Sea Change

by Aimee Friedman

  As I sat on the dusty closet floor, methodically wrapping each item in tissue paper, I did feel a twinge of sadness; it didn’t seem right to send away these gorgeous artifacts. Though what would Mom and I do with the clothes? Wear them?

  I stood to stretch my sore back. There was one rod of clothes I hadn’t gone through yet, and I slid my fingers down a paisley-patterned skirt. Isadora would have looked stylish in it, I thought. A gorgeous, high-necked black lace dress with short sleeves and a short skirt caught my eye; the tag inside the collar indicated it might fit me, and I smiled, casting off the what if that popped into my head.

  Then I noticed, wedged into the corner directly behind the dress, a big black steamer trunk. It was battered, and its giant golden clasp was in need of polishing. I figured there were more clothes inside, so I pushed away the dresses to kneel in front of it and investigate. I attempted to pry the lid open, but it wouldn’t budge. I tugged on the gold-colored padlock, hoping it might give, but the trunk was locked tight.

  Determination rose in me as I sat back on my heels, my skin prickling with warmth. I felt I was on the verge of a great discovery, like Alexander Fleming must have felt before he stumbled upon penicillin.

  I knocked on the black lid, eliciting a hollow echo. Would Isadora have bothered to lock the trunk if it simply held dresses? Unless Isadora had nothing to do with the trunk. Unless it had been left in the house by an old pirate. I didn’t want my imagination to go too far, but it seemed half plausible that there might be buried treasure inside.

  Or maybe that was just Llewellyn Thorpe’s influence.

  Downstairs, I heard the front door opening and Mom greeting someone. Probably the repairmen coming to try and fix something, or Delilah coming over for lunch, as she had yesterday.

  A key, I reasoned, patting the floor around the trunk. Every lock has a key. Though hiding the key right by the trunk might have been too obvious a maneuver.

  “Miranda, where are you?”

  I heard Mom’s footsteps on the stairs, and I got to my feet, my pulse racing. I wasn’t sure if Mom knew about the trunk, but somehow, I felt that I should keep it as my secret in the house for the time being—not unlike Llewellyn Thorpe’s book.

  I hurriedly repositioned the dresses along the rod so that they covered the trunk, and called to Mom that I was in the closet.

  Mom opened the door and surveyed the dresses wrapped in their tissue-paper embraces. “You’re making nice progress,” she said coolly.

  I nodded. I couldn’t look at her without thinking of Mr. Illingworth, down on one knee. And I couldn’t stop wondering if, this time, she’d accept a proposal from him. After Monday night, something between my mother and me seemed irreparable, changed.

  “Come downstairs,” she added, turning on her heel to go. “You have a visitor.”

  My heart jumped. Had Leo come to plead forgiveness? Or was T.J. dropping by, perhaps to ask me what I knew of our parents’ relationship? Though Mom might have been more cheery if T.J. were here.

  I wasn’t sure which boy I wanted to see less—or more.

  With a regretful glance down at my black tank top, gray sweat shorts, and Converse, I stepped out of the closet and followed Mom downstairs. My pulse ticked faster with each step as I envisioned Leo waiting in the foyer, his green eyes on me.

  “Where have you been hiding, lady?” CeeCee cried as I entered the foyer. She was closing a white bubble umbrella and wearing a denim jacket over a pink sundress, and polka-dot Wellingtons.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” I replied defensively, my pulse returning to its normal rate. I thought of the trunk upstairs—had it been Isadora’s hiding place? And for what?

  Mom waved to CeeCee and headed into the study. Impulsively, I hoped that she wouldn’t pack up Llewellyn Thorpe’s book. Somehow I felt I still needed it around.

  CeeCee plunked her umbrella into the umbrella stand, shaking out her red waves. Then she gave me a gossip-hungry grin. “Your mother called my house Monday night looking for you!” she whispered.

  I glanced at Leo’s red hoodie on the claw-footed chair. I wondered how CeeCee would react if I told her that I’d been hanging out in Fisherman’s Village with the townie from the marine center.

  “I went for a walk and forgot my cell phone,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Right,” CeeCee said with a suggestive wink. I gulped, wondering if someone had spotted Leo and me. “Anyway,” she continued with a flick of her wrist; her charm bracelet jangled. “I’m heading to the boardwalk to meet Bobby for lunch, but I thought I’d stop in and see what your plans were for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked blankly. My mind was so full of Leo and Mom and Mr. Illingworth that I could barely make room for what day today was. Wednesday, I reminded myself. The marine center was open. So Leo was there right now. If I wanted to, I could walk to the boardwalk with CeeCee and—

  No. Cease and desist.

  CeeCee frowned, clearly not used to being the less forgetful one. “Hello? The Fourth of July?” she said. “Our nation’s birthday? Ring a bell?”

  “Of course,” I said, feeling my face color. The Fourth, with its sparklers and picnics and summertime sense of freedom, was one of my favorite holidays.

  “Every summer the island puts on an incredible fireworks show that everyone watches from the beach,” CeeCee explained. “But this year Bobby said we could take out his family’s boat and watch from the water! Virginia and Jacqueline and all the guys will be there.” She gave me a meaningful look, then took a step closer to me, her rubber boots squeaking on the floor. “I know,” she whispered.

  My stomach twisted into a pretzel knot and my palms went cold. “Know what?”

  “That you and T.J. kissed!” CeeCee’s eyes gleamed. “T.J. told Bobby, and Bobby told me. You were with him Monday night, right?”

  Relief and embarrassment washed over me at once. “I wasn’t with T.J.,” I insisted. “We’re not…dating or anything, I mean, it was just one kiss,” I fumbled, blushing deeper. “And why did he tell Bobby?” That behavior didn’t strike me as particularly gentlemanly.

  “Because he’s into you!” CeeCee exclaimed. “He wants the world to know!”

  I looked down at the compass on the floor, listening to the rain pound on the roof and weighing CeeCee’s words. Maybe our less-than-sizzling kiss had meant a lot to T.J. And maybe he—unlike a certain local boy—saw me as more than a summer fling. It was, in some ways, as simple as a mathematical proof; when it came to the arithmetic of boys, T.J. equaled the better choice.

  “Speaking of kissing,” CeeCee was saying, squeezing my arm. “After dinner with my parents on Monday night, Bobby and I went up to my room and did a lot of it.” She giggled. “And I’ll have you know, Ms. Skeptic, that he is a very gifted kisser, indeed. You know those kind of make-out sessions that make you melt?”

  I felt hot all over as I nodded. Do not think of Leo, I commanded myself.

  “Was it like that with T.J.?” CeeCee pressed, giving me a sly glance.

  Before I could respond truthfully—with a no—it hit me. That was the key! If I did give T.J. a chance, if I focused my attentions on him, then Leo would really recede in my thoughts. Maybe joining the heirs for the Fourth was just what I needed. And maybe I’d even talk to T.J. about our parents’ history, and see what insights—if any—he might have into the weirdness.

  I told CeeCee to count me in for the fireworks, and she gave me an excited kiss on the cheek before grabbing her umbrella out of the stand.

  “We’re meeting at the docks after sunset,” she said as she opened the door. A blast of cool air swept inside. “But you’re welcome to come to my house beforehand to borrow some lipstick or an outfit—if you want,” she amended cautiously, raising her eyebrows at me before she scampered out into the rain.

  I shut the door, considering CeeCee’s offer. I picked a piece of lint off my wrinkled tank top. It was inarguable that I could use some help in the clothes department. I thought of Is
adora’s closet and felt a shiver down my back. Her dresses. The trunk. My heartbeat kicking up, I was starting for the stairs when I heard Mom’s cell phone trill in the study.

  I paused, holding my breath and wishing I hadn’t been reduced to eavesdropping on my mother. It could have been Aunt Coral or Uncle Jim, but I was fairly certain that Mr. Illingworth was calling.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps,” I heard Mom drawl, her Southern accent dropping in for a visit. “I’m so glad you decided not to come over in this rain.”

  Who was Mr. Phelps? Another fiancé? I bit my lip.

  “Thank you for mailing me that paperwork,” Mom was saying. “I’ve been meaning to discuss the market value of the house with you. The interested buyer…”

  Right. I relaxed, feeling foolish. Mr. Phelps was the lawyer who’d been handling the sale of The Mariner; Mom had mentioned his name over dinner my first night here.

  “Yes,” Mom said. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to…” She lowered her voice, and as much as I strained, I could no longer make out her words.

  The very air in The Mariner seemed thick with long-buried secrets. Suddenly, I was more driven than before to find the key to Isadora’s trunk, to at least unlock whatever mystery lay there.

  So, leaving my mother to whisper in the study, I went upstairs to begin my quest.

  Eleven

  MIRRORS

  There was no key.

  That was the conclusion I reached the next afternoon—the Fourth of July—as I emerged from my bath. I let out a resigned sigh and wrapped myself in a towel.

  Yesterday, avoiding only the rooms Mom occupied, I’d explored every nook and cranny of The Mariner, from the shelves in Isadora’s closet to the cabinets in the bathroom, in hopes of catching a glint of rusted gold. But I’d come up empty.

  On the bright side, I’d dreamed of keys and trunks instead of grottoes and kisses. Now all I had to do was enjoy my time with T.J. tonight, and the constant desire to see Leo again would disappear entirely.

  I hoped.

  Padding into my room, I heard early fireworks exploding over Glaucus Way, followed by the cheers of impatient children. The anticipation I always felt on the Fourth swelled up in me as I walked over to the dresser.

  That morning, Mom and I had taken a terse, silent walk to the gourmet market and found the town dripping in red, white, and blue. The scents of grilling meat and mesquite competed with the salt water and flowers, and the sunny skies felt like a holiday gift. It was hard to stay angry on such a day; on the way back to The Mariner, laden down with groceries, both Mom and I were more relaxed. Mom had even made a joke about the number of Confederate flags that hung alongside American ones. Still, things between us felt awkward, and there was no talk of T.J. or his father.

  I pulled open each of the dresser drawers and stared dejectedly at my clothes. The hole-y skirt I’d worn to the Heirs party was out of the question, and nothing else I owned would probably be dressy enough for Bobby’s boat.

  My gaze strayed down to my bare feet, and then I quickly glanced up at the mirror above the dresser. My hair was in a towel turban, which made my dark eyes look big, and my skin was flushed from the heat of the bath. I remembered how Leo had looked at me after the storm. I wished I could see myself as he had, but then I reminded myself that he’d probably been faking his admiration to get me back to his house.

  I peered closer at my reflection. My eyelashes were too short, my brows too heavy, my lips too pale a pink. I recalled T.J.’s comment about The Mariner needing sprucing up, and felt a sudden surge of resolve.

  If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right.

  “Mom?” I called five minutes later, trotting down the stairs in jeans and a button-down shirt, my hair up in its usual ponytail. “How do I get to CeeCee’s house?”

  Mom, at rest for once, was out on the back porch, reading the Tuesday Science Times section of the New York Times; she’d redirected our subscription to The Mariner for the month. I was grateful for that and had read an article about in vitro fertilization over breakfast. I’d been starved for science.

  Mom looked up at me, pushing her sunglasses onto the top of her head. “Why the sudden urge to see Ms. Cooper?” she asked, a smile on her lips.

  I told Mom about my plans with the young heirs—excising T.J.’s name, although it was certainly implied—and her face lit up. She told me that she, too, would be watching the fireworks, only from the beach with Delilah and “some friends.” The unspoken implication on her end also seemed to include an Illingworth, but I was thankful that she didn’t mention him by name.

  Mom told me the directions to the Coopers’ house and then stood up. “Hang on,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her loose linen pants. “I have something for you.”

  And she withdrew a golden key.

  My heart stopped. How on earth—

  “I made you an extra one,” Mom said, giving me a contrite smile. “I figured you might be out late tonight, so…”

  I resumed normal breathing. Okay. It was the key to the front door, not to the trunk. And it was Mom’s way of showing that my unofficial grounding was over, for now. So I thanked her, took the key, and was on my way.

  The Coopers’ home was a short walk from The Mariner, and though the afternoon was steamy, I’d barely broken a sweat by the time I reached Poseidon Street. The house was a smaller, better-groomed version of The Mariner, with a neatly trimmed lawn, modern-looking floor-to-ceiling windows, and a pool glimmering in the backyard. I rang the doorbell, a little worried about stopping by unannounced. Mom had assured me that people did that all the time on Selkie, but I felt I should have called CeeCee first. I was prepared to apologize to Delilah or CeeCee’s dad as soon as they answered the door.

  However, the door was opened by a diminutive woman in a maid’s uniform who introduced herself as Althea. I was startled; I’d thought that housekeepers or butlers only answered doors in, like, nineteenth-century manors.

  When I explained that I was there to visit CeeCee, Althea led me through the pastel living room. Delilah was reclining on the sofa with cucumber slices over her eyes, and when I passed by, she lifted one slice and said that she was looking forward to seeing my mother that evening. CeeCee’s dad was glued to a golf game on the plasma television and looking even more walruslike than I’d remembered.

  I followed Althea upstairs to CeeCee’s bedroom door, which was plastered with snapshots from what had to have been last summer: CeeCee, Virginia, Jacqueline, T.J., Bobby, Macon, Rick, and the others, all equally suntanned and photogenic, all laughing and sprawled across beach towels. The sight of those photos made me wonder if I should have met CeeCee on the docks later—or better yet, spent the Fourth at The Mariner.

  But then CeeCee pulled the door open—and shrieked.

  “I can’t believe you came!” she cried. She was clad in nothing but a beige bra and rose-trimmed panties but seemed utterly unabashed. She took my wrist and drew me into her room, which was decorated in shades of purple and smelled of her flowery perfume. After the past couple days alone in The Mariner, there was something immediately comforting about entering this bubble of femininity.

  Virginia and Jacqueline, wearing colorful sundresses and licking lemon Popsicles, were lounging on what I guessed was a queen-sized bed—it was difficult to tell because it was covered in clothes. More clothes were strewn across the floor, and CeeCee’s vanity was hidden beneath mountains of beauty products. An iHome blasting pop music rested precariously on a stack of pink and green paperback novels. I thought of my well-organized, orderly bedroom back in Riverdale—“freakishly neat” Linda had called it. CeeCee was on the opposite end of the freak spectrum.

  “Althea, would you bring up some more Popsicles?” CeeCee demanded before shutting the door in Althea’s face. I cringed, and CeeCee glanced at me, smiling. “We’re so lucky that she comes out with us every summer,” she remarked.

  “What are you doing here, Miranda?” Virginia c
alled from the bed. I turned around and saw that she looked less primped than usual; her mascara was smudged around her eyes, her turquoise halter dress was a little rumpled, and her expression was stormy.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Jacqueline said, swatting Virginia’s shoulder with her Popsicle. “She’s in a mood because she had a fight with Rick.”

  “She’s mullygrubbing, as my grandma might say,” CeeCee giggled, walking over to her vanity. “Feeling sorry for herself.”

  “I didn’t have a fight with Rick,” Virginia countered while I struggled not to think of my fight with Leo. “He was hooking up with trampy Kay McAndrews, so we’re over. The truth is, I could do much better than him. I’m out of his league.”

  “Well, your family has more money than his, if that’s what you mean.” CeeCee laughed, and then turned to me. “Okay, wait,” she said. “Why did you decide to come, Miranda?” She raised her eyebrows hopefully at me, as she had yesterday.

  I shrugged off any lingering doubts. “CeeCee, I want you to…” Make me over sounded too definitive. Besides, I didn’t believe that a person could truly be made over, metamorphosed. That kind of change only happened in nature—a pupa turning into a luna moth, a chameleon browning against a tree. “Lend me some clothes,” I finished.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” CeeCee sighed, beaming, and Jacqueline bounced off the bed, offering to help. Virginia, though, just bit off a huge chunk of Popsicle and opened one of the magazines that was scattered across the bed.

  Murmuring and clucking like mother hens, CeeCee and Jacqueline began plucking summer dresses from the floor and holding them up against me. I stood still, feeling like a lab rat.

  Before leaving The Mariner, I’d considered bringing along some of Isadora’s dresses, then decided that would seem sort of spooky. But as pretty as CeeCee’s dresses were, none of them held the retro magic of Isadora’s. I liked Isadora’s clothes for the same reason I liked to shop in vintage stores: Each item had a history.