Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (20 page)

And I wasn't totally wrong. Henry was different from Mona, but in a way I really enjoyed. Whereas Mona and I would talk nonstop for hours, Henry forced me to learn how to sit in silence on the banks of the pond and not feel the need to speak. And it wasn't easy at first, but it was getting easier. Mona and I pretty much saw eye to eye on everything, but when Henry asked me questions, he wasn't afraid to disagree with my answers or challenge what I thought. He managed to surprise me (he could say the entire alphabet backward) and be predictable at the same time (he was always at my front door at five o'clock sharp for fishing). It was the best of both worlds, having someone who felt like a friend you've known forever and yet with so many unknowns at the same time.

Ever since the night of the ghost tour, and the following day when he came by the inn to see me, Henry acted as if our kiss had never happened, which is what I'd told him I wanted. But now that we spent so much time together I wasn't so sure that was true anymore. Things had changed that night he'd pulled me against him in the shadows. I don't know if it was the creepy stories or standing together against the house with the moon illuminating the tree branches above, or if it was just that we were the only two people who understood Mona, but something was different. Now when I looked at him I didn't just see Henry. I saw Henry with the soft lips that had barely parted before I pulled away. Even though I couldn't see him in the shadows, I could feel his presence. The way he'd grabbed my hand without hesitation and led me toward the ghost tour. The way his shoulder touched mine as we followed
the guide's lead. But even though he wasn't the same old Henry I used to think of, there was one thing about him that hadn't changed. He was still Mona's brother. And that meant no matter how soft his lips were, I wouldn't be getting anywhere near them.

“Do you think Izzy wishes she'd gone back to art school?” I asked Henry as he cast his line out into the water, breaking its smooth surface.

He was facing the water, focused on the fishing line. I could only see Henry's profile, how the back of his hair curled up slightly where it met the collar of his shirt, the unshaven stubble running down his cheek and along his jawbone. I wanted to reach out and touch his face, see if the stubble was velvety or prickly. For some reason I thought it would be soft.

“Probably,” Henry answered, still watching the line. “She used to talk about going back to school, but she hasn't mentioned it in a while. She was painting at home while we were in school for a while, but the smell was really getting to us all, so Malcolm rented her a little studio.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I dropped her off once on my way to practice.”

“Aren't you curious about what she paints all day?”

Henry turned to look at me. “I guess I just figured she painted the same stuff she painted here in the barn. Remember those wildflowers that Mona thought looked possessed? Poppy wouldn't even let my mom hang one in the house.”

Henry wasn't kidding. With their long, spiraled stems topped with wild bursts of color, those flowers always looked vaguely crazy to me.

“I've gone to the barn a couple of times. She's not doing flowers anymore. She's doing people.”

Henry didn't seem that surprised. “Anyone we know?”

“Family, some friends. You should go see sometime, she's really good.”

“I know she's good,” Henry answered, but I don't think he understood.

“I mean she's
really
good.”

Henry turned to me. “So let's go.”

“Go where?”

Henry tugged on the line, feeling for resistance. “To the barn. You can show me.”

“I didn't mean we had to go today, now.”

“I didn't mean now, I meant when we're done fishing.”

So that's how, forty-five minutes later, Henry and I ended up at Poppy's house.

“God, it looks the same,” he told me, staring at the single-story ranch house he used to call home. Henry turned off the engine but he didn't get out of the truck. He just sat there looking at the house, taking it in.

“That was the first thing I thought, too.”

“But it's totally different, too. Look.” Henry pointed over to the woodpile. “He never would have let it get overgrown like that.”

Henry had noticed the yellow wildflowers growing between the logs. “I know.”

“It's weird being back here.”

“You haven't been back at all?”

Henry shook his head. “Not since the funeral. I think about him, you know, but being back here just reminds me that he's really gone. I could almost forget that being in the city, but here it's so much more real.”

I didn't know what to say. “We don't have to get out if you don't want to. We can just sit here.”

It wasn't as if I could come up with some magical words that would make Henry feel better, so I didn't even try. Instead, I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together.

“It sucks, you know?” Henry kept the palm of his hand against mine and pulled me toward him until I was filling the empty space we usually kept between us. It was the closest we'd been since that night of the ghost tour, but this was entirely different. I wasn't thinking about kissing him or how nice it felt to be resting my head against his shoulder. I was just thinking about how I wished I could make everything go back to normal again. For both of us.

“I know,” I told him. “It really sucks.”

We must have sat like that for five minutes, my head against his shoulder, my hand resting on his lap. We were so close, and the woods so quiet, I could hear every beat of his heart, each breath he inhaled.

“Come on.” Henry squeezed my hand and I looked up at him. “Let's go check out the barn.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “We don't have to.”

“No, I'm sure,” he told me, holding on to my hand for a few more seconds before letting go.

“Not a single flower,” Henry commented, taking his time as he took in all of the canvases. “I can't believe it. I was convinced she was a frustrated florist wannabe or something. Wow.” He stopped in front of Poppy. “She painted the hat.”

“Just a few weeks ago. It wasn't there before. I like it better, don't you?”

Henry nodded. “She'd come back here a few times a
month. We all thought she was packing up the house and stuff. I guess she was painting.”

“What do you think of this one?” I pointed to the painting of Henry. “Pretty good-looking guy, don't you think?”

Henry smiled and came over to me, rubbing his chin in a pretty convincing imitation of an art buyer. “This is obviously the pinnacle of the artist's work,” he observed. “And the subject, well, what can I say? It's sheer perfection.”

He pulled me over next to him. “What do you think?”

“I think it's really good.”

Henry put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him but I backed away, moving out of his reach.

“What about this one over here?” I asked, standing in front of the canvas with the unfinished boy. Izzy still hadn't gone back to it, one of the few paintings that hadn't progressed since my first visit.

“Who is it?”

“I have no idea. I thought maybe you'd know.”

I watched Henry, waiting for a glimmer of recognition, a sign that he saw what I saw.

Instead, Henry said, “I don't know. Maybe when she finishes it I'll have a better idea.”

I glanced at the canvas again, wondering if I was the only one who saw the resemblance.

“Hey, it's quarter to seven, you've got to get to work.” Henry turned toward the door and motioned for me to follow him. “And thanks.”

“For what?”

Henry laughed at me. “Just thanks.”

Fourth of July is always crazy on the island, but when it falls on a Friday and all of the guest rooms are booked, it's insane.

“How many?” Shelby asked, slicing a thick pat of butter and spooning it into the frying pan.

“Two Cheddar, one veggie, and one ham and Swiss.”

“I should have known better than to put omelets on the menu today.” Shelby shook her head and started cracking eggs.

I picked up my two orders of blueberry pancakes with strawberry syrup (Shelby's version of a patriotic red, white, and blue complete with star-shaped bananas on top) and headed back out to the dining room.

“That was insane,” Shelby commented later on when the breakfast rush was over and we started in on the lunch orders. Just about every single room had planned a picnic, which meant we had to make more than forty sandwiches in the next hour.

I suppose I should have felt at least a little guilty as I wrapped Shelby's chocolate chip cookies in cellophane and placed them into the wicker picnic baskets next to the turkey
sandwiches. Here I was doing exactly what my sister had asked me to do—make other people's lunches. The deli was probably packed ten deep with beachgoers picking up their orders. Last night Lexi couldn't wait to tell me that they'd had their busiest day so far.

“Look at this!” She'd held out the register tape and let the paper uncurl until it reached the floor. “Can you believe it?”

Actually, I couldn't. “That's great, Lex.”

“Great? It's amazing.” Bart came up behind Lexi and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Your sister is brilliant.”

Not the word I would have chosen, but then again I wasn't the one tossing register tape over her head like she was leading a parade around our house.

“Are you going to watch the fireworks tonight?” I asked Shelby.

“Please,” she snorted.

Nobody but tourists watched the fireworks off the harbor, I knew that. But what was the Fourth of July without a few fireworks? Or at least some sparklers.

Wendy poked her head inside the kitchen door and I was afraid she'd tell us she had a last-minute order. Instead, she had a message for me. “Hey, Kendra, there's someone here to see you.”

I followed Wendy out to the front desk, where a group of guests were gathered in a makeshift line as they waited for help booking their fishing charter or a biplane ride around the island. I didn't recognize anyone in particular, except from breakfast, and I doubted any of the guests had requested my presence because I was such a fabulous server. I was about to ask Wendy who asked to see me when someone stepped out from behind the line and smiled at me.

Even without trying, I smiled back and waved him into the parlor, where we wouldn't be fighting to be heard over guests asking directions to Aquinnah.

“Hey, Kendra.” Henry looked around the parlor, taking in the pot of geraniums Wendy had placed in the fireplace, and then stepping over to the French doors and checking out the side yard. It reminded me of that afternoon in Mona's room, how she'd walked over to her deck and stood there, her back to me. Only this time Henry faced me. “I've never been inside this place before. It's nice.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was wondering if you had any plans tonight. My mom and Malcolm are having some people over for a barbecue. I think Malcolm got some fireworks he's going to shoot off or something. Totally illegal, of course.”

He must have known what I was about to say, because before I could even get the first word out he added, “Mona won't be there, she's got plans with her friends.”

Henry was probably trying to make me feel better, but instead a part of me felt worse. Mona and I always spent Fourth of July together.

“I don't know, I probably won't be getting out of here until pretty late, we're really busy.” I nodded toward the line of guests waiting at the front desk, just in case he thought I was making up an excuse.

“Well, I thought maybe you could use a break after today's madness, so if you feel like it let me know. I can always come by and pick you up.” Henry reached for one of the complimentary Willow Inn postcards sitting in a stack on the side table and took a pen from the Mason jar beside them. “Here's my cell number. Call me if you change your mind.”

He handed me the postcard and I folded it up and slipped it into my pocket, realizing that I'd never had to call Henry before, he'd always just been there when I needed him. “Okay, thanks.”

“I'll let you get back to work. Those people look hungry.”

Henry walked out of the parlor, past the line of guests at the front desk, and then turned to wave to me before pushing open the screen door and disappearing down the porch steps.

When I returned to the kitchen Shelby looked up from the red onions on the chopping board, her eyes a little teary. “Who was that?” she asked.

I was about to answer when I realized I didn't really know what to tell her. A few weeks ago I would have said he was my best friend's brother, but that didn't seem to describe him anymore. I knew more about Henry these days than I did Mona, and he knew more about me. “A friend,” I answered.

Shelby stopped slicing. “A friend? He's pretty cute for a friend. Are you sure that's all he is?”

I swear that girl had eyes everywhere; now she even knew what went on in the parlor.“I've known him forever.”

“That's not an answer.”

“He's Mona's brother.”

“Ah,” she exhaled, and went back to slicing the onion. “I see.”

“What's that mean?” I asked, handing her a baguette of French bread for the turkey sandwich she was preparing.

“I mean he's your best friend's brother.”

“So?”

“What are you jumping all over me for? I'm not the one who said he was just a friend.”

“Why, do you think it would be wrong if he was something else?”

“Like what, Kendra?” Shelby tried not to smile, but she wasn't doing a very good job of it. “What if he was your milkman? Your insurance agent? Your piano teacher?”