The Cousins Page 15

  “But you’re still open, right?” I ask.

  “We are,” Dad says. “We’ve been working on a few different ways to cut costs.” Something about the way he clears his throat makes me positive I’m not going to like whatever he says next. “We had to let Enzo go, unfortunately.”

  I’ve never hated being right more. “Dad, come on!” I protest. Enzo’s been the bartender at Empire since it opened, and he’s the only guy there who can still beat me at pool. He’s also funny, loyal, and more like an uncle to me than a guy who works for my parents. “How can you fire Enzo? He’s an Empire institution! He works his ass off!” My voice sounds harsh and unfamiliar to my own ears, like I swallowed something sharp.

  “He’s expensive, Jonah. Tough decisions have to be made.”

  “He’s a person. You can’t put a dollar sign on him and be done with it!”

  “If you think for one second—” Dad’s voice rises to match mine, and then he stops. Breathes in and out, composing himself. When he speaks again it’s in a tone that’s almost normal, except for the brittle edge. “If you think it didn’t break my heart, and your mother’s, to let Enzo go, you’re mistaken. We had no choice.”

  You had a choice not to listen to Anders Story, I almost say, but stop myself just in time. It’s not like he doesn’t know that. “Okay, so…” I trail off as a loud rap sounds on my door. “Hang on, somebody’s knocking. Let me get rid of them and I’ll be back.”

  “No, go ahead and get on with your day,” Dad says, sounding as relieved as I feel at the possibility of ending this call. “That’s all the information I have right now anyway.” He clears his throat again. “Maybe I’ll just text the next update.”

  Shame at giving him a hard time stabs at my chest, but I have too much residual anger about Enzo to turn it into an apology. “That works,” I say, and disconnect. I let the phone drop onto my pillow with a frustrated grunt and shove my hands into my hair, tugging until it hurts. Another knock sounds at the door, louder than before.

  “Coming,” I snap. “Hold your horses.” That’s an Enzo saying, one he’d always throw at me when I’d bug him to take a break and play pool with me. Hold your horses, kid. I have work to do. Goddamn it. If I keep thinking like this, I’m going to be useless all day. I force myself to take a couple of deep breaths, then stand and head for the door, running a hand over my disheveled hair when I catch sight of myself in the mirror over my dresser. Not that it matters. It’s probably Reid Chilton wanting to borrow toothpaste again.

  I’ve barely opened the door a crack when someone pushes it all the way open. Not Reid.

  “Have you seen this?” Milly demands, shoving her phone at me.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I grumble, but my mood lifts a notch at the sight of her. I grab a T-shirt off the back of my chair, and Milly’s cheeks color as she registers that I’m only wearing boxer shorts. Serves her right for barging in at the ungodly hour of—okay, ten-thirty. Maybe I should’ve been up by now. “Where’s Aubrey?” I don’t usually see one of them without the other.

  “Lifeguarding,” Milly says. She looks great like always in a lacy white top, tan shorts, and complicated sandals with lots of straps. When my head emerges from my T-shirt neck, her eyes are trained on a spot over my shoulder as she continues to hold out her phone. “Uncle Archer was right; he messed up by playing that song. The Gull Cove Gazette is at it again.”

  “At what again?” I take her phone and angle the screen so I can read it. My heart sinks as soon as I see the headline at the top of the Lifestyle section.

  THE STORY CONTINUES: HAS ESTRANGED SON ARCHER BEEN HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

  “Well, shit,” I say, scanning the article. It’s all about how “various sources” spotted a man resembling Archer Story perform at Dunes last night. “How is this news? And did people really figure him out just because he sang a freaking Toto song?”

  Milly sighs. “This is Gull Cove Island, remember? People are obsessed with the Storys.”

  “I better let JT know,” I say. “I was going to keep quiet till Archer had a chance to talk to Mildred, but now that it’s out…” I send the link to myself and give Milly back her phone. Then I pick mine up from the bed and forward the article to JT with a text telling him to call me. “Do you think he’s read it?”

  “JT?” Milly asks doubtfully.

  “No. Archer.”

  “I don’t know.” She chews on the knuckle of her thumb. “I’ve called and messaged him a bunch of times this morning, but he hasn’t answered.”

  “It’s early. He’s probably still asleep,” I say, then worry that it sounds like I really mean “passed out,” so I add, “I wouldn’t be up either if you hadn’t knocked.”

  “Yeah, but I thought…I don’t know. I thought he’d want to talk to us again as soon as possible,” Milly says. Her shoulders slump, and I get that weird, tight feeling in my chest that happens any time Milly looks sad.

  “We’ll hear from him soon.” I say it with more confidence than I feel, because there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the stress of last night sent Archer Story on another bender. And if that didn’t do the trick, today’s news story definitely will.

  “Maybe he’s talking to Dr. Baxter,” she says. “I wouldn’t be able to wait, if I were him. That note was so strange.”

  Dr. Baxter is strange, period. Milly and Aubrey were so upset that day at his house that I never told them what I thought I saw—him knocking into the table on purpose to interrupt the conversation about Story sibling rumors. It didn’t seem important at the time, anyway. We were all uncomfortable, and I was grateful he broke things up. It didn’t occur to me, until Aubrey read the note from him last night, that he might’ve done it because Hazel was about to share something he didn’t want us to hear.

  There are things I should have told you long ago, the note said. If I were Archer Story, and I’d spent the past twenty-plus years wondering why I’d been cut off from my family fortune, I’d sober up enough to knock on his door first thing.

  “You’re probably right,” I say. Milly raises a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and that big watch she always wears slides down her arm. Dr. Baxter and Archer Story both fade from my mind as I step closer, brushing my fingertips along the burnished gold band. “You ever think of getting this resized so that it actually fits?”

  “No.” She slips it off easily and hands it to me. “It was my grandfather’s. It doesn’t actually tell time anymore.”

  I turn the watch around in my hand. It’s heavy and still warm from her skin, the metal smooth and glowing. “Why do you wear it if it doesn’t tell time?”

  “I just like it,” she says.

  There’s an inscription on the back of the watch’s face: Omnia vincit amor. Yours always, M. “Was this a gift from Mildred?” I ask. Milly nods. “What does it mean?”

  “Love conquers all.” Her lips twist as she lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Unless you’re talking about her kids, I guess. Or her grandkids.”

  When it comes to how she presents herself to the world, Milly doesn’t mess around. I dragged her giant suitcase far enough to realize she cares a lot about appearances. So it’s interesting that the one thing she wears every single day is a broken reminder of being shut out.

  I take her hand and slide the watch back onto her wrist. “Mildred’s out of her head for never giving you guys a chance till Archer forced her to. You get that, right? She’s the one with the problem, not you.”

  “I’m aware.” Milly rolls her eyes. “Thanks for the free psychoanalysis, though.”

  “There’s more where that came from.” I still have her hand in mine. “Did you know that sarcasm is a defense mechanism?”

  She gazes around my room, looking everywhere except at me. “Did you know your room is a disaster area? You realize you have a dresser, right? And that cloth
es can go in it?”

  “Deflection is also a defense mechanism.”

  Her lips quirk. “Defense against what?”

  “Feelings of abandonment, probably.” She laughs a little, giving me one of those looks from beneath her lashes that always makes my pulse speed up. All of a sudden, I’m reminded of a conversation I had a couple of days ago with Efram, when he told me how he’d asked out his now-girlfriend while she was stopped next to him at a red light, bobbing her head along to the music he was playing. You gotta shoot your shot when it comes, he’d said. Who knows if you’ll get another chance? I’d thought of Milly then, and how impossible it is to have a shot with someone when you have to pretend to be their cousin in front of the entire world.

  But for once, it’s just the two of us.

  I keep my voice light, because I don’t want to freak her out. “Or maybe you’re experiencing feelings of attraction toward someone inappropriate.”

  “Oh?” She raises a brow. “Like who?”

  “Red Sox fan,” I say, and she snorts. “Elderly townie, maybe? Pretend relative. Could be any one of those, really.”

  Milly tugs her hand away, but not like she’s mad. “Hardly.”

  “Don’t fight it,” I say in my best professional voice. “Repression is unhealthy.”

  Now she laughs for real. Almost a giggle, which isn’t like her. It’s so cute that I rack my brain trying to think of something else funny to say. But then she crosses her arms, her eyes returning to that spot over my shoulder. “You’re doing it again,” she says accusingly.

  “Doing what?”

  “Flirting with me.”

  “No I’m not.” I wait a beat. “Unless you’re into it. Are you?”

  She fights a smile. “You should really be wearing pants for this conversation.”

  That feels like the opposite direction of how I’d like things to go, but I’m not about to argue with her right now. “Fair point. Could you—” I gesture toward her, and she turns around so she’s facing the door. I grab my jeans from the end of my bed and pull them on. It’s too hot for jeans on this island, but I’ve never been a shorts guy unless I’m playing basketball. And I haven’t played basketball since I had to start working double shifts at Empire. Which I’m not going to think about right now, because Milly is in my room, and—

  She lets out a gasp. When I turn, she’s staring at her phone, eyes wide. “What’s up?” I ask. “Archer finally get in touch?”

  Milly shakes her head, her hand at her throat. “No. Oh no.”

  My shoulders tense. I’ve never seen Milly look this rattled before, and I’ve been with her through two fake-identity reveals, including my own. “Everything okay?” She doesn’t answer right away, so I start lobbing guesses. “Is something going on with your grandmother? Your parents? Aubrey?”

  “Yes,” she finally says. “I mean, no, it’s not about Aubrey, but she texted me from the pool. Carson Fine just gave her some news.” Her eyes, still round and glassy with shock, meet mine. “About Dr. Baxter. He died this morning. Drowned in a creek in the woods behind his house.”

  We see the gate well before we see the house. It must be fifteen feet tall, made of thick wrought iron, flanked by an equally tall stone wall that stretches as far as I can see in either direction. There’s no way into Catmint House except for this gate, unless you want to try scaling the oceanside cliff that flanks the back of the house.

  “Almost there,” our chauffeur says, pressing the brake as he rolls down his window. I’m immediately overpowered by the scent of honeysuckle. He extracts a slim silver rectangle that looks like a credit card from the sun visor, and holds it up against a sensor attached to a wooden post. There’s a loud clicking noise, and the gate doors slowly swing open.

  We’re riding in a Bentley Mulliner that has four seats in the back, two on either side facing one another, with a chrome and walnut table between them. The seats are buttery espresso leather and equipped with dozens of buttons that let us adjust temperature and seat position. Jonah has been fiddling with his controls for the entire ride, but he looks up now as the car proceeds slowly down a winding driveway. Flowering honeysuckle bushes climb tall trellises on our right, and lush green trees that I haven’t seen anywhere else on Gull Cove Island are on our left.

  Aubrey sighs. She looks stiff and uncomfortable in a striped shirtdress, the only article of clothing with a skirt that I’ve ever seen her wear. “I got a text from Hazel this morning. She said the funeral is going to be Wednesday. We should ask Carson for the day off.”

  “Yeah, of course.” I run my fingers down a seam in the smooth leather of my seat. “Do you guys think Uncle Archer got a chance to talk to Dr. Baxter before he died?”

  “I think…” Jonah hesitates, like he’s weighing how ready we are for bad news. Then he just goes for it. “To be honest, I think he’s been drunk since he saw us.”

  He’s probably right. It’s been thirty-six hours since we left Uncle Archer’s bungalow, and we haven’t heard from him once. All our texts have gone unanswered, and any calls go straight to voice mail.

  “Gran must know about Uncle Archer by now, right?” Aubrey asks. “I mean, she has to have seen the article.”

  “I’m sure she did,” I say. I can’t imagine a piece of gossip like that not being brought to her attention straightaway.

  Aubrey chews her lip. “Should we tell her that he’s the one who brought us here?”

  “No,” Jonah and I both say at once. Then he grins at me, head cocked, and my stomach flutters. I’m not sure what would have happened in his room yesterday if we hadn’t gotten distracted by the news about Dr. Baxter. A not-small part of me wishes I’d found out.

  “I know my reason,” he says. “I’m trying to hang on to this job as long as possible. JT’s already in a panic about the Archer thing. What’s yours?”

  I lift my chin. “We don’t owe Mildred anything. She can figure it out on her own, just like we did.” It hits me, as I say it, that I really do think about Aubrey, Jonah, and me as a “we” now; an odd little team, caught up in something that only the three of us can understand. This summer keeps twisting in ways I never expected, and it’s a relief to have them along for the ride.

  Aubrey and I are sitting side by side, facing forward, and when her breath hitches in her throat, I can tell she’s been distracted by the sight of Catmint House. “Oh, wow,” she says. I crane my neck so I can see what she’s seeing, but within seconds there’s no need. The driveway straightens, and the house is directly in front of us.

  The back of the house that we glimpsed from the road was all sparkling windows and modern lines, but the front is pure New England mansion. Two symmetrical wings, each the size of a typical house on Gull Cove Island, flank a midsection dominated by vast white pillars leading to a Juliet balcony. The roof is dark slate and dramatically sloped, with a widow’s walk on top framed by four stone chimneys. All of the windows—I lose count as we approach—are tall, white-paned, and green-shuttered. A four-door garage attached to the left wing is constructed of the same stone as the chimneys, with a trellised wall covered with contrasting pink shades of honeysuckle. Behind the house, dark-blue ocean meets a paler blue sky that’s dotted with lacy white clouds.

  I’ve seen pictures, but they didn’t prepare me for the real thing. It’s stunning. For a second I can’t breathe, imagining an alternate universe where I’d spend every summer here under the watchful eye of a doting grandmother.

  A woman in a shapeless gray dress and clogs stands between the columns flanking the front door, looking out of place amid all the grandiosity. The chauffeur parks, and Theresa Ryan waves as we exit the Bentley. “Welcome, welcome,” she calls. Aubrey is the first to reach her, and Theresa grasps Aubrey’s hand in both of hers. “You must be Aubrey. And this is Jonah, of course.” I hang back as they exchange greetings, since I’ve alre
ady met Theresa.

  When I talked to Mom last night, she sounded wistful about her mother’s assistant. “Tell Theresa I’m feeling good about the Yankees bullpen this year,” she’d told me. “It almost reminds me of 1996.” But when Theresa extends a welcoming hand to me, the words won’t come. It feels too much like I’m trying to kiss up to her. She’s the most pleasant person in Mildred Story’s inner circle, but she still picked her side years ago. And it wasn’t ours.

  Theresa puts one hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn it. “If I could have a quick word before we go inside,” she says, her brow knitted in concern. “This has been a very trying weekend. Fred Baxter was one of your grandmother’s oldest and dearest friends. She’s devastated by his death. And on top of that, I suppose you’ve seen coverage about your uncle being back in town?” She gives us a searching look, and I keep my expression carefully neutral.

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “So strange.” Aubrey and Jonah both look at the ground.

  “It’s a lot to take, all at once,” Theresa says. “I hope you understand that we may need to keep brunch brief.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  She pushes the door open, and gestures us into a grand foyer. The walls are pristine white, the ceiling soaring, and the space is full of the most exquisite collection of paintings, sculptures, and vases that I’ve ever seen outside of a museum. A slim man dressed all in black is peering intently at one wall, jotting something in a Moleskine notebook. I’ve spent years hanging out at my friend Chloe’s mother’s art gallery, and I’m pretty sure he’s looking at an original Cy Twombly painting.