Bittersweet

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  Still, I admired her fortitude. “We are stewards of this land,” I had heard her gravely explain to her father. So when I finally found her and Owen down on Flat Rocks that chilly day, about to launch the dinghy out across the bay, even though the last thing I wanted was to be flung about on a blustery lake, I agreed to set out with them for another round of sample gathering.

  Owen rowed. Lu sat behind him, in the bow, and I faced him. As we launched across the rocking water, I realized I had hardly ever heard him speak. He brushed his auburn hair off his forehead with his slender fingers, pinkening in my gaze; perhaps shyness was the reason he was so quiet.

  At last, we arrived in the cove beside Turtle Point. They had cleared a spot on the beach where we could pull up easily. I wondered how many times they’d been there since Lu and I had discovered the dead turtles.

  She darted over the point. Owen and I followed more slowly, cutting brush and grasses from the area where the turtles were—I didn’t care to look closely to see how much they had decayed, but the stench of rot remained. We placed our cuttings in jam jars, labelless and washed clean, and then Lu gave us masking tape and we recorded the date and the approximate location of the plant we’d cut from. Lu’s jaw was set, her eyes focused. Once we’d filled the canvas bag with two dozen samples, we followed her back down to the beach.

  “Oh, I forgot!” she exclaimed, grabbing the last empty jar and darting off to the end of the point without further explanation.

  I smiled at Owen. “She’s taking this very seriously,” I said, sounding condescending without meaning to. I suppose I already fancied I’d entered the realm of the adults, in which even the world-weary marine biologist believed one couldn’t count on finding an answer, a solution, to everything.

  “Turtles just don’t die like that,” Owen replied. “I don’t know much about them, but she does, and I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “It’s good to help. But sometimes terrible things just happen and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “I don’t believe that,” he pronounced, surprising me with his conviction. He looked up at Lu as she flitted along the point, racing through the trees, another sample in hand. “No. I don’t believe that at all.”

  The shadows were growing long across the tennis courts by the time I got home, but Ev was still in her bed, and Abby was snoozing on the narrow rag rug below her. The dog lifted her head and watched me root through my drawers. Satisfied I had brought no steak home, she flopped back down with a disgruntled sigh.

  “Pregnancy has turned me into a weird little hermit,” Ev said some minutes later. Her voice was thin. She hadn’t spoken for hours.

  “I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” I apologized, turning to look at her.

  “But you’re right. I don’t know anything about having a baby.”

  I sat down on my bed. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m stronger than I look,” she agreed. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’m sorry for butting into your business.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, surprised to hear her apologize. I’d never heard the words from her mouth. I suddenly wanted to tell her. “He kissed me.”

  “Was it nice?”

  “Yeah. But when I called his house, a woman answered. So, you’re right. Complicated.”

  “Did you ask him about it?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” she promised.

  I kicked her bed playfully. “Get up.”

  “It’s good in here.”

  “But I’ve got nothing to wear and you have to do my makeup.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Date

  By the time Galway pulled up in front of Bittersweet, I was dressed in a pair of jeans and one of Ev’s T-shirts, baggy on her but tightly provocative stretched over my torso. I had on a black bra and a matching sexy thong, and my hair was pulled into a low ponytail. I even had makeup on. Ev squealed at the transformation, then made herself scarce as her brother’s wheels crunched the gravel outside.

  “Wow,” Galway said when I met him on the stairs. He was dressed in a summer blazer and button-down shirt, slacks, loafers. I’d only ever seen him in his camp clothes.

  “You look dressy.” My voice sounded harsh.

  “You look”—his eyes wandered over me, lingering unapologetically on my breasts—“great.”

  I cleared my throat. “I should change.”

  He grabbed my hand. I’d forgotten how smooth his skin was. He tugged me gently toward him.

  His car was impeccably neat—no garbage, no maps, nothing personal. It was a nice night but his windows were up. I worried a rolled-down window might muss my hair anyway, ruining the overall magic that Ev had wrought upon me. We drove in silence until we were out of Winloch, then headed south, toward Burlington.

  He glanced at me a few times as we drove past rocky outcroppings and sheep grazing below shade trees. But he didn’t say anything, and the silence started to grow into something meaningful. I couldn’t tell if that meaning was romantic or uncomfortable.

  He cleared his throat. “So how’ve you been?”

  “Oh fine.”

  “Good.” We drove on.

  He flicked on his blinker at the sign for Burlington, but, after exiting, he turned off the main road quickly, heading south again on Spear Street. I looked longingly toward the university, and Church Street below, where I’d spent one afternoon a few weeks back wandering aimlessly with Lu. My heart fell a little—I’d been looking forward to an evening in civilization. There was a casual French bistro on a corner of the walking mall. I had planned to order the steak frites.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as the land fell away while we drove along a ridgeline. The sun was almost slipping behind the Adirondacks. Between the mountains and us the lake glimmered. I squinted down at the tiny triangle sails, skipping crisp and white across the gold-kissed waters.

  “You’ll love it” was all he said, as we turned again, plunging down the hill toward the lake, back under the maples.

  We drove country roads for a few more miles, then over a covered bridge and past a house bigger than the one I had grown up in—although I understood it was only the carriage house—and into a grand estate that looked more like a park, or insane asylum, than someone’s home. An arrow pointed the way to the Restaurant at the Farms, and we drove slowly and carefully, past beautifully mown lawns and large, sturdy buildings sporting copper roofs, now lichen green. We came up a rise and caught sight of a palace, for lack of a better word. It was grand in the way of country estates from Jane Austen novels, but American—red brick, copper roof, rounded walls—with an incredible view of the lake beyond it.

  “This belonged to friends of Samson’s.”

  “This house?”

  He gestured grandly. “All of it.” It made Winloch look like the slums.

  “And now?”

  “It’s a land trust. They have a children’s petting barn, a dairy farm, they sell cheese, they have a garden, and trails, and house tours. They grow all the vegetables and raise the meat for the restaurant.” He opened his door. “Shall we?”

  He came to my side of the car and waited for me, then walked behind me with his hand close to the small of my back. This made it feel like a date. But the way he was speaking to me—without much content or interest—made me think I’d hallucinated the kiss, the chemistry, even our camaraderie before things had gotten romantic. There had been something tangible between us, and I feared it was gone.

  We entered the foyer of the great house, which led directly into the restaurant. The maître d’ dressed in a waiter’s tuxedo raised an eyebrow as he caught sight of me. A tall brunette slipped from the restaurant, jangling her car keys. She was wearing a perfectly tailored black dress.

  My heels clopped to a halt on the wide cherry floorboards. I looked down at myself. My bra was visible through my T-shirt. My thong had ridden up and my jeans had ridden down. I re
alized that, inadvertently or not, Ev had made me a version of myself that made her feel better.

  Oblivious, Galway strode forward without me. I couldn’t hear his voice but watched with horror as he mentioned our reservation to the maître d’.

  “Just one moment,” the man replied haughtily, disappearing into the restaurant after a pointed glance in my direction.

  Galway turned back with a quizzical look. We couldn’t have been more than twenty feet apart, but the distance felt unbridgeable. My feet grew roots as the violin filtering out from the restaurant became more passionate. He brought a menu over, mentioning a few choice items before he was even at my side: “They’ve got an amazing butternut squash risotto with roasted pumpkin seeds. Oh, and the veal scaloppine is incredible.”

  I shook my head like a child.

  “Come on.” He reached for my hand again. “The food’s all locally sourced.” I pulled my hand away. “What’s the matter?” he asked, as the maître d’ appeared again.

  “You should have told me it was fancy.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “You can borrow my jacket. But really, Mabel, you look fine.”

  The first hot tear burned down my cheek. “I don’t want to look fine,” I managed to say, before turning and running toward the massive front door, gulping my tears. I hurtled myself against it before realizing I had to press down the latch. I could feel the maître d’s eyes burning into my back.

  I heard Galway behind me but quickened my pace across the parking lot, finding shelter sandwiched between his car and the next. There was nowhere else to go. I was trying, in vain, not to sob. Everyone could see.

  “What’s wrong?” Galway asked helplessly from beside the rear tire, and I wondered how I could possibly explain. I didn’t know what was wrong, not in words. All I knew was I was humiliated. It reminded me of how strange I’d felt when he’d introduced me to Gammy Pippa—all those elite eyes crawling over me. Of how Indo had made vague promises before asking me to dig deep for her. Of how Ev had confessed she’d been planning to leave all along. None of them had ever known the embarrassment of not belonging.

  “You should tell someone,” I bawled, “when you’re taking them somewhere nice.”

  “I thought I did,” he mumbled.

  “When you saw what I was wearing … I mean I look like a fucking joke, Galway. You could have said it was going to be like this.”

  “I think you look beautiful.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Then who is she?” I cried.

  His face was blank. I would have to spell it out.

  “I called your house in Boston the night you kissed me. She said you weren’t home.” His expression told me all I needed to know. Shock, awareness, panic. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but I added, “Remember, Galway, you don’t lie.”

  All the fight went out of him. He put his hands to his face, then leaned back against the car. He closed his eyes. Nodded. Just that, and the fight was out of me too. The clouds were skipping across the pinkening evening sky. A gust of wind swept over us from the direction of the lake, worrying the trees into a churning tizzy above.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he said.

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  He laughed, defeated. “I’m getting out of a relationship,” he said finally. “That’s what it boils down to.” He met my eyes. “I should have told you. But I didn’t think … Look, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I really … I like you. I felt something the first time we”—he laughed—“well, not exactly the first time we met—I mean that was great—but the first time we talked. I felt like I knew you. Like I’d known you for a long time. It’s crazy, okay, it’s cheesy and clichéd …”

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  “And I didn’t want to ruin it,” he went on, “by delving into my own stuff, stuff that has nothing to do with you. She’s … she’s been a friend of mine. And we thought—I hoped—it could be more than that. But. Not anymore. Definitely not since I met you.” He stopped himself. “I’m really sorry.” He moved closer. “I really want to make it up to you.”

  “You don’t have to make anything up to me.”

  “I said that wrong,” he said, putting his hand onto my arm. “I meant: I really want to take you out. Because I think we could have fun together.”

  An involuntary smile crept onto my face. “Like we’re having right now.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Oh, absolutely, this is exactly what I had in mind.”

  At once, I was hungry. I glanced back up at the grand home. “Okay,” I said, holding out my hand, “give me your blazer.”

  He shook his head and grinned, unlocking my door. “We’re going somewhere else.”

  “I’m hungry now.”

  “Yeah, well, tough.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled.

  We drove toward town, but, almost to the university, we turned away from Burlington, crossed the highway, and followed arrows for the airport. A lit-up sign enthusiastically announced AL’S FRENCH FRYS, and we turned in to the parking lot.

  “We weren’t allowed to come here when we were kids,” Galway said, turning off the car. He popped the trunk and met me at my door with a hooded UVM sweatshirt. I put it on. The sleeves flopped down over my hands. I felt comfortable for the first time that night.

  Red vinyl booths, milk shakes, a short-order grill—we gobbled the greasy food, sucking down the thick french fries two at a time. “I thought you were a vegetarian,” I said, as he took a hearty bite of his second cheeseburger.

  “Who told you that?” He laughed with a full mouth.

  “You seem too … self-realized for meat,” I replied, which tickled his funny bone.

  We drove downtown and got ice cream and strolled until the stores closed and it was just us and the street kids under the twinkling Christmas lights that entwined the branches above us. I checked my watch—it was eleven. There was nowhere else to go—I was underage, with no fake ID.

  “What’s your family like?” he asked. We found a bench in the middle of Church Street, and watched a hippie girl dance messily before her dog and a group of boys. They might as well have been in Pioneer Courthouse Square, in Portland—same hemp clothes, unwashed funk, and abandoned look in their eyes. Music thumped from a rowdy pub a block away.

  “My family’s not—they’re not important.”

  “The Winslows are rich,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean they’re better than everyone else.”

  “I think … more than what you are, is what you think you are. If you believe you’re the most powerful man in the world, and act like it, people respond. If you think you’re nothing, you are.”

  “You don’t think you’re nothing, do you?” His voice quavered as if he couldn’t bear the thought.

  The hippie girl collapsed against a boulder. One of the street boys took her place. He was shirtless, with long, dreadlocked hair. His dance was a lament.

  “I have a brother,” I replied, as though that was some kind of answer.

  “Okay.” Galway was the first person I’d told since I came East. He nodded as though he understood it was grave news, even though he knew nothing of its content.

  “And he … he taught me what I am. Not exactly that I’m bad, not exactly that, but that I can be. That I am capable of … what other people aren’t.” I knew what I was saying was cryptic and hard to follow, but I also knew that I had to say it. Galway deserved an out.

  He took my hand. “Well, I know you’re not nothing. And that you’re not bad.”

  It was too late. I had wanted him and now I was going to get him. There were so many things I could have said then, but they would have fallen from my mouth like burned ash, collapsing into sorrow, changing forever how Galway could know me. Instead, I decided to take what I wanted. I squeezed his han
d back. We sat together and watched the boy fall upon the brickwork, in an ecstatic mock seizure, until he was replaced by another dancer, then another, then another, until the Christmas lights above us were switched off and Galway drove me to Bittersweet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Scene

  Lu knocked on the screen door with the good news that the wind was gone. She managed to convince Ev to come too, and the three of us set out for Flat Rocks just as the midday sun broke through the cloud cover—Lu in her bikini, me in my L.L.Bean tummy tucker, and Ev in a button-down shirt to hide the baby belly I’d hardly noticed but she insisted, once Lu was out of hearing, would give her pregnancy away.

  The day was made for Flat Rocks. The calm lake was warm enough to float in languidly for hours. There was plenty of dry rock, now that the waterline had fallen, for all the Winslows to spread their towels. And the sun cast enough heat so that one could spend hours on end outside, as close to naked as propriety would allow. As the summer had worn on, most of the young parents had grown relaxed about nap time, so the children played all afternoon, uninterrupted by their dozing chaperones at the water’s edge. The little Winslows’ high voices, the hilly hiccups of their laughter, were a sweet counterpoint to the sixth chapter of Paradise Lost, and, once I realized I’d reread the last page a dozen times, I succumbed to the heat of the sun, closing my eyes to a happy glow, and to the memory of Galway’s hand in mine and the realization, all over my body, as the sun beamed down, that he and I were going to touch each other again, with more than just our hands.

  “Hey, guys.”

  I squinted up into the sun to see Galway standing over me. I blushed, at what I’d just imagined us doing together, and the warmth between my legs, and the hungry way he was looking at me spread before him. I sat up shyly as Lu and Ev mumbled their dreamy hellos. He pulled his shirt over his head and sat. I tried not to gape. He leaned his bare shoulder against mine in a private gesture of hello.