“I think my grandma would disagree.”
I digested his statement. “So this is the reason you don’t want me talking to your grandparents? Because you think your grandmother would be mad? About—what, about Edward having an affair, or if other people found out about it?”
He ignored my question, which seemed to be his MO. “We can find things out without involving my grandparents. You’re here all summer, aren’t you? I’ll help you. My help might be even better than talking to my grandparents. You said your grandmother clammed up about the past? Yeah. My grandparents aren’t exactly oversharers, either.”
Not a bad point. I’d been thinking of the boy who wroteIt has been too long since I last saw you—but I should remember he’d also writtenYou’re being ridiculous.
“I can give you a tour of the house. I can get you access to the scrapbooks.” He leaned closer, pinning me with his gaze. “Youwantmy help, Abigail.”
He wasn’t wrong. What if his grandparents were like mine, and refused to talk about the past? At least this way I could look for more photos of my grandmother, and see the gardens at Golden Doors.Ifyou miss the rose garden so much, come back,E had written.They’re blooming like crazy this year, and my mother planted a new kind, and you know she loves to show them to you. You know how muchIlove to see you in the garden, too...
I cleared my throat. “But if I asked your grandfather...”
“Give me a month. One month. Then you can talk to him, if there’s anything left to ask. And you get my help in the meantime. I can open doors for you.”
“Goldendoors?”
“Is that a yes?”
“I suppose.”
“Good.” He smiled, and it was like the sun. He speared a piece of my pancakes with his fork. “You’re right. This is excellent.”
Eight
Over the next few days, an oppressive heat swept the island. Jane and I slept with our window wide open and a fan swiveling between us, damp towels pressed to our faces. We spent as much time as possible on the beach, where we could peel off the sticky fabric of our clothes and lie exposed to the elements, wholeheartedly putting our faith in sunscreen to ward off cancer and burns. When it became too unbearably hot, I’d fling myself into the water, stripping away the sweat and dirt and heat. I kicked and floated and splashed, and when I tired myself out I’d return to my towel, only to begin the cycle all over again.
During work hours, the bookstore’s AC was a blessing: cool, breathable air I would down in gulps after coming in from the muggy outdoors. The walk from Mrs. Henderson’s only took fifteen minutes, but by the time I arrived at work, sweat always pasted my clothes to my back. Customers came in to escape the humidity, saying over and over, “You must be so glad to be in air-conditioning!”
The Thursday after the Fourth, Jane and I had both gotten home from our respective shifts when her phone pinged. She turned it toward me so I could read the text from Lexi: We’re going skinny-dipping—you in? We can pick you up whenever.
When I looked back up at Jane,she made an exaggerated face. “Are we doing this?”
I’d never been skinny-dipping. But you know what? Summer of chutzpah. “Hell yeah we are.”
Lexi and Stella swung by to get us, and we drove out to a pond surrounded by trees and darkness. It was as though some cross-island memo had gone out to all the teens, telling everyone to meet here. Crowds gathered on the shores, laughing and drinking in the moonlight. We clamored down to the water’s edge, where gentle waves lapped at the brief beach.
“Let’s do shots first,” Stella said.
“With what shot glasses?” Lexi said.
“Don’t be so literal.” Stella told her girlfriend, pulling a bottle of amber liquid from her brightly embroidered tote. Lexi groaned and Jane laughed.
“What is it?” I asked, wanting in on the joke.
“It’s Fireball—it’s cinnamon flavored,” Jane said.
“Architect of many hot-mess nights,” Lexi added.
“Don’t be haters,” Stella said. “I love it, it’s delicious.” She raised the bottle to her lips and took a swig, then handed it to me.
I took a more cautious sip, and still coughed as the liquor burned down my esophagus. It did taste like cinnamon, sweet and rather sickly. But I liked it significantly more than beer.
After a few more rounds, we looked at each other. “Ready?” Stella said. “We’re doing this?”
We nodded, privates in an army, before bursting into giggles. “Go, go, go!” Lexi shouted, and we shucked off our clothes, shirts and bras everywhere, and ran screaming into the water. We windmilled our arms and laughed wildly as we fell into the cold, bracing lake.
“It’s freezing!” Jane screamed.
