Summer with My Sisters

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Poor Violet. Anyway, I’m not sure it’s considered a road trip when you’re with your parents. I think road trip implies you’re with your friends.”

  Daisy laughed. “Then the last time was when you and I went to that awful county fair.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t my idea. You made me take you.” Joel turned to Evie. “It was really pathetic. Two skinny cows, a mangy workhorse, carnival rides from like the last century, and the only stuff to eat was greasy fried dough.”

  “And cotton candy,” Daisy added.

  “Blue cotton candy. What’s that about?”

  Evie smiled and tried to seem interested in her friends’ banter. As long as they didn’t ask about her own road trip history. She didn’t feel up to constructing another lie. Because she was sure that a few weeks alone on the road, on foot, didn’t count.

  “Hey,” Joel said. “Big news. I’m applying for this scholarship my sax teacher told me about at my last lesson. It’s huge, ten thousand dollars toward private lessons with staff from the Berklee College of Music. There’s a lot of competition, but with a little luck I just might get it.”

  “Joel, that’s amazing!” Daisy cried.

  “It’ll be amazing only if I get the scholarship! I know a life in music is going to be hard, but it’s not like I need to be famous. I just want to play music and make enough money to go on playing it.”

  “Well, I’d offer to lend you money, but when I’m a doctor I’m pretty sure I’ll be paying off student loans until I’m ninety!”

  “We’ll both be living lives of sacrifice for our art! So, Evie,” Joel asked, “what do you want to do with your life?”

  Evie felt as if she had been slapped. How could she possibly answer that innocent but devastating question? She had no education, no family, and no money. She had no right to dream about her future. Once, before the accident, she had thought about teaching language or going into the field of diplomatic relations, but now . . . Now survival seemed her only goal.

  “Oh, Evie,” Daisy said quietly. “I’m—we’re—so sorry.”

  Evie shrugged. “It’s all right.”

  “I’m an idiot,” Joel said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Really,” Evie lied, “it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’ll . . . Don’t worry about it.”

  Daisy looked to Joel. “We should probably go. I told Poppy that I’d . . . that I’d do the laundry.”

  Evie turned toward The Clamshell. “Yeah. My fifteen minutes is up anyway. . . .” With a halfhearted wave, she left Joel and Daisy and went back to work. She loved her new friends—she thought that love was the right word—and she didn’t know what she would do without them. But sometimes, it was very hard to spend time with them. Pretending to be just like them—pretending to be just an average kid—was so terribly tiring.

  Yes, Evie thought, opening the door to the restaurant. She would back out of the trip to Portland at the last minute.

  Chapter 63

  Violet was examining a basil plant in the garden when she heard Grimace hiss loudly. She stood up and saw that her sister’s friend Ian was standing a few feet away, his hands in the air as if in surrender. Grimace was staring up at him, fur on edge.

  “He doesn’t like you,” Violet stated unnecessarily, as she scooped up Grimace. He sat heavily in her arms, glaring fixedly at Ian.

  “Well,” Ian said, lowering his hands, “I don’t like him, either.”

  “He knows. He doesn’t care.”

  Ian grinned. “Do you like me?”

  “Not really,” Violet said promptly. “No.”

  “Really? But I’m such a likeable guy.”

  “Not to me, you’re not. But it doesn’t matter because you don’t like me, either. Not everybody likes everybody. It’s perfectly normal.”

  Violet went back inside the house, leaving Ian to process her last words. She deposited Grimace on the kitchen floor next to his bowls of food and water and went to the fridge in search of grapefruit juice.

  She wondered what her sister had ever seen in Ian. He was so . . . so insubstantial. She had heard Poppy telling Allie that there was absolutely no romantic attachment between them any longer. Which Violet thought was a good thing, but she couldn’t at all figure out why Poppy still considered Ian friend enough to invite him to stay in their home. It was a puzzle all right, one Violet, for all of her uncanny insight into the workings of the human heart, simply couldn’t solve.

  Daisy came bounding into the kitchen, knocking into a chair as she did. “Ow. Guess what?”

  “About what?” Violet asked reasonably. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral? Past, present, or future?”

  “Never mind. Joel and I and our friend Evie are going to Portland one day next week. Do you want me to bring you anything from that stone shop you like? Stones ’n’ Stuff. It was really nice of you to get me that piece of stained glass at the craft fair. I’ve never seen such a bright green.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Violet said. She had bought an abstract piece for Poppy, too, and for herself she had chosen the image of a black and white cat bearing an uncanny resemblance to Grimace. Since she had hung it in her window, Grimace had spent many hours staring at it. “But no thanks. I like to choose my own stones. A stone speaks to me and I bring it home.”

  Daisy shrugged and took an apple from the bowl on the counter. “Okay. But if you change your mind . . .”

  “Daisy,” Violet asked, “why hasn’t Evie ever been to the house? None of us have met her.”

  “I’ve asked her a few times, but she’s pretty much always working. She makes me feel lazy!”

  “She can’t work at night. The Clamshell closes at seven. Does she have a second job?”

  “No. But sometimes she stays at The Clamshell to help close up.” Daisy shrugged. “Maybe Mr. Woolrich gives her some extra money.”

  “She lives all alone at that artist’s house? The big house with the tower?”

  Daisy chewed the last bite of her apple and tossed the core in the small compost bin by the sink. “Yeah. Violet, why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I’m just curious,” Violet said. “Where’s she from?”

  “Um,” Daisy said, going over to the fridge and staring in it. “I forgot. Somewhere in New England. Vermont, I think. Maybe Connecticut.” Daisy shut the door to the fridge and wandered over to the cupboard where they kept things like chips and cookies.

  “Is she going back to school in the fall?”

  “She’s out of school. I mean, she graduated high school.”

  “Oh.”

  Daisy shut the door to the cupboard and turned back to Violet. “Violet, why is any of this your business?”

  “Were the questions too personal?” Violet asked. She thought they had been fairly neutral, but her social perception was pretty off lately. . . .

  “No. It’s just . . .” Daisy sighed. “Evie’s a private person, okay?”

  “Okay.” Violet might have asked one more question, but the sudden arrival in the kitchen of Ian prohibited her.

  “What’s up, ladies?” he said, casting a wary eye toward Grimace, who was chewing noisily.

  “Ladies?” Daisy said with a laugh. “Could you be any more condescending?”

  Ian opened the door to the snack cabinet, as Daisy had done a moment earlier. “So you’re not ladies,” he said. “What are you then? Chicks?”

  “Women,” Daisy retorted, going over to the cabinet and shutting the door against Ian’s gaze. “People. Human beings. And how about paying for some of the food you’ve been consuming.”

  The sudden look on Ian’s face—a flare of fury, Violet thought; she suspected he was going to say something really nasty—made her step between him and her sister.

  “Are there any peanuts in there?” she asked, reaching up to open the cabinet again. “I really love peanuts. I think peanuts are pretty much everyone’s favorite nut.”

  It was lame, but it worked. Ian turned and left the kitchen witho
ut another word, followed a moment later by Daisy, who once again knocked into a chair on her way out.

  Suddenly, Violet felt enormously tired. People could be such a drain on her energy. She wanted to like them all and to help them, but more and more she was feeling the need of someone to help her. Grimace, finally finished with his snack, smashed against her leg in agreement.

  She was, after all, only thirteen.

  Chapter 64

  “Darn,” Poppy said under her breath.

  “What?” Ian asked.

  “Nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing. It was Jon Gascoyne, making his way through the throng of vacationers crowding Main Street. Of course she had known there was a chance she and Ian would run into him. But she had hoped very hard that they wouldn’t.

  “Fancy running into you,” Jon said, joining them where they stood in front of the homemade candle shop. He was wearing a pair of knee-high rubber boots over a pair of work pants and a sweatshirt that had seen better days.

  “Hi, Jon,” Poppy said. “This is an old friend, from Boston. Ian. Ian, this is Jon.”

  Jon put out his hand and Ian shook it. “Hey,” Ian said.

  Poppy thought she saw a look of disappointment flit across Jon’s face. She wondered if he thought she was dating Ian. Please don’t let him think that!

  “Have you been to Yorktide before?” Jon asked into the silence that had followed the handshake.

  “When I was a kid, I think. I don’t really remember. Guess it didn’t make an impression.”

  “Ian’s just up for a few days,” Poppy said.

  “Are you showing him the sights?”

  Poppy laughed. Why am I laughing? Because this is a little nightmarish farce. “I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good tour guide.”

  “You should at least see the Nubble Lighthouse,” Jon suggested. “It’s very popular and for good reason.”

  “Not really a fan of lighthouses,” Ian said, looking off over Jon’s shoulder.

  “Well,” Poppy said, “we should . . .”

  Jon nodded. “Enjoy your stay, Ian.”

  Ian didn’t reply. Poppy watched as Jon walked toward his truck, parked outside the drugstore.

  “When do we eat?” Ian asked.

  “So, what’s he do?” Ian asked, taking a long swallow of his beer.

  “Who?” Poppy asked.

  “The guy we ran into earlier. The Gorton’s Fisherman.”

  Poppy stiffened at the implied insult. “Jon. A lot,” she said. “He’s a lobsterman primarily. His parents own a restaurant and a fish market and he works at both of them. And he’s involved with town stuff.”

  “He’s a politician?” Ian said with ill-concealed disdain.

  “No. I mean, he and his family are—concerned. They do good things for the town. They volunteer and contribute. They give back.”

  “Sounds pretty dull to me, but whatever floats the lobsterman’s boat. What does his wife do, weave his nets and scale his fish?”

  Poppy wondered. What would Jon’s wife do, besides be thankful she was married to such a good man?

  “He’s not married,” she said shortly.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” Ian said, clearly bored with the topic of Jon Gascoyne. “I feel like I’m growing barnacles hanging around the house every night after dinner.”

  “There’s not really much to do at night in Yorktide,” Poppy told him. “But there are a few clubs in Ogunquit.”

  “That’s cool. I hope they stay open past eleven.”

  “They do, but I think I’ll pass, Ian. I’m not really into going to dance clubs these days.”

  “Sleepy small-town life affecting you? Tucked up in bed by nine?”

  Was it even worth reminding him that she was still in mourning for the sudden loss of her father? Was it even worth pointing out that she was responsible for two minors now? Was it even worth trying to explain to him that she was changing and hopefully for the better?

  No, Poppy thought. It probably wasn’t.

  “Early to bed and early to rise,” she said with a false smile.

  “I’ll do a shot for you,” Ian promised.

  “I don’t drink hard liquor. You know that.” But of course he wouldn’t have remembered.

  And then she realized that Ian would need the alarm code if he were going to be out late. Well, there was no way she was going to give it to him. She doubted he was clever enough to have any criminal intentions, but she wasn’t going to give him the gift of her trust. She would have to wait up until he got home from wherever he had gone, let him in, and then set the alarm....

  She wished she hadn’t invited him! But she couldn’t just throw him out. Her parents had been very firm about the courtesy one showed to guests, especially those one had invited. Again she wondered how long it was before she could politely ask him to leave. Where was Emily Post when you needed her?

  Ian was regarding her over the rim of his almost-empty glass.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You’ve changed since you left Boston. Where’s the Poppy I used to know?”

  “Gone.”

  “But not forgotten, I hope.”

  Poppy shrugged. What was there to remember?

  “You’re less . . .”

  Poppy didn’t prompt him. What he thought of her didn’t matter in the least. Besides, she was not less anything. She was more of a complete person. “Let’s get the check,” she said, gesturing to their waiter. “I’ve got things to do at home.”

  Chapter 65

  In the end, Evie hadn’t the nerve to back out of the road trip to Portland. Joel and Daisy were so excited about the excursion that Evie thought her pulling out at the last minute might ruin their fun. Besides, they would probably know she was lying about having a stomachache or whatever ailment it was she claimed to be suffering. Joel and Daisy knew she was a liar.

  The ride north on 295 had been difficult for Evie, as she had known it would be. She sat in the back, behind Daisy in the passenger seat, her seat belt securely fastened, clutching the armrest, and hoping that neither Joel nor Daisy would notice her distress. Neither had. At least, neither had said anything.

  When they reached the city, Joel put the car in a municipal lot and steered them in the direction of Deering Oaks Park, where there was a music festival happening. Evie had never been to Portland, but Daisy and Joel seemed to know the city well enough not to have to ask anyone for directions. That was good. The last thing Evie wanted was for someone to get a good enough look at her face to recognize her from a missing person poster. Assuming there had ever been any such posters in the city. After all, she had gone “missing” in Vermont.

  They didn’t stay long at the festival. The band that was playing at the time of their arrival was, according to Joel, insanely bad and according to Daisy, insanely loud. Evie hadn’t found them all that bad or all that loud and she would have been happy to sit on the grass and listen for a while, but she tramped out of the park with her friends and on toward Longfellow Square. Beggars, she thought, can’t be choosers. It was something she had heard her uncle say a few times and she had always wondered if it wasn’t in reference to her.

  “Let’s walk down Congress Street,” Joel suggested. “We can grab a slice of pizza at Otto’s on the way.”

  They did grab a slice—Daisy had two—and sat at a small table outside the restaurant, watching people pass by. A fair amount of them had what looked like ID tags hanging around their necks. “Cruise-ship passengers,” Daisy told her. “I guess if they get lost or hurt the police know where they came from.” Evie did not find this idea entirely comforting. There were also a lot of people dressed like the men and women in her father’s office—his former office—dressed. Business casual, it was called. And then there were some people who looked pretty down-and-out. A skinny guy about Joel’s age was sitting against the building next to the pizza place with a cardboard sign on which was printed in spindly black letters these words: HOMELESS. NE
ED HELP.

  “It’s too sad,” Joel said softly. “That guy can’t be older than me and he’s living on the street. We are so lucky.”

  Am I lucky? Evie wondered. How different was her situation from that guy’s? In a way, wasn’t he the lucky one? He had fallen as far as there was to go. There was no more doubt and uncertainty to contend with. While she . . . While she lived every day not knowing how and when she would lose what little security she had. Evie felt sick to her stomach and pushed the rest of her pizza away uneaten.

  “Not hungry?” Joel asked.

  Evie shrugged. “I had a big breakfast.” She would not let her friends see her distress. She would not.

  A girl wearing a pair of short shorts and a torn tank top stopped to talk to the guy, whom she seemed to know. She held a matted-looking dog on a frayed piece of cord. After a moment, the girl sat down on the sidewalk next to the guy. The dog dropped and put his graying muzzle on her lap.

  “That poor dog,” Daisy murmured. “I wonder when he last had a decent meal.”

  Evie felt anger rise in her breast. Why did some people respond with more ready sympathy to animals than to humans in distress? Because there was this underlying assumption even in the best, most kindhearted people like Daisy that a human being in distress could have—should have—prevented it from happening, should have been smarter than to let bad things happen to them. It was entirely unfair!

  Before her irritation could erupt into words, Evie took a deep breath. She shouldn’t assume that Daisy cared more about the dog than about the guy and the girl. Look how generous Daisy had been to her this summer. . . . Still, Evie so wished she hadn’t come along on this trip, but she was stuck now, with no way home—rather, back to Yorktide—unless with Joel and Daisy.

  When they were finished with lunch—and after Joel and Daisy had given the homeless guy and his friend some money—they continued down Congress toward Monument Square. Evie tried to focus on the interesting storefronts, but nothing really held her attention. She just wanted to be—not there. When a police car went speeding by, siren blaring, she threw her hands over her ears and hunched her shoulders, as if these gestures would somehow render her invisible to watchful eyes.