by Jen Malone
“I’ll stay with her,” I say. “I could care less about fishing and you said yesterday you were excited for it. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on everyone else, I’ll make sure your grandmother is comfortable.”
Sam is glancing over at his gram when Emma’s voice rings out. “Can we stay too?” She and Mary are standing in the boat.
“What?” I call.
“This beach is one of a kind. I’d far rather stay here and explore than catch stinky anchovies.”
“We will likely not be catching any anchovies, señora.” Even as he shouts to keep those of us on the beach part of the conversation, Marcello sounds amused.
Still, what the guest wants, the guest gets, right?
“Hop out,” I answer. “We’ll have a ladies’ day. Maisy, wanna join us?”
I’m expecting her to say yes on account of her hangover. Quite honestly, I was expecting her to be the one booting up her breakfast. But she’s a stand-by-your-man kinda gal. She shields her eyes with her hand and shakes her head.
“Okay, well, Plan B, I guess,” says Sam. “And thanks, Lizzie.” He squeezes my arm before wading back through the water to grab Emma’s hand, then Mary’s, to help them pick their way toward the beach. When they’ve reached shore, he pushes the boat into deeper water and hoists himself over the side. All the men—plus Maisy—wave as the boat turns and races for open water.
“Well, this is perfectly delightful,” says Emma. “I feel like we’re shipwrecked. Which is much nicer knowing you’re guaranteed a rescue in a few hours.”
She’s right. The beach is totally remote. I can see some of the rooftops of homes far off in the distance but this cove is protected from both the open water and the village. I find a grouping of rocks that look more smooth than jagged and nestle myself into them as a sort of makeshift chair.
“Dolores, is being on solid ground helping?” I ask. She still seems a bit shaken up.
“Oh, I feel fine now. More ashamed than anything else. My behavior was so unladylike. I apologize.”
Mary snorts and Emma laughs.
“Ladylike? Oh, pish,” Emma says. “Who cares about that anymore? I could certainly do without the tattoos on every which body part, but this younger generation is far smarter than ours, with their ‘I’ll be who I want to be and you’ll just have to like it’ attitude. When I think of all the stockings I rolled on and the girdles I wore, just to vacuum the house and make casseroles for my husband, I could scream.”
“Well, I believe there’s something to be said for the way we conducted ourselves, don’t you?” Dolores asks, looking to Mary for backup. “We knew how to be modest, which is more than most young ladies these days can say.”
I try to slink deeper into the rocks as I mentally walk through the hemlines on the outfits I’ve worn so far this trip. I think they’ve been okay?
“Modesty is for the birds,” Emma says. “I am quite through being a proper lady. Would you like to know how through with it I am?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer before struggling to her feet and stripping off her sweater (what is it with old people and their sweaters in the middle of summer, anyway?). Her blouse is next and her pants quickly follow. She stands before us in her bra and underwear.
And then those are gone.
She gives us a defiant look and begins wading—buck naked—into the water toward the waterfall.
The rest of us are too shocked to say anything.
TWENTY-FIVE
Mary recovers first.
With a whoop, she stands and begins stripping as well. My jaw drops. Dolores is practically purple with embarrassment and she’s fully clothed. In less than thirty seconds, Mary is naked too and wading out toward Emma.
Their laughter floats across the water.
I look around, verifying that we are indeed completely isolated. Even so . . . I thought I was the one who was supposed to be young and wild, yet these two are completely putting me to shame.
I scoot closer to Dolores.
“Mary and Emma sure know how to make the most of the moment, huh?” I ask. Here I am alone with Dolores, just like I was dreading. Hanging between us is the beyond-awkward fact that I know that she knows I’ve been making out with her grandson all over the continent of Europe. If she doesn’t approve of short shorts, who knows what she thinks of that.
“They sure do,” she says, and something in her voice startles me. She sounds almost . . . wistful.
“Dolores, did you—do you want to skinny-dip?”
She covers her mouth with her hand. “What? Me? Don’t be ridiculous. I could never do that. I’m nothing like those two women.”
But she hasn’t taken her eyes off “those two women” and her voice goes up a little at the end of her sentence. I think she might actually wish she was like them.
I say, “I mean, if you wanted to swim, it would totally be our little secret. There’s no one around and the guys won’t be back for hours.”
She begins tracing the edges of the rock she’s sitting on with her finger. “I don’t think I have it in me. I’ve never been one to throw caution to the wind. That’s just not the type of person I am.”
Something about that makes me very sad. I think about how much Dolores has hung back on this trip because she has a particular idea about the kind of person she is and the kind of person she isn’t.
“Dolores. Can I tell you a secret? Before I came on this trip, I’d never been anywhere. I mean, seriously. Nowhere. But you know what, I was perfectly fine with that. I was completely comfortable being at home and I thought my life was perfect.”
Dolores nods. “Home sweet home.”
“Right, exactly. And you can’t miss what you don’t know. Except . . .” I lean forward so that I’m facing her. “What if we were wrong?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She looks pained.
“I mean, what if we’re those kinds of people back there but maybe there are other kinds of people inside us and we just need the right circumstances to draw them out? Does that sound weird?”
She nods. “A bit.”
“But what if there’s someone in you who is brave and would want to go skinny-dipping in the Italian Riviera?”
Dolores laughs. “That sounds so Grace Kelly.”
I smile. “Then maybe you can channel Grace Kelly for the day. C’mon, Dolores. I feel like you might regret it if you don’t do it. You could wear your, um, undergarments.”
I can’t say the word bra to Sam’s grandmother. I can’t.
Mary and Emma have reached the waterfall and their squeals carry over to us. I take Dolores’s hand. “I’ll go for it if you will,” I tell her.
Wait, what did I just say?
Dolores studies my hand in hers.
I take a deep breath. “C’mon. We’ll do it together. What do you say?”
This has to earn me a place in the tour guides hall of fame, right? But aside from any job responsibility, it’s somehow really important to me that Dolores does this for herself.
Still, I’m surprised when she says, in a tiny voice, “Okay.”
Okay? Okay. So here comes the striptease with my kinda sorta boyfriend’s grandma. Special.
Except it is. We undress with our backs to each other. I leave my bra and underwear on (just like a bathing suit, just like a bathing suit) and when I turn I see Dolores has too. Even so, I make it a point to keep my eyes averted until we’re deep enough in the water to submerge the parts I can’t wait to have submerged, but before we’re even ankle deep, I’m relaxing. Especially because Dolores is laughing.
Laughing.
Her shoulders, which have been permanently hunched in, like she’s trying to hide herself inside them, are thrown back as she calls to Emma and Mary and lifts her arm to wave. They spot us and shout, beckoning with their hands, so we move in their direction.
By the time we reach the waterfall, all four of us are giggling up a storm, and if I thought back on the boat that I was going
to remember today, I am now positive it is etched in my memory for life.
I’m sure the guys (and Maisy) are wondering why we all look like cats who swallowed canaries when they pull the boat up to the beach a few hours later, but we aren’t talking.
Except for Dolores. She isn’t dishing about the skinny-dipping, but she certainly is newly bubbly on any and every other topic. It’s like she finally woke up from a deep sleep and wants to catch up on all the gossip. She doesn’t look the least bit seasick either. Sam catches my eye as we motor back to Vernazza and mouths, “What’s with her?” I shrug and give him my best Mona Lisa smile. What happens on Cinque Terre beaches stays on Cinque Terre beaches.
I can tell Sam is impressed, though, and that warms me more than the sun-soaked rocks on the beach did. It’s not like I need his validation, but it’s more like, when Sam first got here, he was so at ease and in control, and I was soooo out of my element. Now I finally know what that confidence feels like for myself. A laugh bubbles out of me before I can help it and Sam squeezes my knee.
The next day is our last in Vernazza and we mark the occasion by doing a whole lot of nothing. I play model for some drawings Mary does in her sketchbook, and Emma, Mary, and I have a three-hour lunch in a sunny courtyard. I dash off a postcard to Madison: Remember last summer when you went skinny-dipping with the counselors from the boys’ camp . . . well, I have stories! (Let her chew on that for the rest of the summer.) Sam and Dolores head off to spend quality time together and Mr. Fenton tackles another of the hiking trails, this time up to a vineyard. Hank and Maisy also spend “quality time” together, but we all know what that’s code for. When we meet up for a group dinner of family-style pasta platters later that night, they are still conspicuously absent.
I haven’t had any alone time with Sam on this leg of the trip, other than a few morning hours in the laundromat watching our loads of whites tumble over each other in the dryer and chatting (there’s something to be said about flirting over the folding table), but I’m hoping we can have a little extra time together tonight after dinner. I try to linger after paying the check while Sam attempts to convince Dolores she’ll never get the chance to eat the leftovers she wants to bring back to the hotel, since we have three meals a day booked once we get to Monte Carlo tomorrow.
As I hang back, Mr. Fenton wanders over and plants himself next to me.
“Lizzie,” he says, more a statement than a question.
“Mr. Fenton.” I will say, it’s a little amazing how naturally I answer to Lizzie now, like it’s my real name or something.
I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. I sneak a peek and find him staring at me. “Um, is there something you need help with?”
He smiles at this. “Indeed there is. In fact, I suspect there’s something we can each help each other with and the timing seems right.”
Well, now I’m intrigued. I send one last glance in Sam’s direction, then turn my full attention to Mr. Fenton. “Would you like to take a walk?”
In answer he takes my arm and tucks it into his elbow. Sam looks up and I give him a small wave. His wave back seems a little limp, which I take as a good sign that he’s as disappointed as I am we won’t be hanging out tonight.
Mr. Fenton must notice our exchange because as we exit the restaurant, he says, “Things seem to be going well in the world of young love.”
I’m glad the streets are dimly lit so my blush won’t be totally visible. “I don’t know about calling anything love. I’ve only known him for eleven days. Or so.”
“Not that you’re counting,” Mr. Fenton says. It’s too dark to see his expression, but I can hear his chuckle just fine.
“Anyhoo . . .” I’m desperate to change the topic. “You said I could help you with something?”
Mr. Fenton laughs and it’s a deep belly laugh I don’t often hear from him. “Oh, Aubree. Someday you’ll learn to talk about romance every chance you get. But I’ll let you get away with your evil manipulations. Again. Yes, there is something I’d like to request from you.”
He steers us up a small street that’s really more of an alley, with the houses leaning in just a bit and rows of fairy lights strung across the expanse and looped around second-story balcony railings. A short way up the hill, Mr. Fenton gestures for me to sit on a stoop, then struggles a bit to settle in next to me.
He clutches his knees. “Not the spring chicken I used to be. All that hiking today did a number on these old bones.”
I give him a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
He waves me off. “I’m fine. Just fine. And even if I weren’t it wouldn’t keep me down because tomorrow is the day I’ve been waiting for. For most of my life, I’ve followed all of society’s conventions and been quite content to do so. But I do have a bit of a wild streak I don’t often get to indulge.”
He looks at me and smiles. I’m really wondering where this conversation is going. I think I’ve had enough “throw propriety to the wind” seniors over the last two days to last me for a while.
I exhale when he says, “The thing is, I like to gamble. And, well, the main reason I booked this trip was because the itinerary took us through Monaco.”
“Oh, okay. Are there casinos there or something?” I ask.
“Yes indeed. Monaco has one of the most famous, most glamorous casinos in the world.” Mr. Fenton sighs, like I should have known this already.
“Sorry. I haven’t asked to borrow Sam’s iPad in a few days to research ahead.”
“Why don’t you let me handle the talking on the Cinque Terre–to-Monaco leg?” Mr. Fenton says.
I turn to him with a smile. “That would be perfect. Thanks.”
Mr. Fenton smiles back and then, ever so smoothly, says, “Well, it’s not a freebie. I expect something in return. We’ll pretend you’re one of my students and I’ve got a little homework assignment for you.”
“Um, no offense, Mr. Fenton, but I’m on my summer break.”
“There’s no summer break from the school of hard knocks, Aubree. And if you don’t want to think of it as an assignment, I’m fine with us calling it what it is.”
“Which is?”
Mr. Fenton shrugs and grins. “Blackmail.”
Great. Skinny-dipping grandmas, blackmailing elderly gentlemen, nonstop-sex-having honeymooners. What next?
I sigh. Something tells me I am not going to like this assignment. “What is it?”
“You have to tell Sam who you really are.”
I let my feet thud to the ground. “Mr. Fenton! I can’t tell Sam. Of everyone on this trip, he’s the absolute last person I can tell.”
“I disagree. I’ve seen the way that boy looks at you. He’ll forgive you. He’s an old soul and old souls know their way around forgiveness. I’ve been on this planet a whole lot longer than you and you’ll have to trust me on this one.”
“But, but . . .” I’m having trouble forming words beyond that. After a few deep breaths I manage, “For one thing, there are things you don’t know about Sam that make him way less likely to forgive and forget. Plus, what if he decided to tell his mom and then Elizabeth gets in trouble. Why would I chance that?”
“Two reasons.” Mr. Fenton places a hand over mine to settle me. “One, every day you lie to him is a day your relationship will suffer. And yes, I know it’s only been eleven days, so don’t think you need to remind me.”
He must spot my open mouth, all ready with an argument.
“But when you see it, you know. And you two have something going on that I think could continue past this trip.”
I don’t even know what to say about that since I know I haven’t felt the way I do around Sam with other boys, but there is the small matter of the fact that he’ll probably hate me the second I tell him the truth. I let my thoughts swirl for a while as Mr. Fenton sits calmly next to me.
Finally I say, “I’m not sure I can.”
“And that is the second reason. You say Elizabeth is your
older sister. Is it just the two of you?”
I nod.
“And she’s the more accomplished.”
“She’s pretty perfect. Four-point-oh student, president of every club, never disheveled, and always totally on top of things. She’s never messed up a day in her life.”
“Except for whatever she did to keep her from this trip?”
“Right. Except for that.”
“Hmm. So responsible Elizabeth did something irresponsible?” Mr. Fenton asks.
“Well, yeah, but she didn’t mean to. I mean, it wasn’t even her fault. There were extenuating circumstances.”
“But to get herself in that position, she must have been at least a little irresponsible, maybe made a bad choice. Of which you were understanding. And you forgave her. More than forgave her, I’d say, to be willing to take over this trip from her.” He fixes me with a stare. What is it he wants from me?
“Of course I forgave her.”
“So you can be understanding toward Elizabeth’s mistakes, but not willing to consider that others would be equally understanding about a bad choice you made? A choice that had pure motivations behind it?”
Oh. Yeah, I get where he’s going. But Elizabeth didn’t lie to anyone. I mean, okay, she has me lying for her, I guess, but she didn’t lie every day for weeks straight into the faces of people who trust her. Except maybe Mom and Dad. Sure, but she didn’t lie to a boy who likes her.
“I don’t think it’s the same thing, Mr. Fenton. Anyway, I have to forgive her. She’s my big sister.”
“And you’re the baby sister.” Mr. Fenton looks amused, but it’s not funny to me.
I sigh. “I’m the baby sister.” I try not to think about how much it means to me that Elizabeth start seeing me as something more than that. Which will never happen if I mess this charade up. The avocado pit grows to the size of a watermelon in my stomach. Mr. Fenton won’t really make me tell Sam, will he?
