Rites of Spring (Break)

by Diana Peterfreund

  And Demetria was no fool, either, though she misunderstood the message completely. Recalibrating her missiles, she turned to Poe. “Well, brother? Gehry screwed you over, too. Broke his oaths to you. Can you think of any reason to keep his secrets for him?”

  Poe acknowledged her question with the ghost of a smile, but returned to his rice pilaf and said nothing.

  “Well,” Jenny said. “There’s the obvious: It might hurt the kids. That’s one bit of advice that even the barbarians here would follow. You don’t say nasty stuff about a kid’s dad in front of the kid. Come on, Demetria. You didn’t go up to Darren this afternoon and say, ‘Hey, too bad about that nanny of yours, huh?’”

  “True,” Poe said.

  But Demetria wasn’t finished with him. “Okay, fine. No one here is into humiliating a child. But forgive me if I want to know exactly what’s going on in that family, and how they’re all dealing with the fallout.” She aimed her fork at Poe. “And I think you know more about it than you’re saying.”

  “Forget it, Dee,” George said. “Poe would never go against the party line. He really likes having secrets. It’s the only way he can get anyone to pay attention to him.”

  You could sense the shock around the table. It wasn’t like George to be so cruel.

  But Poe took it in stride, meeting George’s gaze with a look that said, Do you really want to take me on? I had no doubt that Poe could out-insult anyone. Especially someone with so little practice as George. “Exactly. I’m always looking for attention. So flashy. Man, I’m obvious.” He looked at George for one second more, then returned to his food.

  “Do you think they’re going to fix the boat railing before tomorrow’s snorkeling trip?” Clarissa asked, whipping out her best charm-school voice.

  “We’re not going on that boat,” Ben answered, obviously more than happy to follow Clarissa’s lead. “One of the patriarchs brought a yacht to the island, and he’s lending it out.”

  “Cool!” Clarissa said. She turned to me. “You have to come now. It’s not even the same boat.”

  I didn’t care if it was the QE2. I wasn’t setting foot on a boat deck until it was time to leave, and that only by necessity. “Sorry,” I replied.

  The conversation turned to other topics, and soon after, Poe finished his food and carried his dinner plate to the counter near the kitchen. I expected him to return to the table, maybe grab a cup of coffee, but he left the dining room.

  And in that instant, my decision was made. I stood so quickly I almost knocked my chair over.

  “Whoa, Amy,” Malcolm said, catching my chair by the armrest and righting it. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to…” I trailed off. No, Malcolm. Don’t look at me like that. He made a grab for my arm, but I shook him off and headed after Poe.

  He was out of the building and halfway across the path to his cabin by the time I reached the porch. In the fading evening light, everything had turned violet. The crushed shells beneath our feet, the grass, his shirt, his hair, the hands he was jamming into his shorts pockets.

  “P—Jamie,” I said in a voice that wasn’t quite normal volume but fell way short of a shout.

  He turned. “You’re going to slip up one of these days.”

  “Well, I’ll expect you to keep track.” I jogged to meet him on the path.

  “What do you want?” He cocked his head. “To thank me again?”

  Give it a rest, Poe. “Whence the hostility?”

  He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. It had been our default setting for so long that whenever we broke through and actually communicated, it was as if by accident.

  Time for a change. “I was actually wondering if you were planning to go on that snorkeling trip tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not. Obviously.” Deep breath, Amy. “And I thought maybe if you were staying behind, we could hang out. You and me.”

  He didn’t react, so I kept going.

  “I have no idea what to do around here. I missed the tour. But you’ve been here before, so I’m sure you have some ideas.”

  “It’s not that big of an island.” He pointed. “House, games, library, beach. Those are your choices.”

  Ouch. Time to retreat. “Okay, well…”

  “Eleven o’clock?”

  What? “Okay.”

  He nodded. “Meet me here. I’ll have something for us to do. Wear walking shoes.”

  “Okay,” I said again.

  He started to turn away, then stopped, smiled a little, ducked his head, and reached into his back pocket. “Amy, here.” He tossed me a small package. “Just in case.”

  I looked down at my hand.

  Life Savers.

  10.

  Left Behind

  * * *

  The rest of the evening was spent in the game room, where the main topic of conversation was my near-drowning and Poe’s rescue. Clarissa and George even performed a two-person reenactment with the help of the edge of the billiard table and a few too many glasses of wine. The patriarchs present were utterly enthralled.

  I sat to the side, adding commentary and applause where necessary, but mostly keeping my hand wrapped around that package of mints.

  How cheesy was that? I mean, Life Savers? What a dork.

  But I still held them. So what did that make me?

  I crashed early, picked my way back through the woods to the girls’ cabin, and slept like the dead*4 for the rest of the night. Later, Clarissa told me that the others had arrived back around four in the morning, drunk (except for Jenny, who had stuck to soda) and singing some Diggers tune from the Roaring Twenties (including Jenny, who’d honed her pipes through years of choir practice). But it would have taken a whole corps of moonshiners to rouse me from my slumber.

  Unfortunately, my early-to-bed behavior meant I was up at the crack of dawn.

  Mindful of my unconscious bunkmates, I dressed in the dim light filtering through the window screens and slipped out into the morning. A thin layer of mist lay over the island, blanketing the path with dew and muffling the sound of the waves on the shore.

  Because the morning was a tad on the chilly side, I wore a lightweight hoodie over my shorts and tank top combo. As Poe had instructed, I’d chosen sneakers rather than ballet flats—my only other option since my flip-flops had found their way to Davy Jones’s footlocker.

  Poe. Was I really going to spend the day with him? And was it like…a date?

  Well, if it was, it was my fault. I’d asked him out last night. Well, asked him to hang out, anyway.

  Ugh. What was I thinking? I didn’t ask guys out. I’d never done so. Call me old-fashioned. And if I was going to start, Poe wouldn’t be my choice.

  But the facts were incontrovertible. I’d asked Poe to be with me today. Poe. Not Clarissa, not Malcolm, not Jenny, who owed me sitting out a snorkeling session or two, and not George, who may or may not be interested in kissing and making up. Poe. Jamie. Whatever. Him.

  Why? Maybe I’d been suffering the aftereffect of some near-death brain chemical? Perhaps it had impaired my decision-making skills. Or maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe I’d been all giddy and power-drunk off that little tidbit Malcolm had given me about Poe. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d played fast and loose with someone’s feelings.*5

  Without realizing it, I’d broken into a jog, disturbing slumbering seabirds as I pounded through the underbrush in an attempt to escape this unfortunate line of thought. No! I hadn’t made a plan with Poe because Malcolm told me he liked me. It was because I’d wanted to talk to him ever since he saved my life.

  Right, Amy. Because gratitude is a much better motivation.

  I ran faster, but pretty soon I was going to run out of land. My chest grew tight, and I regretted not having made it to the gym as much as I should have since December.

  When I reached the docks, I slowed and rested, looking out over the mist-shrouded water. There was an easy solution to this. Ca
ncel.

  But that one didn’t appeal to me at all. I remembered our impromptu pizza party, long before I’d known he liked me, long before either of us had gone overboard. I’d had fun that night. Maybe we’d have fun today. It didn’t have to be a date. He was a patriarch, I was a knight. That was plenty of reason right there that it wouldn’t be a date. I had firsthand knowledge of how bad society incest could get and I was never going there again.

  Even if we weren’t talking about Poe.

  Malcolm didn’t seem to think there was any real potential, either. He’d said as much last night. There was too much water under the bridge between Poe and me. Maybe he had some sort of bizarre crush on me, and maybe I thought he was attractive on the few occasions that he wasn’t actively scowling, but neither of those things is groundwork for a relationship.

  Thus decided, I headed back toward the main compound. Thin sunlight had started seeping through the overcast sky, leading me to suspect that it would all burn off later in the morning. Good. I hadn’t come to Florida only to get more gray weather.

  I took stock of the buildings. The boys’ cabin was dark, as I’d expected, as were the caretaker’s cottage and the upper floors of the main building. I heard someone banging pots and pans around in the kitchen, probably getting ready for breakfast. The tomb, of course, was still and silent. I wondered if the Cavador Key version retained any of the grandeur of the New Haven original. Nothing to do at the moment but find out.

  Unlike our tomb’s giant double doors with the copper book-shaped handles, this tomb’s more modest entrance reflected the Spanish style of the architecture. It was an arched doorway, with a door of simple painted aluminum, whose only embellishment was the painted ironwork grate in front, patterned in a mix of swirls, flowers, and little hexagons. The latch featured an analog keypad.

  I stared at the numbers. Could it be that simple? I tapped out 3 1 2.

  Nothing. This was probably information they gave out on the tour. Bummer. Oh well, I guess I’d have to come back later, after I’d been enlightened.

  “Young lady!” A hand clamped down on my elbow. “What are you doing?”

  I whirled around—was whirled around, to be more precise. The caretaker was glaring down at me, a vicious-looking machete in his spare hand.

  “Let go!” I cried, wrenching free from his grip and backing up, right into the wrought-iron grate. Great, the Diggers employed sword-wielding maniacs. I was going to die, and my parents thought I was in South Beach.

  “What are you doing?” he asked again, and I noticed in retrospect that he hadn’t actually raised said machete. Up close, Saltzman didn’t strike me as the despot the other Diggirls had painted him to be after yesterday’s tour. He seemed to be well into his seventies—though it was difficult to tell how much was age and how much was weathering—with the sort of burgundy leather skin that was a result of several decades spent in the sun. His nose was a mass of bumps and scar tissue that spoke to more than one surgery for basal cell carcinoma, and each eyebrow sported enough white hair for four. His eyes were blue, his manner cautious and crotchety, but not altogether unlikeable.

  I straightened, remembering that this guy worked for me. “I’m looking at the tomb,” I said, in a voice as haughty as I could muster, given the circumstances. “Be so good as to give me the pass code?”

  He switched hands with knife and gave me his right. I rolled my eyes and provided him with the proper society handshake. Then, for good measure, I lifted the edge of my shirt so he could see the pin stuck through my belt loop. “D177, Saltzman.”

  “So I see.” He seemed to relax. “I apologize, miss. It’s just instinct. I’m not used to seeing females around here who aren’t wives or daughters. And the tomb is off-limits to them.”

  “Well, times are changing.”

  “Don’t go getting defensive with me, missy. I have no problem with the new policy. Makes things a bit complicated around here, but it’s just one of those things. I’m sure we’ll all adjust just fine.” He gestured with the machete as he spoke, which spooked me more than a little. “You’re the one who missed the tour, huh?”

  “Yes. Amy Haskel. I had an…emergency.”

  “So I heard. Well, no time like the present. I like that you don’t spend all day in bed like some of them.”

  I didn’t know exactly how to respond to that.

  He reached past me for the gate. “It’s 3122, see? The second tomb.”

  How creative. I followed him inside, and watched as he lit a few sconces on the wall. The yellow glow flickered over the walls and he turned to me. “What do you think?”

  As I’ve said before, I’m no actress. Even if the Eli drama department weren’t one of the best in the country, I’d hardly be commandeering roles that weren’t of the “Girl on Left” or “Apple Tree” variety in campus productions. But I plastered a look of wonder on my face and went, “Wow.”

  The Cavador Key tomb was decidedly not wow-worthy. There was a simple table in the center, sporting a scratched surface despite the layers of finish meant to spiff it up, and the chairs surrounding it included a few hardwoods, a mildewed wicker rocker, and three folding chairs. There was some art on the walls, grimy with smoke, and the upholstery on the armchairs and couches around the perimeter was faded.

  I reminded myself that however unimpressive this building was, it represented a second property belonging to my society. The whole island, the free food, the fact that we employed this man to take care of it all—all spoke of a more-than-ample income. So we used folding chairs instead of the fine carved teak I was used to in New Haven! So what? We used it, as Clarissa had pointed out, on our own private island. Dragon’s Head couldn’t hold a cricket to that.

  I began to grow very nervous about my future earning potential. What could I do for a living that would provide the type of spare cash that Rose & Grave no doubt expected out of their patriarchs? Jenny was already a millionaire, Clarissa an heiress, Odile a movie star. What could I do to make myself half as worthwhile?

  “You haven’t even seen the best part,” he said, tossing his machete casually to the table. (Well, that would explain the scratches.) He crossed the room to a large hutch on the opposite side and flung the doors wide. “Look at this!”

  I’d blown my wad on the first “wow.” But this was the one that actually deserved it.

  “Those are swastikas,” I said, my voice flat. I was shocked the china had survived Demetria taking a look at them.

  “Word is, one of our boys swiped them right from Adolf’s compound when they invaded Berlin.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say. That we had Hitler’s dishes sitting in a hutch seemed perverse to the extreme. “Why?” I finally managed.

  “Why else?” Saltzman asked. “Because we beat him!”

  Battle spoils. I nodded. I remembered Malcolm telling me about this one time. Still, I had no intention of ever eating off them. Gross.

  The caretaker closed the hutch doors again, locking them with a tiny gold key. “Yep. There are lots of people who would do anything to see what we have hidden away here on Cavador Key. So you can see why I have to be so careful about who I let go sneaking around the place. I didn’t know you were a knight this morning.”

  “Right.” Was it a little stuffy in here?

  “I’m dead serious. You’ve got to keep constant vigilance around here. I catch trespassers all the time. I’ve made a proposal to the board about a couple of guard dogs.”

  I pictured packs of pit bulls roaming the beach, with the machete-wielding Saltzman close behind. “That would be…”

  “Especially recently.” He nodded. “What with all the troubles our poor Barebones has been going through.”

  Barebones. Kurt Gehry.

  “Too many people saw the family arriving at the airport down here, and it’s well known in town what we are. Ever since they got here we’ve been fending off boats loaded with photojournalists. There were even a couple of news helicopters.”
/>   “Really?” Demetria had clearly been barking up the wrong tree last night. She should have been nicer to the caretaker. He seemed more than ready to talk about the Gehrys’ presence on the island.

  “Vultures. Parasites.” He picked up the machete again, hefted it in his hands. “I’m sure our man’s got an excellent reason for his sabbatical.”

  Our man. I began to wonder what Saltzman’s deal was. Not even Hale was this devoted an employee of the Trust. The caretaker of the New Haven tomb regularly called us on our bullshit. If we were too loud, or left a mess in the kitchen, or dared to skimp on coaster usage in the library, we were sure to get an earful in the next memo sent to our private Phimalarlico e-mail accounts.

  “Have you been getting it bad up at the school?” he asked me.

  I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

  “You know. For jumping to his defense and all. You’re the newspaper girl, right? Any backlash in the letters column?”

  Um… “Backlash?”

  “For your articles.”

  Oh. My theoretical articles defending him. Of course. Well, this one didn’t require a lie. “I actually worked on the literary journal. We…stay out of politics, for the most part.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “Literary journal? That’s a new one for us, isn’t it?”

  He had no idea.

  “You might think about doing something, though. I’m sure the Eli Daily would take a guest editorial.”

  “I’m sure,” I agreed, turning toward the door. Get me out of here. “I’m going to go check out the library. Thanks so much for showing me the tomb, sir.”

  “Anytime, young lady,” he waved at me with his knife. “I’m going to get back to trimming those weeds.”

  I guess that was indeed the proper purpose of a machete. Oddly enough, it was the least sketchy thing about the man. At the door, we went our separate ways, and I walked a little more quickly than necessary up to the main house, hoping that someone else had woken early.

  Turns out, someone had. I entered the rec room and found Darren Gehry idly racking up the balls at the billiard table.