Local Girls : An Island Summer Novel (9781416564171) (9 page)

I liked Malcolm immediately. Mona didn't, at least not in the beginning. The night of their first date Mona and I sat on Izzy's bed, watching her line her lips and brush her lashes with mascara. All Mona could do was pepper Izzy with questions designed to get a better handle on the guy her mom was dating.

“What color eyes does he have?” Mona had asked.

“Brown, I think. Maybe hazel?”

Mona just nodded and Izzy went back to blow-drying her hair.

I watched Mona bite her bottom lip and turn to look at me, her sapphire blue eyes narrow. Izzy had no idea why Mona would even care about Malcolm's eye color, but I did. Nobody in Mona's family had her blue eyes, not Izzy or her grandparents or even Henry, whose eyes were a deep cocoa brown.

“Don't you think it's weird he's not married?” Mona continued. “I mean, he's got to be almost forty.”

“I'm thirty-six and I've never been married, does that make me weird?” Izzy replied.

“You at least have kids. Maybe he's a commitment-phobe. Or gay. Maybe he's just using you, have you thought of that?”

Izzy turned the blow dryer off and looked at Mona in the mirror. “You know, Mona, you're probably right. I mean, look at all the perks of dating a gallery manager—all those mints in the bowl on the desk, not to mention access to the back room, where we keep the postcards for the new shows, and then there's the stash of cheese and crackers for the receptions.”

“Your forgot those pens with the gallery name on them,” I added, enjoying Izzy's game.

She smiled at me. “See, there, I hadn't even thought of that. Thank you for reminding me, Kennie.”

Still, Mona wouldn't let up, and as Izzy was about to leave, Mona fired one parting shot. “If he asks you back to his house, don't go. You never know what he has waiting for you. Maybe he lures unsuspecting women back to his house and then does ungodly things to them in his basement torture chamber. Ever seen
Silence of the Lambs
?”

“It's just a date, Mona,” Izzy had said before kissing Mona on her cheek and heading out the front door. “It's not like I'm marrying the guy.”

Only she did marry the guy, last August in a small ceremony in Malcolm's backyard. And as far as stepfathers went, Malcolm wasn't bad. He never asked Mona or Henry to call him Dad, something Mona was adamant she'd never do. And, although he could certainly afford it, Malcolm didn't suggest
that they ship Mona and Henry off to boarding school to get them out of the way. Instead, he treated them like part of the package deal he got when he fell in love with Izzy. And even though Mona tried her hardest to find something wrong with Malcolm, in the end she realized he wasn't really so bad.

Malcolm wasn't the first boyfriend Izzy ever had, and he wasn't even the first summer resident or tourist to ask Izzy out. There was the plastic surgeon from Connecticut who, after spending close to an hour talking with her about one of the gallery's sculptures, asked Izzy if she'd like to get together for lunch, only to have his wife walk into the gallery and tell him it was time to go, they had dinner reservations at seven. There was a famous New York writer who summered on the other side of the island, in Chilmark. A professional golfer. And a few local guys from other towns on the island. Mona always asked me over when she knew Izzy had a date. We'd wait in the living room, hanging over the back of the couch so we could look out the window and see him driving up. Then we'd watch as he walked to the door, peeking out the window to see if he did anything weird before knocking—like the one guy who removed one of those travel-size toothbrushes and brushed his teeth right there on the front steps—and then we'd hang back while Izzy opened the door to greet him. Without fail, Mona and I could size up Izzy's dates in five seconds flat. Was he tall enough, funny enough, did he smell good, were his pants pressed, did he bother shaving? Even though Malcolm was probably too tall for Izzy, I gave Mona a sideways glance, a nod, a discreet thumbs-up to let Mona know what I thought.

“Well?” I'd asked Mona after the door closed behind Izzy and Malcolm. “What do you think?”

“I'm reserving judgment,” Mona had told me, and it wasn't
until later, when Malcolm and Izzy returned from dinner, that I think Mona began to realize that this guy was different. It wasn't just that Malcolm had way more money than any of the other guys Izzy dated. It was the way, that first night, he'd brought Izzy home and come inside for a cup of coffee instead of trying to make out with her in the driveway. How, instead of commenting about how late it was and shouldn't Mona and I be in bed, Malcolm invited us to sit down at the kitchen table and join them. And the way he didn't try to buddy up with Mona, to make friends with Izzy's daughter so he'd look good and maybe get a second date. Mona hated that the most, how the guys would shake her hand, or nudge her when they told a joke, or try to hug her good-bye as if they actually gave a shit about her. By the time Izzy started dating Malcolm, Mona had learned to keep her distance, to stay at arm's length, to recoil if Izzy's dates even attempted a gesture designed to demonstrate their fatherly qualities, an intimacy that only a daughter and her father could share.

Now I was standing face-to-face with the brass pineapple door knocker on Malcolm's front door, only instead of finding it funny I found it weird. When Izzy and Mona and Henry lived with Poppy, I didn't knock or ring the doorbell. Actually, thinking back, I'm not even sure they had a doorbell. I just walked right in. But this wasn't Poppy's house, so I stood there for a few minutes debating whether I should ring, knock, or use the pineapple. Finally, I decided to use my knuckles.

Zilda answered so quickly I almost wondered if she was on the other side of the door waiting for me to finally make my move. “Hello, Kendra,” she greeted me. Zilda hadn't taken Izzy and Malcolm's cue to call me Kennie.

“Hi, Zilda.”

“Mona and Mrs. Keener are in the kitchen.” With her Portuguese accent it sounded like
keetch-in
.

Mrs. Keener. I didn't know that I'd ever get used to Izzy being a Mrs. anything. Even though Mona called my mom Mrs. Bryant, I'd always called her mom Izzy. I remember in third grade, Mona invited me over to her house after school and introduced me to her mom. Instinctively I'd called her Mrs. Jensen, because that's what you did with your friends' mothers, right? But she'd smiled at me and said, “You can just call me Izzy.” I thought that was infinitely cooler than my mom, who'd never told any of my friends to “just call her Alice.” It wasn't until much later, when I started to learn why Mona's father was never around and that her parents had never even been married, that I realized it was probably easier for Izzy to do that than explain that she wasn't a Mrs.

Zilda left me in the foyer and I made my way toward the kitchen, where I found Mona and Izzy gathered around the granite island in the center of the room. There had to be at least seven different arrangements of flowers on the island, from tall purple irises in a slim glass cylinder to a short, squat bowl of gerbera daisies in pinks and oranges and yellows.

“Kennie, come here and tell me what you think.” Izzy reached for my hand and pulled me over next to her. “We're picking the centerpieces for Malcolm's birthday party. Which one do you like?”

Izzy stepped back from the island, waiting for my answer. Mona subtly nodded her head toward arrangement number three, what looked like a fishbowl overflowing with lavender peonies.

“That one.” I told her, pointing to the bowl.

“Me, too!” Izzy exclaimed. “But do you think it's too girly?”

“Maybe a little, but can't the florist add something else to it?”

“I'm sure she can. I'll ask her.” Izzy walked over to the double-wide stainless steel refrigerator and opened the door. “Want some lemonade?”

Mona and I nodded and Izzy returned with a glass pitcher of pink lemonade. “So did Mona tell you about her year at Whittier?”

“A little,” I told her, taking the glass of lemonade she held out to me. “She said it wasn't really that exciting.”

“Not exciting?” Izzy repeated, and I watched Mona hang her head in her hands. “Are you kidding me?”

“Mom.” Mona shook her head but didn't look up at us. “Please stop.”

“Go ahead, Mona, tell Kennie.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, and this time Mona looked up at us.

“What, exactly, am I supposed to tell her?” Mona asked Izzy.

“Well, you could start with the ski trip to Killington over Christmas,” Izzy began. When Mona didn't jump in to continue, Izzy went on. “So Mona's never been on skis before, right, but apparently she's a natural talent. I swear, she was skiing circles around me and Henry after the first day. Did she tell you how, after four days, she'd grown so bored with skiing she moved on to snowboarding?”

I shook my head no and heard a moan coming from Mona's direction.

“Mona, didn't you tell Kennie anything?” Izzy scolded, but
before Mona could say anything Izzy was off and running, telling me all about how Mona had gone up to the ski house every weekend all winter long until one of the ski instructors asked if she'd be interested in racing next season. For the next ten minutes I listened as Izzy filled me in on Mona's year, which included winning first place in a citywide photography contest, meeting the mayor at the awards ceremony, and having her winning photograph displayed at the Boston Public Library. So much for unexciting.

“Mom, we're going to head upstairs,” Mona cut in just as Izzy was about to begin another story. “Come on, Kendra.”

I finished my lemonade and followed Mona out of the kitchen. “I like arrangement number three, really,” I told Izzy. “I'm sure Malcolm would like it, too.”

Izzy smiled at me and waved us away.

“Sorry about that,” Mona apologized, shutting the door to her room. “You know she loves to talk.”

“It's okay,” I assured her, and wondered if Mona was going to explain why she hadn't told me the stories Izzy couldn't wait to share. What else hadn't Mona told me, what else had she been keeping to herself or, more likely, sharing with her new friends but keeping from me?

But Mona wasn't offering an explanation. Instead, she sat on her bed and shimmied up toward the headboard. It wasn't the headboard she'd had in her room in Poppy's house. In fact, nothing in this room was from Poppy's house. It was all new, probably the interior designer's idea of what a seventeen-year-old girl would want in a bedroom. The entire room was done in shades of lavender and green, which, I had to admit, I actually liked. But it was a lot like Mona's friends—too perfect.
The pictures on the wall matched the decor but they had nothing to do with Mona. In her old room she'd hung posters, drawings she did in art class, pictures of us. But there was none of that in this room. The balloon curtains over the windows and French doors were poufed out just right, the full-length mirror in the corner sparkled, and except for the creases where Mona now sat, her bed was smooth and neat. Even Mona's dresser was bare except for a large jewelry box, hand-painted in shades of lavender and green, of course. There wasn't anything
Mona
in the room at all. And, without the pictures from Poppy's house, there wasn't anything
Mona and me,
either.

“I saw Henry this morning.” I walked toward the French doors, which were open, and let the cool breeze blow against me. After a day in the Willow's kitchen, the fresh air was a welcome change. Mona's room overlooked the backyard, the pool, and, in the distance, South Beach. With two sets of French doors lining the wall, there was no way you could miss the view no matter where you were in her room.

“Really?” Mona seemed genuinely surprised.

I figured Henry must have told her, but apparently I was wrong. “I had to run to the store to get something for the inn and Henry was there getting some breakfast. He'd been fishing at Seth's Pond.”

“Fishing?” Mona shrugged.

“He didn't tell you? Didn't you see him today?”

“Yeah, I saw him. He's always up when I get up.”

“Everyone's up by the time you roll out of bed, Mona,” I told her, stating the obvious. “Haven't you ever eaten any of Henry's fish for dinner or anything?”

“I don't think so.”

I couldn't think of a reason Henry wouldn't tell Mona he'd seen me, unless he'd forgotten about it. Or I was that unmemorable.

I walked over to Mona and sat down near the foot of the bed.

“Have you talked to Kevin?” I asked her.

“No, not since I left.”

“Are you going to give him a call now that you're back? I'm sure he'd love to hear from you.”

Mona reached for her hair and started weaving three pieces together, creating a single thin braid. “I don't know. I doubt he wants to hear from me. It's been almost a year since we've seen each other, we probably wouldn't even have anything to talk about anymore.” Mona stopped and then rushed on, brushing her fingers through her hair so the braid disappeared. “I mean, he went out with Melissa for a while, right?”

“Yeah, but it was nothing serious,” I told her. “I'm sure he wants to see you.”

“I don't know.”

“Well, when I saw Ryan the other day at the ferry he said that Kevin had been asking about you.” It wasn't exactly true, but it could have been. Besides, I really was sure that Kevin would be glad to hear from Mona. I always liked Kevin, and the three of us had fun. At least if Mona started hanging out with Kevin again, there was a greater chance we'd spend more time together. There was pretty much no chance of that if she was with her Whittier friends.

“Maybe I'll call him,” Mona finally conceded.

“Do you remember his number?” I asked, but stopped short of jumping up and grabbing the phone for her.