“Sam won’t be here and Mom always makes French toast for lunch on Saturdays,” Evan had added, as if Gigi needed any other reason to ride her bike to Beach Plum Island on a day as supremely fabulous as this one, with streamers of white cloud waving across a sky the color of pansies.
Evan liked to draw as much as she did. One day he wanted to create graphics for computer games. Gigi had shown Evan her sketchbook, but so far he’d refused to share anything of his.
“You’ll think they’re stupid,” he said. “Sam does.”
“Sam isn’t me,” Gigi had pointed out. “And Sam doesn’t do art.”
This was true. Sam did a lot of things well. He could run fast and hit balls with sticks, make cool videos, and figure out how to play songs on his guitar after listening to them on the radio. But Sam didn’t do art. And, in Gigi’s opinion, that made Sam nice, but less interesting than Evan.
“You think Sam is less interesting than me?” Evan clearly didn’t believe her.
“Would your own auntie lie to you?” she’d teased, elbowing him in the side.
They planned to look at Evan’s drawings together, before his dad picked him up for the rest of the weekend. Sam would still be at Les’s house, where he’d spent Friday night after practice because he and Les were coming up with a set list for their first show. Gigi had already picked out the perfect performing outfit—a striped blue and white tunic over black leggings, with her rainbow belt—and planned to dye her hair black.
Sam and Evan had talked her into taking out her lip ring, saying they could understand her better when she sang without it. That meant she might be able to wear lipstick for the gig, too, if she could borrow some of Mom’s. Mom had like three hundred tubes of the stuff, so she probably wouldn’t mind.
It was already hot by the time Gigi left her house to ride to Ava’s, but at least there wasn’t much beach traffic in the middle of the day; it was so hot everyone was probably already there. She didn’t mind biking the five miles from Newburyport to Beach Plum Island. She especially loved passing the little airport, where the small planes taking off and landing there looked like toys. She liked cruising through the marshes, too, where the tips of the whispering tall grasses were as puffy as lions’ tails and great blue herons stood at the edge of the marsh, feathers glinting silver in the bright light.
The only part Gigi hated was riding over the bridge. If there were cars, it was hard to stay far enough over and not get mowed down. But she was good about wearing her helmet, not a goofball like some idiot kids. She’d like to keep her brains intact, thank you, especially now that life was way less boring.
Ava was in the kitchen when she arrived, loading the dishwasher. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Go out to the patio where it’s cool,” she said. “I’ve already eaten, but Evan’s out there. Want some French toast?”
“Sure.”
It was weird that Ava’s house didn’t have air-conditioning. Gigi had never been in a building without it. Ava had these giant ceiling fans and every one of them made a different noise. The living room fan looked like palm leaves and creaked. The white kitchen fan fluttered like bird wings. You could tell where you were in Ava’s house even with your eyes closed. Gigi liked the fans and breezes in Ava’s house better than the air-conditioning in her own. She ended up wearing a hoodie inside her own house, it was so cold, but she couldn’t open a window or her mom yelled at her for wasting electricity.
Evan was sitting cross-legged in one of the Adirondack chairs and drawing. Ava’s chairs were wooden and painted a soft green, with stars and moons cut out of the backs of them. Gigi loved them; sometimes she sat out here drawing whenever she was finished with her work in the studio and waiting for Sam and Evan.
Sam wore his hair buzzed short like a jock’s, but Evan’s was longer and straighter than Gigi’s. His bangs slipped over one eye as he looked up and smiled. “I brought it downstairs,” he said, tapping the cover of a black sketchbook.
Gigi held out her hand. “I’m ready.”
They spent an hour examining his drawings. At some point Ava brought her a plate of food and a glass of orange juice; Gigi handled the book carefully, wiping her hands every time she took a bite of Ava’s amazing French toast before touching a new page.
Evan’s book was good enough to be in a museum. He drew cartoons, but not like the ones you saw in comic books. These were detailed pen-and-ink sketches of fantastic creatures and scenery from whole worlds Evan imagined in his head, done in different inks and with such careful details that the signs on the storefronts had letters on them. You could even see things reflected in the eyes of the giant sandworms and ogres.
Evan’s dad showed up after a while. This was the first time Gigi had met him. Mark was pretty cool, a skinny guy with a long face and bony fingers like Evan, but thick eyebrows and a bouncy walk like Sam. He was bald and smiled a lot.
Gigi couldn’t imagine Ava being married. She was so self-sufficient. Not at all like her mom, curled in a ball of grief after Dad died and only now starting to get out of bed on any regular basis. Still, she had been prepared to hate Mark for divorcing Ava, but she didn’t. She found herself smiling back when Mark grinned at her and said, “So you’re Ava’s sister. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
She was relieved when Mark shook her hand and went right on talking to Ava in the kitchen, leaving her alone to nerd out with Evan and finish looking at the drawings. But her relief turned to something dark and shiny and sharp when Mark told Evan it was time to leave.
Evan shut his book of drawings, shrugged, and said, “My dad’s taking us to the Cape to meet his new girlfriend or something. Ugh. Guess that means I won’t see you until Monday.”
Gigi lifted a hand and gave a lame little wave. “Yeah, see you.”
Ava startled her a minute later, coming out to the patio and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Want to take a swim? It’s already broiling out,” she said. “I’m going to dunk my head before it’s too hot to walk on the sand.”
“I don’t have a suit,” Gigi said.
“I can give you a T-shirt and shorts. Come on. Just a quick dip. Then I’ll drive you home so you don’t die of heatstroke on your bike.”
“Okay.”
They walked past the last house before the refuge, then waded into the water. Gigi had never been swimming on Beach Plum Island despite living nearby all her life. There was a steep drop-off, so they weren’t more than a few feet out before Gigi was in over her head. The waves were big and green and humped like a serpent’s back roiling along the shore; the water was so cold, Gigi had to work hard to breathe and her legs and arms went immediately numb.
There was a powerful undertow, too, which was why Mom never let her swim here, only at Crane Beach in Ipswich, where you had to wade out like a mile before you were in water over your head. At Crane’s, the waves were more like ripples in cloth than real surf like here.
Gigi got sucked under at one point and came up coughing and choking, panicked because she couldn’t stand up and certain she was being swept out to sea. Then Ava was touching her shoulder and paddling next to her.
“Just float,” Ava said. “Don’t fight the undertow. Stay on top of the waves.”
Ava held Gigi with her eyes, her eyes as green as the water around them, as if Ava had become part of the ocean, like those selkies who were half-woman, half-seal. She held Gigi up with her eyes and voice until they were both floating on top of the water, rocking like they were lying in a giant cradle, and Gigi wasn’t scared anymore.
“Did Dad ever come swimming here with you and Evan and Sam?” Gigi asked as they floated together just beyond where the waves broke, the sea swelling beneath them like one of Evan’s dragons rippling its back.
“A few times.”
“He must have loved it. Dad hated the pool at the club. He always talked about some lake in Maine where he
used to swim as a kid.”
“Moosehead Lake,” Ava said.
“Right. Did he ever take you there?” It wasn’t the real question Gigi longed to ask, but she was determined to lead up to it; out here, with the two of them alone in the ocean, it finally seemed safe to ask.
“No,” Ava was saying. “Dad always talked about taking a vacation on Moosehead, but Mom never wanted to go there. Too close to the town where they grew up, I guess. Though that’s where she ended up living at the end.”
Gigi noticed Ava’s mouth tightening and felt terrible. She’d forgotten Ava’s mom had died in Maine. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago,” Ava said
Gigi knew she didn’t mean it. She could tell by Ava’s expression, by the way her green eyes looked like someone had drained the light out of them, that her grief for her mother was with her every day. Gigi understood; she felt that way about Dad. She supposed you never stopped missing the only people who’d known you all your life.
Her face was so numb with cold that her skin burned hot and she imagined her lips had turned purple. It was hard to speak because her teeth had started to chatter, but she made herself keep talking. It might be a long time before she and Ava were alone again. “So did Dad ever tell you about our brother?”
Ava lifted her head out of the water to stare at her. “What did you say?”
Gigi bit her lip. “It’s kind of crazy.”
“Try me.”
Now Gigi felt nervous. Maybe telling Ava this would ruin everything. What if Peter was dead or something shitty like that? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Ava.
On the other hand, Dad had wanted Gigi to find Peter, and Ava was the only one who might help.
Gigi rolled onto her back, took a deep breath, and said, “Just before he died, Dad told me I had a brother. A brother older than you. His name was Peter.” She pressed two fingers to her salt-burned lips, then added, “Dad wanted me to find him and give Peter a message.”
“Peter,” Ava said softly, as if the name were a prayer. “What kind of message?” Her green eyes were so wide that Gigi could see herself reflected in them, like the eyes of the mythical creatures in Evan’s drawings.
Gigi frowned, trying to remember the exact words. “Dad wanted Peter to know he loved him and it wasn’t his choice to do whatever he and your mom did, even though something was wrong with him.”
“Something was wrong with who? Dad or Peter?”
“Peter. From the beginning, Dad said.”
By this time they had floated close to shore. “Come on,” Ava said. “I can’t concentrate out here. I’m too cold. And I need to hear this again.”
Back at Ava’s, they used the outdoor shower to rinse off before changing into their clothes, Ava upstairs and Gigi in the downstairs bathroom. The bathroom was so small that Gigi had to practically keep her arms pinned to her sides when she turned around, but she loved the tiny hand-painted sink Ava had made for the corner. She ran her fingers through her hair, her skin still stinging with salt.
After Ava had joined her outside, carrying her wet towel to hang on the line, Gigi said, “You know, even if I don’t really have a brother, I’m glad you’re my sister.”
Ava’s smile was quick and very white against her sunbrowned skin. “I’m so glad you’re my sister, too.” She sank into the other Adirondack chair, her long wet hair spread like seaweed across her tanned shoulders. “Now tell me again,” she said. “Everything Dad said.”
Gigi did. “You don’t think he was imagining things?” she asked afterward. “Did Dad tell you about Peter, too?”
Her sister’s face was a mask of concentration, her mouth a thin line, her eyes narrowed and serious. “Yes, but he never gave me any details. I thought he must have been out of his mind on drugs to say something that weird. Now I don’t know.”
“Me, either,” Gigi said, mainly because she wanted to agree with Ava, even though she didn’t really think her dad was lying or confused.
Ava shook her head so hard that droplets of water from her hair stung Gigi’s face. “I can’t believe my mother wouldn’t have said something to me about having another baby. Maybe Dad had a baby with another woman. Or maybe he was confused and talking about his brother, who died ages ago. People’s memories aren’t too reliable when they’re on certain drugs.”
“No. Dad said he had the baby with your mom. He never seemed out of it, either. So why would he be confused about having a son?” Gigi had a headache; she was concentrating so hard. “What was Dad’s brother’s name? Was it Peter?”
“No. John.”
Gigi noticed that Ava was pressing her fingers to her lips just like Gigi had been doing a minute ago. She wondered whether this was their dad’s nervous habit and she and Ava had both inherited the behavior. Or had they seen him do it and learned to imitate him, the way chicks imprinted on whatever they saw first when they hatched?
Gigi couldn’t remember her father touching his mouth when he was thinking. Then again, she had forgotten a lot of things about Dad already. Terrifying, to feel him slipping away.
To Ava, she said, “So maybe we really do have a brother named Peter and he’s still out there somewhere! Maybe Dad wanted us to find Peter together. Did he talk to Elaine about it, too?”
“I don’t think so. Did he say anything else to you? Like where Peter’s living now?”
“No.” Gigi’s stomach did an unhappy lurch. “What if it’s too late and Peter’s already dead or locked up in prison or something?”
Ava sighed. “Then that would be horrible. I wonder if Dad told your mom anything about this.”
“I think so, but when I asked, Mom said it all happened too long ago to matter.”
“Maybe to her, but not to us.” Ava stood up. “Come on. Let’s go talk to her.”
• • •
The hairy arm belonged to a man Elaine could have sworn she’d never seen before in her life. Yet here he was, wandering around in striped boxer shorts like it was his condo instead of hers. She must have fallen asleep again, because she hadn’t heard him get up and now it was past eleven o’clock. She hadn’t ever slept this late before in her life, not since having mono when she was a teenager.
The man approached the bed and handed her a mug. “Coffee?”
When she didn’t take it, he set it down gently on the table beside her. It was her special hazelnut; the man had obviously been up long enough to find his way around her kitchen and tame the cranky Barista.
Elaine sat up, pulling the covers up to her chin despite being fully dressed, and stared at the stranger while he plucked a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt off the floor and put them on. Her worst fears were realized when she saw a Habitat for Humanity logo on the shirt. She never invited men to her place until they’d gotten to know each other and established ground rules. And, whenever she did invite a man to stay over, it certainly wasn’t some knee-jerk liberal wearing a shirt advertising a hopeless cause.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?” she demanded.
He raised his black eyebrows and laughed. “Morning, sunshine. I’m Gabe, and I brought you home so you wouldn’t do something you regretted.”
She had already done something she regretted, waking up to find this guy in her bed. Elaine sipped the restorative coffee while studying Gabe under her lashes. He had a kind face and a great laugh, actually, a gravelly, sexy chortle that might have caused Elaine to turn and look at him in a restaurant if she’d heard it.
Of course, they weren’t in a restaurant, they were in her bedroom! And if she had turned to glance at him in a restaurant, she would have looked away immediately to avoid sending false signals.
Gabe was so not her type. Her type was young and sleek, clean-shaven and prosperous. Her lovers went to the gym with the same religious fervor she
did. Or, if not, they trained regularly to compete in some rigorous but acceptable sport. No mountain bikers or skateboarders, for example, but skiers and marathoners were acceptable, provided they had day jobs.
Gabe had no facial hair, thank God, but otherwise there was nothing sleek about him. He wore black-framed glasses, the sort that bass players in funky indie bands seemed to buy in bulk, and his dark hair sprang from his head in corkscrew curls. He was average height, and from his build, Elaine would guess his exercise regime probably consisted of walking to the corner bakery. No potbelly, but definitely going soft around the middle.
He was by far the oldest man she’d ever been with, too. At least forty. She avoided men that age. After a certain age, men came with relationship baggage they were bound to dump out on your living room floor, hoping you’d pick it up and organize it for them.
Yet Gabe’s eyes stopped her. She couldn’t help but linger on his face, on those eyes, lighter brown than her own and warmly affectionate even when he wasn’t smiling. His mouth, too, was appealing, generous and curved in a way that suggested he might laugh at any lame joke. Not because he wanted to make you feel good or anything, necessarily, but because this man genuinely found life more amusing than sad. Unlike her.
“Finish your coffee,” Gabe said gently. “It’ll help your head.”
Elaine surprised herself by obeying, keeping an eye on him as Gabe disappeared from the bedroom again. How did she even know that was his real name? She hoped he wasn’t rifling through her purse. Well, identity theft was the least she deserved for being such a moron and drinking enough to black out.
The coffee was just the way she liked it, black and strong. How had he known?
More important, where did they meet? Where was her car? And how the hell had this man talked her into letting him bring her home and breaking her own rules?
Gabe reappeared, carrying a plate of toast thick with butter and strawberry jam. Elaine’s stomach rebelled at the idea of food, especially carbs. Never mind the gym. She hadn’t even gotten up to walk to the bathroom this morning! Yet somehow Gabe calmly chided her into eating a piece of toast.
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