents’ house. But I couldn’t foist a possibly troubled stranger on my family. A lot of runaways and homeless people are addicts. A lot have mental problems or issues with violence. None of that’s their fault, of course, but . . .”

“But how do you know what’s best to do for them?” Poppy said, more to herself than to Jon.

“Leave it to the experts? That seems so—so cavalier.”

“I know,” Poppy agreed. “At least in cities there are resources for people who need a bed for the night and a meal and a shower. And there are professionals. Social workers, health care advocates. People who know how to help without, I don’t know, without accidentally doing more harm.”

“But people can go homeless anywhere,” Jon pointed out.

“I remember when I was in middle school there was a boy in my class who started to show up in the same clothes day after day. It was clear to everyone that something was wrong. He started to smell. Sorry. He could hardly stay awake in class. In the end the school found out that his mother had thrown him out of the house weeks earlier. He’d been sleeping in a friend’s garage until the friend’s father told him to go home. Which he couldn’t do. After that it was whatever shelter he could find. God knows how he was eating.”

“Poor boy.” Poppy fought a strong urge to put her hand on Jon’s where it lay on the table. “How did we get on such a sad topic?” she asked.

“My fault. I remembered the hitchhiker. I hope I didn’t ruin our good time.”

“Not at all!” she assured him. “I’m glad you told me about your experience.”

“Next time I promise I’ll only talk about happy or neutral topics.”

Poppy smiled. “That might be boring!”

“Maybe. So.” Jon gestured to Poppy’s empty plate. “How was the lobster roll?”

“Excellent. But I do want to try the fish and chips.”

“Like I said. Next time.”

Jon waved to the waitress for their check. And Poppy thought,
Next time
.