The Moon and More (13 page)

At six thirty, I finally left the sandbox to go home, exhausted. I was so worn out, in fact, that when I started down the hallway towards my room and saw the door ajar, the sound of a TV drifting out, all I could muster was a loud sigh.

“Look!” Amber said, as I stepped into the doorway. She was on my bed, the orange hair now gone, replaced with a jet-black dye job. Not for the first time, I wondered if she ever did anything at cosmetology school besides adjust her own look. My mom, sipping a light beer, was beside her. “It’s the movie star!”

I just looked at them. “I can’t believe you guys.”

“Fumes,” my mother explained.

“Excuse me?”

“Your dad is doing something upstairs with the floors and epoxy. We can’t breathe it, it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous,” Amber echoed, flipping a page of one of my magazines.

I walked over to my (crowded) bed, kicked off my shoes, and flopped facedown across the only space remaining. After a moment, a foot nudged my shoulder blade. “You okay?” my mom asked.

“Margo totally sold me out,” I replied, my voice muffled by the pillow.

“She’ll do that,” Amber said. “Especially if there’s money involved.”

“But I thought that boy was your friend,” my mom said. “That’s what he said, anyway.”

I lifted my head. “Said?”

“When he came in. I was there. He said he was a friend of yours, wanted to talk to you about Clyde and Colby.”

“I’ve met him twice.” I put my head back down. “Three times, max.”

“Around here, that’s practically dating,” Amber said.

“He’s not from here, though.”

“Then maybe you
should
date him.” A pause. “Is he cute?”

“Emaline has Luke,” my mom reminded her.

“Yeah, but high-school romances never last.” The bed wiggled as, I assumed, my mom gave her a shove. “What? Did yours?”

We were all quiet for a moment, the only sound some mobile phone commercial on the TV. Then my mom said, “Oh, before I forget. Benji called.”

I was so tired, my brain cluttered with Theo and Clyde, that it took a second for my half brother’s face to pop up and pair itself with this name. “Really.” I sat up. “What did he say?”

My mom, clearly proud of herself, picked up a pad of paper. “He wanted to know when you could play minigolf. Left a number and everything. He was very sweet. How old is he now, eight?”

“Ten,” I said, as she handed over the pad.

“Is Leah with them?”

“Not this trip.”

My mom nodded, taking another sip of her beer. Watching her, I felt a weird twinge, aware that I hadn’t yet told her about my father being separated. It wasn’t a trust thing, or that he swore me to silence: I just hadn’t mentioned it. The more time that passed, though, the bigger a deal it seemed.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I slid it out. It was a number I didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

“Emaline, hey. It’s Theo.”

“Oh,” I said, turning myself slightly towards the door. “Hey.”

Despite this attempt at subterfuge, I now had Amber’s full attention. She made this clear as she asked, loudly, “Is that him? He
sounds
cute.”

I slid off the bed, going out into and down the hallway. “Sorry to bug you,” Theo was saying, “but I just wanted to confirm our meeting tonight, here at the house, at seven? Ivy’s got a conference call with some backers, so it’ll just be us at first.”

“Seven,” I said, sitting down on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the second floor. “Right. I’ll be there.”

“Great.” He sounded relieved, making me wonder if he’d thought I’d change my mind. I wished I’d known it was an option, but oh well. Too late now. “I really appreciate it. I’ve been trying to get her to give me some more, you know, hands-on responsibility, and this is … a good first step. So thanks. I, um, owe you one.”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s no—”

And that was as far as I got before the smell of whatever my dad was using on the floors upstairs suddenly hit me. It was harsh, stank of chemicals, and filled my throat immediately, spurring a hacking cough. One minute I was having a conversation, the next I was about to puke my guts out. Whoa.

“Emaline?” Theo sounded worried. “Are you … is everything all right?”

I heard footsteps, then looked up to see my mom in the hallway in front of me. “Fumes,” she said, gesturing for me to get up and come towards her. I did, still hacking away, and she grabbed my elbow, leading me outside to the fresh air. Theo was still talking as I gave my mom the phone, bending over to put my hands on my knees.

“Hello?” she said into it, watching me with a worried look. “No, this is her mom. She’s fine, just … hold on a second.”

I could only imagine what Theo was thinking in the moments that passed before I felt relatively sure I wasn’t going to pass out. Finally, though, I motioned for my mom to return the phone to me. “I’ll be there at seven,” I croaked into it. “Okay?”

“Sure, great,” he replied hurriedly. “See you then.”

I hung up, then bent over again, taking in few more deep breaths. My pulse, which had been beating wildly at my temple, was finally slowing down. “You weren’t kidding,” I said to my mom. “That stuff is lethal.”

“Yep,” she replied, rubbing a hand over my back. It was nice and familiar, the same way freshly cut grass and chicken soup were, and I wished I could just stay there, deep in it, forever. But it was creeping close to seven, and I’d made promises. So when I could breathe on my own again, I stood up straight and we walked back inside, together.

WHEN I PULLED up to Sand Dollars a couple of minutes past seven, the first thing I saw was Ivy. She was on the side deck of one of the master suites, dressed in jeans and a tank top, phone clamped to her ear. Not shockingly, whatever conversation she was having appeared to be heated, involving hand flipping, facial contortions, and constant pacing. I sat and watched her go back and forth—ocean to sound view and repeat—until I started to feel hypnotized. Then I shook my head, hard, and got out of the car.

Theo was waiting for me at the door. I knew this because he opened it as soon as I knocked, instead of me having to cool my heels for however long it would have taken to get there from either upstairs or downstairs. This struck me as cute, for some reason, and made him, again, seem sort of cute as well.

“Hey,” he said. “I was watching for you.”

Like I said: cute.

“Yeah?”

Now, he flushed, as if only just realizing how eager he seemed. “The doorbell doesn’t work. Between the ocean and the size of this place people can knock forever before we hear them.”

“The doorbell’s busted?” He nodded as I leaned in, inspecting it.

“That’s not good. Did you call the office to let them know?”

He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Ivy’s a light sleeper. If it did work she’d probably be even crankier.”

“Yeah, but this place is brand-new. Nothing should be broken. Yet, anyway.” I pushed the Call button. Nothing: no buzz, no click, no annoying blast of mariachi-like music that came as the default chime.

“This house is new?” Theo asked.

“Yeah. Just built this year.”

He looked around the foyer as I came inside. “Wow. I didn’t even realize.”

“You’d notice the difference if you went into one that had been around awhile. Wear and tear and all that.” I checked out the inside console, hitting buttons. Still nothing. “I’ll let maintenance know about this tomorrow. It’s probably just a fuse or something.”

“Do you ever stop thinking about work?” he said, shutting the door and motioning for me to follow him upstairs.

“Doesn’t feel like it, no.” I wanted to add that this visit
also
felt like being on the clock, but I held my tongue. Hopefully they’d realize soon enough I was of no use to them and go bother someone else.

The third and main floor, which housed the kitchen and living room, had been transformed since my last visit. Gone were the couches and coffee table—making me wonder (1) where they had put them and (2) if the floors/walls were scratched during the process—replaced by a row of foldout
tables lined with computers, video equipment, and several half-full bottles of Diet Coke. The kitchen was equally cluttered, with to-go containers and newspapers piled on the counters. By the dishwasher, three different cell phones were plugged in and charging, a row of tiny lights.

“Sorry about the mess,” Theo said, pushing aside a plastic crate of cords with one foot so we could pass. “We’ve been working nonstop the last couple of days. Have a seat.”

The only chairs were also folding ones, lined up along the tables. I pulled one out, only to see a stack of thick books piled on the seat.
Urban/Rural: A Retrospective
was the title of one, with a shot of a brick wall on the cover. Another,
Modern Coast
, featured a close-up of a painting of what looked like sand magnified into tiny grains.

“Cool, huh?” he said when he saw me checking it out. “You’ve seen that before, right?”

“What?”

“Clyde’s painting.”

I shook my head. “This is his?”

“Yeah.” He reached across me, flipping the book open and turning to a page marked with a sticky note, which featured the same sand image. Here, though, it was just a small center square, surrounded by a cityscape: slabs of concrete, brick wall, and storefronts. The street view was dark and grimy, and in contrast the tiny piece of beach almost glowed. “His early stuff was more collage, standard cutouts. But after a couple of years, he started this contrast series. It’s what he’s best known for.”

“Really,” I repeated, turning to the next page and another painting, this one featuring alternating squares of dune grass and barbed wire. “I didn’t even know about this stuff.”

“That’s not really an accident. Just going by our New York interviews and the personal history we’ve been able to gather, it’s pretty clear he’d prefer to keep this part of his life to himself.”

“If that’s true,” I said, “why are you guys chasing him down?”

“We’re not,” he replied, sounding somewhat defensive. Upstairs, a door banged. “We want to tell his story, give his work the attention it deserves. That’s what’s so maddening about his resistance. I mean, he put this out there. Why not own it?”

I flipped back to the sand painting, looking at it again. “Maybe because it’s part of his life he’d rather forget?”

“Most painters
spend
their lives looking for this kind of attention for their work.”

“But he’s not a painter anymore. Right?”

Theo drew in a breath, ready to reply to this. Before he got the chance, though, Ivy’s voice came booming down the stairs at full volume. “
Theo!
”

I jumped, startled both by the volume and her impatient tone. It sounded like a third or fourth attempt at contact, not an initial one. But he hardly seemed ruffled as he said, “Yes?”

“Didn’t I ask you to contact that guy from here who was at Parsons? The one cited in that article?”

“You did.”

“And?”

“I’ve called and e-mailed. No response yet.”

There was a bang, followed by a thud. What was she doing up there? “God!” she shouted. “What the hell is
wrong
with the people down here? Are they so backward they can’t even tell when someone’s trying to do something
good
for them?”

I raised my eyebrows, looking at Theo. He bit his lip, then walked over to the stairs, taking them two at a time to disappear upstairs.

“What?” I heard Ivy say a moment later. He said something to her. “Oh, for God’s sake. Fine. I’ll be right down.”

That’s it, I thought. I grabbed my bag from the table and started for the door. I was almost there when he came back down, spotting me in mid-escape. “Hey, hold on,” he said. “Don’t—”

“Find someone else to ‘help’ you, okay? I’m not your girl.” Upstairs, there was another loud thud. I pointed at the ceiling, adding, “And while you’re at it, you might want to tell your boss to reread the rental contract she signed. If this house is damaged in any way, she
will
pay for it.”

“Hey, hey,” he said.

I shook my head, pulling the door open.

“I’m sorry, okay? She’s just really stressed right now.”

“No, she’s rude. And I have better things to do than stand here and be insulted.”

“I know.” He reached out, putting a hand on my arm. “Look, just … give me five seconds, okay? Please?”

I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t leave either.

“Five seconds,” he repeated, pointing at me. Then he went inside, shutting the door behind him.

Stupid, I thought, as I stood there, watching a family cross the street and start up the public access path to the beach. The kids, two of them, ran ahead, while the parents hung back, holding hands. The sun was just beginning to go down.

My phone beeped. I pulled it out of my purse and glanced at the screen. One missed call, one text, both from Luke. The latter said simply, Eat?

I looked inside at Sand Dollars, all lit up. I still wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing here, and even less certain I could explain it to Luke. Instead I wrote, Still working. Will call soon.

I’d just hit Send when Theo stepped out, now wearing a jacket, a handheld video camera in one hand. He smiled at me. “Ready?”

“That depends. Where are we going?” I asked him, as he went down the stairs ahead of me.

“You’re the local,” he said over his shoulder. “You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you want to see.”

“Colby. And not the tourist spots. The real stuff.”

He was at my passenger door now, waiting to get in. “This isn’t New York,” I warned him. “The grand tour is not exactly … grand. We could cover it all in about fifteen minutes.”

“Which is fifteen more than we have so far.” He popped the cap of the camera lens, pointing it at me. A little red light came on, and I felt a bolt of nervousness, unexpected. Then he smiled at me. “Let’s go.”

I had standard answers when clients or tourists asked me for suggestions for things to do in Colby besides hitting the beach. Walk up the boardwalk. Visit the aquarium and Maritime Museum. Eat the famous onion rings at the Last Chance Café. Rent bikes from Abe’s and follow the sound-side paths that wound past the marshes and tidal pools. As Theo and I waited to turn onto the main road, though, none of my go-to choices felt right.