Summer with My Sisters (20 page)

T
he pool, Evie noticed, didn’t seem to be a big attraction; only a few people were standing around in the shallow end. Much more popular was the table laden with the kind of food easy to eat without utensils—cold shrimp, mini-quiches, chunks and slices of fruit, pigs in a blanket, and, as Joel had promised, lobster rolls. There was beer and wine for those over twenty-one, bottled water and juices for the others. The DJ had set up his equipment at the far end of the pool; he had attracted a group of female guests who were staring at him like he was a real celebrity, not the local college sophomore with failing grades and bad skin Joel had told Evie he was. Evie guessed there were about forty people in all, not really that many, but she felt as if she were in a much larger, louder, and possibly dangerous crowd. And she was definitely one of the youngest there. At least, she felt that way and it was strange that she felt so immature in comparison to the other guests because Evie strongly suspected that not one of them had gone through the terrible experiences she had—losing her family, living on the road . . .

“See that guy over by the food table, the one stuffing a lobster roll into his mouth?” Joel whispered. “Can you believe what he’s wearing? It’s like . . . It’s like something from the eighties. Like something the guys in Duran Duran would have worn. I wonder who he came with.”

Evie laughed. The guy’s outfit—a cobalt blue suit in some shiny material; two massive sparkly brooches pinned to the jacket’s narrow lapels, the sleeves of which were pushed up to the elbows—really was a pretty outrageous throwback. She only hoped that no one was looking at
her
as critically. Daisy had lent her a brand new T-shirt (it was the softest cotton Evie had ever felt) and a lightweight cotton jacket, and she was wearing her best pair of jeans. Well, the better of the two pair she had with her in Yorktide, and even so, the exterior seam of the left leg was beginning to tear. The only shoes she had to wear were sneakers or flip-flops and she had gone with the latter because they were cleaner. The other girls were far better dressed than Evie was and at first, she felt embarrassed. But Joel was such a great date—yes, even though he was gay Evie thought of this night as her first date—chatting with her, introducing her to people, bringing her drinks, and making her laugh that before long she almost forgot her misfit status and began to enjoy herself.

“I wonder if he crashed. It’s kind of a small party for someone who wanted to crash. No place to hide.” Joel shrugged. “As long as he leaves some food for the rest of us. Speaking of which, did you get enough to eat?”

Evie nodded. “I had plenty, thanks, Joel.”

“Good. Look, I’m going to run inside to the gent’s. Be back in a minute.”

It was only as Evie watched him go off that she began to feel exposed again, like the misfit and outsider that she was. A misfit and outsider who couldn’t help but overhear snatches of the conversations going on around her.

The guy in a T-shirt and cargo shorts and flip-flops to a guy in a similarly casual getup: “Can you believe my parents are so lame? I mean, telling me they’re not going to pay for me to go to Mexico on winter break. What am I supposed to do between semesters, work?”

The girl in a bright pink sundress to a girl in a bright purple sundress: “Oh, my God, I got the cutest skirt the other day at Express. It was on sale for, like, sixty dollars. I wish they had it in black ’cause I would have gotten that, too.”

Evie willed her ears to shut. She was so far removed from the society these kids inhabited, with their nice homes and functioning parents to complain about and good schools to go to and money to spend on stuff that was completely unnecessary.

“Hi. You came with Joel, right?” Evie jumped. She hadn’t seen the girl approaching though now she couldn’t imagine how she had missed her. She had a figure like Kim Kardashian’s and hair to match. She was wearing a pristine white crop top, white jeans, and fuchsia-colored high-heeled sandals.

Evie nodded.

“I’m Natalie. My boyfriend’s on the groundskeeping crew. How do you know Joel?”

“I met him . . . through a friend,” Evie said, amazed that her voice was steady.

“Joel’s a real sweetheart. Look, a bunch of us have been talking about going out after the party, maybe hitting a club. Why don’t you and Joel join us?”

“No,” Evie blurted, then, horrified, she said, “I mean, sorry, we can’t. We have plans. Sorry.”

Natalie shrugged and walked off. She probably thought Evie rude and Evie was sorry for that, but what else could she have done? She was already risking so much trusting Daisy and Joel. She only hoped that if Joel learned of the invitation he wouldn’t be mad at her for turning it down without checking with him.

And then Joel was back at her side.

“Sorry it took so long,” he said. “I was waylaid by my boss. Seems one of the riding mowers is broken though no one reported it. He wanted to know if I knew who was using it last. I mean, I’m not a snitch. Even if I did know I wouldn’t tell him!”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?” Joel asked, peering down at her.

“Yes,” Evie protested. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Did anyone bother you? That chuckle-head Frank, the guy in the madras shorts, thinks he’s God’s gift to girls.”

“No, he didn’t bother me. No one did.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Joel asked.

“Nothing,” Evie insisted. “It’s just that it’s been such a long time since . . . since I’ve been to a party like this.”
Another lie. I’ve never been to a party like this.

Joel smiled sympathetically. “Music too loud?”

“Maybe.”

“Told you it was awful. Look, why don’t we call it a night?”

“I’m sorry, Joel,” Evie said hurriedly. “We don’t have to go, really. I’m fine.”

“It’s no big deal,” he assured her. “Look, I work with these guys every day and most of them are getting drunk. I’ve seen enough of them for a lifetime.”

He held out his hand and she gave him hers. It had been so long since anyone had held her hand that the sensation of warmth and support almost made her drop to her knees with gratitude.

“I
can’t believe Freddie’s going to be eighty.” Poppy shook her head. “I never think of her as old, you know. I mean, she’s still working full-time! Where does she get the energy?”

Poppy and Violet were at the table in the sunroom making plans for the party they were giving for their friend’s birthday, which happened to coincide with Independence Day.

“You’re only as old as you feel,” Violet recited. “People say that, but I don’t think it’s always true, do you?”

“I don’t know. Some days, I feel twenty-five in the morning, eleven at noon, and ninety-five at bedtime. And sometimes, it’s the reverse. All ages of man. Or, in my case, woman.”

“I don’t think I feel any age at all. I just feel like—me.” A person who was hiding a secret for the first time in her life.

“That’s probably a good thing,” Poppy noted. “Just feeling like you. Our culture is obsessed with youth. Antiaging. What’s that about? Like getting old is always a bad thing?”

Violet didn’t think she needed to respond. Getting old was an experience—a gift—neither of their parents had been allowed. Poppy knew that as well as she did.

“I thought I’d do a centerpiece of green and white flowers,” Violet said. “Freddie’s favorite color is green so she’ll like that. Maybe some snowball viburnum and Queen Anne’s lace—there’s the tiny ruby inside the blossom and ruby is Freddie’s birthstone—and maybe some ivy and sage leaves and white roses. I’ll have to buy some stuff, of course.”

“Sure. I’ll take you to the florist later if you want. Should we get balloons do you think? It might be fun, given Freddie’s not exactly a kid.”

“You mean like the Mylar kind that have Hello Kitty or SpongeBob on them?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

Violet shook her head. “It’s not Freddie’s kind of humor.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe just some regular balloons?”

“Okay. And I’m also going to make a corsage for Freddie. I’m thinking of using green hydrangea for that, if I can find some small enough. I know corsages are kind of old-fashioned and formal, but . . .”

“I think it’s a great idea, Violet.” Poppy tapped the pencil she was using to make notes against the table. “I can’t believe it’s already July. I’ve been back home for almost five months.”

Violet nodded. “And Dad’s been gone for almost six.”

“Yes. Look, Violet, do you want to go to the parade this year?” Poppy asked suddenly.

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?” Because, she thought, she was terrified of having a panic attack in public. She had been thinking about the parade for days and the anxiety it might trigger, but she refused to allow herself to be made a victim of bad thoughts and feelings. She refused.

“I don’t know,” Poppy said. “Because . . .”

“Because both Mom and Dad are dead and it might bring back memories of us all going to the parade together and that will make me sad?”

“Yes,” Poppy said. “I guess that’s what I meant. I know it will probably make
me
sad.”

“And because there’ll be a lot of people and some of them might still want to stare at us and whisper about how awful we must feel?”

“That, too.”

“I don’t care about people like that,” Violet said, with more conviction than she felt. “I love the parade. A parade is a celebration. Communal rites and rituals are important for everyone. I really want to go.”

“Then we’ll go,” Poppy said. “Well, I’m not sure about Daisy, but you and I will definitely be there.”

“Daisy will come, too,” Violet said.

“How do you know for sure?” Poppy asked with a smile. “She can be moody and contrary when she wants to be.”

“I just know she’ll come.”
Because,
Violet thought
, Daisy always tries to do the right thing.

“Well, I hope you’re right. Now, what about Freddie’s cake?”

“I think,” Violet said, “that we should talk to Allie about that.”

“M
y favorite float was the liberty bell made all of roses. It was beyond awesome!”

Her younger sister’s enthusiasm made Daisy smile. The Higgins family had gone to the Independence Day parade that morning, Poppy, Daisy, and Violet. Daisy had been wary of being on display—come see the three orphaned Higgins girls!—but for the sake of Violet, who had always loved parades and festivals of all kinds, she had squashed her fears and gone along, small American flag in hand. In the end, very few people had paid Daisy and her sisters any real notice. Either time really was making them less interesting to the sort of people who loved other people’s misery or the high spirits associated with Independence Day had managed to take precedence over any remaining bits of morbid curiosity.

Daisy had asked Evie to join them at the parade, and then after, at the house, for Freddie’s party—Poppy had said it would be fine—but Evie had taken on two extra shifts at work, giving coworkers the holiday off and allowing her to make extra money. Joel was spending the day with his large Gascoyne family but said he would stop by later if he could sneak away.

Now they were gathered in the garden behind the Higgins house, the three sisters, Allie, Freddie, and Sheila. Poppy and Violet (with Allie’s help, Daisy suspected) had succeeded in making Freddie’s favorite pastry, the petit four, into a tall, rectangular cake. Allie had made fish tacos, another one of Freddie’s favorites, and there was guacamole and chips and some amazingly delicious warm cheesy dish Sheila had brought. The adults were drinking martinis, except for Poppy, who never drank anything harder than wine. Daisy and Violet were drinking super-spicy virgin Bloody Marys; Daisy had already sneezed four times from the black pepper. And Violet had outdone herself with the beautiful centerpiece and Freddie’s corsage. If the corsage, made largely with hydrangea blooms, was a bit large to be sitting on someone’s shoulder, no one was saying.

Allie raised her glass. “Thank you for letting me celebrate your birthday with you, Freddie.”

“Any friend of Poppy’s and all that. And you make a superb martini.”

“I took a course in bartending once, just for the fun of it. Every once in a while it comes in handy. I also took a woodworking class at around the same time. But so far, I haven’t been called upon to build anyone a shelf.”

“I could use another bookcase in my room,” Daisy said. “Half of my books are stacked on the floor.”

“Maybe you need to stop collecting so many books,” Poppy suggested.

“Why ever should she do that?” Sheila asked. “It’s a fine passion, book collecting. How many people even read books these days, I mean real books, ones with covers and paper pages you turn between your fingers. Everyone’s on those machines.. . .”

Freddie laughed. “You’re a dinosaur, my dear.”

“Speaking of dinosaurs, Freddie, how does it feel to be eighty?” Poppy asked with a grin.

“It feels just fine,” Freddie replied with alacrity. “My feet are an abomination, my back aches, my skin is mottled like a—like a something—my eyesight is terrible, and on some days I’m hard-pressed to remember my own name. Slight exaggeration there. But I’m alive and that’s what really counts.”

“Hear, hear!” Sheila raised her glass. “To my beloved ruin. To love among the ruins!”

“To getting old,” Daisy said. She thought of Muriella and Bertie, how happy they were in spite of illness and weakness. And she realized that so far, no one had mentioned those missing from the celebration, those who hadn’t been granted the gift of a long life. Annabelle and Oliver Higgins.

“Do you mind sharing your birthday with a country?” Allie asked.

Freddie raised an eyebrow. “I prefer to think the country is sharing its birthday with me!”

“Now that displays a healthy dose of self-esteem,” Sheila said. “Or a pathologically over-inflated ego.”

“Ha. I think I will have another of those delicious martinis.”

Allie got up to prepare the drink at the small side table that served as the bar. When she rejoined the group at the table, Violet said, out of the blue: “I wish Mom and Dad were here.”

There was a heavy beat of silence. Daisy felt tears smarting at her eyes and wished her younger sister hadn’t voiced what probably everyone gathered was feeling. Sometimes it was just better to keep your mouth shut and the feelings safely inside.

“I think,” Freddie said quietly, “that we all wish Annabelle and Oliver were with us today.”

“If wishes were horses . . .”

“What was that, Daisy?” Allie asked.

Daisy shook her head. “Nothing. Sorry. Look, can we cut the cake now?”