The Season of You & Me (13 page)

Tori came back over to us. “Will this day never end?”

Wade presented her with the picture.

“For you, Tori, my heart in cereal form,” he said.

Tori looked at the paper.

Her face flushed pink. She opened her mouth but then walked away.

For once, she had nothing to say.

“CASSIDY.”

I jammed my eyes shut, ignoring the voice.
One Saturday to sleep in, was that too much to ask?

“Cass.”

“Hunter, please, another hour at least.” I pulled the blanket over my head and faced the wall. For a second I thought it had worked and he’d left, but then I felt the foot of my bed depress as he sat down. He grasped my calf and shook. Couldn’t he give me a break? I pulled the covers back, ready to plead, and gasped.

“Leslie?”

She grimaced. “Cass, sorry to wake you, but I need your help.”

I blinked a few times and looked at my alarm clock. Six thirty a.m.

“What’s wrong?” As I started to wake and Leslie’s features came into focus, I could see she wasn’t her usual slicked-back-ponytailed self. Her hair was loose and slightly messy around her shoulders. She still wore her nightgown.

“Your father went on a fishing trip—oh, shoot—” She covered her mouth, shot up from the bed, and raced to the small half bathroom right outside my door. Retching noises followed. I got up to see the damage.

“Are you . . .” I didn’t have to finish because it was clear she was not okay. She was crouched down in the small space in front of the toilet bowl, pale and gasping. “Is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head and heaved again.

I got a washcloth from my room and soaked it in some cold running water, then crouched down and handed it to her. She dabbed the cloth on her forehead and cheeks before wiping her mouth. She smiled weakly.

“Thanks. Sorry about that. I must have a stomach bug, I feel awful.” I helped her to standing and we went back to sit on my bed. I inched away from her; I did not want to catch whatever had made her retch like that.

“I need you to make breakfast.”

“For you?”

“For the guests.”

“What?”

“I know this is a lot to ask; as soon as this passes I’ll be
down to help you, but right now the thought of looking at food . . . I just can’t. Everything is ready for you—I made the muffin batter; you just have to pour it in the tins and bake, but you’ll have to mix up the blueberry pancakes and put out the fruit salad.” She put hand over her mouth and ran to the bathroom again.

My brain was slowly beginning to process what Leslie had just asked and was about to push the panic button. Nice way to wake up.

Cooking wasn’t the issue, that was a no-brainer—actually something I didn’t mind doing at all—but the interacting with a room full of strange adults freaked me the hell out. I’d seen both my dad and Leslie in action, and I did not have the perky, bullshitting, talk-about-the-local-points-of-interest thing down like they did. I stared at my rumpled blanket, the bed calling me back to dreamland. Leslie leaned against my doorframe. The race to the bathroom must have been a false alarm.

“When do I need to start?”

“Now—breakfast begins at seven thirty a.m. We don’t have a full house. It’s really just a matter of keeping everything replenished. Juice. Butter. Cream. Oh, no.” She cupped her hand over her mouth and ran back to the toilet.

“Just go, um, do what you need to do. I’ll get ready and head downstairs,” I called.

I pulled on some shorts, grabbed a tee, threw my hair in a
ponytail, and slipped into my flip-flops before heading downstairs. The smell of coffee greeted me. At least Leslie had been able to do that. I took a deep breath, trying to quiet the terrified voices in my head that said
you will completely screw this up
and forged onward.

And since when did my father go fishing?

The kitchen was set up for action. Coffee maker sputtering. Various glass cake stands and platters arranged with doilies waited to be filled. Thankfully there was also a to-do list on the counter next to the sink. The steps for a perfect morning at Ocean Whispers were all laid out for me.

Piece of cake.

I started with the strawberry muffins, spooning the batter into the tins and sliding them into the oven. The dry ingredients for the blueberry pancakes were already measured out, and I mixed them together in a larger bowl before getting the fruit to fold in. Everything was going smoothly.

Then I opened the container of blueberries.

They rolled into the batter in one clump. As I tried to fold them in I noticed they were all stuck together in a gray furry ball. I tried to pick some out, to salvage what I could, but the damage was done. My first impulse was to call Leslie. Then I realized giving her a description of rotting fruit pancakes would probably just send her on another vomiting spree. I put the batter to the side and took the fruit salad out of the fridge, trying to pull plan B out of my ass. Too bad it
wasn’t a number on the to-do list.

It was ten after seven. Twenty minutes until guests could possibly be downstairs, although why anyone in their right mind would get up that early on vacation was beyond me. The timer for the muffins went off and I took them out of the oven and set them on the wire rack to cool. Hunter came bounding into the kitchen.
Did no one sleep in this place?

“Bud, what are you doing up?”

He looked at me as if that was the most ridiculous question anyone had ever asked. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s not feeling right, so I’m making breakfast.”
Alone. All me. And I’m completely fucking it up.

“Can I have some Apple Jacks then?”

“No, I mean for everybody,” I said. He didn’t comprehend, just pulled out the chair and sat expectantly. A bowl of cereal wouldn’t set me back that much. I grabbed the box and bowl and poured, wondering if I put them in a large dish decorated with a doily if they could pass for a breakfast item. Hunter got himself the milk.

Then plan B materialized.

After Tori had asked me to come up with breakfast ideas, I’d gone to the supermarket with Leslie to get supplies to experiment with. I had everything I needed to whip up a sweet version of a breakfast quesadilla. I pulled out the tortillas, cream cheese, and butter, went through the spices (which thankfully were alphabetized), found cinnamon, powdered
sugar, and vanilla, and got to work. Hunter munched while I heated up the griddle.

The muffins had cooled enough and I arranged them onto one of the cake platters. I was about to ask Hunter if he could help—he looked presentable enough; his pj’s were pretty much shorts and a tee with sharks all over them—but then got an image of him tripping somehow, and realized I’d be completely screwed and serving Apple Jacks. He could manage the smaller things though.

“Hunter, could you bring out the cream and sugar and put it on the sideboard?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Do you think you could help me with some other stuff too?”

“Let me get my shoes!”

I wasn’t sure why shoes were an important part of it, but he raced up the stairs and was back in a flash with his light-up shark sandals, ready to serve by the time I’d whipped up the first quesadilla. I eyed the clock. Five minutes until breakfast service.

“What is that?” he asked as I flipped the first breakfast quesadilla onto the plate to cool.

“Don’t worry about it, let’s get this stuff out there,” I said, leading the way.

There was no one downstairs yet, so I put the muffins on the center of the table, and Hunter placed the cream and sugar
on the sideboard. Then I realized I’d forgotten to put coffee in the silver urn. We went back into the kitchen. I grabbed the glass carafe from the maker and ran out to fill the urn.

“You need hot water for tea too,” Hunter said, pointing at a white carafe next to a box of tea selections.

“I didn’t see that on the to-do list,” I said, trying not to get burned as I poured the coffee. It only filled it up halfway, which meant I had to make more. “Could you bring that carafe into the kitchen for me?”

Hunter nodded and grabbed the carafe. I followed him back to the kitchen and put the kettle on for hot water. I cut the cooled quesadilla and glanced at the to-do list to check the number of guests again. Eight.

Water boiled, coffee urn filled again—I got to work on two more quesadillas. They were better warm, so I figured this would more than cover anyone out there at the moment, and I could make more as people arrived. Hunter reached for a triangle of the first one. I shooed him away.

“Please don’t touch, it’s backup breakfast.”

“If there’s extra can I have one?”

“Sure. Can you take out the fruit salad while I finish making these? Two hands—be careful.”

He grabbed the crystal bowl and walked super slow, one foot in front of the other, out to the dining room. I was going to tell him he didn’t have to be
that
careful, but then figured best to let him do it his way.

I finished up the quesadillas. They were still cooling, and Hunter hadn’t come back yet. Since I hadn’t heard a crash, I figured whatever was keeping him couldn’t be that bad. I cut the quesadillas into triangles, piled them on a plate with a doily, grabbed the bowl of whipped cream, and headed out to the dining room.

Hunter was regaling two older couples with information on the kinds of dolphins they might see in Crest Haven. Glad one of us inherited the gab gene.

The woman looked at me, which spurred an intro from Hunter.

“This is my sister, Cass . . . she’s really my half sister, we have different moms.”

Awkward much?

“And what is that you have there?” she asked.

I placed the platter down on the table.

“These are breakfast quesadillas; they’re stuffed with sweetened cream cheese and the tortillas are crisped with some butter and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar.” It sounded so basic. Why had I thought it would make an impressive breakfast item? I inwardly winced as I waited on a reaction.

“How different,” she said, taking a triangle off of the plate.

“There’s fresh whipped cream and some preserves if you wanted to spice it up—I guess actually sweeten it up.” I brought the silver serving caddy with the jams and whipped cream over to the table. Had I made enough polite small talk?

“I want to try that!” Hunter said. The couple laughed. I watched as the woman dabbed some whipped cream on her triangle of quesadilla and brought it to her mouth. I should have just excused myself, not really wanting to see her reaction, but Hunter and I were glued there, like two grinning idiots. She smiled as she chewed and nodded. Her husband reached for one too.

“It’s excellent,” she said.

“Thanks.” I bowed my head a few times, grabbed Hunter’s hand, and went back to the kitchen, hoping my quota of small talk had been filled for the morning, but secretly happy the woman had liked my quesadilla. Or maybe she was just being polite. Whatever. The morning had begun—
four down, four more guests to go.

“Can I have one now?” Hunter asked, looking at the tortillas with wide, pleading eyes.

“Sure, dude.”

The rest of breakfast was uneventful. I kept all the urns and bowls filled, asked guests if they needed anything else; I even recommended a good spot on the beach. Hunter was my sidekick, offering comic relief. He didn’t have to do much except smile to get people to talk to him. I’d just started cleanup when Leslie finally came downstairs. I found her in the kitchen, standing near the counter and pouring a cup of tea. She’d dressed in a light-pink sundress, her hair pulled back off her
face with a crocheted headband. The color had returned to her cheeks.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Feeling better. I have to do a checkout this morning,” she said, putting the mug up to her temple and taking a deep breath. She opened her eyes. “How’s it going? I see you had a helper.”

Hunter threw his arms around her waist and squeezed. She laughed and held the mug out away from them. Leslie rumpled his hair, then delicately untangled from him, as if the squeeze might have triggered more queasiness.

“Well, no one complained. That I know at least.”

“Cass made a breakfast quesadilla! It’s so good, Mom, you should have one!”

Leslie’s brows raised. I could already sense her question.

“The blueberries were furry; I didn’t think you’d want to hear that this morning. So I just kind of improvised with some of the supplies we bought the other day.”

She laughed. “Oh, wow, thanks—quick thinking. Maybe I’ll have to pick your brain for some fresh ideas.”

“Yeah, anytime.”

“Hunter and I can finish up here if you’d like to go back to sleep for a while, but if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could you help me make up the rooms today? It won’t take long, maybe about an hour or two. There’s only one room that needs to be completely turned over.”

“Sure, I’ll help.”

I went back upstairs, took a shower, and tried to relax enough to catch some z’s. Only my brain wasn’t having it. Gavin had been sending random texts since our phone call.
I want to see you
.
Think about it
. He’d even sent me a picture of us from the winter, when we had a snow day off from school and went sledding down the park. Our noses were red, our eyes bright. That had been a good day. My heart ached remembering how happy I’d been. No inkling of trouble. How we’d gone back to his house and found ways to get warm under the quilt in his room. It was a low blow on his part to send that picture. Unfair. But as Ems said—this was war. I’d thought I had the upper hand. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Did I still care? Maybe it was time to start hooking up left and right and finally let go of Gavin. Although at that point, I wasn’t sure what left and right would be. I closed my eyes, mentally going through faces of people I’d met—the random skateboard guys from the Fourth, counselors, Wade, Matt hanging out the car window, Bryan.

Bryan.

The way the water beaded on his chest when he did his blissed-out floaty thing at the pool, his humble smile that always seemed somewhere between happy and sad, those gray-blue eyes. I reached for my phone, scrolled through the pictures of us from the first time we went to the promenade together, and stopped on the one of him tasting the
lavender-and-mint-infused lemon ice pop. I laughed, a pleasant tingle building up in my chest as I scrolled through the next set of pics, the ones of the two of us, right before Shay had come up to say hello.
Wonder what Gavin would think if I posted that to StalkMe?