Swept Away (5 page)

In desperation I start reading the captions of the photos displayed on one of the walls.

“Huh,” I grunt. I never knew that the second Candy Cane lighthouse keeper was the son of the first.

I hear the door open behind me.
Unbelievable!
Mom's checking up on me already! I knew she'd never be able to resist “stopping by” on some pretext.

“I'm totally fine,” I snap as I whirl around.

Only I'm not anymore.

“Whoa,” Surfer Boy says, a startled expression on his face. “No one said you weren't.”

I blush all the way from my multihued toenails (leftover from the sleepover with Cynthia) to the crooked part in my hair. If it could, I think my loose braid would go from dark brown to bright red with embarrassment.

“I—I'm so sorry,” I sputter, my hand rising involuntarily to fluff my bangs. “I—I thought you were someone else.”

“Ooo-kay,” Surfer Boy says. Now he goes from startled to
puzzled. He's staring at me like he's trying to place me. Either that or he's deciding whether or not he should just back away slowly and run away.

Or maybe I have something on my face. My hand once again moves on its own, this time to my mouth for a quick subtle swipe. I give it a furtive glance. No crumbs, no stains. I run my tongue quickly across my teeth, feel nothing sticking, and lick my lips. Determining that I'm bloob free, I smile. Big. I need to make up for my rudeness. Hopefully he doesn't think I'm a hostile psycho.

Then I remember: He has been seen in the company of Freaky Framingham. Compared with that curmudgeon, my greeting was as warm as could be.

My smile must have triggered something, because instead of making a quick escape, he smiles back. “You were at the Lupine Festival yesterday.”

Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod
. He really
did
notice me. It wasn't just my imagination. I finger the tags dangling from the T-shirts on the rack beside me. The plastic hangers make little clicky noises as they bang lightly against each other. “Yeah. Were you?”

Inwardly I wince. Why am I acting as if I wasn't mesmerized by those exact blue eyes? I don't have to admit to the mesmerized part, but I can at least acknowledge I saw him, too!

If he was insulted by my super-cool response, he doesn't show it. He nods and grins. “Great intro to Rocky Point.”

My heart speeds up. This is the perfect opening to grill him for information. Why oh why isn't Cynthia here with me?

“You visiting?” Am I only able to speak in two-word sentences?

“Got here a few days ago,” he says, finally taking his first real steps into the reception area. He perches casually against a long display case holding odds and ends that were found in the keeper's house during the renovation, things the original keepers had left behind. He crosses one foot over the other at the ankle, and leans on his elbow. I know I'm supposed to tell him not to put weight on the display case, but he looks too cute like that.

“From where?” I ask. Okay. Two-word sentences will have to do for now.

“California.”

“Ah.”
Seriously, Mandy?
my inner voice shrieks. Now I'm down to syllables.

California explains the tan, the board shorts, and the sandals. I notice today he's far more suitably dressed for early summer in Rocky Point. Dark jeans, flannel over a tee, and sneakers complete with socks.

“So, are you open?” He gazes around at the displays.

“Yes! We are. I mean, I am.”
Get a grip!
“That is, yes, Candy Ca— The lighthouse exhibit is open.”

He nods and straightens up.

“Here for the summer?” I blurt. “I mean, that would be kind of a long trip for just a few days.”

He ambles to my little desk where I sell the tickets. “Yeah,” he says, fishing out his wallet. “My mom and me—we're here visiting her dad. I haven't seen him since I was really little and he was out in California.”

I take his twenty, give him his change, and try to think of a way to keep this conversation going. Happily, he does that for me.

“Maybe you know him,” he says, slipping the wallet back into his pocket. “John Framingham? His house is a bit out of town, back by the . . .”

I never hear the rest of the sentence because my mind is spinning. Freaky Framingham is related to this totally gorgeous, totally normal-seeming hunk of cuteness? His
grandfather
? How is that even possible? That implies a Mrs. Freaky and that they had daughter Freaky who had this very nonfreaky son!

My fingers itch to grab my phone and text Cynthia. But I don't. Mom lectured me on giving the right impression since I'm representing the historical society (and—though she didn't say this—her). Being on my cell isn't proper greeter behavior.

He's looking at me expectantly, and I realize that he has given me information in the form of a question. Which I should answer. “Of course I know him. Everybody in Rocky Point does.” I manage to stop myself from saying “he's the town weirdo.” I very cleverly finish up with “He's lived here, like, forever.”

“Not exactly forever,” says Surfer Boy aka Cutest Boy I've Ever Seen aka Freaky Framingham's Freaking
Grandson
. “But close. I'm Oliver, by the way.”

That might be the most adorable boy name I've ever heard. I don't know anyone named Oliver. It sounds quirky and old-­fashioned and sort of hipster all at once. Special. Not like my name.

“Mandy,” I say, wishing it was something more unique. Less bland. It's not even short for anything. Not Amanda. Not Miranda. Not Mandolin or Mandible. Not that I'd rather be named for an instrument or a jawbone.

“So, Mandy,” Oliver says, “do you have to stay here at the desk, or can you take me on a tour?”

Suddenly I wish I'd read the mountain of info Mom piled on me about Candy Cane's history. But I'm not going to let a little lack of knowledge force me to pass up this opportunity.

I'm not actually supposed to leave my desk, but it's not like I'm expecting a truckload of tourists to arrive. That never happens, and even if it does, it won't be until after the Fourth of July weekend.

I give him a big smile, and just as I'm coming out from around the desk, I can see that someone's struggling to get the door open.
Really? Now?
I stare at the door, willing the person to give up, to assume that we're not open, anything to get them to go away.

No such luck.

The door gives suddenly, and a tubby man stumbles in, his hand still gripping the knob. “Whoa,” he says, righting himself. He straightens his rain slicker. He's dressed as if he's well acquainted with Maine. “That door puts up quite a fight, doesn't it?” he says with a smile.

“Um, yeah,” I say. I glance at Oliver. He slips his hands into his pockets and peers at the photos above the display case.
Maybe I can take care of this guy quickly, and then give Oliver a tour,
I think.

“Just one?” I ask cheerfully, already picking up the ticket book.

“Just a second,” the man says. He steps back out, carefully propping the door open with his foot, and hollers, “They're open! Come on!”

I watch in dismay as a passel of people pour into the lobby.
There isn't parking at the lighthouse, so I had no warning that three SUVs just unloaded three blocks away in the public lot. There are fifteen in all: two sets of parents, three random adults, and eight kids ranging from toddlers to teens.

By the time I sell them their tickets, answer multiple questions, and field various requests for bathrooms, drinks of water, and suggestions for other nearby attractions, Oliver has vanished. Who could blame him? I wish I could have disappeared too—though preferably with him. Did he go upstairs to the second-­floor display area? Into the lighthouse?

More important—will I get a chance to talk to him before he leaves?

He's here all summer!
The idea blasts through my bad mood like it's the Eagle Island foghorn.

The family group splits up, some going into the Keeper's Café, others checking out the lighthouse. They seem in constant motion, and the various side doors keep banging open and shut. I finally remember to slide the stopper under the front door to hold it open so that visitors won't have to struggle with it, and—my mom's big fear—assume we're closed.

After the noisy family finally departs, and I write down their purchases in the ledger book (one lighthouse magnet, one lobster-­shaped teething ring for a baby), I pull my cell out of my bag. I figure if I hold it in my lap and someone walks in, no one will notice that I'm texting.

Freakiness with Freaky just got freakier!

I wait for Cynthia to respond. I know that once she's actually at camp she probably won't be able to text very much, but right
now she's still at her grandparents' place in Vermont. It doesn't take long.

Tell tell tell!!!!!!!

How can I boil it all down into texts? How adorable he looked leaning against the display case, all casual and comfy as if he's been here a million times before. That when he paid for his ticket, I got a whiff of salt air and sunblock, and even though that's how everyone smells in Rocky Point, there was something different about his scent, as if the California air still clung to his clothes. That his smile revealed one front tooth an infinitesimal smidge shorter than the other. That his hand, when he took the ticket from me, has a faded scar on the back of it.

Wow. I had no idea I noticed so much about him.

I decide to stick with the headline:

He's Freaky's grandson.

And then follow that doozy with the really big news:
He's here all summer!!!!

Barely a second passes:

OMG!

Then:

OMG SQUARED!!!!

As I'm trying to figure out what to text next, she writes back:
How did you find out?

Me: He came to check out Candy Cane.

Cynthia: I guess you're not so mad about that gig anymore!

Me: No lie!

I don't get to read the next text because Mrs. Gallagher
comes in. I'm glad I kept the phone under the table. “Hi, Mrs. Gallagher,” I say, quickly hitting vibrate so that the phone won't ring or beep. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you think it would be all right if I leave flyers about the Fourth of July events here?” she asks, holding up a sheaf of bright red paper. Mrs. Gallagher runs the community center and is always looking for a way to spread the word about the summer festivities.

“Oh, sure,” I say, then frown. It's not like there's much counter space. “Leave them with me, and I'll find a spot where they can go.”

She smiles indulgently at me, that look adults get when they're about to make some pronouncement about you. “You're all grown up. With a job and everything.”

I'm not sure this qualifies as a job, and don't know what she means by “and everything,” but I just smile as I'm expected to and say, “Yup. Looks that way.”

“Well, I don't want to keep you from your work.”

We both look around the empty lobby. Mrs. Gallagher smiles again and says in her always-chipper voice, “Hope you'll enter the boat parade this year. Toodles!”

Once she leaves, I riffle the stack of papers, scanning for a spot to put them. I finally just shove them under the cashbox. At least they won't blow away if a gust comes through the open doorway.

I slip one out and look at it. I've always kind of wanted to enter a boat in the Fourth of July boat parade. It's not anything fancy: homemade floats on any nonmotorized boat—rafts, canoes, kayaks, dinghies. Some are as simple as a rowboat strung
with Christmas tree lights along the gunnels with costumed kids rowing. Others are far more elaborate, their builders hoping to win one of the prizes.

I slip the flyer back under the cashbox and allow myself to indulge in some serious crushing. “Oliver,” I murmur dreamily. I picture us in a cute montage doing all those things summer sweethearts supposedly do: taking romantic walks on moonlit beaches, sharing a lemonade with two straws, riding together on a single carousel horse . . .

Carousel horse?
I snort. Where did
that
image come from?

I stand and pace the lobby. My only ideas about romance come from books and movies. I have nothing to draw on but my twisted (Cynthia's word) imagination.

Creaking overhead alerts me to the presence of a visitor upstairs. Then footsteps. I stare up at the ceiling. Those are definitely footsteps up there.

I swallow and tell myself it must be a straggler from the massive family that just left. But I could have sworn I counted fifteen enter and fifteen leave.

Then who . . . ?

I lower myself into my seat, thinking about the ghost of Anna Christine, the sad widow of the lighthouse keeper who was swept away in a storm. She was said to still haunt the lighthouse, waiting for her true love to return. On Halloween there are always a few people dressed as poor Anna Christine.

I grip the edge of the table, ears perked, ready for the piercing wail or deep moan, or whatever goose-bump-raising sound ghosts make.

“Are you open every day?”

I nearly fall off my chair when Oliver comes around the desk. “You've been here this whole time?” I ask.

He smiles sheepishly and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “I—I know. I—I'm impossible.”

Impossibly adorable.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Are we both actually
stammering
? Is that cute to the nth degree, or are we both so uncomfortable with each other that we can barely get the words out?

He hunches his shoulders in an apologetic shrug. “I drive my friends nuts. That is, the ones willing to go to museums with me. I read every single label, look at every single object. Often more than once.”

“That's why you were here for so long,” I say. “You're a ‘completist.'”