Summer with My Sisters (24 page)

“I
only have fifteen minutes,” Evie told them, glancing back at The Clamshell.

“Long enough for me to convince you to take a road trip with Daisy and me to Portland next Wednesday.”

Portland. Evie was pretty sure you had to take a highway to get there. “I’m working all day Wednesday,” she said. “Double shifts. Sorry.”

Joel shrugged. “Then we’ll go another day. I’ve covered for a few guys this summer—mostly recovering from hangovers—so my schedule’s relatively flexible. What day are you off?”

“I’m not sure. I’d have to check. Sometimes Billy doesn’t post the schedule until the last minute.”

“Well then,” Daisy said, “when you find out we’ll make a plan.”

Evie felt her heart begin to race. Portland was a pretty big city. The police there might have her on file as a missing person and if they did, they would have her photograph. The Portland police were far more likely to be on the watch for a runaway teen than the police in Yorktide.

“We’ll go to that famous cupcake place,” Joel was saying, “the one that was on the Food Network or something. Come on, no one can resist a cupcake.”

“It’ll be fun.” That was Daisy. “Everyone needs a change of scenery once in a while, right?”

Joel rolled his eyes. “You can say that again! I need my cage rattled in a big way. I am so sick of pretty flowers and velvety lawns.”

“All right,” Evie said finally, more because she felt Daisy and Joel would continue to press her until she said yes than because she thought the trip a good idea. Besides, she could always back out at the last minute. “You convinced me.”

“Good,” Joel said, “then it’s settled. Just tell us the day you’re free and we’re on our way.”

“You know,” Daisy said, “I haven’t taken a road trip since . . . Since my dad took Violet and me to Salem last summer. We did the witch tour. Violet was pretty upset about it all, actually. She said she could feel the unhappiness and fear of the women who were unfairly condemned and killed.”

“Poor Violet. Anyway, I’m not sure it’s considered a road trip when you’re with your parents. I think road trip implies you’re with your friends.”

Daisy laughed. “Then the last time was when you and I went to that awful county fair.”

“Hey, it wasn’t my idea. You made me take you.” Joel turned to Evie. “It was really pathetic. Two skinny cows, a mangy workhorse, carnival rides from like the last century, and the only stuff to eat was greasy fried dough.”

“And cotton candy,” Daisy added.

“Blue cotton candy. What’s that about?”

Evie smiled and tried to seem interested in her friends’ banter. As long as they didn’t ask about her own road trip history. She didn’t feel up to constructing another lie. Because she was sure that a few weeks alone on the road, on foot, didn’t count.

“Hey,” Joel said. “Big news. I’m applying for this scholarship my sax teacher told me about at my last lesson. It’s huge, ten thousand dollars toward private lessons with staff from the Berklee College of Music. There’s a lot of competition, but with a little luck I just might get it.”

“Joel, that’s amazing!” Daisy cried.

“It’ll be amazing only if I
get
the scholarship! I know a life in music is going to be hard, but it’s not like I need to be famous. I just want to play music and make enough money to go on playing it.”

“Well, I’d offer to lend you money, but when I’m a doctor I’m pretty sure I’ll be paying off student loans until I’m ninety!”

“We’ll both be living lives of sacrifice for our art! So, Evie,” Joel asked, “what do you want to do with your life?”

Evie felt as if she had been slapped. How could she possibly answer that innocent but devastating question? She had no education, no family, and no money. She had no
right
to dream about her future. Once, before the accident, she had thought about teaching language or going into the field of diplomatic relations, but now . . . Now survival seemed her only goal.

“Oh, Evie,” Daisy said quietly. “I’m—we’re—so sorry.”

Evie shrugged. “It’s all right.”

“I’m an idiot,” Joel said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“Really,” Evie lied, “it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll . . . Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy looked to Joel. “We should probably go. I told Poppy that I’d . . . that I’d do the laundry.”

Evie turned toward The Clamshell. “Yeah. My fifteen minutes is up anyway. . . .” With a halfhearted wave, she left Joel and Daisy and went back to work. She loved her new friends—she thought that
love
was the right word—and she didn’t know what she would do without them. But sometimes, it was very hard to spend time with them. Pretending to be just like them—pretending to be just an average kid—was so terribly tiring.

Yes, Evie thought, opening the door to the restaurant. She would back out of the trip to Portland at the last minute.

V
iolet was examining a basil plant in the garden when she heard Grimace hiss loudly. She stood up and saw that her sister’s friend Ian was standing a few feet away, his hands in the air as if in surrender. Grimace was staring up at him, fur on edge.

“He doesn’t like you,” Violet stated unnecessarily, as she scooped up Grimace. He sat heavily in her arms, glaring fixedly at Ian.

“Well,” Ian said, lowering his hands, “I don’t like him, either.”

“He knows. He doesn’t care.”

Ian grinned. “Do
you
like me?”

“Not really,” Violet said promptly. “No.”

“Really? But I’m such a likeable guy.”

“Not to me, you’re not. But it doesn’t matter because you don’t like me, either. Not everybody likes everybody. It’s perfectly normal.”

Violet went back inside the house, leaving Ian to process her last words. She deposited Grimace on the kitchen floor next to his bowls of food and water and went to the fridge in search of grapefruit juice.

She wondered what her sister had ever seen in Ian. He was so . . . so insubstantial. She had heard Poppy telling Allie that there was absolutely no romantic attachment between them any longer. Which Violet thought was a good thing, but she couldn’t at all figure out why Poppy still considered Ian friend enough to invite him to stay in their home. It was a puzzle all right, one Violet, for all of her uncanny insight into the workings of the human heart, simply couldn’t solve.

Daisy came bounding into the kitchen, knocking into a chair as she did. “Ow. Guess what?”

“About what?” Violet asked reasonably. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral? Past, present, or future?”

“Never mind. Joel and I and our friend Evie are going to Portland one day next week. Do you want me to bring you anything from that stone shop you like? Stones ’n’ Stuff. It was really nice of you to get me that piece of stained glass at the craft fair. I’ve never seen such a bright green.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Violet said. She had bought an abstract piece for Poppy, too, and for herself she had chosen the image of a black and white cat bearing an uncanny resemblance to Grimace. Since she had hung it in her window, Grimace had spent many hours staring at it. “But no thanks. I like to choose my own stones. A stone speaks to me and I bring it home.”

Daisy shrugged and took an apple from the bowl on the counter. “Okay. But if you change your mind . . .”

“Daisy,” Violet asked, “why hasn’t Evie ever been to the house? None of us have met her.”

“I’ve asked her a few times, but she’s pretty much always working. She makes me feel lazy!”

“She can’t work at night. The Clamshell closes at seven. Does she have a second job?”

“No. But sometimes she stays at The Clamshell to help close up.” Daisy shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Woolrich gives her some extra money.”

“She lives all alone at that artist’s house? The big house with the tower?”

Daisy chewed the last bite of her apple and tossed the core in the small compost bin by the sink. “Yeah. Violet, why are you asking all these questions?”

“I’m just curious,” Violet said. “Where’s she from?”

“Um,” Daisy said, going over to the fridge and staring in it. “I forgot. Somewhere in New England. Vermont, I think. Maybe Connecticut.” Daisy shut the door to the fridge and wandered over to the cupboard where they kept things like chips and cookies.

“Is she going back to school in the fall?”

“She’s out of school. I mean, she graduated high school.”

“Oh.”

Daisy shut the door to the cupboard and turned back to Violet. “Violet, why is any of this your business?”

“Were the questions too personal?” Violet asked. She thought they had been fairly neutral, but her social perception was pretty off lately. . . .

“No. It’s just . . .” Daisy sighed. “Evie’s a private person, okay?”

“Okay.” Violet might have asked one more question, but the sudden arrival in the kitchen of Ian prohibited her.

“What’s up, ladies?” he said, casting a wary eye toward Grimace, who was chewing noisily.

“Ladies?” Daisy said with a laugh. “Could you be any more condescending?”

Ian opened the door to the snack cabinet, as Daisy had done a moment earlier. “So you’re not ladies,” he said. “What are you then? Chicks?”

“Women,” Daisy retorted, going over to the cabinet and shutting the door against Ian’s gaze. “People. Human beings. And how about paying for some of the food you’ve been consuming.”

The sudden look on Ian’s face—a flare of fury, Violet thought; she suspected he was going to say something really nasty—made her step between him and her sister.

“Are there any peanuts in there?” she asked, reaching up to open the cabinet again. “I really love peanuts. I think peanuts are pretty much everyone’s favorite nut.”

It was lame, but it worked. Ian turned and left the kitchen without another word, followed a moment later by Daisy, who once again knocked into a chair on her way out.

Suddenly, Violet felt enormously tired. People could be such a drain on her energy. She wanted to like them all and to help them, but more and more she was feeling the need of someone to help
her
. Grimace, finally finished with his snack, smashed against her leg in agreement.

She was, after all, only thirteen.

“D
arn,” Poppy said under her breath.

“What?” Ian asked.

“Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was Jon Gascoyne, making his way through the throng of vacationers crowding Main Street. Of course she had known there was a chance she and Ian would run into him. But she had hoped very hard that they wouldn’t.

“Fancy running into you,” Jon said, joining them where they stood in front of the homemade candle shop. He was wearing a pair of knee-high rubber boots over a pair of work pants and a sweatshirt that had seen better days.

“Hi, Jon,” Poppy said. “This is an old friend, from Boston. Ian. Ian, this is Jon.”

Jon put out his hand and Ian shook it. “Hey,” Ian said.

Poppy thought she saw a look of disappointment flit across Jon’s face. She wondered if he thought she was dating Ian.
Please don’t let him think that!

“Have you been to Yorktide before?” Jon asked into the silence that had followed the handshake.

“When I was a kid, I think. I don’t really remember. Guess it didn’t make an impression.”

“Ian’s just up for a few days,” Poppy said.

“Are you showing him the sights?”

Poppy laughed.
Why am I laughing? Because this is a little nightmarish farce
. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good tour guide.”

“You should at least see the Nubble Lighthouse,” Jon suggested. “It’s very popular and for good reason.”

“Not really a fan of lighthouses,” Ian said, looking off over Jon’s shoulder.

“Well,” Poppy said, “we should . . .”

Jon nodded. “Enjoy your stay, Ian.”

Ian didn’t reply. Poppy watched as Jon walked toward his truck, parked outside the drugstore.

“When do we eat?” Ian asked.

 

“So, what’s he do?” Ian asked, taking a long swallow of his beer.

“Who?” Poppy asked.

“The guy we ran into earlier. The Gorton’s Fisherman.”

Poppy stiffened at the implied insult. “Jon. A lot,” she said. “He’s a lobsterman primarily. His parents own a restaurant and a fish market and he works at both of them. And he’s involved with town stuff.”

“He’s a politician?” Ian said with ill-concealed disdain.

“No. I mean, he and his family are—concerned. They do good things for the town. They volunteer and contribute. They give back.”

“Sounds pretty dull to me, but whatever floats the lobsterman’s boat. What does his wife do, weave his nets and scale his fish?”

Poppy wondered. What
would
Jon’s wife do, besides be thankful she was married to such a good man?

“He’s not married,” she said shortly.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Ian said, clearly bored with the topic of Jon Gascoyne. “I feel like I’m growing barnacles hanging around the house every night after dinner.”

“There’s not really much to do at night in Yorktide,” Poppy told him. “But there are a few clubs in Ogunquit.”

“That’s cool. I hope they stay open past eleven.”

“They do, but I think I’ll pass, Ian. I’m not really into going to dance clubs these days.”

“Sleepy small-town life affecting you? Tucked up in bed by nine?”

Was it even worth reminding him that she was still in mourning for the sudden loss of her father? Was it even worth pointing out that she was responsible for two minors now? Was it even worth trying to explain to him that she was changing and hopefully for the better?

No, Poppy thought. It probably wasn’t.

“Early to bed and early to rise,” she said with a false smile.

“I’ll do a shot for you,” Ian promised.

“I don’t drink hard liquor. You know that.” But of course he wouldn’t have remembered.

And then she realized that Ian would need the alarm code if he were going to be out late. Well, there was no way she was going to give it to him. She doubted he was clever enough to have any criminal intentions, but she wasn’t going to give him the gift of her trust. She would have to wait up until he got home from wherever he had gone, let him in, and then set the alarm....

She wished she hadn’t invited him! But she couldn’t just throw him out. Her parents had been very firm about the courtesy one showed to guests, especially those one had invited. Again she wondered how long it was before she could politely ask him to leave. Where was Emily Post when you needed her?

Ian was regarding her over the rim of his almost-empty glass.

“What?” she asked.

“You’ve changed since you left Boston. Where’s the Poppy I used to know?”

“Gone.”

“But not forgotten, I hope.”

Poppy shrugged. What was there to remember?

“You’re less . . .”

Poppy didn’t prompt him. What he thought of her didn’t matter in the least. Besides, she was not less anything. She was
more
of a complete person. “Let’s get the check,” she said, gesturing to their waiter. “I’ve got things to do at home.”