The Cousins Page 9

  I’m halfway there when something warm and soft materializes in my hand, and I turn to see Jonah North in a T-shirt, shoving his flannel at me.

  “For the walk home,” he says, before disappearing back into the shadows.

  * * *

  —

  The next night I’m still preoccupied, waiting tables in Veranda on autopilot. I’d lifted my phone a dozen times today to text my mother: Jonah is a fake! But I didn’t do it. I told Aubrey—who was almost comically shocked—but so far, that’s it. I’m not sure what’s stopping me. Except, maybe, that I can’t untell the truth once it’s out.

  Luckily, I’m not busy tonight. Head of hospitality Carson Fine is supervising the dining room, and he’s been insisting I get lengthy breaks between tables because I’m so new. Although I think his real reason is that he wants to gossip with me at the bar.

  We’re sitting there now, his chin in his hands as he peppers me with questions about Mildred. “So you never met her at all before last weekend?” he asks. Tonight, his tie is patterned with bright-pink seashells against a purple background.

  “Never,” I say. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. The Story kids’ disinheritance isn’t a secret. Every time Mom or her brothers tried to claim their legal right to some of my grandfather’s fortune, they had to release more details about how they’d been cut off.

  “It’s all so gothic,” Carson says, in a tone of hushed awe. “And so strange. Mrs. Story couldn’t be lovelier to her employees and people around town. Why would she be so ruthless with her own children?”

  That’s the one part of the story Google can’t tell you, and Carson is clearly hoping that I can. “No idea,” I say. “We’ve never known.”

  He visibly deflates. “Well, at least she brought you here. That’s something.”

  “And then she took off.” That can’t have escaped Carson’s notice, and maybe I can use his avid curiosity to my advantage. The longer Mildred goes without contacting us, the more convinced I am that there’s something off about this entire summer. And it all started with a letter telling us to coordinate with Edward Franklin.

  “I wonder if we might’ve gotten our dates mixed up.” I deliver the lie with a faintly perplexed smile, draining the last of my water. Marty, Veranda’s bartender, appears out of nowhere to refill my glass. Everyone at Gull Cove Resort is under the impression that my cousins and I have some sort of pull with Mildred, so we get better service than the guests. “I was thinking about touching base with Edward Franklin to double-check, but the only contact information I have for him is his resort email address.” I wait a couple of beats, like I’m lost in thought. “I don’t suppose you have, like, a personal email on file, do you? Or a phone number?”

  “I’m sure we do,” Carson says, flicking a strand of white-blond hair off his forehead. “But I can’t give it to you. Privacy laws and all that.”

  “Right,” I say, crestfallen. I’m debating whether I can convince him to trade the information for some sort of salacious, made-up Story gossip, when Carson’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and frowns at the screen.

  “Hmm, they need me out front for something. Be right back.”

  I watch him wind his way through the dining room until Marty clears his throat. I hadn’t realized he was still standing there. “Hey, if you want to reach Edward, you could maybe try Chaz,” he says.

  I wrinkle my brow. “Why would I try Chaz?”

  “He and Edward were a couple for a while. They might still be in touch.”

  “Ah, okay,” I say, absorbing that. It hadn’t occurred to me that Chaz was gay. Or dating. He seemed eager to get off the subject of his love life the one time we’d touched on it. “Thanks, I’ll check with him. Is he working tonight, do you know?”

  “No. Sick day. He’ll probably be sick for a while, if you know what I mean,” Marty says, miming tipping a bottle to his lips.

  “Oh no.” It hasn’t escaped my notice how much liquor Chaz sneaks while he’s working; people don’t usually pick up on my bar tricks unless they have a few of their own. But he’s always so professional that I assumed his drinking is under control. “Does that, um, happen often?”

  “More than it should. Worst-kept secret at the resort. Everyone knows except Carson.” Marty’s gaze turns toward the dining room, where Carson’s blond head gleams beneath the restaurant’s dim lighting as he makes his way back toward us. “Chaz is a good guy, though, and a great bartender when he’s sober. So we try to look out for him.”

  “Understood,” I say as Carson lifts his hand in a wave. He’s not alone, and my heart stops for a second when I realize there’s an older woman walking beside him. Is Mildred finally making an appearance? But when they get closer, I realize my mistake. This woman is around the same age as my grandmother, but her hair is gray, not pure white, and she’s wearing a simple brown dress and clogs. Carson looks delighted to be by her side, though, and steers her my way with a wide smile.

  “Milly, I have an introduction to make. Your grandmother’s assistant, Theresa Ryan, is here to see you. She has news.”

  Carson says it with breathless anticipation, earning a low chuckle from Theresa. She holds out her hand, clasping warm fingers around mine when I take it. “That makes me sound very exciting, doesn’t it? Hello, Milly. Lovely to meet you.”

  “You too,” I say, my pulse quickening. My mother had always gotten along well with Theresa—they were the only Yankees fans in a house full of Red Sox fanatics, she used to tell me—and they’d stayed in touch for a few years after Mom’s disinheritance. Theresa was always kind, Mom said, but firm that Mildred hadn’t shared her reasons with anyone except Donald Camden. Eventually, my mother got frustrated and stopped speaking with her, too.

  “Mrs. Story asked me to come by. She’ll be back on the island soon, and wanted to have the three of you over to Catmint House for brunch on Sunday. Not tomorrow,” she adds when my eyes widen. “She’ll still be in Boston, and anyway, that’s the Fourth of July. You children should stay close to the resort; there are always such lovely events planned for staff and guests, and a truly breathtaking fireworks display. I’m sure Carson has told you all about it.”

  I glance at Carson, and can read the plea in his fixed smile. Please, Milly. Pretend just this once that you didn’t tune me out when I started talking about Towhee activities. “Oh yes, of course,” I say. “Looking forward to it.”

  “Wonderful. I do hope you enjoy,” Theresa says. “At any rate, your grandmother would like to have you over for brunch the following Sunday, on July eleventh. I’m hoping that won’t be a problem with their work schedules?” she adds, turning to Carson with a smile.

  “Of course not,” he assures her.

  “Okay,” I say, searching Theresa’s gaze for a hint of anything behind her words. Does my grandmother want to see us? Or does she just feel like she has to, in order to keep up appearances? But Theresa’s pleasant expression doesn’t change.

  “Mrs. Story also wanted to make sure that you leave July seventeenth open. That’s a Saturday, the night of the Summer Gala, and she’d like you to attend as her guests.” An image flashes through my mind of my mother at age eighteen, wearing a white ball gown and her diamond teardrop necklace. The one I wanted so much that I gave up my summer for it.

  Except, I’ve realized, it’s not quite that simple.

  Yes, I want the necklace. But more than that, I want Mom to want to give it to me. I want her to be the kind of person who would care about passing along something meaningful from mother to daughter, no strings attached. But she’s not. So if I can’t have that, then what I really came for is this: the chance to be in the presence of my grandmother, her circle of confidants, and all these Gull Cove Island people who remember Mom as a child and teenager. Because surely, one of them has to know what happened twenty-four years ago to make Mildre
d Story sever ties with all four of her children and never look back. And maybe if I know that, I’ll finally be able to understand my mother.

  Theresa is still talking, and I refocus my wandering attention on her. “It’s a formal affair—tuxedos for the men and gowns for the women,” she explains. “We realize you probably don’t have the appropriate attire on hand, so you and your cousins should feel free to shop at any of the island’s boutiques and charge your purchases to the Story account.”

  Despite the weirdness of the situation, I feel a little thrill. It’s almost like my childhood shopping fantasy, except for the part where Mildred delegates the details to her assistant. Plus…“Nothing will fit,” I say. When Theresa raises her brows again, I flip a hand toward my torso. “I’m too short to wear anything full-length off the rack.”

  Theresa lets out another soft chuckle. “Don’t worry. Your alterations will be a priority for whichever shop you choose,” she says, like that settles the matter.

  And I guess it does.

  “So.” Milly looks at me expectantly. “Should we tell about Fake Jonah before we have brunch with Mildred, or not?”

  I swallow the last of my Plumwich before answering. We’re in downtown Gull Cove on a Tuesday afternoon, trying the signature dessert at Sweetfern Bakery: an ice cream sandwich made with beach plum ice cream and fried doughnut halves. It sounds better than it tastes, but that didn’t stop either of us from finishing.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “Who would we tell?”

  “Our parents?” It comes out uncertainly from the usually decisive Milly. “Or Theresa.”

  “We could, but…” I hesitate. Unlike Milly, I know what it’s like to need money. And I don’t care all that much that Jonah North replaced Jonah Story. The new Jonah is kind of prickly, but overall he seems like an upgrade from our actual cousin. “He’s not really our biggest problem right now, is he?”

  Milly laughs, but I’m not kidding. Jonah North is a distant fourth on the list of things I’m worried about. Number one is my dad. Number two is having to go to brunch and a fancy-dress ball with a grandmother who’s still barely acknowledging my existence. Number three is Thomas’s weird silence, and the fact that I don’t miss him nearly as much as I thought I would. I’ve stopped texting him, and occasionally I stare at my dark phone and wonder if this means we’re broken up. And why I can’t summon the energy to care if we are. It almost seems inevitable, like there’s not a single thing in my formerly comfortable, predictable life that gets to stay the way it used to be.

  The Fourth of July was two days ago, and between the fireworks and a Towhee after-party, I stayed up much too late. Then I couldn’t sleep. While Milly breathed steadily on the other side of our room, I lay in bed tracing a crack in the wall with one finger and thinking about unintended consequences. About how I did something last year that, at the time, seemed even smaller and less significant than this tiny imperfection on an otherwise pristine area. And how it set off a chain reaction that made my family implode.

  The guilt of that has kept me from talking to my mother as often as I usually do since I got here, but I did text her a question on Sunday when my insomnia was at its worst. Does Dad ever talk about Cutty Beach?

  Mom, who always falls asleep early in front of the television, didn’t reply until yesterday morning. Cutty Beach? Why do you ask?

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I settled for vague. I went there a couple days ago. It made me think of him.

  She took her time responding. He’s mentioned it occasionally. I never thought he liked it much, although I couldn’t tell you why. Just the impression I got. But it’s been a long time since your dad and I talked about his time on the island.

  That made my stomach roll with uneasiness. Not only because it added to the weird Dad–Cutty Beach connection that’s been forming in my brain, but because it reminded me how tense things are between my parents. Now, and probably for much longer than I recognized. So I made an excuse to sign off.

  When I showed the texts to Milly, she’d just shrugged. “Well, it’s an ugly beach,” she said. “I didn’t like it much either.”

  My cousin’s voice pulls me back to the present, and I have to give myself a mental shake to remember what subject we’re on. Right: Fake Jonah. “He can’t keep this up forever,” she says. “When he gets found out, we’ll look bad for going along with him.”

  “We need more caffeine for this discussion,” I say, standing up and gathering our empty iced coffee cups. “Do you want the same thing?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The line to order is shorter than when we arrived, but there are still three people ahead of me, so I gaze around while I wait. Sweetfern looks like the inside of a candy cane: red-and-white striped walls, white wrought-iron tables and chairs, and a shiny, cherry-red floor. The air is warm despite the hum of air-conditioning and thick with the smell of sugar and chocolate. A dozen black-framed photos line the wall behind the cash register. I look them over absently, then snap to attention as I recognize a familiar face in the picture over the cashier’s right shoulder.

  It’s my father in all his youthful glory, dark-haired and handsome, one arm cradling the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. It looks like a preschooler dragged a ball of yarn through mud. Dad’s other arm is draped casually across the shoulders of an older woman whose palm rests affectionately on his cheek. Even from a distance, I can see the distinctive port-wine stain on her hand. My elusive grandmother, showing up in the most unexpected places.

  I step a little closer to read the plaque beneath the photo: MILDRED AND ADAM STORY WITH THE FIRST-PLACE WINNER OF THE 1994 GULL COVE ISLAND LOCAL ARTISTS COMPETITION. Hard to believe that a woman with a world-renowned art collection would’ve given a blue ribbon to that.

  When it’s my turn to pay I swipe my credit card left-handed, even though I know it’s silly to imagine that the teenage cashier, who’s barely looking at me, would see the birthmark on my arm and realize I’m a Story. Still, not waving it in front of her gives me the courage to ask, “Are any of those pictures on the wall for sale?”

  “What?” The cashier finally meets my eyes, her thinly plucked brows raised in surprise. “I don’t think so. They’re, like, decoration.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling foolish. My father was a senior at Harvard when Mildred disinherited him; he was living in Cambridge with no opportunity to return to Catmint House and gather personal effects. Someone boxed his room up and had the contents sent to him, but there were hardly any family photos included. It would be nice to have something like a picture, but there’s no way I can explain all that to a bored cashier.

  I turn and nearly bump into the person behind me. “Nice picture, huh?” says a familiar voice. “Terrible painting, though.” It’s Hazel Baxter-Clement, who gestures at the next person in line to go ahead of her as she steps closer to the wall with photos. Her grandfather is nowhere in sight. “That was the first annual local artist competition. I like to think we’ve improved since then.”

  “Are you an artist?” I ask.

  “Me? No. Just interested in Gull Cove Island history.” Hazel pushes her stack of leather bracelets up her arm. “How’s everything going?”

  “Pretty good. How’s your grandfather?”

  “He’s fine.” She tilts her head and smiles. “I’d hoped to hear from you guys.”

  “We’ve been really busy,” I say limply. Over Hazel’s shoulder, Milly is pointing toward that big gold watch of hers that doesn’t work and then toward the door. “We’re just heading out, actually. Time to get back to work.”

  “Well, let me know if your schedules open up. Granddad is doing much better lately, so he could probably tell you a few stories about your parents.”

  I pause, because that’s actually tempting. “Will you give me your number again? I know Jonah has it, but he’s kind of diso
rganized.”

  “Sure,” Hazel says, brightening. She recites it and steps aside to let me pass. “Text me anytime.”

  Milly is standing beside the door, holding it open with one foot while the other taps impatiently. “What did she want?” she mutters under her breath when I join her.

  “She still wants to talk to us,” I say, handing her an iced coffee as we pass through the doorway. “She said her grandfather’s doing better. Maybe he could explain all the weird stuff he said when we met him.”

  Milly looks skeptical as she puts on her sunglasses. “Or maybe she’s just saying that so she can turn us into a term paper.”

  We head up the sidewalk, away from the ferry dock, passing a row of shops and restaurants. “It’s like a mini Fifth Avenue around here,” Milly says, pausing to look into the window of a store with KAYLA’S BOUTIQUE lettered across it. “Ooh, this looks cute. We should go dress shopping here.”

  “Okay,” I say, still preoccupied with the picture on Sweetfern’s wall. I owe my father a call, and for the first time since I got here, I find myself wanting to talk to him. Something about seeing him so relaxed and happy with Gran reminds me of what it feels like when he turns that blinding smile on me. Before I can think too much about what I’m doing, I take out my phone and hit his number. “I’m just going to make a quick call,” I murmur to Milly.

  It takes four rings for my father to answer, and when he does, his voice is clipped. “Aubrey.”