Swept Away (12 page)

“Which one are you like?” I ask.

“You tell me,” he says.

I study his face. The humor in his bright eyes. The uneven front teeth. The soft-looking lips. “Jury's still out,” I say, my voice a little shaky. The close scrutiny unnerves me. “But if I had to guess right now, you're a mix of them both.”

“Sounds right.” He laughs. “At least, that sounds better than hearing I'm a driven workaholic or a slacker party boy.”

“Your dad's a slacker party boy?”

“Nah. But he
is
more into vegging in front of the TV or inviting the whole neighborhood over for a barbecue than Mom.”

“Opposites might attract, but then they wind up driving each other crazy,” I say.

“Hey, your doll raft floated away.” Oliver points to the water.

I swivel my head to look. He's right. The boulder's clear of debris now. “It's on its way to Candy Cane.”

“I guess we should get back to work.”

I don't want the picnic to end, but I help him pack our trash in the cooler.

He picks up the cooler and leads the way back to the path. We're both quiet, but it's a nice quiet. I'm not trying to come up with things to say, and I don't think he is either. We just feel . . . calm. Relaxed.

Visitors talk about how being by water puts them into a zone. It doesn't matter if it's the bay, the ocean, the river, or the harbor. Something about negative ions. Or maybe it's the hypnotic effect of moving water. Could be there's something to it, and that's why Oliver and I are so comfortable lazily strolling silently side by side. I feel like we're two different people leaving the woods from those who entered. Or at least our relationship is: We know each other better; we've both revealed ourselves a bit more to each other, maybe more than either of us had expected.

Once out of the woods I can tell by the angle of the sun that our picnic lasted a lot longer than we'd planned.

We step into the kitchen, and he drops the cooler on the counter. His mom must have been in the living room, because she pops her head in, a quizzical look on her face.

“There you are. I thought we might have to send a search party after you.”

I back up against the door, totally embarrassed. She probably thinks we were making out this whole time. When we never even kissed.

“We were at the river,” Oliver says. He rummages in the fridge and pulls out a soda. He holds it out to me. I shake my head no.

He shuts the fridge and pulls the tab on the soda can. I glance at his mom. She's got that look on her face like she's trying to
­figure out if we've been up to anything. Oliver is totally oblivious, but I recognize it immediately.

Maybe it's a look parents only use on their daughters. Or maybe boys are just clueless about this kind of thing.

Oliver tips back his head to take a swig, and his eye catches the clock on the wall. “Is that the real time?”

His mom crosses her arms. “That's the real time.”

He completely misses her tone. Her “this is why I'm curious about what you were doing” tone.

“Oh man.” He puts down the soda and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I guess we should call it a day,” he says to me. “I didn't realize it was so late. It doesn't make sense to start doing the papier-mâché now.”

“Okay,” I say. “I should probably be heading home anyway.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Oliver's mom asks.

I would, but I should let my mom in on the news that I'm hanging with Freaky Framingham's grandson before I announce I'm already at the house. But there's another reason I have to say no.

“The service here isn't great, right?” I say. “I'd have to let my mom know.”

Alice frowns. “That's right. And Pop never put in a landline. Another time, then.”

“How about tomorrow?” Oliver pipes up. A worried look crosses his face. “You're coming back tomorrow, right?”

“I have to be at Candy Cane,” I tell him, noticing Oliver smiling at the nickname, now that he's clued in. “But I can come after four. If that's not too late.”

“Any time you can spare will be great,” Oliver says.

“Okay. I'll ask Mom about dinner.” I hope she'll let me. In fact, I hope she'll let me out of the house after hearing I spent all day at Freaky Framingham's without telling her.

We walk through the living room. “So what's in there?” I ask, pointing to the door of the addition.

“That's Pops's studio,” Oliver says. “He's an amazing painter. He has some things stored there, but it's always where he works when he's not painting
en
plein air
.”

“Plain what?” I ask, crossing to the door.

“That's what it's called when an artist paints outside.”

“Can I see?” I put my hand on the doorknob, but Oliver quickly puts his hand on my arm and stops me from turning it.

Oliver looks nervous. “Actually, no. It's the one room we're not allowed in when he's not here. It's the major rule.”

I pull my hand back, disappointed.

“But no one says we can't peek,” Oliver adds with a grin. “Take a look.”

I step up to the window in the door and crane my neck. By getting into weird positions I can see different parts of the room. I catch the corner of a painted canvas on one side and cans holding lots of paintbrushes on a worktable. I wiggle a bit more and spot paintings stacked against a wall. I step back. “It looks like he's a really serious painter.”

“He is.” He turns me around and points at the painting over on the wall opposite the fireplace. The one of the harbor in fog that I noticed when I first came in. “That's one of his.”

I step up close to it. I don't know how he did it, but he cap
tured the strangeness of fog, the wetness, the way light looks through it. Tiny little brushstrokes in unusual colors that when I step back again form into a very recognizable Rocky Point Harbor.

“That's really good,” I say. “Does he sell them?”

Just then Freaky strides through the door, looks at us suspiciously, nods at Oliver, then disappears into the kitchen. He grunts a greeting to Oliver's mom—at least I think that's what the sound is—and then I hear the back door bang.

“Tools!” I hear him yell from the backyard.

Oliver flushes. “Gotta go. Pops is a stickler about taking proper care of his tools. If he's not happy, then he won't let us use them anymore.”

“Go, go.” I wave him away. “See you tomorrow.”

I
'm in such a good mood when I get home that I'm not angry at Cynthia anymore. In fact, I'm grateful to have a friend who worries about me. Cynthia is more like a sister than a friend, and this is just another example.

I punch in her number. She answers on the first ring.

“So I guess you're still alive,” she says flatly.

Okay. She's still holding on to her mad. I'm not going to let that rile me up. “I know you were just concerned,” I say.

“Don't use that mom speech on me,” she says.

“I'm not!” I exclaim. “Anyway,
you
were the one doing the mom thing—” I stop myself and start over. “We were totally wrong about Freaky.”

“He's not a freak?”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far. He's not exactly bursting with people skills. But his house is totally different on the inside than the outside.”

“Yeah?” She's using her interested voice.

“Yeah. He's like this gourmet chef. Your mom would kill for his kitchen.”

“No lie?”

“But here's the headline.” I pause for dramatic effect. I've learned a lot from Cynthia over the years. “He's a painter. Seriously good. He's got all these canvases stacked up in a studio he built onto the house.”

“That
is
headline news.”

“So, come on, Cyn. Let's not be in a fight.”

“We're not in a fight,” she protests.

“I know, let's not go over it again.”

“You have to understand—”

“La-la-la-la-la-la-la,” I sing over her.

That gets her laughing. “You are such a child.”

I can't really fault her on that since it's what we used to do when we were little kids to stop someone from speaking. Though we usually did it to others, not to each other. Still, I say, “No I'm not. I'm just . . .” I pause to let her brain catch up with mine.

“Hormonal!” we shriek at each other over the phone.

And with that, everything's back to normal again.

S
o, um, Mom, you know that boy Oliver?” We're digging into take-out fried chicken at the dinner table. Have I mentioned
Mom's not so keen on cooking? I have the funniest image of her getting cooking lessons from Freaky.

“The lighthouse fan,” Mom says with a smile.

Good. The first thing that comes to her mind is what she likes best about him.

Just come right out with it, Mandy
. “His mom invited me for supper. Tomorrow night.”

Mom looks up from her side dish of corn niblets and cocks her head. “When did you see his mother?”

Oops. I didn't prepare for that question. All I've got is the truth without any prep time to figure out the best way to present it. So I just present it. “Oliver and I are working on a project together. For the Fourth of July,” I add quickly. She likes it when I participate in community events. “All about Candy Cane,” I put in for good measure.

She frowns and puts down her fork. I now have her full attention. I prefer her in her more distracted state.

She folds her hands in front of her. “You're working on what exactly?”

“A float for the boat parade,” I respond with huge enthusiasm, hoping to get her on board.

“Where exactly are you working on it?”

Uh-oh. Two exactlies in a row. Bad sign. And here's where the fight will begin.

“Up at, uh, Mr. Framingham's house.” I figure it would be better
not
to
call him Freaky when I'm trying to convince Mom how normal everything is with Oliver. “His mom was there the—”

She cuts me off. “Let me get this straight. You went to a
stranger's house. Where there's no cell reception. Possibly not even a working landline. Without a word as to where you were going. Or asking my permission.”

“He's not exactly a stranger,” I counter, trying to keep my temper in check. A big blowout is not in my best interests.

“Mr. Framingham isn't just a stranger; he's
strange
,” Mom responds angrily.

“That's unfair!” Okay, there goes my plan to keep a cool head. But it
is
unfair. “You just know stupid rumors. And that isn't even what I meant.”

She raises an eyebrow. At least she's still letting me talk.

“I meant that
Oliver
isn't a stranger. You've even met his mom. You've talked to her a bunch of times this week. That's all you ever ask about when I go anyplace.”

This argument actually seems to work. Not bad for an improvisation. Her face changes from her “you are about to be punished” expression to something neutral. That I can't read.

“Let me think about it” is all she says, then goes back to eating her niblets.

I sigh. Well, at least it's not a no.

A
ll day at Candy Cane I replay yesterday with Oliver. I can't believe I got weepy with him! But the most shocking part of this is that I don't feel embarrassed about it. The little crease that formed between his eyes when he was afraid he'd upset me, the soft tone of voice he used—it makes me swoony even now. Between his opening up about the divorce and my brush with
tears, there's no denying we are truly getting to know each other.

It's weird,
I think as I lock up. This getting-to-know-you thing. I've basically known my friends forever. Even people I'd categorize as acquaintances I've known pretty much all my life. I haven't had to . . .
learn
someone in ages.

Scary.

But deliriously exciting, too.

Mom finally relented. She said I could go to Oliver's to work on the boat and today for supper, but she insisted she drive me over from the library. She claims it's because she doesn't want me riding my bike home after dark. The woods along Evergreen Road are pretty dark, thanks to the thick groves of Christmas trees the road is named for. There's a reason the state flower is a pinecone. But it's
really
so she can check out the situation. Secretly I'm glad. It's a long haul by bike from the tip of Rocky Point where the lighthouse is to Freaky's house in the woods.

I ride to the Square and lock my bike in the rack in front of the library. Mom's as klutzy as me, so she didn't want the hassle of getting the bike into the car. I didn't want to waste time going home, so we compromised. She'll drive me back here tomorrow morning, and I'll bike the rest of the way to Candy Cane. Bonus: It cuts my ride in half.

The library's AC isn't the best, but the dark wood cabinets and high ceilings at least give the impression of being a lot cooler inside. The library is nearly empty. A dad with a baby in a Snugli is trying to convince a toddler that it's time to go. An older woman sits at a computer terminal. A high school boy sits with his head down on a table, obviously asleep. From the curly hair
I identify him as Marshall Beamer. Must have summer school. I flip through some paperbacks in a revolving rack as I wait.

“I'm sorry,” I hear my mom saying. “There's just no way we can swing that.”

I glance up and see her walking down the stairs with Mr. Garrity, the other historical society bigwig.

Mr. Garrity sighs and takes a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He uses it to wipe the back of his neck. “I know. We're going to have to take a hard look at the budget. And soon.”