Swept Away (26 page)

I brush her hand away.

“I think Mandy is exactly the way she should be,” Oliver says, putting his arm around me. “Why do girls think putting on more makeup makes them somehow more appealing?”

“Well, builder boy, we like to achieve our full potential.”

This is so not going the way I had hoped. Here are my two favorite people in the world (well, Justin goes in that category too), and they're not getting along. At all.

I
get that he's a fox, but seriously, Mandy. He's so . . . I never thought of you as going for the dweeb.”

“He's not a dweeb,” I protest.

We're up in Cynthia's bedroom, where the primary topic of conversation has been how
not
for me Oliver is. It's not like I didn't expect something like this tonight. It was obvious that she thought he wasn't exactly cool from their brief interaction. And I fielded similar comments from Oliver at the historical society, though it was the fact that she was “pushy and shallow” that bothered him. It made it hard to concentrate on our attempts to brainstorm solutions to the Candy Cane problem.

“What do you really know about him?” Cynthia asks.

“What are you talking about? I've spent nearly every day with him; I've hung out with his mom, his grandfather . . .”

“Right.
Freaky
.”

“He's really not a bad guy.” I pick at an imaginary spot on one of her bedposts. “You just have to get to know him.”

“Yeah, like that'll ever happen.” She finishes brushing her hair and hops onto the bed. “What I mean is, do you have any idea about Oliver's life at home? Where he actually lives. Where he'll be going in just a few weeks.”

I stare down at a pillow and stroke the fringe.

“Remember Arabella Swenson?” she says.

The name chills me. Bella Swenson is the cautionary tale for all of us thinking of having a summer romance with someone from away. The guy she was gaga for turned out to have a steady girlfriend back at home. Though I wonder how serious it really was if he was fooling around with someone else all summer.

“And Billy Winston,” she adds.

The boy version of Arabella. But even worse, since that girl's
boyfriend came up to spend Labor Day weekend, and poor Billy had to see them all over town together.

“Why are you ruining this for me?” I ask.

“I'm looking out for you,” Cynthia says.

“Well, don't.” I stand and flop down onto the air mattress. “Since when are you the boss of me? I'm a big girl.”

Somehow I don't think I'm helping my own argument.

T
he next morning Cynthia goes into the bathroom, and I pretend to still be asleep. I hear her sighing heavily—it wouldn't be the first time she used this tactic to try to wake me. I just roll over, bringing the sheet up and over my head.

I lie there wondering what I should do. We had planned to spend the day together, since I don't have Candy Cane duty, but now I'm not so sure. Does Cynthia even want to? Do I?

“I know you're awake, Mandy,” she says. “Your feet are doing that thing they do when you're anxious.”

Busted. When I worry, my feet seem to have a mind of their own. Banging together or toes wiggling or bouncing up and down. I yank my feet back under the sheet.

“I'm sorry we had a fight,” Cynthia says.

“Me too,” I say. I push the covers back down and sit up. “You'd like him if you got to know him.”

Cynthia winds a strand of hair around her index finger. That's what she does when
she's
anxious. “Maybe. But there's still the fact that he lives—”

I cover my ears. “La-la-la-la-la-la,” I babble.

She throws a pillow at me, but at least she's laughing. “Okay. No reality speech. At least not this morning.”

I climb off the air mattress and onto her bed. “Yeah, we should at least have breakfast first.” I squinch my nose. “Oh, wait, is your mom still on her health-food-only diet?”

Cynthia flops back down onto her bed. “Ugh. Yes.”

I flop beside her. “Then I guess we'll be going out.”

I want to say, “Too bad we can't drop by at Freaky's—we'd get an awesome meal.” But this isn't the time to push it.

Now I just have to work on Oliver's attitude toward
her.

A
few times during the summer there are gallery nights in a bunch of neighboring towns, including ours. Everyone gets dressed up, and it's like a town date night. When we were kids, we felt very sophisticated wearing nice clothes, sipping lemonade from little plastic cups, and nibbling on squares of cheese stuck on frilly toothpicks. We were allowed up past our bedtimes, which made it even more special.

A few nights after the dreadful first meeting between Cynthia and Oliver is the last gallery night of the summer. We decided to make it a girl's night. So no Oliver, no Kyle, and Joanna even promised to leave her cell phone at home. I felt a little bad, since Oliver hadn't been to any of the earlier gallery nights. Something always had come up with his mom or his grandfather. But I could use some quality girl time. I also don't want to be one of
those
girls. The ones who ditch their friends because of some boy.

We only have two actual galleries, but displays are also set up
in the Square for local artists, and many shops stay open late. And because this is Maine, there's a lobster roll booth at one end of the Square and a booth selling all things blueberry at the other. Guess which side I'm planning to hang around.

“Cynthia!” Lexi cheers as we climb out of Mrs. Crowley's car in front of Scoops. Patti, Joanna, and Vicki all snap their heads in our direction.

Cynthia is quickly surrounded and peppered with so many questions she can't answer any. She holds up her hands to get everyone to quiet down and announces, “First things first!”

I think she's going to ask them about me and Oliver or maybe Patti and Kyle, but instead she asks, “What are the Scoops frontrunners?”

We all laugh. “None of us agree,” Joanna says.

“You'll have to catch up on the tastings,” Patti says. “The vote is coming up soon.”

Scoops is packed, but we cram inside with everyone else. As we push toward the counter, Cynthia says hi to a few more ­people. Harried “taste ambassadors” (a worse job title than “greeter,” though their paychecks probably make up for it) bustle around carrying tiny pink tasting spoons.

Cynthia and I make it to the front, where Patti is holding a cone and a tasting spoon. She lifts the spoon. “Peach coconut,” she explains. She finishes it and licks her lips. “Mm.” Then she gazes adoringly at the cone. “But I'll always be true to mocha chocolate chip.”

I drum my fingers on the counter. “Should I risk it and get a pecan graham cracker cone, or just a taster?”

“You've had the other four new flavors?” Joanna asks.

“Oliver and I have been known to detour past Scoops,” I admit with a grin.

“I'm surprised you bother,” Vicki says. “With all the deliciousness that Freaky makes. That Fourth of July picnic was wicked good.”

Cynthia turns with a triple chocolate cone in her hand and a surprised look on her face.

“He doesn't make ice cream,” I explain, then order a pecan graham cracker in a cup. Live recklessly, right?

“Ooh,” Lexi says, stepping to take my place at the ice cream counter. “You should buy him an ice cream maker. See what he comes up with.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Cynthia asks.

“Freaky is amazing in the kitchen,” Vicki explains.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Lexi confirms. “We decided we could still call him Freaky because he's a freaking good cook!”

“Uh, and not because he's, you know, kind of a freak?” Cynthia asks.

“We should make space,” I say, noticing the line growing huger outside. We file out.

“But he's not,” Lexi says behind me. “I mean, yeah, he's a character, but he was super helpful whenever we had questions about making the boat.”

“Oh, Cynthia!” Vicki squeals as we reassemble our clump on the sidewalk. “It's so sad you missed the boat parade. Their entry was adorable!”

Patti starts laughing. “I can't believe Oliver was so stubborn.”

“Believe it,” I say as we traipse down Main Street toward the Square. The night is clear, perfect late-summer weather. Warm enough to wear dresses—which we all are, along with bug spray—without the mugginess that sometimes creates an ick factor.

“What do you mean?” Cynthia asks.

“Didn't you tell her?” Lexi asks me. My mouth is too frozen from pecan graham cracker to respond, so I just shake my head. “It was hilarious. He refused to cut holes in the tower in order to see. It wasn't accurate, he said.”

Cynthia smirks. “Not too bright.”

My eyes flick to her, but she's focused on licking the drips on the sides of her cone.

“Have you met Oliver yet?” Joanna asks, tossing her napkin into the garbage can.

“They're such a cute couple,” Vicki agrees.

My mouth thaws enough to allow me to smile.

“We should totally think about doing a boat together next summer!” Patti says.

“One that doesn't involve rowing blind!” Lexi says with a laugh.

“I hear you've been going out with Kyle,” Cynthia says to Patti. “So how's that going?”

Patti smiles with a slightly wicked grin. “It's been an excellent . . . diversion.”

“Ah, keeping it light,” Cynthia says.

“Exactly.”

Cynthia sends a smug look my way, which I ignore.

“It's going to be hard, won't it, having Oliver leave soon,” Lexi says sympathetically.

I smile softly at her. I know she truly likes Oliver, so she feels bad for me. I shrug and leave it at that. I swallow and say brightly, “So, Cynthia, tell us all about camp!”

“Yeah, superstar, how many hearts did
you
break?” Patti teases.

“Did any big Broadway directors snap you up?” Joanna asks.

“What shows did you do?” Lexi asks.

Cynthia takes a swig of her bottled water. “We didn't do full shows,” she explains. “We did scenes from
Les Miz
,
Wicked
, and
Rent.
”

“And I bet you were the star in each one,” Vicki says.

Cynthia tucks her chin as if she's being modest, but I can tell something's wrong.

I'm probably the only one who notices, but Cynthia's eyes aren't matching her smile. When she looks up again, her eyes are locked onto mine. She's sending me a message: Change the subject.

“We should all go to the state fair over in Franklin,” I suggest.

“That would be so fun!” Vicki says.

“But we can bring our guys, right?” Patti asks. “It'll be fun to smooch at the top of the Ferris wheel.”

“Will Oliver still be here?” Lexi asks.

I take a last lick of my spoon and nod. I glance around for a garbage can to toss it in.

“Great, so he can come too,” Patti says. “Kyle would feel weird being the only guy in a group of girls.” She bangs her hip into ­Joanna's. “Bringing a virtual Sam doesn't count. At least, not to Kyle.”

“Ha-ha,” Joanna says. They make silly faces at each other.

Vicki slides her arm through Cynthia's. “Looks like we're the only single ones here. We should find us some boys to flirt with. There's lots of visitors tonight!”

“I have better things to do than moon over boys,” Cynthia says. She slings her arm across Patti's shoulder, so that they make a linked threesome. “Not when I've got my girls.”

“Well, it's gallery night,” Joanna declares. “Think maybe we should go look at some art?”

“If we must, we must,” Cynthia says.

“Yeah, I could use some fizzy water,” Vicki says. “We can get freebies.”

We arrive at the Square and head inside Paterson's Gallery. Joanna and Patti make a beeline for the beverage table, while Vicki drags Cynthia around in search of flirting partners.

I spot a table with snacks. I wiggle through the art lovers (or, at least, art
observers
) to get myself some crackers—that pecan graham cracker ice cream was a tad too sweet. I need to balance it out with something salty.

“Yes, that's an Oliver,” a voice says, stopping me.

Hearing Oliver's name, I glance over. An overdressed man and a woman in a long flowing summer dress stand in front of a large painting of what looks like the Cranston marina.

“A John Oliver,” the man says with admiration. “Those are rare.”

“Some say he destroyed many of them after some terrible reviews in San Francisco and New York.”

“That's too bad.”

The woman cocks her head, studying the painting. “Yes and no. It would be wonderful if there were more of them in the world, of course. But being so rare makes them incredibly valuable. I managed to snag this at an estate sale down east. It's already sold. And for a pretty penny, I tell you.”

Too bad this John Oliver wasn't also a lighthouse keeper. Now,
that
would make a great story to tell tourists. I could combine the Artists and Artisans tourists with the Lighthouses of Maine tourists.

“No one to flirt with here,” Vicki whispers as she and Cynthia join me. “Let's go.”

We gather Patti and Joanna and find Lexi outside. “They've lined the Square with Brad Ainsley sculptures,” she says, pointing.

“Cool!” I turn to Patti and Joanna. “Have you seen his stuff?”

“I don't think so,” Patti says as Joanna shakes her head.

“They're hilarious,” Cynthia says.

We wander down the row of sculptures. We're near the side of the Square by the lobster booth when I see one I remember from the Lupine Festival exhibit.