The Moon and More (6 page)

“I’m—” He gave me a look, and I stopped myself from apologizing again. “I’ll pay the dent cost. It’s my fault he was there in the first place.”

“No, no,” he said, waving me off. “You’ve done enough for him. I’ll deal with it.”

I expected Morris to be fired by the next week. But he wasn’t. Instead, my dad kept him on, which was worse, because I had to hear him complain about Morris every single night. How slow he was. How he couldn’t bang a nail without hitting his own hand or someone else’s. He couldn’t dig a decent hole, remember a simple order, drive a stick shift. The list went on and on, and every item on it made me cringe.

“So fire him,” I said finally, over dinner in mid-June. “Please. I’m begging you. I can’t take this anymore.”

Across the table, Amber snorted. If Margo was the goody-goody and I was the perfectionist brain, she was the wild child. Prone to tattooed older boyfriends, never making it home by
curfew, and blowing all her money on beer or clothes, she was usually the one getting it from one or both parents, and loved it on the rare occasions when someone else was.

“Oh, I will,” my dad said. “I’m just waiting until I find someone else to replace him. He’s better than nothing.” A pause. “I think.”

The weird thing was, he never did let him go. The excuses evolved: it was too much trouble to train someone new, another guy quit, and then the summer was practically over. But even after all the complaining, Morris was still doing odd jobs around the house after school and on weekends. Maybe my dad kept him around because he knew his backstory—no father in the picture, Mom less than invested, to say the least. Or perhaps he just had the same helping gene I did, even though we weren’t blood related. Whatever the reason, I didn’t question his tolerance of Morris, if only because of how much I hated it when anyone did the same to me.

Now, I glanced over at him. He was putting forks in a basket, one at a time. “Morris. Please. Just dump the box in, okay?

“Huh?”

“Forget it.”

I could see Luke now, pulling up with the ice. He parked, then got out of the car and went around to the trunk, laughing as someone called out to him. It’s funny how two people can grow up in the same town, go to the same school, have the same friends, and end up so totally different. Family, or lack of it, counts for more than you’d think.

“You sure you’re okay?” Morris said, opening another box of forks. “You seem … weird.”

I swallowed, glancing over at Robin, who was barking orders. “My father called today.”

“Really.” I nodded. “What’d he want?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t called him back.”

He considered this, then said, “Maybe he has a graduation present for you.”

I made a face. “Kind of late, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Better late than never.”

This, ladies and gentlemen, was basically Morris’s mantra. But that was the weird thing: I could handle
him
being slack because, well, it was just how he was. I expected more from everyone else. Especially my father.

With the college issue finally settled, life had slowly gotten back to normal, as much as it could with the final days of high school winding down. Even though we’d left things awkwardly weeks earlier—to say the least—my father had been instrumental in my college process, and I’d always intended to invite him, Leah, and Benji to graduation. So in late May, I wrote their address on one of the thick, creamy envelopes and popped it with the others into the mailbox. He never responded. Whatever it was we’d shared all those months, clearly, it was over.

Or so I’d thought.
Call when you get a chance
, the message had said. I could understand my mother’s first instinct, to toss it away. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I was just a fool. This was the girl I was, this was where I was from, and East U was where I was going. What could he possibly say that would change any of that now? Nothing.

And yet, I hated to leave anything open and unfinished,
so I wondered. All through dinner, as I sat with Luke’s arm loosely around my shoulders, trying not to track Morris’s work—or lack of it—from a distance. As it grew dark, and the tiki torches took on a mild, warm glow, bugs circling them. For the entire drive home that I knew by heart, four turns, two stop signs, one flashing yellow light. It was like a voice barely in earshot, whispering just loud enough to make you want to lean closer so you could make it out. When I finally got to my house, I cut the engine, then slid my feet out of my shoes. We were blocks from the beach, just like the office was, but no matter. The first thing I felt on my bare feet, like always, was sand.

The next day was Sunday, which meant another round of checkouts and arrivals. So much for a day of rest. For me, the last day of the week always meant follow-up duty.

Colby Realty didn’t employ their own housekeeping staff. Instead, we subcontracted out to several cleaning companies, each of which handled certain houses each week. It was hard work, and you had to do it quickly: checkout was at ten, check-in at four. Which left six hours to make houses fully used by folks on vacation appear pristine and untouched. Not everyone could pull it off, which was why Grandmother insisted that we check behind every crew for quality control before the keys went back out. The Sunday shift of this was the least desirable job at the agency. Which was why it was usually part of mine.

The first place on my list that day was Summer Daydream, a peach-colored house on the second row back from the oceanfront. I parked, then climbed the stairs to the front door and followed the sound of a vacuum through the entryway and into the TV room. There I saw one of our longtime cleaners, Lolly, chasing dust bunnies with her canister and hose.

“Emaline,” Lolly called out to me as I passed by the living room. When I doubled back, she cut off the vaccuum, picking up a Windex bottle.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

She sighed, spritzing a big glass coffee table covered in smudges and cup rings. Here we go. “Well, you know how I put out my back last month. Went to the doctor finally and they sent me for an MRI. You ever have one of those?”

I shook my head. Lolly was a talker, and I’d learned that the less I responded, the better chance I had of actually extracting myself at some point.

“Awful,” she said, spritzing the table again. “You have to lay in this metal tube and be totally still. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. And then they tell me that my L4 and L5 are totally shot. Gonna need surgery. Like I have time for that.”

“Wow,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

She waved her paper towel at me, shrugging. “First Ron’s prostate thing, now this. And you know our insurance won’t cover it all. Plus Tracy’s moved back in with the kids since her divorce, so we don’t get a moment’s peace.”

I nodded, then shot a look at my car, wondering how I could get out there.

Lolly sighed again, then started back on the table. “Tell your mom the towel rack in the master bathroom finally fell off. It won’t take another bolt, they’re going to have to replace the whole thing.”

“Okay.”

“And there’s a big scratch on the game room wall, a black one. Magic Eraser won’t take it out.”

“Got it.”

She started dragging the vacuum and canister towards me. Behind her, the room now looked perfect: couch cushions fluffed, table with not a streak or mark, clean lines on the carpet. Ready for vacation. Again.

“Janice,” she hollered into the kitchen. “I’m packing up. You about done?”

“Yep,” another voice replied. “Meet you outside in ten.”

I did my quick pass through the house, checking that all beds were made, bathrooms were clean, and towels had been distributed, as well as everything else on the checklist I knew by heart. By the time I was done, Lolly and her friend were wrapping up as well, their stuff piled up on the front steps.

“Catch you later at Tidal Wave?” she called out.

I nodded, then went to get into my car. I was just pulling the door open when I heard footsteps on the road behind me. I turned. It was a tall guy with glasses, jogging, wearing an iPod. He looked familiar, somehow, but no name came to mind, so I went back to what I was doing.

“Hey,” he called out. I turned again to see he was slowing to a walk, taking out his headphones. “You’re from the realty place. Right?”

I squinted at his face, trying to remember him. Before I could, though, he said, “You told us about the table place. When you brought the wine and cheese.”

The vips,
I thought. Of course. He was the one with the obnoxious woman at Sand Dollars. “Oh, yeah. Right. That was me.”

“Theo,” he said, pointing to himself. Then he stuck out his hand. “I forgot your name.”

I was pretty sure we hadn’t gotten to this level of familiarity during our previous meeting, but I shook anyway. “Emaline.”

He nodded, then looked behind me. “So this is where you live?”

I glanced at Summer Daydream, which was an eight-bedroom, ten-bath, four-story monstrosity sporting a pool and triple garage. “Uh, no,” I said. “Just working.”

“On Sunday morning?”

“The rental industry never sleeps.” I wasn’t even sure why he was talking to me, especially since it meant cutting his run short. Who does that? “Half our houses turn over on Sunday.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “So, look. About yesterday. My boss … she’s kind of intense. She doesn’t mean to be rude.”

“No?”

He smiled, barely. “Okay, maybe she does. But it’s kind of a New York reflex. Not entirely her fault.”

“It’s fine,” I told him. “I’m used to it.”

“She’s just really stressed about the time crunch we’re under with this thing, doing the editing and filming …” He trailed off, as if suddenly realizing that I was just standing there, waiting to leave. “She’s really talented.”

“She makes movies?”

“Documentaries.” He ran a hand through his hair. He was a bit on the skinny side, not really my type, but I could see that for some girls he’d be cute. “We’re finishing up this project about a local artist that she’s been working on for three years now.”

“Artist?” I said. “Who’s that?”

“Clyde Conaway.”

“The guy that owns the bike shop?”

“Among other things,” he said. “You know him?”

“As much as anybody here does,” I replied. “Since when is he an artist?”

“You don’t know his story?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, man, it’s extraordinary. Colby kid becomes hot modern artist, then abandons all to move back to small coastal town and become local eccentric, even as his work is still in serious demand? There’s a real mystery there. Everyone wants to know why.”

“Because he’s Clyde,” I told him. “Nothing he does makes any sense.”

He pointed at me. “We should interview you. I’m going to talk to Ivy about it.”

I smiled, shaking my head as I slid into my seat. “Believe me, I’d be no help. I don’t know anything about him. Thanks anyway, though.”

When I cranked the engine, though, he didn’t move. He just stood there, so I had to go right past him. When I did he smiled, putting his earbuds back in. “Nice talking to you, Emaline.”

“You too. Enjoy your stay.”

He nodded, and I headed down the street. At the next stop sign, though, I looked back. He was still standing there in front of Summer Daydream, looking up at it. What kind of person would think a girl like me would live in a house like that? The same kind who thought there’d be interest in a movie about Clyde Conaway. In other words: Not From Around Here.

“HOLD ON. DID you hear that?”

Luke groaned right into my ear, then rolled off me. “Emaline.”

“I’m serious. Listen.”

We lay there, side by side, completely quiet. In the distance, like always, there was the ocean. Nothing else.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “it’s getting hard not to take this personally.”

“Do you want a repeat of what happened in April?”

“No,” he replied. “But I also don’t want to waste the only time alone we’ve had in months being paranoid.”

“It has
not
been months,” I pointed out, but he wasn’t listening, already too busy migrating back to my pillow, one hand smoothing over my stomach, then hip bone.

“Feels like it,” he mumbled into my neck.

I rolled my eyes. Luke and I didn’t differ on much, but when it came to this one issue, we were often at odds. If you asked him, I was a dull prude. As far as I was concerned, he was a sex addict who could never get enough. Somewhere in the middle was the truth, not that we’d ever gotten close enough to see it.

“It was last week,” I pointed out, as he unbuttoned my jeans, picking up where he’d left off. “Wednesday or Thursday.”

“It was the week before,” he said, shifting his weight so I could slide them down over my legs.

“Do you realize you are picking the wrong moment to split hairs?”

“Do you realize we can’t have a moment at all as long as you’re talking?”

I loved my boyfriend. I really, really did. But ever since my mom had come home unexpectedly this spring while we were spending our lunch hour doing pretty much this same thing, I’d been skittish. One minute we were happily occupied, secure in the knowledge that we had the whole house to ourselves, and the next she was pushing open my bedroom door to get a full-on view of something none of us ever wanted her to see. I still got red-faced thinking about it, while my mom was so traumatized she couldn’t look at me in the eye for over a week. I would have pointed out that this was yet another reason she should stay out of my room, if either of us could talk about it without the risk of exploding from shared embarrassment. In fact, we’d never discussed it at all beyond a curt conversation (lacking eye contact) during which she confirmed that 1) I was on birth control and 2) I knew I was never, ever to do it under this roof again.

And we didn’t. At least for a while. But when you’re in a committed relationship with someone you love, fooling around in a parked car or in the dunes at the beach just feels … dirty. Not to mention uncomfortable. Add in the fact that Luke’s mom was
always
home—this was not an
exaggeration, she worked from home and had no hobbies other than her family—and it wasn’t too long before we ended up playing with this particular fire again. Now, though, even when we were alone, something was different.