The Cousins Page 6

  “Hello, Allison.” Her mother’s lawyer, Donald Camden, put a hand out to steady her. “Where are you running off to?”

  “Oh, well…” Allison trailed off as she took in Mother’s assistant, Theresa Ryan, standing beside him. She couldn’t very well say that she was here to make sure Theresa hadn’t selected a subpar florist due to nepotism. “I just wanted to look around.”

  Theresa smiled warmly. She was a widow too, but unlike Mildred, Theresa wasn’t afraid to show her age. She was gray-haired and a little plump, known for wearing simple dresses and comfortable shoes no matter the occasion. “Let me know what you think,” Theresa said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone as she put a hand on Allison’s arm. “Between you and me, your mother’s standards are a bit terrifying.”

  “Tell me about it,” Allison said with a laugh, relieved at the excuse to poke around.

  Allison felt her spine stiffening and her shoulders straightening as she walked across the lawn through the deferential path that opened when people recognized her. Usually she tried to blend into the background at her parents’ parties, but tonight would be different. Her mother needed her to be a hostess, not a shy teenager.

  When Allison stepped inside the nearest tent, she took a moment to appreciate Theresa’s skills. Everything was beautiful: the crisp white tablecloths, the cushioned chairs with gauzy white bows tied across their backs, the shining silverware, the sparkling crystal, and, yes, the flowers. They stood in gleaming white vases at the center of each table, bursting with creamy roses, lime-green orchids, some sort of feathery succulent Allison couldn’t identify, and striking magenta calla lilies.

  She couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.

  “Meet with your approval, Allie?” asked a voice behind her.

  Allison turned to see Theresa’s son, Matt, wearing a Brewer Floral T-shirt, and all the carefully constructed poise she’d imagined for herself vanished. “Nobody calls me that,” she blurted out.

  “Too bad,” Matt said. “It suits you. Maybe I can make it catch on.” Allison remained tongue-tied until Matt added, “Seriously, is everything okay? My mom is freaking out about this party. If I have to return fifty floral arrangements, she might have a heart attack.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Allison said, and Matt wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.

  “You just made her year.”

  Allison bit her lip to swallow a smile. Matt was cute, charming, and—despite his relationship to Theresa—currently persona non grata among the Story siblings. He’d been friendly enough with all of them until last Christmas, when he’d hooked up with Anders’s on-again, off-again Gull Cove Island girlfriend, Kayla Dugas. Matt and Kayla’s relationship barely lasted two months, but it was enough to turn Matt into Anders’s sworn enemy for life. It had been a while, come to think of it, since Allison had heard Matt referred to as anything other than “fucking Matt Ryan.”

  “Anders is going to be here soon,” she found herself saying, and Matt’s smile dropped.

  “Thanks for the tip,” he said. “Better make myself scarce.” He looked around at the glittering surroundings and added, “After all, it’s not like I’m a guest or anything.”

  “No, don’t…I didn’t…” God. She hadn’t meant to chase Matt off. She should have been mad at him on Anders’s behalf, but the thing was, Anders put as much effort into being Kayla’s boyfriend as he did everything else in life that wasn’t directly about being Anders Story. In other words: minimal. And Matt was…Matt.

  Matt gave her a crooked smile. “Hey, don’t worry about it. My job here is done anyway, as long as you like the flowers.” Then he stepped a little closer, blue eyes crinkling as they swept over her faded T-shirt and athletic shorts. “You wearing that tonight? I like it. Very GCI casual.”

  Allison knew he was kidding, but she still couldn’t help saying, “My mother would die a thousand deaths and then come back to kill me.”

  Matt moved closer still. “Would she kill you if you had coffee with me next week?”

  Wait. Was Matt Ryan asking her out? Allison opened her mouth to reply—with what, she had no idea—then closed it as a familiar face swam into focus at the tent’s opening. Handsome, expectant, and a little bit arrogant. Adam. Her oldest brother had made it back from Boston, which meant Anders must be right behind him. So Allison straightened her shoulders once again, gave Matt her most practiced Story smile, and said, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind at all. Let’s set that up sometime. But I have to go now. Please excuse me.”

  Abraham Story might not be here anymore, but Allison knew exactly what he’d say if he found her caught between her brothers and her crush.

  Family first, always.

  “Guys! You’re back!” Allison called, stretching her arms out wide to greet her brothers.

  “How do I look?” Milly asks, half turning in front of her closet with one hand on her hip. Her long dark hair is loose, and she’s wearing cropped white jeans and a floaty tank top patterned with vivid pink and silver flowers.

  “Gorgeous,” I say truthfully.

  I run a hand over the threadbare green blanket covering my twin bed while I wait for my cousin to finish getting ready. The summer hire dorms aren’t nearly as luxurious as the resort itself. Milly and I are sharing a small, bare room simply furnished with beds, built-in dressers topped with mirrors, and two desks with wooden chairs. Bathrooms are down the hallway, and if we want to watch big-screen television or sit on something with an actual cushion, we have to go to the common room. The space between our desks has been overtaken by Milly’s suitcases, which wouldn’t fit into her narrow closet. Still, if all her clothes are like what she’s wearing now, I can’t blame her for bringing them. “I love that shirt,” I say.

  “Thanks. Baba bought it on that same trip to Japan when she got your gamaguchi,” Milly says, carefully running a brush through her already-shining hair.

  “That was really nice of her,” I say. When we first got to our room and started unpacking, Milly handed me a gift from the grandmother she calls Baba. It was a beautiful little clasp bag with a pattern like blue waves, because, Milly said, “She knows you like to swim.” That put a lump in my throat. My mother’s parents are dead, so Gran is my only living grandparent. And yet, a woman I’m not even related to is a hundred times more thoughtful toward me.

  It’s been four days since that strange, awkward introduction in Carson Fine’s office. As soon as Milly and I got to our dorm room, my cousin insisted that Gran didn’t know we were coming. “Didn’t you see her face?” she asked. “She was shocked.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “She was unprepared. I’m sure she had something more formal in mind for our first meeting. But of course she knew we were coming, Milly. She invited us.”

  Milly sniffed. “Someone invited us. I’m not so sure it was her anymore.”

  “That makes zero sense,” I replied, and I meant it. I assumed Milly was just being dramatic. But since then we’ve heard from Gran exactly once—a short, impersonal note to let us know she’d been called away to Boston on business. I’ll be in touch upon my return, she wrote.

  I still think Milly is overreacting, but…yeah, it’s weird. Who brings their grandchildren to visit for the first time ever, and then takes off?

  Milly’s hairbrush strokes get more aggressive as she glares into her mirror. “Maybe Baba should’ve gotten us T-shirts that say ‘My Other Grandmother Is a Bitch Who’ll Stand You Up,’ but she’s not clairvoyant.”

  I can’t help but snicker, which makes me feel guilty, so I quickly change the subject. “I wonder if Gran saw the article?” I say. On Sunday, the Gull Cove Gazette ran an article with the headline A NEW CHAPTER TO THE STORYS: GRANDCHILDREN RETURN TO GULL COVE. We’re not sure who tipped them off. Milly thinks it was that Hazel girl from downtown, but I’m guessing Carson Fine. He’s been treating us like
island royalty ever since we arrived, offering us perks like use of the resort Jeep and giving us all the best shifts. I’m one of the lifeguards at a pool that opens at six a.m., but I’ve never had to be there before ten. Jonah and Milly work at two of the resort restaurants, and while I haven’t talked to Jonah much since we arrived, I know for a fact that Milly barely works three hours a day.

  Milly snorts. “Well, we know someone did.”

  Yesterday afternoon, creamy white envelopes appeared in our mailboxes. I thought it might be Gran again, but the note inside was something else entirely:

  To: Aubrey Story, Jonah Story, and Milly Story-Takahashi

  Donald S. Camden, Esq., requests the pleasure of your company at lunch Wednesday, June 30, 1:00 p.m.

  L’Etoile Restaurant

  RSVP to Melinda Cartwright

  mcartwright@camdenandassociates.com

  “Oh my God,” Milly said when we read it. “Donald Camden. He’s going to banish us from the island, isn’t he? Just like he did with our parents.” Her voice dropped an octave. “You know what you did.”

  “He can’t do that,” I’d protested weakly, but I’m honestly not sure. The longer we go without hearing from Gran, the less confident I am about anything. At least we’ll find out soon, though. It’s twelve-forty-five, and the car Donald Camden is sending for us should be arriving any minute.

  Milly fastens on her second earring. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful. How is your boyfriend? Is he pining away for you already?”

  Instinctively, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Right before my plane took off from Portland last Friday, Thomas texted Have a great summer! with a GIF of rolling waves. It felt weirdly…final. I haven’t heard from him since, even though I’ve been sending constant updates and left a couple of voice messages. I know there’s a time difference, and he can’t use his phone at his summer job, but still. “Thomas isn’t really the pining type,” I say.

  My cousin darts a quick glance toward my reflection in her mirror, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of a follow-up question, before picking up a tube of lip gloss. “Well, you have my permission to flirt with anyone in this…Tory program,” she says, stumbling over the word.

  “Towhee,” I correct. That’s what Gull Cove Resort calls those of us in the summer hire program who are still in high school. We have separate housing with resident assistants plus extra team-building activities—so far a beach bonfire party our first night, and a volleyball tournament yesterday. We even got T-shirts with TOWHEE emblazoned on the front in cursive letters, which I was wearing until a few minutes ago when I changed to go to lunch. Milly shoved hers in the bottom drawer of her dresser as soon as she got it.

  Most of the Towhees don’t really need to work. Jonah’s roommate, Efram, is the son of an R&B star from the early aughts. Another guy’s mother is a senator, and our next-door neighbor Brittany’s parents developed the messaging app that my entire school uses. Almost everyone in the summer hire program is here for the experience, or the prestige, or a chance to get away from their families.

  Milly frowns into the mirror. “I don’t get that name. What’s a Towhee?”

  “It’s a bird,” I remind her. She must not have read the welcome packet as closely as I did. “It only shows up on Gull Cove Island in the summer.”

  “Cute,” Milly says flatly.

  I can already tell that Milly isn’t the team-building type. But I am. I’ve been part of a team almost my whole life—lots of different sports until middle school, when I started focusing exclusively on swimming. Now, as I watch my cousin get ready, it hits me that even though the swim team and Thomas have been the twin pillars of my existence since I was thirteen, I feel miles away from either of them. And not just literally. The loneliness of that settles over my shoulders like a heavy blanket.

  I stand and shake myself like I do before the start of a meet, trying to chase away my gloomy thoughts. “Should we get Jonah?”

  “Let’s not,” Milly says dryly. “We’ll see him soon enough.”

  “He’s not as bad as I expected,” I say, peering into the mirror above my dresser. My ponytail is still intact, so I’m good to go. I went through a brief phase of “getting ready” when I first started high school, until Thomas told me he couldn’t tell the difference. “Every once in a while, he forgets to be rude.”

  Milly makes a face. “And then he remembers.”

  My phone buzzes and I look down hopefully, but it’s just a message from my father. Again. Mom sent a string of texts earlier asking about the trip, my cousins, and the resort. She also told me she’d be staying with her sister “for a while.” Dad, on the other hand, only sends variations on the same question:

  What’s going on with your grandmother?

  I ignore the message and stuff my phone into my pocket. My entire life, I’ve dropped whatever I was doing to answer when my father calls. This time, he can wait.

  * * *

  —

  The car that Donald Camden sends for us is a spacious Lincoln, but fitting three in the back would be tight. Jonah volunteers to take the front seat—and then, I suspect, has instant regrets when it turns out our driver is a chatterbox.

  “You seen much of the island yet, or are they keeping you too busy for that?” he asks as we pull onto Ocean Avenue. It’s the not-very-originally-named road that runs alongside some of the biggest beaches on Gull Cove Island.

  Jonah just grunts, so I lean forward. “Well, we’ve only been here four days,” I say. “We’ve gone to the beach closest to the resort, and we’ve been downtown a couple of times.”

  “Did you notice anything missing?” he asks, in the tone of someone about to reveal a delightful secret. Before I can reply, he adds, “Not a single chain store or restaurant. And don’t think they haven’t tried. Starbucks, especially. But we’re big supporters of local business here.”

  Jonah, who’s been staring at his phone, revives briefly. “That’s great,” he says, with more enthusiasm than he’s shown for anything so far.

  Milly pokes the back of his seat. “Do you hate Starbucks as much as you hate…” She screws her face up, as if deep in thought. “Everything?”

  He doesn’t bother answering, and our driver just keeps on talking. “We’re gonna pass a few beaches on your right before we get downtown. That’s Nickel Beach, very popular with families. It got the name because you used to find loose change in the sand all the time. Rumor has it that the man who founded Gull Cove Resort used to bury hundreds of dollars’ worth of coins there every summer so kids could have treasure hunts. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but people did stop finding change shortly after he died.”

  It is true, I almost say. It’s always been my mother’s favorite Story tale, how my tycoon grandfather would sneak out in the dead of night every few weeks to replenish the supply of beach change. My father told it to her when they met at a mutual friend’s party after college, and Mom always used to say that she fell halfway in love with him right then and there. It didn’t occur to me until just now that the first thing that attracted her to Dad was the reflected glow of someone else’s generosity.

  I exchange glances with Milly, and can tell she’s heard about Nickel Beach from her mother too. But neither of us say anything. It’s too complicated a subject for a short trip.

  We pause at a red light, but the driver’s monologue doesn’t stop. He gestures toward a strip of flat, gray sand to our right. “And over here, we have Cutty Beach—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt, the name catching my attention. “Did you say Cutter Beach?”

  “No, Cutty. With a y.”

  “Can we…can I look at it?” I ask. “It was, um, my father’s favorite.”

  “Really?” Milly asks, just as our driver good-naturedly says, “Sure.” He pulls over to the side of the road. “Not our pretti
est beach, in my opinion, but go ahead and take a gander.”

  I get out of the car, Milly at my heels. There’s a strip of grass between the road and the beach, which is small with a crescent shape in the middle. The sand is coarse and rocky, the vegetation surrounding us sparse and dry-looking. Beachgoers with bright towels are scattered here and there, but it’s not as crowded as I would have expected for the middle of the day.

  Milly adjusts her sunglasses. “This was Uncle Adam’s favorite beach?”

  I turn to her. “Did you ever read his book? A Brief and Broken Silence?”

  “Ah, no,” she says. “I tried, but it was kind of…”

  “Boring,” I say. “I know. But the main character—who’s a stand-in for my dad, I always thought—constantly talks about a beach in his hometown. Cutter Beach. And one of the lines he repeats, over and over, is: That’s where it all started to go wrong.”

  “Huh.” Milly is quiet for a few seconds, then points out, “But this is Cutty Beach.”

  “I know,” I say. “My dad isn’t the most original thinker, though. His main character has a wife named Magda, and my mom is Megan. And his daughter’s name is Augie.”

  Milly wrinkles her nose. “Augie?”

  “Short for Augusta,” I explain.

  “Okay, so—what? You think something happened to your dad at this beach?”

  “Not necessarily,” I say slowly, because that’s exactly how my dad would put it. Things happen to him, like they’re out of his control. But that’s not how life really works; or at least, it’s not how it’s ever worked for him. “I just think it’s interesting.”

  There’s a loud ahem noise behind us, and when we turn, Jonah is glaring out the window. “You done sightseeing?” he asks. “Or should we skip lunch so you can keep staring at the world’s ugliest beach?”

  “Three more days,” Milly mutters as we start back toward the car. “That’s it. That’s how long until I kill him.”