Wild Swans (14 page)

The secret is out, but the house still feels like it's holding its breath.

I find myself sneaking around on tiptoe, wary of every creak and groan of the old floorboards. The sense of doom that descended the night of the storm, the night I found out Erica was coming back, still hasn't lifted.

I skip my swim the next morning and stay in my room, refreshing my email constantly to see if I've heard back from the literary magazine yet (even though I know it will probably be a while). I'm not sure whether I'm more afraid of being accepted or rejected. In the afternoon, I force myself to go out to the dock. I swim for a bit and then spread my towel out on the sun-bleached wooden boards. Remind myself that I am a salt-and-sunshine girl, and this hurricane gloom won't last. Erica brought it with her, and when she leaves—and she will, I know it—she'll take it with her.

Part of me hopes Alex will stroll up with that cocky grin of his and challenge me to a race across the channel. I stare at the windows of the carriage house, the blinds pulled shut to block out the heat, willing him to appear. His beat-up black pickup is in the driveway, so I know he's probably home, but there's no sign of him.

Maybe he's hanging out with the guys from the baseball team. I saw Ty pick him up late last night. I wonder what Alex told them about us. About me. Would he say I led him on? That I was a tease, letting him hold my hand, then telling him I wanted to be with somebody else? Some college boy? I don't want to think that he'd bad-mouth me to save face. Still, he bragged about hooking up with Ginny. And he was so angry when he saw me with Connor.

I'm not sure what I'm more worried about: the whole town thinking I'm a slut like my mother or
Alex
thinking that.
For somebody who's worked so hard to be nothing like your mom, you're sure acting a lot like her.
Much as I tell myself that he was just mad and lashing out, those words have stuck with me.

When I hear Erica's car rumble down the driveway, I go back inside. Grab Grace from the couch in the sunroom where she's been reading one of my old Fancy Nancy books. We make chocolate-chip cookies and sandwich vanilla ice cream between them, and she says she's sad not to see her daddy this weekend but she's glad we're sisters.

She's much easier to win over than Isobel, who's wallowing in their room, not tempted by the scents of chocolate and sugar and butter wafting up the stairs, or the fact that Luisa went out and got fat-free frozen yogurt just for her.

“She said she doesn't want to pretend we're a happy family,” Gracie reports back, her little shoulders drooping beneath her pink T-shirt. “But I'm not pretending. I like it here.”

“I'm glad, 'cause I like having you here,” I say, tweaking one of her braids. Much as I hate every moment Erica is here, I am grateful for the chance to get to know my little sister. She's sweet and easygoing and cheerful. But sometimes I wonder how much of that sweetness is her feeling like she has to make up for all the anger around her.

“I wish I could do something to cheer Izzy up,” Grace says. “Maybe I'll draw her a picture.”

“I bet she'd like that.” I wrap the extra ice cream cookie-wiches in parchment paper and put them in the freezer. It's strange to have extras instead of running down to the carriage house and giving them to Alex. If he were around, he'd eat at least two. “But it's not your job to make sure everybody is okay. You're a little girl. It's the grown-ups' job to make sure
you're
okay.”

The irony is not lost on me. How many times have
I
been the one frantically trying to please? I'm just a little more subtle about it at seventeen than she is at six.

Gracie smiles. “That's what Izzy says too. Sometimes people are in bad moods and there's nothing you can do about it.”

After ice cream sandwiches, Gracie goes back to her book and I do the dishes, wondering what her life was like in DC. Were there slammed doors and fights and ominous silences there too? Was Erica the one to initiate the separation, or was her husband? Frankly, I can't imagine anyone putting up with her for seven years, but maybe she hasn't always been like this. Isn't that what she keeps saying? That it's our fault, not hers? I don't want to believe it, but—

“Hey there, chickadee,” Luisa says, coming in with a load of laundry.

“You should get a raise,” I point out. “You're taking care of five of us now.”

“Don't you worry. The Professor already offered me one.” She nods at the dishes. “You can leave those if you want. I'll get them.”

“It's good thinking time,” I say. There's no reason I can't do my own dishes.

“What's on your mind?” She sets the basket down on the kitchen table and begins to fold towels: Granddad's brown ones, the pink polka-dot ones that showed up with Grace, the blue ones I now share with Erica and Iz.

“How's Alex?” I ask, instead of answering. Though maybe that's an answer in itself.

“Been in a mood all week. Going out with his friends from the baseball team a lot after work.” I try to hide my frown. Alex works part-time at the hardware store's garden center. That leaves a lot of time for hanging out with the guys, drinking beer, and potentially trash-talking me. “I noticed he hasn't been around here much. Did something happen at the party last weekend? You two get in a fight?”

I rinse the metal measuring spoons, considering how to answer. I want to talk to her, but I don't want to put her in the middle. “You should probably ask him.”

“I did, but he's a teenage boy. He won't tell me anything. And he's not the only one I worry about.” Luisa's voice is soft. Kind. So different from my mother's. “Heard there's another party tonight. You going?”

I busy myself scrubbing the cookie sheet. “I am. I sort of…have a date.”

Connor put his number in my phone yesterday, and we've been texting all day, sending each other silly pictures: him making coffee at Java Jim's, my chocolate-chip ice cream sandwiches, a selfie of me and Grace. He and I are going to the bonfire together. I didn't want him to pick me up, so we're meeting there. At what he referred to as “our” bench.

“I thought it might be something like that,” Luisa says, and I spin around, half expecting to see accusation in her eyes, but I don't. She's sporting a big smile. “Someone special?”

“Maybe. I—you know I love Alex, but—”

“But not like that,” she finishes. “That's okay, honey. You don't have to apologize for your feelings. You can't make yourself fall in love with somebody.”

She's being so nice that I want to cry. Tears actually start gathering in my eyes and I brush them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed. “Don't tell Granddad, okay?”

She stops folding. “About your date? Is it someone he wouldn't approve of?”

“It's Connor.” I know she's heard Granddad talk about Connor, even if she hasn't met him yet. I think she'd like him. But I'm kind of biased.

“His student? The one you're working on that project with?” Luisa laughs. “I know the Professor can be strict about boys, but I don't think he'd have a problem with that. Why don't you want to tell him?”

“I don't know.” I brush my hair behind my ears with wet, soapy fingers. “It's still so new. I don't want him weighing in on it yet.”

“Well, if Connor is important to you, it won't stay secret for long. You can't keep the different parts of your life in little boxes, all nice and neat,” Luisa says. “Especially with him working for your granddad. But I see what you're saying. There's a lot going on around here. Connor makes you happy?”

I smile, remembering how he sent me a picture of a poem he was reading. I don't know any other boy who would do that. “Yeah. He does.”

• • •

The walk through town feels…fraught. As if everyone is watching and whispering. I try to convince myself that I'm being silly, that no one cares about the scene Erica made in the coffee shop yesterday. Still, when I see Mrs. Summers heading my way with a picnic basket and her bulldog, Quincey, trotting along beside her, I have to fight the urge to duck down an alley.

“Ivy, sweetheart,” she says. Quincey sits, panting, his pink tongue lolling out. “How are you doing?”

“I'm okay. How are you? On your way to the concert in the square? Judy says that bluegrass band is real good.”

“I'm fine, sweetheart. I just want you to know”—she puts a sympathetic hand on my forearm—“that scene your mama made yesterday was appalling. Really. The way she spoke to you and your sisters! Mr. Summers had to practically hold me down to keep me from going over there and giving her a piece of my mind.”

“Thank you.” I can't imagine what Erica would have done. Probably cussed the old lady out for interfering. “I doubt she would've listened to you though.”

“Well, I'd still like to give her what-for. Imagine a mother talking to her children like that! Calling you a
b
-
i
-
t
-
c
-
h
!” I stifle a smile. Once a third-grade teacher, always a third-grade teacher, I guess. “But then we all know she isn't much of a mother, is she? Leaving you like she did. How long are they in town for? Is Erica back for good?”

Oh, now we get to the heart of the matter. My smile fades. “No. Just the summer. If they stay that long.” Whenever Erica leaves the house, part of me thinks she might not come back. That she'll drive off and disappear and leave the girls behind. Would it be so bad if she did? I survived it, but I was so little. It would be harder for Gracie and Iz.

“I had Erica in class, same as you, you know. She was mean even then. Bullied the other girls.” Mrs. Summers beams at me. “Nothing like you. You were always so bright. And sweet as pie.”

That's me. Sweet as pie.
“Thank you, Mrs. Summers.” I edge away, almost tripping over Quincey's leash. “Excuse me. I'm meeting someone. I don't want to be late.”

“Oh, is it that nice black boy who works at the coffee shop? Jules said she saw the two of you walking past the bank yesterday holding hands. What's his name? Colin?”

Jesus. If I had any doubts about how fast gossip spreads in this town, they are extinguished.

“Connor,” I correct. Jules is Mrs. Summers's daughter who works over at the SunTrust. She is at least forty years old, and you'd think she would have better things to do at work than notice who I walk down the street holding hands with.

“He seems real nice,” Mrs. Summers says. “And things are different than they were when I was young.”

Meaning what? That Connor and I can date, even though he's biracial and I'm white? That it's not the fifties, so I won't be disowned and he won't be run out of town—or worse? “Thanks. Well, I don't want to keep you. Bye!”

I scurry away. This is the part of Cecil I'd be happy to escape. The small-mindedness. The gossip. I was stupid to think I could keep our relationship secret. Nothing stays secret in this town for long. Didn't I tell my mother that?

By the time I meet Connor at our bench, it's almost dusk.

He's scribbling in his Moleskine again, but he shoves it in his back pocket and scrambles to his feet when he sees me.

“Hi.” I smile up at him bashfully, then go up on my tiptoes for a kiss. Which turns into a couple kisses. “I've been waiting to do that all day.”

“Me too. Nice dress.” His eyes scan me appreciatively from head to toe, and I spin around to show the dress off. Claire helped me pick it out for the sports awards banquet, so it's a little sexier than anything I would have chosen on my own. The front is a modest halter, but the back dips down low, then swirls out and ends right above my knees.

“Thank you. You look pretty nice yourself.” He's wearing jeans and a button-down red shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, that sets off his brown skin. I lace my arms around his neck. He smells piney, like maybe he went home after work and shaved and did whatever boys do before a first date. “You also smell nice.”

Connor buries his nose in my hair. “You always smell like summer. It drove me crazy when we were working together at your house that day we made lunch. Your hair smells like coconut.”

He presses a kiss to the hollow of my neck, and a shiver runs up my spine.

He gestures at the cove. “You want to go over to the party?”

“I guess. I mean, yes. Claire is dying to meet you.” Abby's at the Crab Claw till close; I might not get to see her because of my curfew. I look down the marina, to the restaurants that jut out over the water. Their decks are full of tourists and boaters and couples out for a nice dinner, all enjoying the pretty weather. There's no chance of her getting off early. “But I like being alone with you.”

And I don't want to run into Charlotte Wu or Katie Griffith or anyone else who witnessed the scene with my mother—or has heard about it second or thirdhand.

“Me too.” Connor's voice is low. “We could leave early and go back to my place for a while. If you want. No pressure.”

“I want,” I remind him, pulling his head down for another kiss. His arms go around me, his fingers tracing little circles on my lower back, and we don't break apart until some guys walk past and holler at us to get a room.

“Jesus. Are we that couple?” I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed.

“The ones who can't keep their hands off each other? I'm kind of okay with that.” He grins.

“I've never been that couple before. Not that I have a lot of experience being a couple.” I went out with Jake Usilton in ninth grade for a couple weeks. We went to the movies once and he held my hand and bought me a Coke. Then he decided he liked Riley West better. That's pretty much all of my dating experience. “Do you? I mean, have you had many girlfriends?”