What I Thought Was True

Chapter Five

The Ellington house is the last one on the beach—big, turn-of-the-last-century, graceful, stretching along the shore like a contented cat in the sun. It’s got weathered dove-gray shingles and gray-green trim, two turrets, and a porch that sweeps three-quarters around, like the tail of a cat cozying close.

Taken with all that, the carport where Mrs. E.’s Cadillac is parked looks so . . . wrong. There should be a carriage house there, an eager groom in livery waiting to take the reins of your horse.

I walk up the side path to the kitchen door, wondering if this is the correct thing to do. You never know on the island. Half the houses Mom cleans welcome her in the front and offer her a drink, the other half insist she go around back and take off her shoes.

Toeing off my flip-flops, I look down at my feet, wishing for a second I had dainty ones like Viv, or that my nails were decorated with polish and not a Band-Aid from stubbing my toe on the seawall.

Mrs. Ellington’s glossy oak side door is propped open by a worn brick, but the screen door is closed. “Hi . . . ?” I call down the shady hallway. “Um, hello? . . . Mrs. Ellington?”

A television murmurs in the distance. A porcelain clock shaped like a starfish ticks loudly. From where I am I can see the gleam of a silver pitcher on the kitchen table, a tumble of zinnias glowing in it. I put my hand on the screen door, poised to push it open, then hesitate and call out again.

This time, the TV is immediately silenced. Then I hear click/thump, click/thump coming down the hardwood floor of the hallway, and there’s Mrs. Ellington. Her hair’s whiter and she’s holding a cane, one ankle tightly wrapped in an Ace bandage, but she’s still beautifully dressed, pearls on, smile broad.

“Gwen! Your mother says you are Gwen now, not Gwennie. I’m delighted to see you.” Propping her cane against the wall, she pulls open the screen door, then holds out both hands.

I slide my bag o’ lobsters down behind my back and take her hands, her skin loose and fragile as worn silk.

“So you’re to be my babysitter this summer! How it does come round,” Mrs. Ellington continues. “When you were tiny, I used to hold you in my lap on the porch while your mother cleaned. You were a dear little thing . . . those big brown eyes, that cloud of curls.”

There’s a note of melancholy in her voice when she uses the word babysitter that makes me say, “I’m just here to be—”A friend? A companion? A watchdog? “I’m just here to keep you company.”

Mrs. Ellington squeezes my hands, lets them go. “That’s lovely. I was just getting ready to enjoy a nice cool drink on the porch. How do you like your iced tea?”

I don’t drink tea, so I draw a blank. Luckily Mrs. Ellington steams ahead. “It was quite warm this morning, so I made a big batch of wild cranberry, which should be perfect now. Personally, I adore it cold and very sweet with lemon.”

“That sounds good,” I say, glancing around the kitchen. It looks the same as when Nic and I were little—morning-sky-pale-blue walls, appliances creamy white, navy-and-white checked cloth on the table, another Crayola-bright bunch of zinnias in a cobalt glass pitcher on the counter.

When Mom makes iced tea it’s a two-step process—scooping out the sugary powder and mixing it with cold water. Mrs. Ellington’s iced tea is a production involving implements I never knew existed. First there’s the bucket for ice and special silver tongs. Then the lemon and another silver thingie to squeeze it. Then a little slanted bowl to set the tea bag in. Then another little bowl for the squeezed lemon.

Mrs. E.’s blue-veined hand opens the cabinet, flutters like a trapped bird, hovering between two glass canisters. After a second, she selects one, the one with rice in it. The one I know from years of coastal weather must contain the salt. Rice keeps salt from sticking in the moist heat. She places it on the counter, starting to screw off the top.

I put my hand on top of hers gently. “I think maybe it’s the other one.”

Mrs. Ellington looks up at me, her hazel eyes blank for a moment. Then they clear, clouds moving away from the sun. She touches her fingers to her temple. “Of course. Ever since that silly fall I’ve been all in a muddle.” She shifts the canister back onto the shelf, takes down the other one.

Then scooping the sugar into a silver canister . . . and some sort of scalloped spoon . . . This process was obviously designed by someone who didn’t have to do their own dishes. Or polish their own silver. Mrs. Ellington again asks me how I like my tea, and I want to say “with everything” just to see how it all works. But I repeat “Cold and sweet,” so she removes a frosted-cold glass from the freezer. She blends sugar in the bottom and finally pours tea for me, then does the same for herself.

“Let’s have this on the porch,” she suggests.

I start to follow her, but remember Grandpa Ben’s gift. Just in time. One of the lobsters is again crawling for its life, this time scrabbling down the hallway toward the back door. I hastily snatch it up and put it, indignantly waving claws and all, back into the soggy paper bag.

I’d have expected Mrs. Ellington to be horrified, hand pressed against her heart, but instead she’s laughing. “Dear Ben Cruz,” she says. “Still setting those traps?”

“Every week all summer.” I open the refrigerator, shove the bag in, hoping that Houdini the lobster and its cohort will be stupefied by the cold before I have to slay them. I pass on Uncle Ben’s message, translated entirely from Portuguese.

Mrs. Ellington sets down her cane again to clasp her hands together. “Lobsters and love. Two essentials of life. Do come with me to the porch, Gwen dear—if you wouldn’t mind carrying the glasses? There we can discuss the other essentials of life.”

The porch too—just exactly the same—all old white wicker furniture with the worn, teal-colored hammock swaying in the breeze. The Ellingtons’ wide lawn fades into sea oats, sand, and then the azure ocean. To the far left is Whale Rock, a huge boulder that looks exactly like a beached humpback whale. At high tide all you can see is the fin, but the water’s low now and almost the entire rock is visible. The view’s so stunning, I catch my breath, with the feeling I always have when I see the prettiest parts of the island—that if I could look out my window at this all the time, I would be a better person, calmer, happier, less likely to get flustered with school or impatient with Dad. But that theory can’t really work, because Old Mrs. Partridge up the road has one of the best views on the island—I mean of the water, not of Cass Somers—and it doesn’t sweeten her disposition at all.

Mrs. Ellington clinks her glass against mine. “Here’s to another sunset,” she says.

I must seem puzzled, because she explains, “My dear father’s favorite toast. I’m quite superstitious. I don’t think I’ve ever had a drink on the porch without saying it. You must answer ‘Sunrise too.’”

“Sunrise too,” I say, with a firm nod.

She pats me approvingly on the leg.

“I imagine we should negotiate our terms,” Mrs. E. says.

Damn. I stammer out something about the salary Mom mentioned—she must have been wrong, it had to be too good to be true—and Mrs. Ellington chuckles. “Oh, not money. That’s all been settled by your mother and my Henry, I suspect. I meant terms as in how we will rub along together. I haven’t had a . . . companion before, so, naturally, I need to know what you enjoy doing and you need to know the same about me, so we don’t spend the summer torturing each other. I must say . . . it will be good to be around a young person again. My grandsons . . .” She trails off. “Are off, living their lives.” For a second, all eighty-plus years show on her face as her usual smile fades.

I have a flash of memory of some big party she held for one of the grandsons. His wedding? Twenty-first birthday? Big tent. White with turrets. Almeida’s catered. There were fireworks. Nic and Viv and I . . . and Cass . . . lay on the beach and watched them burst and glimmer into the ocean. A private party with a public show. Like the ocean, no one owns the sky.

After a moment, she continues, resolutely. “As they should be. Now, do tell me all about yourself!”

Uh . . . What “all” does she want to know? The kind of “all” I tell Viv is different from the “all” I tell Mom, so God knows what the “all” is to someone who might want to employ me, and . . .

As if hearing my mental babbling, she again pats me on the knee. “For example, how do you feel about the beach, dear Gwen? Like it or loathe it?”

Does anyone on earth hate the beach? I tell Mrs. Ellington I love the ocean and she says, “Good then. My friends—we call ourselves the Ladies League, but I believe there are others on the island with less flattering names—the Old Beach Bats comes to mind . . . Anyway, we like to swim every day at ten and again at four—just as the light is shifting. Sometimes we make a picnic and have a day of it. The beauty of age—we really don’t need to worry about sunscreen and we can linger all day.” Her eyes get misty as they look out over the water, her wrinkled face softening with a dreamy expression that makes it suddenly clear how beautiful she must have been back then. The Rose of the Island, indeed.

For the next half hour we cover Mrs. Ellington’s likes and dislikes, from her favorite and least favorite things to eat—“If you ever make me egg salad I shall reconsider my good opinion of you”—to her views on exercise—“I shall like good brisk walks when this silly ankle recovers but when I’m in the mood. I don’t wish to be prodded”—to technology—“You won’t be perpetually typing on or answering your cell phone, will you? When I’m in the presence of another person, I want them present.”

I guess I pass the test, because Mrs. Ellington finally pats my hand and says, “Good then. Our new regime will start on Monday.” She beams at me, lowering her voice. “I was dreading this. I am a creature who enjoys solitude. But I think, bless fortune, I may be lucky in my employee.”

I thank her, and then remember I have to cook the lobsters. Hell. Does she even want me to do this now? Or am I dismissed? If I am, can I leave her with living lobsters? Should she even be using a stove? Nic got a concussion playing soccer in middle school and he was out of it for days. I’m about to ask her what she’d like me to do when there’s a knock on the screen door, forceful enough to rattle the loosely nailed boards. A voice calls, “Uh—hello? Seashell Services!”

“I wonder what that can be.” Mrs. Ellington’s eyes brighten as if a visit from the island maintenance crew is cause for excitement. “The hydrangeas aren’t due to be pruned and we had the lawn mowed only yesterday. Do let’s go see.”

Though her back is as straight as ever, her gait is so wobbly, despite the steadying cane, that I waver behind her, trying to be on both sides at once to break her inevitable fall.

“Hullo?” the voice calls again, slightly louder. More recognizable.

“Com-i-ng!” sings out Mrs. Ellington. “Do come in! My progress is gradual, but we will be there in good time!”

I wish her progress were nonexistent, because far too quickly we reach the kitchen, where, yes, Cass is standing, looking particularly tan against the dainty ruffles of the sheer white curtains.

“My dear boy!” Mrs. Ellington says.

How has he managed to be her dear boy after just one day spent mowing her lawn? Does she remember him from that one summer? Old Mrs. P. didn’t.

“Gwen, dear. This is Cassidy Somers, who will be keeping the island beautiful for us this summer. Cassidy, this is my new”—she hesitates, and then continues firmly—“this is Guinevere Castle.”

I wince. Concussion or not, Mrs. E. recalls my whole, real, hopelessly romance-novel name. Which I never use at school. Or anywhere. Ever.

Unfazed, Cass extends his palm cheerfully. “Hello again, Gwen.”

I ignore his outstretched hand. “We’ve met,” I say, turning quickly to Mrs. Ellington. “We know each other. Um, not that well. That is, we’re not friends. I mean . . . We don’t have that much in common . . . Or know each other at all, really. We just . . . we go to high school together.” I conclude these ravings, not looking at Cass, and wait miserably for Mrs. Ellington to decide I’m a lunatic.

Instead, she smiles gently at me. “Schoolmates. How lovely. Well, then, I do believe our gentleman caller could benefit from some of our iced tea. Will you do the honors, Gwen?”

I nod, opening the freezer to scoop out the ice and, with luck, cool my blazing face. Grateful I don’t have to mess with all the silverware, I pour tea into an iced tumbler and hand it to him, trying to avoid any contact with his fingers. Which means that the sweaty glass nearly crashes to the ground. Good thing Cass has fast reflexes.

Mrs. Ellington flutters next to him, apologizing for not asking if he takes lemon and sugar.

“No, just as it pours is great. Thanks.”

“It is terribly easy to become parched in this heat,” Mrs. Ellington says, “particularly when in the throes of physical exertion. You must feel free to come by my house at any time to get something tall and cool.”

Cocking his head at her, Cass gives her his best smile. “Thank you.”

He chugs the iced tea. I watch the long line of his throat, look away, wipe my fingers on my cut-offs. My palms are actually damp. Fantastic.

“Perhaps a refill for him, Gwen? Now, dear boy, why are you here? If it is in regard to the bills, those all go to my son Henry.”

“It’s not that,” Cass says swiftly. “I’m here to boil your lobsters.”

My head whips around sharply.

“We’ve been looking to expand our list of services,” he continues, calm and reasonable. “Competitive times and all that.” His eyes cut to mine and then away again.

“Really?” Mrs. Ellington moves closer, as though he’s a magnet with an irresistible pull. “How so?”

“Well . . . um, seems as though the yard boy usually just mows and weeds. And”—Cass takes a long slug of iced tea—“I think . . . there’s room for more. Dog walking. Grocery runs. Um . . .” He looks up briefly at the ceiling as though reading words off it. “Swimming lessons.”

“Enterprising!” Mrs. Ellington exclaims.

Cass tosses her another smile, and then continues. “When I saw Gwen here heading over with your, uh, dinner, I thought it might be a good time to show you my technique.”

“You have a technique?” Mrs. Ellington clasps her hands under her chin, a happy child at a birthday party. “How accomplished! I wasn’t aware there was any such thing with regard to lobsters.”

“Technique might not be the right word,” Cass says. “Where’s your lobster pot?” He asks this with total assurance, like every kitchen in New England has such a thing. But yes, Mrs. Ellington does, the exact same huge, spattered black-and-white enamelware one we have at home. He pulls it out of the cabinet she opened for him and takes it to the sink, totally at home, practically toeing off his shoes and kicking back on the couch.

“You know,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, “I can do this. You don’t need to—”

“Sure you can, Gwen. But I’m here.”

I think my eyes actually bug out. Him being here is exactly the problem. But this is still sort of a job interview; it’s not like I can arm-wrestle him for the lobsters.

He fills the pot with cold water and sets it on the stove, turning the gas up high, talking rapidly all the while. “Technique implies finesse—or skill. This isn’t really that. It’s just . . .” He fiddles with the knob, concentrating on lowering the flame. “Some people get bothered by the idea of cooking something alive, you know. Plus, lobsters can make that screaming sound—I’ve heard it doesn’t really mean anything, and their nervous systems aren’t well-developed enough to feel pain—their brains are the size of a ballpoint pen tip, but . . . it can still bother some people.”

Oh, yes, thanks for rescuing me, Cass. I’m just so squeamish.

I don’t want to kill lobsters. But I can.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Ellington says. “I always made a point of leaving the kitchen when Cook boiled lobsters. Or chopped the heads off fish.” She shudders reminiscently.

Cass flashes that melting smile at her again. All charm—the kind that pulls you in as surely as a hand in yours, and can hold you back just as firmly, leaving you wondering which is real, which Cass is true. As I think this, he glances over at me, straight into my eyes this time, and I’m taken aback by the expression in his. Readable for once, not guarded the way it’s been since March.

Direct.

Deliberate.

Challenging.

I turn away, open the refrigerator, take out the bag of lobsters, pulling it close to my chest. He reaches for it and I hold on tighter. He pulls, gently, looking at me quizzically to see if I really will challenge him for possession of a bag of shellfish.

I let go.

“Thanks, Gwen.” His voice is casual. “So, yeah, some people put the lobsters in the freezer for a while to numb them out. But that doesn’t seem all that much more humane than the heat, does it?”

He disentangles Grandpa Ben’s rope-mesh sack and sets the wrinkled brown paper bag that was inside it on the table. One huge claw immediately gropes out, clunking on the wooden island. Despite a stint in the Sub-Zero, Lobster A has not lost its mighty will-to-live.

“They say,” Cass continues, dipping his hand into the bag, “that if you kill the lobster too far ahead of time, it gets all tough and then it’s no good for eating.”

He twists Lobster A right and left to avoid its clinging claws. “Look away, Gwen.”

I’m not used to the note of command in that laid-back voice and instantly fix my gaze out the window on the beach plum’s fuchsia blossoms, then shake myself. “I can handle this,” I repeat to Cass. Then, trying to sound brisk and casual: “It’s in my blood, remember?”

“There,” he says, ignoring me. “Just a quick knife to the brain and then into the very hot water. No time to feel a thing.”

Mrs. Ellington claps her hands. “That does relieve my mind. It seems to work. No waving claws. None of that awful sound.”

“I’m done now, Gwen. You can look.” It’s an aside. Quiet, not mocking.

“I am looking,” I mutter, feeling suddenly adrift.

“These guys are, what, one-and-a-half-pounders? So fourteen minutes or so.” He reaches for the egg-shaped timer on the stovetop, deftly twists it. “I can stay and take ’em out if you like.”

I clear my throat. “You can go. I’m fine. I’ll take it from here.”

“You are a marvel, young man!” says Mrs. Ellington. “I am delighted by Seashell Services’ new policy. Dare I hope you also clean fish?”

“I do whatever needs doing.” Cass flicks me a quick glance, then grins at her again, that wide, slightly lopsided smile that creases the corners of his eyes. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was the best I’ve ever had. See you later, Mrs. Ellington.”

He crumples the soggy brown lobster bag and tosses it to the trash can. It bounces off the side. Without looking at us, he scoops it up, drops it directly in, then turns down the hall.

His “Bye Gwen” is so quiet it’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.

“What a kind young man,” Mrs. Ellington says. “Handsome too.”

I examine the lobsters bobbling in the water, now vivid red and motionless, and stare at the ticking timer. With ten minutes to go, I pour Mrs. Ellington more tea and start on Grandpa Ben’s sauce. She watches, bright-eyed and interested, murmuring occasional comments. “Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten the sour cream? Dear Ben Cruz had this down to a science.”

I’ll have to ask Grandpa Ben how it is that Mrs. Ellington knows his secret recipe for lobster salad. Sauce finished, I dump the rosy lobsters into a colander, running cold water over them and hoping it’ll cool me down too. I feel weirdly off balance.

“These will be perfect for lunch tomorrow,” I tell Mrs. E. over my shoulder, trying to sound breezy. “Unless you want them for dinner tonight, in which case I can make a butter sauce. Or hollandaise.”

“Oh no!” she says. “I want Ben’s lovely sauce with chilled lobster. I will make do tonight. In fact.” She cocks her head, then calls out, “Joy!”

Just as I’m worried she’s lost her mind for real, the door opens and a tired-looking woman in hospital scrubs comes in from the carport. “Yuh-huh, Mrs. El? I’m here.”

“Well hello, Joy! This is Guinevere Castle, who is to keep me out of mischief during the day. Gwen, this is my night nurse. Joy, will you show her out? I find myself a bit fatigued with all the excitement of the day.”

Joy leads the way through the porch hallway into the carport, hauling her gray hoodie off over her head and hanging it on a hook on the wall. “So you’re the babysitter.”

That word makes me uncomfortable. “I’m here to keep Mrs. Ellington company during the day, yes.”

Joy grunts. “You’ll be getting the same amount of money I am, without medical training. Makes no sense. That son of hers has more cash than brains, if you ask me.”

I don’t really know what to say to that, so I stay quiet.

“She needs a trained nurse twenty-four/seven, after a fall like that. Could easily have been a broken hip, and at her age that can be the beginning of the end, but the family just won’t accept it. I got no patience with them.”

Maybe you shouldn’t work here then, I think, and then want to scratch the thought out. Here on island, how many of us have a choice, really? Joy opens the latticed screen door to the carport and I walk out, grateful our shifts won’t coincide much.

Outside, I halt, listening. Over the soft roar and shush of the waves, I hear the lawn mower thrumming again, farther down Low Road. Even though it’s the longer way home, I turn uphill in the direction of High Road.

How am I going to get through a whole summer of constant Cass? I’ll have to ask Marco and Tony what his schedule is . . . Right. “Tony? Marco? Your yard boy’s a little too hot for me to handle, and now he’s getting on my nerves too, so if you wouldn’t mind ordering him to wear a shirt? Grow some unsightly facial hair, pack on a few pounds, and stay clear of Mrs. E.’s? Thanks a bunch.”

I pick up my pace, and then turn into the small, beaten-down clearing in the Green Woods at the bend in the road. Maple trees arch and curl their branches over me, making the path a tunnel. The air smells earthy and tangy green. These woods have been the same for hundreds of years. When we were little, Nic, Vivie, and I used to play a game where we were the Quinnipiacs, the first people to live on Seashell. We tried to tread soundlessly in the forest, one foot in front of another, not even snapping a twig. Now a turn by a twisted branch, then another by an old stone shaped like a witch’s hat, and I’m out in the open again, by the rushing creek that runs into the ocean, cleared only by a bridge so old that the wood is silver and the nails rusty dark red. I climb to the apex of the bridge, look down at the water, clear enough to see the stones at the bottom but deep enough to be well over my head. I shuck off the T-shirt I’m wearing over my black sports bra, kick off my sneakers, climb to the highest point of the bridge, and jump.