Swept Away (30 page)

Oliver opens it. “Hey!” he says with a big smile. “Do you want to—”

I cut him off. “I need to talk to your grandfather.” If I wait another second, I just won't have the nerve to do what I'm here to do. “In private,” I add.

He takes a step back, probably pushed by the force of my determination. He's so surprised he doesn't ask a single question; he just points toward the kitchen and says, “Shed.”

I rush outside and find Freaky doing something with the big collection of tools in his shed. I know he doesn't like being interrupted, and if I make him mad, he's more likely to say no, but we're down to the wire here.

There's so much at stake for me, for Mom, for Rocky Point, the words force themselves out all on their own. “The painting of Candy Cane,” I say. “Please. Would you be willing to sell it?”

“What?” Freaky stares at me as if I just sprouted a second head.

“At the auction. To save the lighthouse. “

He nods. “Yeah, Alice and Ollie mentioned the lighthouse is closing. It's a sorry thing, to be sure.”

“But we can stop it from happening! Oliver, and my friends, and my brother, we're all trying to come up with ideas. But none of them will work without something drastic.”

“And my painting somehow figures into this?”

“A John Oliver painting would probably raise enough money to keep the lighthouse going for at least another year, maybe more, while we try to find other ways to bring in funds.” I launch into the whole scheme, but he quickly holds up a hand to stop me.

“That's all very well and good, but I'm not interested in selling.” He turns back to his work table.

Tears spring into my eyes. “But you don't even like the paintings. They make you sad just to see them. You could do so much good if you'd just . . .” My voice chokes up and I have to stop.

How can I get him to understand how special Candy Cane is? Not just because of all the time Oliver and I have spent together there, but because of
everything
that's happened there—the people, the stories, the history. I'd hate to see that all disappear.

And then there's Mom. I think about losing Oliver in a couple of weeks. I've only known him for two and a half months, and already the pain burns in my chest. Mom lost my dad, the man she loved and lived with for years. That pain must have been unbearable. “My mom,” I choke out. “I don't want to think . . . It's so much more than a lighthouse to her. It's like a symbol of her relationship with my dad. It would break her heart.”

Tears are now running down my face, but I ignore them. They're not just from pain, they're anger, too. “You don't like those paintings because they remind you of when you were selfish. You have a chance to do something the opposite of selfish with them. Won't you do that? Please?”

“Can't you see I'm busy here?” he snaps without even turning
around. “Why don't you go along and let Ollie show you his model or something.”

My mouth opens and then closes again. I whirl around and stomp out. I drop onto the bench at the picnic table. I have to get myself together before heading back into the house. Even though I'm furious, I'm not going to spill Freaky's secret identity. I keep my promises. If I go inside now, I don't know what will come out of my mouth when Oliver asks me what's wrong.

I wipe my face with the bottom of my T-shirt, trying to get myself to calm down. I hear muttering from the shed. Probably Freaky complaining to himself about me.

A shadow makes me realize Freaky is now standing behind me. Just like him, I don't bother turning around.

“I hear you, girlie. I hear how important this all is, but so is my privacy.”

I don't think that's a very good excuse, but I figure it's not a good idea to keep yelling at Oliver's grandfather, so I keep my mouth shut.

He sits beside me on the bench, his back against the table. “Do you know what would happen if folks hear that John Oliver is none other than ol' Freaky Framingham?”

My mouth drops and I turn to face him.

His eyes twinkle. “You thought I didn't know about that lovely moniker, huh?”

“I—I—I . . .” I shake my head.

“Those danged artist tours, they'd be crawling all over my property. I've been famous; I know what it can be like.”

My brain clicks frantically, searching for a solution. I get the
strongest feeling that he's trying to find a way to say yes. “What if we say it's an anonymous donation? That someone who knew about the postcard decided to give it to the historical society?”

“You think there's anything done anonymously in this little town?”

“The postcard is.”

A smile slowly spreads across his face. “I think I know a way to make this work. But no one can know. Not even your mother.”

“Not even Oliver?”

“How about you hold off until after they leave town. That's a big secret for anyone to keep. Think you can?”

“To save Candy Cane, you betcha!”

Then I do something as startling as Freaky ruffling my hair. I throw my arms around him.

And he even hugs me back.

T
he next day my phone rings, and I see that at least for now, Oliver has cell service.

“Hey, you,” I say. “How goes the building?”

“Just waiting for the paint to dry,” Oliver says. “Then it is officially done!”

“Congratulations.” I lean back in my desk chair and slowly spin in it, taking in the souvenirs of this summer that I've accrued. The plushy lobster toy Oliver convinced me to take after the state fair. The spreadsheet he devised to determine which new flavor should win the ice cream contest at Scoops. (Neither of our choices won. Pecan graham cracker? Are they kidding?).
Mrs. Gilhooley's “bib.” An evergreen branch tacked to my bulletin board that Oliver pretended was mistletoe (since it's Christmasy). A sparkly rock from the river near “our” place.

“Uh, so I wanted to ask you something,” Oliver says.

I stop the chair with my feet, wary. “Yeah?”

“This antiseafood thing of yours. Is it just eating it, or do you hate being around it, uh, generally?”

I turn the chair so I'm facing my desk again. “You want to go to the lobsterbake tomorrow.”

A highlight of the Good-bye to Summer Festival for many (not me) is the lobsterbake held on the cove's sandy beach where everyone watched the fireworks. For those not from Maine, a lobster­bake is a super-traditional party meal, though there are big arguments about the best recipe and technique. The way we do it in Rocky Point is like this: Giant steel washtubs are placed on rocks over coal fires. Salt water goes into the tubs, then the lobsters, which get covered with a layer of seaweed. Next there's a layer of clams and mussels and more seaweed. The last to go in is corn on the cob, which is also covered with seaweed.

As you can tell, I've been to them, but only when I was forced to as a small child. It's mostly for visitors to Rocky Point, since it's pretty pricey and most of the locals are working at it in some capacity or other.

“Would you . . . would you want to go?” Oliver asks tentatively. “Mom's kind of into it.”

“Of course she is,” I tell him. “Everyone who comes to Maine has to experience a lobsterbake on the beach.”

“Will you come too?” Oliver asks.

“To be honest, it's not my thing. I'd have to bring my own food, I'd be trapped among the creepy crawlies, I'd—”

“I get it,” Oliver says, cutting me off. “So we won't go.”

“No, no!” I say. “You definitely should go.”

“But I'll be leaving . . . I mean, we only have a few days left. Don't you want . . . ” He clears his throat. “Don't you want to spend that time with me?”

“Of course I do!” I exclaim. “It's just—I don't want to keep you from doing something I think you'd really enjoy.”

“I get it. I do,” Oliver says. He sighs.

I take a deep breath then say, “You know what? Let's go. Together.”

“Really? But you—”

“Really.” Relationships are about compromise, right? “You just have to promise not to try to make me eat anything.”

“Promise.”

“Or do classic boy moves like chasing me around with a squirming lobster.”

He chuckles. “Do I have to promise that? Cuz that sounds like fun.”

“It's a deal breaker, buddy. Promise or else!”

There's a knock on my door, and Mom barges in. She's wired, pacing back and forth, radiating a crackling energy. I've never seen her like this. It's freaking me out.

“Call you back,” I tell Oliver. I put down the phone. “Mom?”

“I don't believe it,” she's muttering over and over.

“Mom! What's going on?”

She stops her pacing and stands by my bed, one hand holding the headboard as if to keep herself steady. “I just got the most amazing call.” She spots my phone. “Was that Oliver?” Now her face grows a bit crafty. “Is this something the two of you cooked up?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about!” Then it hits me. Freaky must have come through. He waited till we were down to the wire, but he came through.

Mom settles onto my bed and gathers herself. “I just got off the phone with Oliver's mother. It seems she has a client who owns a John Oliver that he'd like to donate to our auction!” She pops up off the bed again.

“And not just any John Oliver!” she continues. She bends down to look me straight on and puts her hands on my shoulders. “The
Candy Cane
John Oliver!”

I'm confused how to react. I'm not supposed to know anything about this. Luckily, Mom is so jazzed I don't have to come up with anything. She straightens up and shakes her head. “I'm so sorry. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about.”

She perches on my bed again. “John Oliver had been a pretty famous artist from Maine, though no one is sure where he actually lived. His paintings are quite valuable. So as soon as Alice mentioned it, of course I was thrilled.” She pops up again. “And then I saw it! She sent me a picture she snapped with her phone.”

She takes in a deep breath. “It's of Candy Cane! The most amazing thing of all? The postcard we've been selling all these
years—it's a reproduction of this very painting! I had no idea it was a John Oliver!”

She plops back onto the bed as if she needs to catch her breath. Which I'm guessing she does. Just watching her is making me hyperventilate.

“That's awesome, Mom!” I say. I get up and sit beside her. “So now you'll be able to keep Candy Cane open, right?”

Her head snaps to look at me. “How do you . . . ?” She waves a hand. “Never mind. Everyone knows everything in Rocky Point.”

Not
exactly
everything.

My laptop pings with an incoming e-mail. The proposal from Justin. No time like the present, I guess.

I hit print and then turn to face Mom. “So . . . we found out that Candy Cane was in danger of closing. And we don't want that to happen. So we did this.” I collect the pages from the printer, then hand them to her.

“What's this?” she asks. She looks up at me quizzically. “Operation Save Candy Cane?”

I settle beside her on the bed. “It's a proposal for you to take to whoever makes those decisions. It's all ideas about how to get the lighthouse to bring in money year-round. Oliver's mom is going to look it over too.”

Mom's eyes turn shiny. “You—you did this?”

I shrug.

She flips through the pages. “You
did
. This has you all over it. The stories . . . the . . .” She holds the proposal against her chest. “I—I don't know what to say.”'

“Say it will work!”

B
ecause of the amazing addition of the John Oliver painting to the auction at the very last minute there was some scrambling to do. It was too late to get the info into the newspaper, so we printed up flyers that the Operation Save Candy Cane crew handed out all morning. The auction will take place at four, so everyone with tickets to the lobsterbake earlier in the day can attend too. Because the painting is so valuable, special precautions had to be taken to be sure it would travel and display safely. People took turns sitting beside it in the auction tent in the Square to be sure no grubby little fingers touched it.

Tables with clipboards that listed the donated services that people could bid on lined the tent, and there were a podium with a mike and a long table where the objects up for sale would be displayed. And thanks to Justin, who understands these things, there was even an online version so that anyone around the world could bid—but this was only going to be used for the painting. It was a lot easier for Justin to get the word out in London about the surprise addition to the auction than in Rocky Point because our Wi-Fi connection is so unpredictable.

The Candy Cane painting (which is actually called
The Friend—
I'm not sure if Freaky is referring to Candy Cane or the fog with that title) was in the place of honor. Anyone walking into the tent would see it immediately on its easel in the very center at the front of the tent. I helped Alice write the crafty label description:
An anonymous art collector with a love of lighthouses and a connection to this area has generously donated the
iconic John Oliver painting
The Friend
to the Rocky Point Historical Preservation Society. The collector has expressly stated that any funds raised will go to renovations, maintenance, and programming of the Rocky Point Lighthouse.

Mr. Garrity from the historical society has a background in fine arts, so he helped to make sure it was moved safely. Then Oliver, Alice, Mom, and I ambushed him with the proposal. He promised to read it over carefully and get back to us.

Even though there are lots of activities all day long—concerts at the pier, where Cynthia is singing; windjammer cruises, where Oliver is with his Mom; balloon animals; face painting; and various food-eating contests—I stay in the auction tent. I just can't bring myself to leave the Candy Cane painting. So much work went into getting this to happen; so much is still at stake.