Huntley Fitzpatrick - What I Thought Was True

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.