What I Thought Was True (11 page)

9/4/13 8:02 AM

would involve so many octogenarians in swimwear, but it’s

kind of nice to see it all displayed so proudly. I usually wrap

a towel around my waist when I’m in my suit in public. Avis

King, who is built like an iceberg—small head, ever widening

body—marches in first.

“Where’s Rose?” she growls, sounding like Harvey Fierstein

with bronchitis. “Don’t tell me she’s still asleep! It’s high tide and perfect weather.” She looks me up and down critically.

“Lucia’s gal, am I right? You’re the one hired to be her keeper

this summer. Ridiculous waste of money, I say.”

Keeper?

“Hello, Gwen!” Beth McHenry says, smiling at me, then

furrowing her brows at Avis King. “Lordy, Avis. Rose did get a

concussion just a week ago. Henry’s only being careful.”

“Pish. Just because Rose has a few memory lapses and a

bum foot!” Mrs. McCloud pronounces. “Twice last week I

hunted for my reading glasses when they were on my head,

and put my car keys away in a box of saltines. No one’s hiring

me
a watchdog.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Mrs. Cole murmurs in her sweet

voice.

“Typical of Henry Ellington, though. Just like his father.

Won’t come take care of the situation himself, hires other peo-

ple to do it.” Avis King shakes her head. “How can you possibly

know you’ve got good help unless you look them straight in

the eye and interview them yourself? Any fool knows that.”

Help? My shorts and gray T-shirt suddenly morph into one

of those black dresses with the ruffly white aprons servants

wear in Grandpa Ben’s movies. I resist the urge to bob a curtsy.

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Then I hear the slow thump and drag of Mrs. Ellington

descending the stairs and hurry to reach her, but before I can,

she appears in the doorway, smiling at her friends. “Shall we

move on, girls, before the tide turns? Come, Gwen!”

After the beach, the ladies scatter, Mrs. E. lunches and naps.

Then asks me to read her a book, and hands me—I swear to

God—something called
The Shameless Sultan
.

Yup. Whatever else it may be, calm, quiet, well-ordered,

lucrative . . . apparently the Ellington house is not going to be a refuge from the overdeveloped muscles and half-naked torsos

that decorate most of the books at home.

But at least I don’t have to read aloud to Mom.

“‘Then he took her, as a man can only take a woman he

yearns for, pines for, throbs to possess,’” I read softly.

“Speak up, dear girl. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

Oh God. I’m nearly shouting the words now—over the

sound of the lawn mower rumbling from the front lawn. At

any moment Cass could come around the corner to find me

pining and throbbing.

I read the next sentence in a slightly louder voice, then halt

again as the mower cuts off.

Mrs. Ellington waves her hand at me impatiently. “Gracious!

Don’t stop now!”

That sounds frighteningly like a line from the book. I dog-

gedly continue. “‘With every movement of his skilled hands,

he took her higher, hotter, harder—’”

“Just with his hands?” Mrs. E. muses. “I was under the

impression more was involved. Do continue.”

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Was that the sound of the carport side door opening and

closing? No, I’m getting paranoid.

“‘Waves of rapture such as Arabella had never dreamed

existed swept through her ravished body as the Sultan moved,

ever more skillfully, laving her supple curves with his tal-

ented—’”

Someone clears their throat loudly.

Mrs. E. looks over at the porch door with her expectant

smile, which widens even further at the sight of the figure

standing there. “My dear boy! I didn’t know you were com-

ing.”

“No,” a male voice says, “apparently not.”

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I’ve closed my eyes, waiting/hoping to literally die of embar-

rassment. But the deep, rumbling voice does not belong to Cass.

Instead it’s a middle-aged man wearing a pale blue V-neck

cashmere sweater, creased khaki pants. He walks farther onto

the porch with an air of ease and authority. Do I have to explain

what I was reading, or do I just pretend it’s all good, la-la-la?

I have no idea who this even is until he looks me over with

Mrs. Ellington’s piercing brown eyes.

Henry Ellington. Whom I barely remember and who just

caught me reading virtual porn to his elderly mom.

He reaches down to hug Mrs. E. “I had a meeting in Hart-

ford this morning. I’ve only got a few minutes before heading

back to the city for another one, but I wanted to check on

you.”

“Poor boy—you work too hard.” She pats his cheek. “Even

when you’re on vacation here. I cannot imagine how anyone

can think of numbers and balance sheets and the stock market

with the ocean only a few feet away.”

“That may be why I hardly ever vacation.”

I stand up, slide
The Shameless Sultan
discreetly, cover side down, onto the table next to the glider, and edge toward the

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screen door. “Mrs. Ellington—I’ll give you two some time

to . . . um . . . catch up. I’ll just go—”

Henry immediately straightens up and holds out a hand.

“Guinevere?”

“It’s just Gwen.”

“Gwen, then.” He sweeps his arm to one of the wicker chairs.

“Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. You look like your

mother—I’m sure you hear that all the time. A fine woman.”

I smooth my hands on my shorts, which suddenly seem

really
short, especially when I see him glance quickly at my legs, then away.

“Mother,” he says suddenly. “Would you be so kind as to

give me a private moment with Gwen?”

I blink, but Mrs. Ellington doesn’t seem remotely surprised.

“Certainly, dear heart,” she says, reaching for her cane. “I’ll be in the parlor.”

Listening to the slow scrape and thump of her receding,

I sense I’m losing an ally. Henry looks at me somberly from

under lowered brows.

“Um . . . the book . . . Your mom picked it out. I wouldn’t

have chosen it myself. I don’t read that kind of thing. Well, not a lot, anyway. I mean, sometimes you just need . . . that is . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of book, I mean,

they’re actually really empowering to women and—”

He cuts me off with a raised hand and the ghost of a smile.

“I’m well aware of Mother’s taste in literature, believe me. You

don’t need to worry about
that
.”

His tone’s flat. I try to interpret his last sentence. What
do
I need to worry about?

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He shifts back in the glider, looking out at Whale Rock. Lift-

ing a hand to his forehead, he slides it down to pinch the

bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“We’re all grateful—my sons and I—that you’re available to

look out for her. She’s always been very capable. It’s hard for

her to accept that things change. Hard for all of us.”

I can’t tell if he’s simply speaking thoughts out loud or

wants some answer from me. “I’m happy to help,” is all that

comes to mind.

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t; still gazes instead

at the waves flipping over the top of Whale Rock—high tide—

where a cormorant is angling its dusky wings to dry.

Eventually, I look out too—at the grass running down to

the beach plum bushes, which part to make way for the sandy

path to the water. Then there’s Cass, kneeling, edging the weeds

away by hand from the slated path, about ten yards from the

porch. He’s now wearing a—it can’t really be pink?—shirt that

sticks to his back in the heat. I watch the muscles in his back

flexing.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Henry seems

to pull himself back from some distant place, clearing his

throat. “Well then, er, Guinevere, tell me a little about yourself.”

Flashback to my conversation with Mrs. E. I get this awful,

familiar tingle, like a sneeze coming on, but worse—a sense

of terror about my impulse control. Like when it’s incredibly

still in church and your stomach rumbles loudly, or you just

know you won’t be able to suppress a burp. I dig my nails

into my palm, look Henry in the eye, and desperately try to

give appropriate answers to bland questions about school and

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career plans and whether I play a sport, without offering that

my most notable achievement so far appears to have been

becoming a swim team tradition.

The questions trail off. Henry looks at my legs again, then

out at the water. Over by the bushes, Cass swipes his forearm

across his forehead, then his palm against the back of his pants,

leaving a smudge of dirt. I count one, two, three waves break-

ing over the top of Whale Rock.

Then Henry leans forward, touches his hand, rather hard,

to my shoulder. “Now listen carefully,” he says. Up till now

he’s been shifting around in his seat, kind of awkward and

ill-at-ease. Now his eyes spear mine, all focus. “This is crucial.

Mother needs her routine kept consistent. Always. I’d like to

be able to
count
on knowing that you will give her breakfast at the same time every day, make sure she gets out in the fresh

air, eats well, and takes a nap. It was in the evening that she

had her fall, and she hadn’t rested all day. She managed to get

herself to the phone, but she was very confused. If one of the

neighbors hadn’t come by . . .” He rubs his chin. “Mother will

just go and go and go. I need to make sure these naps happen

like clockwork from one to three.”

“I’ll look out for that, Mr. Ellington. Um . . . sir.” It actually isn’t that different from Em . . . he too goes till he can’t, gets overwhelmed and overtired. Although I doubt “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and the Winnie-the-Pooh song will do the trick for Mrs. E.

He flashes me his mother’s smile, incongruous in a face that

seems like it was born serious. “You appear to be a sensible

girl. I imagine your life has made you practical.”

I’m not sure what he means, so I have no idea how to

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respond. Inside the house, Mrs. E.’s cane taps close, up to the

screen. “May I come out now, dear boy?”

“A few more minutes. We’re nearly finished,” Henry calls.

The tapping recedes. Catching my raised eyebrows, he says, “I

didn’t want to discuss Mother’s fragility in front of her. She’d

be embarrassed—and angry.”

Back still to us, Cass stands up and stretches, revealing a

strip of tanned skin at his waist. His shirt, definitely pale pink, clings to him. He shades his eyes and looks out at the water

for a moment. Dreaming of diving in and swimming far out

beyond Whale Rock? I know I am. Then he sinks to his knees

again and continues weeding.

“One more thing you need to know.” Henry’s head is

downcast; he’s fiddling with a crested gold ring on his pinkie.

“Everything in the house is itemized.”

At first, this seems like some random comment.

Like, “We’ve had the picture of Dad appraised.”

Some rich-person thing that doesn’t mean anything to me.

Then I get it.

Everything is itemized, so don’t slip any of our family treasures
into your pocket.

“Every spoon. Every napkin ring. Every lobster cracker. Just

so you know,” he continues. “I thought you should be clear on

that.”

Cass rears up, flips his hair off his forehead, that swim-team

gesture, then kneels back down.

Did Henry Ellington actually just say that?

Heat races through my body, my muscles tighten.

Take a deep breath, Gwen.

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He seems to be waiting for me to say something.

Yassir, we poor folk can’t be trusted with all your shiny stuff.

I shut my eyes. Not a big deal. It’s nothing. Forget it. God

knows I ought to be used to Seashell. When I helped Mom

clean Old Mrs. Partridge’s house a few summers ago, Mrs. P.

took me aside. “Maria, just so you know, I will be checking the

level of all of the liquor bottles.” But Henry should know bet-

ter. Mom’s so honest that when she finds change scattered on

a desk or a bureau she has to dust, she writes a note saying she

picked it up and dusted underneath it, then replaced it, then

lists the exact amount. Even if it’s four pennies.

It’s just a job. Know your place, take the paycheck, and shut

up. Other people’s stories—issues, whatever—are their own.

But no matter how I try to tamp them down, hot embar-

rassment and anger scorch my chest. I want to tell him where

he can shove his lobster pick. But then I hear the slow beat of

Mrs. E.’s cane moving around the kitchen. The halting thump-

slide of it and her injured foot. The little rattle of her pulling out china, still determinedly independent. I lick my suddenly

dry lips. “I understand.”

Henry gives me a slightly sheepish smile. “I’m glad you’ve

got that straight. We’re all grateful for your help.” He reaches

out a hand and, after a hesitation, I shake it. Giving me a card

with phone numbers on it, he tells me the first is his office

line and to let his secretary know it’s “in regard to Mother” if

there is any sort of problem. “My private cell number is the

second one. Use that only in the case of dire emergencies.”

I promise I won’t call him for idle chatter (not exactly in

those words). He brushes off his hands as though he, not

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Cass, had been doing manual labor, gives one last glance out

at the water. “It
is
beautiful here,” he says softly. “Sometimes I think the only way I can bring myself ever to leave is by

forgetting that.”

The minute the screen door slams behind him, I sink onto

the glider, look out at the dive-bombing seagulls, close my eyes

and breathe in, trying to let the familiar rolling roar of the

waves calm and focus me.

“What the hell was
that?
Jesus Christ, Gwen!” Cass is leaning a palm against one of the porch columns, jaw muscles tight.

I sit up, shifting gears from one embarrassing moment to

the next, my cheeks going hot. Does this boy have to be pres-

ent at every humiliation? Worse, does he have to be
part
of them? He
listened
. Just like he eavesdropped about Alex . . . and knew all about what went down with Spence. Not to mention

what happened with Cass himself. I swallow. “I need the job.”

I’m saying it to myself as much as to him. My voice wavers.

Cass’s dark eyebrows pull together.

“He treated you like a servant. A dishonest servant. No one

needs a job that much.”

Though he’s been working hard, sweat dampening his hair,

grass sticking to his knees, a smudge of dirt across his fore-

head, where he must have brushed his hair away, he still looks

so
good
. All the anger I couldn’t show Henry floods in with a boiling rush.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Cass.
I
do. I do and so does

pretty much everyone who works on Seashell. Including what-

ever island guy lost out on the yard boy job because your daddy

bought it for you to teach you some Life Lesson.”

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He glares at me. “Let’s leave my dad out of this. This is you.

I can’t believe you just sat there and took that crap from him.”

“You haven’t been on the island very long. Don’t quite know

your place yet. Taking crap is what we do here,
Jose.
”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Lots of entitlement. Got it. But

it’s not what
you
do. I can’t claim to know you”—he pauses, has the grace to turn red, then forges on—“but I know you

don’t put up with crap. That made me sick.”

“Maybe you should take your break now and lie down. I’m

sure it’ll pass.”

“Dammit, Gwen!” Cass starts, but then Mrs. Ellington is at

the screen door, making her slow way onto the porch with her

cane, tap, slow tap, tap. Her eyebrows are raised.

“Is there a problem, dear boy? You look overheated.”

Cass shoves his hair back again—leaving a bigger smudge of

dirt, sighs. “It’s nothing.” Pause. “Ma’am.”

Mrs. E. studies us, the faintest of smiles on her face. But in

the end, all she says is, “Henry really did mean it when he said

he could only stay for a few minutes. He’s already rushed off.

Poor dear. I would love some iced tea, Gwen. Why don’t you

get some for—” She pauses.

“Jose,” I say, just as Cass reminds her of his actual name.

“Maybe Jose should carry around his own water bottle,” I