The Cousins Read online

  “No,” the old man says, plucking at the pocket of his cardigan again.

  “Maybe you forgot.” She turns to us and adds in a lower voice, “Granddad has early-stage dementia. Sometimes he’s fine, but other times he gets really confused. He’s friends with Mrs. Story, though, and he was her family doctor, so he knew your parents really well. I’m Hazel Baxter-Clement, by the way. My grandfather is Dr. Fred Baxter.”

  I recognize the name instantly. “Of course! My mother used to say he must’ve been the only doctor alive who still made house calls.”

  Hazel grins. “Well, for your family.”

  “My dad said the same thing,” Aubrey says. “And also that your grandfather got him playing lacrosse again in high school after he’d injured his knee.”

  We all look at Jonah to see whether he’ll weigh in with a memory, but he just stares at his phone, rude as ever. Then he thrusts the screen toward Aubrey and me. “Yelp says we should go to Hurley Street to find a cab.”

  “Hurley is right around the corner,” Hazel says, pointing to our left. I grasp the handle of my carry-on as she adds, “Hey, so this might be kind of weird and random when we just met, but—I actually did a school project that included your family last semester. I’m a history major at BU, and my independent study is about early colonists whose descendants are thriving in the information age. My professor really liked the initial write-up and wants me to expand on it next fall. Is there any chance I could interview you guys?” She smiles ingratiatingly when none of us respond right away. “Total softball questions, I promise.”

  “Um.” I put my sunglasses back on to avoid Hazel’s gaze. Even softball questions are loaded when you’re a Story. “We might be kind of busy for a while.”

  “I understand. Could I give you my number in case you find the time? Or if you just want to know what’s fun to do on the island. I’d be happy to show you around.” She looks at Jonah, who still has his phone out, and quickly recites her number. I can’t tell whether he actually adds it, or just pretends to.

  “Enjoy your first day,” Hazel says. “Come on, Granddad, let’s get some ice cream.”

  Dr. Baxter has been quietly leaning on his granddaughter’s arm while we talk, but Hazel’s voice seems to shake him out of his reverie. He focuses on me again, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth. “You shouldn’t have come, Allison.”

  Hazel clucks her tongue. “Granddad, that’s not Allison. You’re confused.” She offers us a smile and wave before steering him toward the café behind us. “See you around.”

  Aubrey stares after them as they disappear into the café. “Well, that was strange,” she says. Then she hitches her backpack over her shoulder, grabs the handle of her suitcase, and starts toward Hurley Street. I pause, eyeing my suitcases, until Jonah heaves a deep sigh and grabs hold of the two big ones.

  “Can you handle the rest, princess?” he asks over his shoulder as he drags them across the cobblestones.

  “Yes,” I mutter ungraciously. I would’ve thanked him without the princess comment.

  * * *

  —

  “Whoa,” Jonah says when our taxi driver pulls to a stop.

  Gull Cove Resort is on the opposite side of the island from the ferry dock, or we never could’ve missed it. The architecture is Victorian mansion meets modern luxury beach spa, which works a lot better than you’d think. It’s also the biggest building I’ve seen here so far, four stories high and I don’t know how many rooms across. The paint is pristine white, the flowering shrubs are perfectly shaped and bursting with color, and the grass is impossibly green. Even the driveway feels smooth and newly paved.

  “Enjoy your stay,” the driver says, getting out of the cab so he can help pull our suitcases from the trunk. “Gonna be a long one, huh?”

  I hand him a ten-dollar bill for our seven-dollar ride. “You could say that.”

  Aubrey is consulting her phone. “We’re supposed to pick up registration packets in Edward Franklin’s office,” she reports. “First floor, near the lobby.”

  “Let’s leave this crap here,” Jonah says, dragging all the suitcases and duffels off to one side. He rolls his eyes at my dubious expression. “Oh, come on. Rooms here start at eight hundred dollars a night. Nobody’s taking your stuff.”

  “Shut up,” I grumble, grabbing my laptop bag and brushing past him toward the front door. Every time Jonah opens his mouth, I wonder if this entire summer was a mistake.

  A smiling concierge in the spacious, airy lobby directs us to Edward Franklin’s office. We pass the elevators and turn down a narrow hallway with plush carpeting. I’m so busy looking at the framed photographs hanging on the walls—eager for a glimpse of my grandmother, or maybe even my mother, among the smiling guests—that I nearly bump into Aubrey when she stops short. “Hello?” she calls, rapping on a door. “Is this where we get orientation stuff?”

  “It is,” calls a cheerful voice. “Come in, come in.”

  We step into a small office dominated by a large walnut desk. A smiling man sits behind it, surrounded by haphazardly stacked folders. He has Draco Malfoy white-blond hair swept to one side, and he’s wearing a crisp white shirt and a tie patterned with bright-blue fish. “Hello, and please excuse the mess,” he says. “We’re a little disorganized at the moment.”

  “You must be Edward,” I say.

  It’s a logical assumption, given that he’s sitting in Edward’s office. But Friendly Draco shakes his head. “I am not. I’m Carson Fine, head of hospitality for Gull Cove Resort. Doing double duty until we find Edward’s replacement.”

  “His what?” I frown. “He’s not here?”

  “He left two days ago,” Carson says. “Bit of an abrupt departure, but don’t worry. The summer hire program continues without him. I just need your names, please.”

  “Milly Story-Takahashi, Aubrey Story, and Jonah Story,” I say.

  Carson’s hands pause over his keyboard. “Really? Did you guys know you have the same last name as the resort’s owner? What a coincidence. I don’t think we’ve ever had another Story here before, and now we’ve got three of you.” His blue eyes crinkle. “Too bad you’re not related, huh?”

  Jonah clears his throat as Aubrey and I exchange startled glances. How can this guy not know who we are? It seems like the sort of thing people would talk about here, even if they’re not running the summer hire program. “We are related,” I say. “We’re her grandchildren.”

  “Right, wouldn’t that be nice,” Carson chuckles. When no one else cracks a smile, his vanishes. “Wait. Are you serious?”

  “Didn’t Edward tell you?” I ask. “We’ve been talking to him about it since April.” And then, because I feel a sudden urge to prove myself, I pull a folder full of our correspondence out of my laptop bag. “It’s all here, if you want to see.”

  Carson takes the folder, but barely glances through it before handing it back. “He never said a word. I can’t believe him! Oh, Edward, you utter incompetent. If you hadn’t already quit, I’d fire you. Let me see if he left some notes.” He taps furiously at the keyboard while we stand in uncomfortable silence. Then his expression brightens. “Okay, I’m not seeing any background, but the good news is, your grandmother is actually at the resort as we speak. We just finished renovating the ballroom for the Summer Gala, and she’s conducting a site visit. So if you can hold tight for just a few minutes, I’ll bring her right by.”

  Aubrey’s eyes widen in alarm. “What, now?”

  Carson jumps to his feet with the energy of someone determined to right a grievous hospitality wrong. “No time like the present. Be right back!” He darts into the hallway, leaving the three of us standing awkwardly around his desk.

  I swipe suddenly damp palms against the skirt of my dress. I thought I was prepared to meet my grandmother, but now that it seems imminent, I’m—no
t. My mind goes blank, and the room falls silent except for tinny Muzak piping from a speaker somewhere. After a few seconds I recognize a familiar chord, and almost laugh out loud. It’s “Africa,” by the band Toto, and it was my mother’s favorite song growing up. The only family video she has, which I’ve watched dozens of times, is of her and my uncles singing “Africa” on the beach when they were kids.

  The music seems like a strangely fitting backdrop as footsteps approach, accompanied by Carson’s eager voice. “So lucky that I caught you before you left, Mrs. Story!”

  I hear Aubrey gulp and then—there she is. Standing directly in front of me for the first time in my life. The elusive, eccentric, mysterious Mildred Story.

  My grandmother.

  I take her in bit by bit: First the jewelry, because of course I would notice that. Mildred is wearing a double strand of lustrous gray pearls, striking against her sharp black suit, and matching drop earrings. Her heels are impressively high for a woman in her seventies, and she’s topped off the outfit with a small netted hat. She looks like she’s going to some elder statesman’s funeral. Her purse is gleaming black crocodile, with a distinctive gold lock on the front. I’ve seen enough fake Birkins in New York to recognize the twenty-thousand-dollar real deal.

  Mildred’s famously high cheekbones have softened with age, but she’s still as impeccably made up as she was in every photo I’ve seen of her as a younger woman. The most eye-catching thing about her, though, is her hair. It’s tied back in a low bun, and is such a pure, snowy white that I can’t believe it’s her natural color.

  Her gaze flits between Aubrey and Jonah—neither of whom look anything like their fathers—before settling on me with a spark of recognition. “So it’s true,” she says in a low, throaty voice. “You really are here.”

  I have to fight off the irrational urge to curtsy. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  Mildred inhales sharply, her brows drawing together. “Inviting you,” she repeats. We stare at one another until Carson nervously clears his throat, and our grandmother’s face transforms into a smooth, expressionless mask. “Indeed,” she says, transferring her Birkin from one arm to the other. “You must be exhausted after your travel. Carson, please bring them to the dormitories. I’ll have my assistant reach out to arrange a more fitting time for us to talk.”

  Over her shoulder, Carson looks crushed. “Right, of course,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I should have taken them there first thing.”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself,” Mildred says coolly. “It’s perfectly fine.”

  But I know better. In the seconds before my grandmother regained her composure, one of my tangled thoughts separated from the rest with total, piercing clarity.

  She had absolutely no idea that we were coming.

  The ferry approached from the opposite side of Gull Cove Island, so when Allison sat on the upper deck of Catmint House, all she saw in front of her was smooth water melting into blue sky. But the buzzing activity around the house made it clear: the summer season was about to begin, and her brothers would be home soon.

  Their mother had wanted to throw a party for Adam and Anders’s return, but before she’d even started planning, she’d become overwhelmed at the amount of work involved. So her assistant, Theresa, had stepped in like the quietly efficient savior she’d become ever since Allison’s father died six months ago. Now a small army of people was setting up for the party tonight: stringing fairy lights on every available tree, building a temporary stage for the live band, and constructing white tents along the side lawn where guests would dine on lobster, mussels, and the Gull Cove Island specialty of quail eggs à la russe. Allison couldn’t see the beach below, but she knew a crew was down there getting ready for a fireworks show that would put the Fourth of July in most major American cities to shame.

  “Think we’ll get this kind of homecoming when we come back from college?”

  Allison’s younger brother, Archer, flopped onto the patio chair beside her with a grin. His legs dangled awkwardly off the end; at seventeen, Archer had gone through his growth spurt late, and had only recently reached the same six-foot height as Adam. He still didn’t know what to do with his newly long limbs.

  “Well, it’s not like Mother did this for Adam last summer,” Allison pointed out. Their oldest brother had started at Harvard two years ago, and the next oldest, Anders, had joined him there the past fall. Allison was breaking family tradition by going to NYU in September. “I think it’s just that things are different this year.”

  “I know.” Archer hunched his broad shoulders, looking suddenly much smaller and younger. “It’s weird, isn’t it, how the house can be so full right now but still…empty.”

  Allison’s throat tightened. “It doesn’t feel like a Story party without Father here,” she said, and Archer smiled ruefully.

  “Especially since they’re serving mussels as a main dish. God, he hated those.” Archer deepened his voice as Allison joined in his imitation of their father: “Snot of the sea.” They both huffed out almost laughs, and Archer added, “I mean, he wasn’t wrong. You can put all the butter and cream and salt or whatever you want on those things, but they’re still disgusting.”

  Most days since their father’s death, Allison felt as though the void left by his larger-than-life presence was unfillable; the kind of loss she’d ache with her entire life. But every once in a while—usually in a quiet moment like this with Archer—she could imagine a time in the future when the memories became more sweet than bitter. Part of her wanted to keep reminiscing, but she’d learned over the past few months that you could only stay so far ahead of grief. If she let herself wallow before Mother’s big night, it would be hard to put on the kind of bright face expected of her.

  Archer seemed to be thinking the same thing. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle, the new position signaling an abrupt change of subject. “On a scale of one to ten,” he said, “how much more obnoxious do you think Harvard has made Anders?”

  “Twenty,” Allison said, and they both laughed.

  “Probably. It’ll be good to see Adam, though,” Archer said. He worshiped their oldest brother to a degree Allison didn’t quite share, but she was still happy at the thought of him coming home. There was no one on earth who could make their mother smile like Adam. “I talked to him right before he left, and he said he’s down for Rob Valentine’s party next Saturday. We just have to convince Anders.”

  “I never said I was going,” Allison reminded him. All the Story children had attended boarding school outside Boston since they were twelve years old, and only Archer had maintained—and grown—the friendships he’d made at Gull Cove Elementary School. For the past few years, he’d spent every school vacation trying to convince his siblings to accompany him to one party or another. None of them blended as well as he did.

  “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Archer urged.

  Allison rolled her eyes. “Did you learn nothing from the Kayla-Matt debacle?”

  “That’s ancient history,” Archer said.

  “Not to Anders.” Allison straightened suddenly, tilting her head. “Is Mother calling me?”

  “I don’t think—” Archer started, pausing when a faint but clear “Allison!” floated toward them from inside the house. “I stand corrected. Your supersonic ears strike again.”

  Allison got to her feet and crossed the patio, opening the sliding glass door just as their mother stepped into the connected parlor. “Oh, Allison, thank goodness. There you are.”

  Mother was already dressed for the evening in a white sheath, silver sandals, and canary diamond jewelry. She’d pulled her dark hair back into a loose chignon, a few well-placed wisps softening the sharp planes of her face. Her lips were signature red, her smoky eye shadow as flawless as ever. You’d have to look closely to notice
the tightness in her expression. Mildred Story wasn’t a natural hostess; she’d always relied on her husband’s gregariousness to get her through social gatherings. “Could you go to the tents and let me know what you think about the flowers?” she asked. “Theresa ordered them from the new place on Hurley Street—Brewer Floral, I think? Something like that. We’ve never used them before, and I’m worried she only chose them because Matt works there now. I just had a look at the arrangements, and they feel a touch unbalanced to me.”

  “Unbalanced?” Allison asked.

  “Too heavy on the calla lilies,” Mother said. She twisted her hands together, looking down at them with a frown. That was another new anxiety; Mother had recently become convinced that her hands betrayed the fact that she was nearing fifty in a way her face still didn’t. Allison pried them gently apart with a reassuring squeeze.

  “I’m sure they’re beautiful. But I’ll take a look,” Allison said, slipping through the door and closing it behind her.

  She knew what her father would say if he were here: “Your job at this moment, Allison, no matter what your actual opinion might be, is to reassure your mother that each vase contains precisely the right amount of calla lilies.” This, she could do.

  She padded on bare feet across the polished hardwood and marble floors of the house, stopping at the side entrance to slip on a pair of sandals she’d left by the door. The noise level was much higher when she stepped outside than it had been on the patio, voices mixing with the sounds of light construction and the occasional strum of a guitar from the band’s sound check. The smell of honeysuckle was everywhere, wafting from the bushes that nestled against the side of Catmint House. Allison turned the corner and nearly bumped into two people standing side by side, surveying the sea of white tents in front of them.