Be True to Me

by Adele Griffin

  Now he was holding too many things. He reminded me of a bellhop, the way he stood all straight and careful, and he didn’t set down a thing until Carpie pointed him toward the hand-pulled wooden wagons used for carting luggage.

  Gil might have had Carpie by a couple of inches, and he was at least thirty pounds lighter, but the way they stood, they could have been carbon copies of each other. What had Weeze Burke said—Carpie’s sister’s son. I’d never seen any of Carpie’s relatives up here. Certainly no sister. Now suddenly here’s the nephew, a dead ringer for his uncle. It seemed a little messed up that Carpie had never wanted to bring him out here, for the bragging rights alone.

  I pulled out of the bay to sit on the edge of the dock, where I shook the water from my ears. Watching. “Gil Burke, you are hot stuff.” I muttered it the same second that Gil dropped the bags in the wagon, and then turned to look down at me with a huge grin plastered on his face.

  Yeesh, had he heard me? No way. He was only smiling at all the jumpers, all out of the water and shaking or toweling off on the dock.

  I stayed put a little longer, breathing it out. The one-two punch of the jump plus Gil had succeeded in speeding my heart rate. I watched both Burkes as they moved along the walk, Carpie doing his usual strut and backslap as he introduced his nephew to everyone.

  Once they got good and gone, I stood, wringing water from my T-shirt, and walked back to the lookout, where Julia was waiting.

  “You get an eyeful?”

  “Ohhh, yeah!” A grin split her face. This summer’s Julia took some getting used to. Her braces were finally off, and her gorgeous, high-wattage smile now balanced her beaky nose. Julia had a new edge—I’d told her so. Ever since we were kids, we’d always privately, casually measured ourselves against each other. Like, I was the athlete, but she had the voice. She loved romance, and I was gung-ho adventure. She had the height, while I had some curves. She loved my hazel-green eyes, I’d have killed for her icy baby-blues. The only thing we’d ever jokingly decided that we tied for was boobs, although I had more perk and she had more heft.

  We stretched out on the bench for a couple of minutes. “You’re a real daredevil, Fritzie, jumping from the lifeguard chair,” she said, with a light pinch to the top of my thigh. “You gave me a heart attack.”

  “Gil Burke’s also about to have a heart attack, if he hasn’t met Junior yet.”

  Julia snorted. “If I had to spend a whole summer under the same roof with Junior, I’d go bonkers.”

  Junior Burke was a jerk from way back. He was the kid who, a few summers ago, had fed refried beans to the nature center’s aquarium fish, and then laughed while we all went ballistic, watching them die. To nobody’s surprise, Junior had grown up to be the guy whose idea of a perfect day was getting wasted on the yacht club porch, playing quarters and rating girls’ bods on a one-to-ten.

  Nevermind that Junior himself was a four, maybe a six on his best day.

  “I hope Gil is as fine on the inside as he is outside,” said Julia, her hope echoing mine.

  “Me, too.” In some ways, this was already shaping up to be a decent summer for Julia and me. We’d only been here for four days, but we had started our jobs at the yacht club, and we had a whole new kind of privacy from living at the Morgue—the girls’ dorm—instead of our old arrangement, sharing Julia’s bedroom at Whisper, the Tulliver cottage. If we weren’t waitressing or tanning ourselves to a crisp at the beach, we relaxed in our room, splitting cans of Duncan Hines chocolate frosting and watching soaps with the Bay Shore Community College girls, who sometimes handed down their older-girl wisdom, like how it felt to be on The Pill.

  But we also missed Tracy. It was different here without her, and I wished she’d come back. I couldn’t picture her spending the summer auditing classes at Smith. Trace had never struck me as the academic type. Privately, Julia and I had decided the story was bullshit, especially when we called to get her summer address and phone number, and Mrs. Gibbons-Kent told us in a tense voice that she was running out the door and we should ring back some other time.

  All the other summers, Tracy Gibbons-Kent had been our third Musketeer. The Gibbons-Kents were one of those families who did things like fund Sunken Haven’s rebuilding after Fire Island got knocked by a hurricane. Trace had been our girl in the know—she could tell us where the best parties were happening, or which families had easiest access to liquor cabinets, or whose parents were off-island that week, leaving only a babysitter in charge. Also, Trace never hoarded her information, like some of the other Sunkie kids, and without her lead, we’d lost some standing here. Just last night, the clambake had migrated from Barn Meadow to Little Beach to Great South Bay without anyone informing us. Julia and I got there so late that most of the chow was gone.

  It wasn’t like people were giving us a bum steer. It was more like they hadn’t thought about us. Either way, the outcome was the same: We weren’t in the loop.

  Julia packed up the binoculars and together we took the stairs down. “Bet you’ve got a shot at Gil the Thrill at Punch Night.”

  “But you’re the musical one,” I reminded. “You guys could sing duets, fall in love, and become the next Captain and Tennille.” I batted my eyelashes.

  “So funny I forgot to laugh.” Julia made a face. “Anyway, you know I’m into Oliver O. these days. If you and Gil connect, we’re a perfect foursome. How fun would that be?”

  “Maybe I’ve sworn off love forever.”

  “You can’t escape it forever, Fritzie.”

  “Okay, but next time I fall for a guy, it won’t be because people said we made a cute couple or because he’s the quarterback. Next time, I want something real. Otherwise, I’m fine to be single all summer.”

  I’d been speaking to Julia’s back as we trotted down the stairs. We rounded the bend to Bay Walk in time to see Dot cruising off on Julia’s ten-speed.

  Julia sighed. “Crud, all that brat does is kidnap my wheels. And it’s not like I can use hers.” We now considered Dot’s bike, still in the rack, the nubby white tires and banana seat, the dinky pink-and-white daisy basket, the streamer handlebars. “Let me chase her down. Meetcha at the Morgue.” She yanked Dot’s bike out, straddled it, and pushed off into a daddy-longlegs pedal.

  I unracked my own bike, also known as Mrs. Tulliver’s rusty hand-me-down. Having a fine ride wasn’t a status symbol here. In fact, you scored more points if you could freewheel a junker with some skill. I had to admit, I was proud to be in the second category. I could ride this rusty hunk with one hand tied behind my back better than Junior Burke could move his two-hundred-buck Raleigh.

  About a quarter mile up, the path forked into three options; a right onto Ocean Walk, straight on the ridge, or a double-back to the bay.

  It was on the ridge where I caught up with the Burkes.

  Carpie and Gil had stopped right outside the post office. I reeled in, my right foot dragging, bumping to a brake just shy of where Gil was standing in the middle of Sunken Haven’s tiny town center. To one side stood the business office, the grocery store, and the candy store. Across the paved bike path was the nature center. Dr. Gamba’s office-home was around the corner, and the church was on the opposite side.

  With a finger steady at the wagon handle, Gil waited for his uncle, who was walking into the post office. I watched Gil take it all in; the weathered gray-shingled houses, the light push of the wind through the long, wild grasses, the slivered breaks of white foam caps on the deep blue ocean horizon. The way Gil was staring was so sweetly bumpkinish, it kind of reminded me of my very first summer here. As in, was this perfect place for real?

  I’d stopped closer to the grocery store, near some tennis-skirted moms sipping Frescas and smoking. I watched Gil drop the wagon handle and stroll over to inspect the fenced-in nature center, where kids kept their box turtles.

  WE’VE GOT LIVE SCALLOPS! was chalked on their sandwich board.

  I let my bike roll closer. Gil was thinner than Scott Ho
ulihan. Taller, too.

  Suddenly, his gaze focused me with an almost audible click. Like he’d known all along I was sneaking up on him. “Here she is. Queen of the jump.”

  “Yup.” I laughed. “Guilty.” My clothes had dried to the point where they weren’t plastered to my body, but they still gave me away.

  “That was amazing. You some kind of mermaid that only grows here?”

  “Ha, I might be.” The scrape in my voice that I’d hated as a kid, but had recently got me the school nickname “Stevie” after the cute singer in Fleetwood Mac, was working for me right now, I hoped.

  “Naw. Not the way you talk.” Gil reangled his funny straw hat to see me better. “You’re nearer to where I’m from.” His eyes were like dark honey in the afternoon light. “I’m Gil,” he drawled.

  “I’m Fritz. Florida born, Louisiana for now. My dad’s in the army.”

  “I’m Alabama, born and raised. Glad to know it ain’t just me filling the cracker quota.” He was laying on his accent extra thick to make me smile.

  “You’re Carpie’s family, right? You heading over to Snappy Boy?”

  “Uh-huh.” Gil glanced at the post office. “Say, which eleven-bedroom mansion are you camped out in? Bide-a-Way? Seaside?”

  “Not me.” I scoffed. “I’m barefoot and free, unless I’m doing a shift at the yacht club. And I sleep in the Morgue.”

  “Yeah? I’m working some club shifts, too. My start day is tomorrow.”

  “Cool. I’ll be there, along with my best friend, Julia. We’ll show you the ropes. Ninety percent of the orders are for Waldorf salad and a glass of white wine. And if you bring out the drinks quick and cold, along with extra buttermilk ranch dressing before they ask for it, you’ll get a good tip.”

  “Cool. But you sleep in the morgue?”

  I pointed to the candy store. “Just some bedrooms over the store. It’s where they stored corpses during the winter in the olden days. Since the ferries didn’t run off-season.”

  “In other words, it was a morgue?”

  “Yes, but now it smells nice. Like girls.” Was that flirty? Maybe. Gil’s smile made me feel flirty. It sure made me feel chatty.

  “Remind me what girls smell like?” Okay, if I was being flirty, he was being super-flirty.

  “Sugar and spice? Wella Balsam and Lip Smackers?”

  Gil’s laugh was a treat. His eyes were drinking me up. Had I really just told Julia I was fine to be single all summer? I could feel some major butterflies. “So lemme ask you something, Fritz. What’s the straight up with these . . . Sunkies?” In his charming, wide-smiling face, his eyes were alert for my answer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how do you get on with all these Yankee Doodle families that’s been coming out here for thirteen generations of lobster rolls?”

  “This place is a cinch.” I flicked a hand. “You gotta be yourself. Like, just be happy being you. The rest will follow.”

  “Got it.” But I could tell my answer—true as it was—had fallen flat.

  “Also, over the years, I might have learned a trick or two.” I dropped my voice and waggled my eyebrows. “If you want the scoop.”

  “Arright, now we’re cookin’ with gas.” Gil’s nod was a movement through his whole body as he listened. “Tell me.”

  “First thing is, I’ve got a skeleton key opens everything here. Second, I know how to get rid of Sunken Haven bed fleas. Third, I can tell you where’s the best cup of chowder from Ocean Bay to Lonelyville. You need me to keep on?”

  “Fleas? That a joke?”

  “Nope. Standard sand fleas, and all it takes is a strong vacuum cleaner. And my bed’s never had ’em. If that’s a consolation.” Two more flirty points for me. We were grinning at each other like simpletons. I eased my rear end higher up on the bike seat and rolled my wheels back. My eyes couldn’t let him go. “But regular kids and Sunkie families get along fine. You’ll do great. Even in those gym shorts.” I couldn’t resist a tease. They weren’t exactly Sunkie style.

  “But I am Sunkie family,” Gil answered sharply, for the first time seeming a bit unsure of himself. “I’m a nephew.”

  “Gil!” Carpie’s voice boomed from across the path. He was squinting at me, recognizing me by face if not by name—though of course I’d met him dozens of times over the years. “Let’s move along. Cocktails at six.”

  “Yessir,” Gil called. But then he lingered, his gaze spreading over me like melting butter.

  “Gilroy!” Carpie’s voice cracked the whip. Typical. Carpie liked to play the family man, but the minute anything didn’t go his way, he threw worse temper tantrums than a six-year-old. I’d seen Carpie blow his stack regularly at Junior’s regattas. And once, at the yacht club, he’d doused his dinner plate with a glass of water when his steak arrived overdone.

  Sandwiched between Junior and Carp, it might be a tough summer for Gil. I hoped underneath all his Southern charm, he had what it took to deal with it.

  “Catch ya on the flip, Fritz,” he said now, with a quick salute and another heart-melting grin. “You gotta teach me that jump.”

  “Easy breezy.” I’d never been so conscious as today of my accent sounding out of place on Sunken Haven. Army kids moved on base bringing local accents from all over the States. I hardly noticed. But Gil sure had heard mine.

  “All right, then.” That smile. Those shoulders. That slow Southern stroll. Ha—not even Carpie’s purple-faced impatience could make Gil pick up his feet. That boy didn’t need any advice on how to be exactly himself.

  Maybe Gil knew exactly how to stand up to those spoiled Burkes, after all.

  JEAN

  And in that shift, the universe.

  Gil didn’t call me Tuesday, the afternoon he was supposed to have docked. He didn’t call me Tuesday night. But perhaps Tuesday was too soon? He might have needed to get his bearings, unpack, spend some time with Junior, all that. Or possibly he’d ended up having to stay in the city another night?

  At dusk on Tuesday, I strolled the bay and the beach, hoping I’d “accidentally” run into him. My parents had gone off Sunken Haven for an overnight stay, visiting friends on Shelter Island, so I didn’t have any inside lead on the Burkes’ activities from them. It was so frustrating. I tried—and failed—not to think about it.

  Wednesday, I stayed out all day, biking straight from tennis clinic to Sara’s. The Trains were one of the only families at Sunken Haven who had a swimming pool, and the plunge felt perfect on my burnt skin. Afterward, Sara’s mother served lunch on the patio: cold chicken and fruit salad.

  “Jean, did you know about Carpie Burke’s nephew?” Sara asked, startling me as we resettled in lounge chairs with our bowls of mixed berries. “He came in yesterday, and he’s here all summer.”

  So he was here. My breath immediately compressed in my chest. “Gil Burke, you mean? I met him in New York. I heard he’d be out here.”

  “But you never mentioned him once! And he’s so hot! I ran into him this morning, down on the Bay. He was walking with Tiger to teach a Minnows class.”

  “He’s cute, I guess.” My spoon intently chased loose blueberries around the bottom of my glass bowl.

  “More like gorgeous.”

  “If you say so.” I didn’t want to talk about Gil, and certainly not with Sara. It would happen today, I decided. Today, I’d go back home, and he’d have left me a message.

  I returned to Lazy Days late that afternoon, giving Gil all the time he needed to call me. I stared for a long time at the black telephone, that blank telephone pad. Mrs. Otis might not like the phone, but she was scrupulous about leaving messages.

  I could try to justify it, to believe what I wanted, but I knew better.

  Thursday night, there was a Regatta Relays party on the North Bay lawn. It was casual, early enough that there were still lots of younger kids flying around, playing tag and slurping Popsicles by the time I showed up to meet Sara and Rosamund. I wore a pair of whi
te flares and a ruby-red top. If by any chance Gil wanted to find me, he’d be able to spot me from a mile away.

  It was the usual regatta party, a cookout buffet and buckets of beer. Frisbee games on the lawn as the sun went down.

  My neck strained, my eyes seeking him everywhere.

  “You’re here early, Jean. Who’re you hunting down?” Suddenly Junior Burke was at my elbow.

  “Just Sara and Rosamund.” I made myself focus on Junior’s thin, ferret face. “I hear your cousin’s in town.

  “Yeah, yeah. Seems like all the girls have smelled him out. Gil is Dad’s latest renovation project.” There was a whiff of bitterness in Junior’s voice. “And you missed him by five minutes. He and Oliver stopped for burgers, then they took off to pick up their chicks.”

  “Chicks?” The word kicked me in the stomach. “What chicks?”

  Nothing got past Junior. He sensed the press in my question and he let me dangle. Slowly, he drained his bottle of beer.

  “Oliver and Julia are pretty serious,” he said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. But I already knew about Oliver and Julia.

  “And Gil?” I asked, when it was obvious that Junior was saying nothing more.

  “Got it bad for Fritz O’Neill.”

  I made an effort to appear casual. “Oh, really? Since when?”

  Junior made a mock expression of skepticism. “Let me think. Wait, I know! Since the second he looked at her and realized she was the smoking hottest girl here! No offense.” He grinned. “You don’t look happy. Did I put you in a bad spot? What kind of answer did you want from me, Jean?”

  Junior wasn’t too happy, either. He’d had a thing for Fritz since Minnows years. Everyone knew that. Still, there was nothing to say, and so I left him, eventually meeting up with the girls. I drifted through the evening in a lurch of vertigo. The hopeful platform of all my summer hopes had collapsed around me. I inhaled its dust. I endured the party for as long as I could, and then, saying good-bye to nobody—not even Bertie, which wasn’t very nice, but I couldn’t begin to handle Bertie on a night like this—I walked home alone, ate two packages of Pop-Tarts, and slept so late into the next morning that I almost missed my Friday tennis lesson.