Swept Away (31 page)

Mom comes up to me and lays her arm across my shoulder. We gaze at the painting together.

“It's so beautiful,” Mom says.

“Do you think it will raise enough money to save Candy Cane?”

“I do. I really really do.” She glances around. “Where's Oliver?”

“He and his mom are on a windjammer tour.”

“Ah, the full Maine experience.” She grins as people start filing into the tent, picking up paddles for bidding, and reading the descriptions of the donated items.

“They're going all out,” I say. “They bought tickets for the lobster­bake. I'm going to meet them over there after the auction.”

“They're not coming?” she asks, surprised.

“They bought their tickets so late that they were only able
to get the five p.m. seating.” The company that handles the lobster­bake keeps it all under control by doing timed “seatings,” if sprawling on beach blankets and in lounge chairs can be called seating. But it's how they can serve the hundreds of people who want their share of the experience.

“Wait a second.” Mom turns to look at me. “You? At the lobsterbake?”

I throw up my hands. “I know!”

She laughs and pulls me into her. “Love makes us do crazy things. Even if it's just the love of a lighthouse.”

M
andy! Over here!” I whip my head around to find Oliver waving frantically from a prime spot on the packed beach. He, Alice, and Freaky have staked out a sandy break between rocks, so that they're using flat stones as end tables. Amazingly, Freaky occasionally nods at passersby. Alice concentrates on cracking apart her lobster.

I told Oliver that I had no idea when I'd really be finished at the auction, so they should just go ahead and start without me. Secretly I was hoping they'd have finished eating before I arrived so I could avoid close contact with the quintessential Maine seafood. I snacked all day, so it's not like I'm hungry—or that there would be anything here for me to eat.

I wind my way through the throngs, stopping for a moment to admire the caterers manning the fire pits. I may not like the food, but the action is really impressive. They're prepping for the next seating, so they're poking the coals to make sure they're still
hot. Although the company does lobsterbakes up and down the coast, they use Kyle's family to provide the lobsters here. I spot Kyle dropping a mound of the seaweed that's stacked near the pits onto Patti, who lets out a squeal.

I make hand signals to Oliver, indicating I'm going to stop by the beverage table, and he heads in the same direction.

“Hey, you,” he says, giving me a quick kiss. Thankfully, he doesn't taste like lobster.

“Hey, you.” I glance around as I wait for the kids around the soda cooler to get out of the way.

“How'd it go?” He takes a step back and looks at me. “It went great, didn't it? I can tell by that grin.”

I grip his arms and bounce a little. “It was amazing! Everything sold! I didn't have to bid on a single pity purchase!”

Oliver laughs. “Lucky for your wallet there weren't any broken mugs or toys donated.”

We step up to the cooler, and I rummage in the ice. I pull out a soda and hand it to Oliver, then grab one for myself.

We scoot out of the way to make room for other thirsty people. “Mr. Garrity bought your keeper's house,” I tell him as we head to where his mom and grandpop are sitting.

“And,” I add, “they're so sure that they'll be able to raise enough money to stay open that he's going to add it to the displays in the lighthouse.”

“Really?” Oliver beams.

“He said it really does show what it had been like in a particu­lar moment in time,” I say. “The write-up we gave it is going to be turned into a label card!”

Oliver clinks my soda can with his. “Congratulations to us!”

We stop to let some kids race by using their corn on the cob as swords. I glance at Freaky and Alice. “I'm kind of stunned that he's here.”

“It's nice to see them getting along so well,” Oliver says as we start walking again, carefully, to avoid stepping on anyone. “It was kind of tense when we first arrived.”

Workers are starting to move through the crowd, collecting dirty dinner plates and handing out bowls with blueberry crumble and ice cream. Now, those I wouldn't mind having.

“They've been acting funny for the last couple of days,” he continues. “Almost like they have some kind of plot brewing.”

I have to look down at my feet because I'm afraid my face will reveal that I know exactly what plot they've been brewing. As much as I want to, Freaky Framingham's secret isn't mine to tell. Oliver will know soon enough.

“So . . . ?” Alice asks expectantly when we reach them.

Her half-eaten lobster creeps me out, so I stay focused on her face. “The bidding for the John Oliver is going to be extended until midnight because of so much interest from places in other time zones. The last time I checked, the bids were already through the roof.”

“You done good, kid,” Freaky says. “You done a good thing.”

“We all did,” I say.

It was hard work but worth every aching muscle and sprained brain cell.

As I settle onto the sand with Oliver on one side of me and Freaky on the other, my elation over our success suddenly gets
put on hold as a thought sneaks in. As hard as putting all this together was, tomorrow will be so much harder. Saying good-bye to Oliver.

But a surprising realization surrounds that painful thought, creating a sort of cushion. The heartache that will come . . . well, it's been worth it too. To have had this summer.

I lean against Oliver and shut my eyes. All worth it.

T
he next morning Oliver arrives at my house. We had each prepared lists (so us, right?) of what we wanted to do on our final day together.

We're sitting on the sofa swing on the screened-in porch. I look at the paper with his list Oliver just handed me. I start laughing.

“What?” he asks, a little defensively.

I place the paper beside me on the sofa and hand him my list. My list is
identical
to his. “Great minds, huh?” I say.

“‘Our Place,'” he reads aloud. “‘Candy Cane.'” He smiles at me over the paper. “We even wrote them in the same order.”

I swivel on the seat so that I'm sitting cross-legged facing him. I waggle a finger at him. “I don't want to spend the day crying.”

Oliver nods. “I don't want that either.”

“So, got any ideas how to do that?”

Oliver pushes my hair back over my shoulder. “None.” Then he leans away and smiles teasingly. “We could always go back to Hubbard Island. I'll annoy you so much you'll be glad to see me go.”

I laugh, despite the raw feeling that's suddenly claimed my throat.

The day we spend by the river is terrible and wonderful, full of intense debates (he's still trying to convince me that
Far Far Away
is a decent movie), stories, laughter, kisses, and long stretches of comfortable silences.

When it grows dark, without even discussing it, we head for Candy Cane. I pull out my key, and together we shove open the (still) reluctant door.

“It took every ounce of restraint to not kiss you that day,” Oliver admits.

I smile. He doesn't have to tell me which day he means. I know it was when we fell onto each other trying to get the door open.

“I thought that's what was going on,” I say as we stand in the doorway letting our eyes adjust to the pitch-dark entryway. I stand on my toes and kiss his cheek. “I was fighting the same fight.”

We only have one flashlight since the other one broke in its tumble down the stairs. I remind myself again to put it on the list of things that need to be replaced. Unbelievable as it is, I'll still have Candy Cane duty after Oliver leaves. Labor Day weekend is busy in Rocky Point. The good thing is, it's official. Candy Cane will be staying open. We made more than enough money on Freaky's painting, even before the final bid. Not only can it stay open, there might even be funds left over for some improvements.

Up in the lantern house it's a lot darker than it was on the Fourth of July. No fireworks, no bright clip lights on booths on the piers. Just the regular harbor lights and streetlamps.

“Someone built a fire on the beach,” Oliver comments.

I'm looking at the sky. Tomorrow he'll be on the other side of the country. We'll share the same stars, but have a continent between us. I take in a shaky breath.

Oliver clicks off the flashlight, and I'm grateful. I don't want him to see me cry. Not when we promised. His lips find mine.

“Mandy,” he says when we gently pull apart. “I know you don't want to talk about this, but don't we kind of need to?”

“Why?” I murmur, staring down at my feet, which I actually can't see in the dark.

He rakes a hand through his hair. “What's the plan? Are we going to stay in touch? Try long-distance? I might be back next summer.”

“Might . . . ,” I repeat.

He looks down at his feet too, our heads lightly touching.

“I—I don't want to make a promise I can't keep.” His voice thick and creaky.

“I—I know.” We're doing it again. That matching stammer.

He inhales and straightens up, resting his chin on top of my head. “Stick with the micro, right?”

“Micro. Right.” I blink away my tears and shift my head so that we're looking at each other in the moonlight. “And right now the micro is perfect.”

“So we figure it out day-to-day?” he asks.

“It's too hard to see the big macro picture.”

“But we stick to our deal,” Oliver says, bending a little to bring his face directly in front of mine. He grips my arms. “Honesty only.”

I swallow and say, “Honesty only.”

He wraps his arms around me and I melt into him. “So, being honest, this has been the most amazing summer of my life. Most amazing
ever
of my life.”

I squeeze him hard and let the tears come. After all, they're honest too.

O
liver left today. That's the lovely thought that greets me the moment I open my eyes. I feel like I'm made out of rocks. I force myself up, trying to relieve myself of the sensation of being crushed. I trudge downstairs, each step weighing a million pounds.

When I galumph into the kitchen, Mom's sitting at the table. “Hey, sweetie,” she says sympathetically.

I nod, not trusting my ability to speak, and just lean against the doorjamb. I feel her eyes on me, and I'm grateful she's taking her cues from me and not asking any questions. She doesn't need to. My misery must be radiating.

“Justin will be home in time for dinner,” she says.

Justin. Right. I brighten a little.

I'm trying to decide if there's anything I can possibly eat on a morning like this, when there's a knock at the door.

“So early?” Mom says, glancing at the wall clock. It's just past eight o'clock. She pushes up from the table and goes to answer the door, but calls for me a moment later.

Puzzled, I pad out of the kitchen. I'm even more puzzled when I see Freaky standing on our front porch. He's holding a
large cooler. Perched on top is a teeny tiny model of Candy Cane.

“The lighthouse is from the boy,” he says. “The rest from me. A . . . care package. Thought you might need it today.”

Speechless, I pick up the insanely adorable baby lighthouse. Mom takes the cooler.

Freaky turns and heads for his truck so quickly our thank-yous are drowned out by his engine roaring to life. We stare after him as he drives away.

Mom plunks the cooler in front of the sofa swing and sits. “That man continually surprises me.”

I drop beside her and flip off the top of the cooler. It's filled with sandwiches, dips, cookies, breads, and muffins. I place Baby Candy Cane on the sofa and pull up a jar.

“‘Mandy's Tikka Masala,'” I read from the label. My eyes widen. “This is the sauce he made that first dinner I had over there.”

“What is all this?” Mom asks, staring at the goodies.

I lay a hand on her arm. “It's amazing is what it is. Wait until you try it.”

Mom raises an eyebrow and unwraps a blueberry scone. Her eyes grow practically as big as the treat she holds. She takes a bite, swallows and says, “You're not kidding he's a good cook.”

She pats my knee. “You made quite an impression on him.” She takes another bite and gazes at the scone thoughtfully. “I wonder if he'd be willing to sell these at the café.” She frowns. “Not likely, I suppose. I know he's not all that interested in getting involved in community events. But still—”

I start laughing.

“What?” she asks. “The idea's absurd, I know, but he is unpredictable. Maybe he could be persuaded.”

“You have no idea how unpredictable he is.” I launch into the whole story. How I discovered the painting and Freaky's secret identity. I know I wasn't supposed to tell, but I can't keep something this huge from Mom.

By the time I'm finished, she's staring at me so hard I think her eyes are going to fall into my lap.

“You did all that? The proposal. The auction items.
And
convinced Freaky Framingham to go out on such a limb and be so generous?” She shakes her head. “I don't know what I'm most surprised by.”

“Me either, frankly.”

She pulls me into her. “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?” She kisses the top of my head as she stands. “I think I need another cup of coffee to process all this.” She opens the door to the house. “Coming?”

“In a bit.”

I lean back and give the swing a tiny push. Back and forth. Back and forth. I pick up Baby Candy Cane and realize there's a small envelope taped to the bottom. Inside is a little card with a picture of a starry night on it.