Wild Swans

by Jessica Spotswood

  “Whatever.” Isobel rolls her eyes. Today they’re rimmed in thick blue liner. “This place sucks and I’m too old to be bribed with a milk shake. I want to go home.”

  Gracie looks back and forth between Granddad and me and Isobel. “I miss Daddy, but I like it here,” she says, ever the little peacemaker. Her hair is arranged in two long braids, and I wonder who did them for her—Isobel or Erica? I can’t imagine my mother having the patience to braid her little girl’s hair, but maybe she did. For Gracie’s sake, I hope she did.

  “I’m glad.” Granddad gazes at Isobel as he eats another spoonful of cobbler. “I know this is difficult for you, Isobel. What were your original plans for your summer? Gracie mentioned some kind of drama camp.”

  “Musical theater camp,” Isobel corrects, rocking back on her chair legs. “I’ve gone the past three summers. We get to work with professional directors and choreographers, and at the end of July we were going to put on a production of Legally Blonde.”

  Granddad picks up a stack of papers on the table. “I know it’s not the same, but we do have a theater camp here. It starts next week. Looks like they’re doing Peter Pan this year.”

  “Peter Pan!” Gracie squeals. “You should do it, Iz. That sounds so fun. Maybe you could be Tinkerbell.”

  Isobel glares. “Then you do it.”

  “Well, it’s for ages eight to fifteen, so Grace is still a little young.” Granddad flips through the stack of brochures and flyers. “If you don’t think that would be a good fit, there are other options for us to look at. Gracie, what about you? The Arts League offers some half-day camps for kids your age. There’s language play—that’s like storytelling—and sculpture and drawing and eco-art…”

  Claire was right; I am naive. Because I didn’t see this coming and I should have. I thought Granddad was trying to help Isobel, to give her a reason to get out of the house and make friends instead of moping around. And that may be part of it, but there’s another agenda here too: Granddad’s desire to extend the Milbourn family legacy.

  “I like to draw,” Gracie says, and I can almost hear Granddad’s heart go pitter-pat. Another artist in the family!

  “Do you now?” he asks, and Gracie nods, her blond braids bouncing. “There are all kinds of classes. It doesn’t have to be art. There are ballet and gymnastics and—”

  “I like drawing best,” Gracie insists. “I want to learn how to swim like Aunt Ivy too, but Mama says I can’t. So maybe gymnastics would be fun. I can already do a cartwheel. Wanna see?” She jumps up from her chair.

  “Why don’t you show me later outside? No cartwheels in the house,” Granddad says, but he is positively beaming. “We’ll get you set with those two classes for now, and Isobel, you can do your theater camp, and—”

  “I don’t want to do your stupid small-town theater camp,” Isobel snaps. “None of my friends will be there. Kyle won’t be there.”

  “Kyle’s her boyfriend,” Gracie stage-whispers to Granddad.

  “Well, no, your friends won’t be there. But maybe you’ll make new friends. It could still be fun,” Granddad says.

  “What’s the point? It’s not like I’m ever going to be a real actress. Look at me!” Isobel gestures to herself, the curves of her breasts, her stomach, her hips. “I’m a heifer.”

  “You are not! You’re so pretty,” I say. “You don’t have to be a size zero to be pretty. You could totally be an actress.”

  Isobel slams down her Diet Coke. “And play what? The fat, funny best friend?”

  “What about a different class then?” Granddad is not one to give up. “Do you play any instruments? Or what about voice lessons? That could help you with theater camp next summer. Or dance? Piano? Ivy’s tried all of those. What was your favorite, Ivy?”

  “Um…” All I can remember is the crushing realization in the first few days of each class that I had no natural aptitude for any of them. That none of them were my mythical Milbourn gift.

  Iz stands up, shoving her chair back with a screech. “Look, I’m not a little kid. I don’t want to take any of your stupid classes, okay?”

  Granddad looks at her, bewildered. I’ve compromised. Negotiated. But I never once flat-out refused. “Then what will you do all summer?”

  “I don’t know. Watch TV? Text my friends? Wait for it to be September?”

  Granddad scrubs a hand over his beard. “That’s all?” He sounds horrified. The idea of a truly lazy summer is utterly foreign to him.

  “That’s my plan, yeah.”

  Much like Claire, sometimes Granddad just does not know when to stop. “I don’t believe in wasting a whole summer like that, Isobel. You don’t have to decide right this minute, but why don’t you take a look at these flyers and see if there’s something else that interests you?”

  Isobel looks down at him, her brown eyes narrowed. She doesn’t take the papers. “Do I have to? Is that one of your rules? Like, if I don’t take a class, you’ll kick me out?”

  I hold my breath. I’m not sure which answer she’s hoping for. Which answer I’m hoping for. Even Gracie is quiet.

  “No,” Granddad says. “Of course not. But I’d like you to consider it. Hopefully one of your mother’s job applications will pan out and she’ll be working soon. I’ll be up at the college a few days a week. Ivy has two jobs and swimming, and if Gracie’s at camp—”

  “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” Isobel grabs another Diet Coke out of the fridge. “I’m used to it.”

  Chapter

  Ten

  Connor arrives promptly at ten o’clock the next morning to work on Dorothea’s journals. When he knocks on the door, I can’t contain my smile. Granddad’s up on campus, but Connor’s brought an iced coffee for himself and an iced tea for me. “Nice shirt,” he says, nodding to my blue I Know I Swim Like a Girl—Try To Keep Up tank top.

  In the library, he carefully moves Dorothea’s typewriter to the side and sets up his laptop. Since I’m already familiar with her handwriting, for now I’m dictating and he’s typing. I curl up in Granddad’s armchair, tucking my bare feet beneath me. I’ve always liked reading out loud. Back in elementary school when our teachers used to ask for volunteers, I was always Hermione, waving my hand wildly. Connor’s ink-stained fingers fly over his keyboard. He seldom needs me to repeat myself, only asks me to spell out a few names, references to family or neighbors.

  It’s not until I hear his stomach growl that I glance up and realize it’s almost one o’clock. I close the journal and set it aside. “Ready for a lunch break?”

  “Yes. I’m starving,” Connor says immediately.

  “Me too. And crazy thirsty.” My voice is getting a little husky. I stand and stretch.

  “I could go home and come back in an hour, if that works for you.”

  I walk to the french doors and look out. Rain’s been tapping steadily against the windows all morning. The Bay melts right into the misty sky. “You can stay if you want. We have leftovers. Roast chicken. I could throw together a salad.”

  “You sure?” Connor asks.

  “I wouldn’t offer otherwise,” I reassure him.

  But that’s not true, is it? I say lots of things I don’t mean, especially lately. I’ve always prided myself on being forthright. Granddad raised me to speak up. But lately, it seems like when it really matters, I back off. Back down.

  In the kitchen, I throw an empty wine bottle into the recycling bin. Load a sticky wineglass into the dishwasher. Then I notice that while I’ve been trying to erase any trace of Erica from the kitchen, Connor has been hovering.

  “How can I help?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “You’re a guest. You don’t have to help. Sit down.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t mind. Grams took care of Ani and me a lot when we were kids, and she was big on us helping out around the house. Especially me. Said there was no reason a man couldn’t learn to cook, and she wasn’t going to let me be as useless as my grandfather.�
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  I grin. “I like your grams.”

  He smiles as I hand him the cutting board and a knife. “She used to be a high school English teacher. She read to us all the time. And made sure we spoke properly. I got teased a lot when I was a kid for talking too white. But she’s the only one in my family who gets poetry. Who gets me.” My breath catches at the loss in his voice. I feel a rush of gratitude that, at sixty, Granddad is still sharp as a tack.

  I turn on the radio, tuned to the oldies station that Granddad likes. Connor and I work side by side at the granite countertop, humming along to “Hey Jude.” I cut up the roast chicken and slice a few hard-boiled eggs; he chops tomatoes and peppers and onions. I throw together a quick vinaigrette—Luisa doesn’t believe in store-bought salad dressings—while he slices homemade bread. The only sounds are the rasp of his knife and the swish of my whisk and the patter of rain against the windows. It’s cozy. Companionable.

  Or it would be if I weren’t hyperaware of his every move—the proximity of his hip to mine, his elbow to mine, the rise and fall of his breath. I find myself watching him out of the corner of my eyes, noting the steadiness of his hands. He smells like coffee again.

  Does he notice when I lean over and my ponytail brushes his upper arm? Does he see the flush that spreads across my cheeks when I hand him the bread knife and our fingers touch? Is it totally obvious that I want to put down the kitchen utensils and push him up against the counter and kiss him senseless?

  Why did I tell him that we shouldn’t kiss each other again?

  I hand him plates and silverware, and he sets the table while I mix the salad. We’ve barely sat down to eat when the back door flies open. There’s a rush of rain and wind and—

  Alex.

  Alex stops just inside the door, his dark hair dripping. It reminds me of the night the power went out and I learned Erica was coming home. Was that only a week ago?

  “I-I was just looking for Ma.” His eyes dart from me to Connor and back again.

  “It’s Wednesday,” I remind him.

  “Right. I forgot,” he says, and I wonder if this was just an excuse to come by the house. To see me. Apologize, maybe. His jaw tightens as he takes in Connor and me. I realize we are sitting closer than we need to, side by side instead of across from each other. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Working.” I try to keep the annoyance from my voice, but it slips out. This is my house. I don’t need his approval to have guests over.

  “Working?” Alex doesn’t try to keep the skepticism from his voice.

  I grit my teeth. “Yes. We’re transcribing Dorothea’s journals so they can be archived online. We’re taking a lunch break.”

  “You know what? Never mind. None of my business.” He turns to go, and I leap out of my chair, suddenly, irrationally worried that if he disappears out into the rain I won’t ever see him again.

  “Wait, I—” I take a few steps forward. “Alex, can we talk?”

  He hesitates in the doorway, then turns and walks past us, down the hall toward the library.

  “Connor, I’ll be right back. I’m sorry. I need…” I trail off, because how does that sentence end? I need to fix this? I don’t know if that’s possible. I need to apologize? I don’t have anything to apologize for.

  Alex is pacing in front of the french doors. “What do you want?” he asks without turning to face me. “I’m sorry for interrupting your date, okay?”

  “It’s not a date.” I wish it were. But it’s not. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “No.” He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Well, what are you then?” I tug on the sleeve of his T-shirt, and he jerks away as if my touch hurts him. As if I hurt him. Alex and I touch each other all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. Except maybe it did—does. To him. My throat knots.

  “I don’t know what I am, Ivy. Not everybody wants to sit around and talk about poetry and feelings all the time, okay?” he snaps. “Maybe I am mad at you. Maybe I’m mad at myself for not listening when you told me no the first time. Maybe I want to punch that guy in the kitchen and it’s taking a lot of my energy not to do that.”

  “This isn’t about Connor,” I say. “This is about us.”

  “There is no us,” Alex says. “You made that pretty fucking clear.”

  I take a step back. We’ve had fights before, but not like this. “You’re my friend. One of my best friends. That doesn’t have to change.”

  He shakes his head. “You think your boyfriend will be okay with me coming over for movie night and putting my arm around you when you’re scared? Giving you a massage when your shoulder hurts? What about helping you put on sunscreen? Holding your hand?”

  I bite my lip. “He’s not my boyfriend.” But I know that’s missing the point. Those things were kind of boyfriend things. More-than-friend things anyhow. I guess I never thought about it that way before.

  “You’ve been avoiding me. I haven’t seen you for four days,” I point out. “That’s not like us. We have an argument, we talk about it. We work things out.”

  Alex’s shoulders are rigid. “I don’t know what us is anymore. I think I need some time.”

  “Time?” The knot in my throat twists. Why does it feel like we’re breaking up? “How much time?”

  “I don’t know, okay?” Alex has never talked to me like this before, like everything I say is stupid and frustrating. “A while. I can’t see you every day. I can’t watch you making out with some other guy. I can’t go swimming with you and hang out and have dinner here like I’m part of the family.”

  “But you are family,” I whisper, my voice wobbly.

  “I’m not.” His brown eyes are angry. “I need some space, okay? Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  He storms out the french doors into the rainy backyard without waiting for a response and I’m left curling into myself, blinking back tears. “Okay.”

  I count to ten. Take deep breaths. Then I paste on a smile and walk back into the kitchen, more apologies at the ready. Connor is scribbling in a little Moleskine notebook. His handwriting is cramped and messy, slanted a little. He caps the pen and closes the notebook before sliding them into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “Is everything okay?”

  I nod, sitting down and picking up my fork. “Great.”

  “Sorry if I caused another argument between you and your…friend.”

  The way he says friend, the hesitation, makes it clear what he thinks. I fiddle with my fork, remembering how I let Alex drag me away on Saturday night. How Connor’s grin faded when Alex took my hand—when I let Alex take my hand, even though I’d been kissing Connor. And now I interrupted our lunch and left him alone in my kitchen so I could argue with Alex. What kind of message does that send?

  “Alex and I are friends. We grew up together.” I explain how he and Luisa moved in when my mother left. “He’s family.”

  Connor shakes his head. “That guy isn’t looking at you like you’re his sister.”

  “Well, I’m not looking back,” I say. “He wanted more. I told him no.” I take a deep breath. “We had a pretty big fight Saturday. He had no right to act like that. He has no say in who I kiss.”

  “Yeah?” Connor’s voice is quiet. His hand rests next to mine on the table. “You said things were complicated for you right now.”

  “With my mother,” I clarify. “And my sisters who don’t know I’m their sister.” I inch my hand a little bit to the left. “I-I thought maybe you were more interested in Granddad than me.”

  Connor laughs, and his hand covers mine. I like the weight of it. The way his fingers intertwine with mine. His eyes linger on me, and I lean in, and—

  The front door bangs open. “Ivy? Connor?” Granddad calls. I love him more than anyone else in the world, but I could about murder him right now.

  Connor sits back in his chair, and I do too, somehow knocking my fork off my plate. It clatters onto the floor. When Granddad comes into the kitchen, I am literally un
der the table.

  “Taking a lunch break? That salad looks good. Is there enough left for one more?” he asks, as clueless as the day is long. He grabs silverware and a plate and pulls out a chair. “How’s the work going?”

  “Um, good,” I say, crawling back into my seat.

  Connor gives me a shy smile. “I think we’re making some progress.”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  The next afternoon, I decide to stop by Java Jim’s after my shift at the library. Their black currant iced tea is pretty good, but mostly I’m hoping to see Connor. After Granddad showed up at lunch yesterday, Connor and I didn’t have another minute alone. Granddad kept telling stories about Dorothea, and then he insisted on bringing out an old family photo album. We looked at pictures of Great-Great-Grandmother, posing next to the roadster that she and two of her daughters would be killed in; Dorothea, standing on the front porch next to Robert Moudowney before he went off to war; Grandmother, playing in the backyard with thunderclouds in the distance.

  Connor was a rapt audience, captivated by the Milbourn family archive. He seems more of a mind with Granddad when it comes to our legacy—that it’s a gift, not a curse; that the Milbourn women were extraordinary, not doomed. But I look at my mother, at Isobel and Gracie, and I don’t know. Will they be okay? Will I?

  I really, really want to believe that it’s me Connor wants and not just a Milbourn. He already has the job; he doesn’t need to kiss me to get it.

  When I texted with Claire, she asked, Why is it so hard for you to accept that maybe he likes you? I didn’t know how to respond. I guess I feel like there must be some catch. Like being me isn’t enough. In this town, I’m never just Ivy. It’s Ivy Milbourn. Everything I do, everything I am, reflects back on my family.

  But Connor smiled at me. He held my hand. He wanted to kiss me, I think.

  I definitely wanted to kiss him.