For Lila, Forever

by Winter Renshaw

  “All right. Fine.” I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. “But the place is beautiful. I meant that part.”

  His smirk morphs into a full-on smile that literally makes me weak in the knees, and he drags his hand through his mussed-up hair.

  “I’ve summered here for as long as I can remember,” he says. I hate that he’s using ‘summered’ as a verb, but I let it slide. “If my family wasn’t freakishly close knit, I’d never come here by choice.”

  I don’t know why he’s telling me this, but I smile and nod like the good little housemaid I’m trying to be.

  “The twins are having a bonfire tonight,” he says, his dark brows arching as he pauses. “It’s on the other side of the east cliffs, just after the sun sets. You should come hang out with us. There’s this little alcove right off the water, and—”

  “—I can’t,” I interrupt him.

  His eyes search mine, and then he squints as if he thinks he misheard me. But from the moment I set foot on this island, my grandparents made it abundantly clear that I’m not to hang out with Mr. Bertram’s grandchildren. They told me I’m here to work and not to play, that it was imperative that we remain professional at all times, and that any trouble I might find myself in would reflect poorly on them—potentially costing them their jobs.

  “Thanks for the invite though.” I turn to leave.

  “You can’t? Or you don’t want to?” he asks.

  I stop again, but this time I keep my back to him. I appreciate his kindness, but this is for the best.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  I close his door behind me on my way out and all but sprint down the stairs. Turning the corner, I nearly run into his mother on my way to the back door.

  “Excuse me. I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Everything okay, lovey?” she calls as I slip my shoes on. I can’t remember her name—only that she’s nice and she calls everyone ‘lovey.’

  “Yep, everything’s fine,” I call back. “Thanks.”

  “Have you seen Thayer, by chance?” she asks.

  “He’s upstairs, I believe.” I tie the laces on my Chucks, and then I’m gone, out the door, heading back to my grandparents’ cottage, which is ironically bigger than the average American house. There’s nothing quaint about it, though I guess when you put it next to The Bertram, The Ainsworth, and The Caldecott, it gives off cottage vibes.

  When I get inside, I kick off my shoes and trek to the kitchen to pour a glass of my grandma’s famous Earl Grey iced tea, and then I collapse on the plaid sofa, watching the wind make the curtains dance and listening to the seagulls and crash of the ocean waves.

  The muscles of my upper back burn, and my knees are on fire. Cleaning all day every day is no joke—and my grandma’s been doing this for decades.

  I think she likes this sort of thing though, being a housekeeper. She likes structure and order and cleanliness and being needed.

  The sound of a chainsaw in the distance is more than likely my grandpa doing one of the zillions of outdoor projects Bertram has him working on. I think this morning over breakfast he mentioned cutting down some dead trees for firewood—aaaaand now I’m thinking about that bonfire.

  I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to go.

  Of course I want to go.

  There are three other people on this island who are my age, and I’d much rather hang out with them on a Friday night than hole up in my new room getting firsthand experience of how people lived before the internet was born.

  Sitting up, I rest my arm on the back of the couch and stare out the window toward Thayer’s house. I can’t quite get a read on him yet given the fact that we’ve had one conversation in the history of ever, but if he was nice enough to try to include me in his plans tonight, he can’t be all that bad.

  But still, I’ve been here less than a week. I can’t rock the boat. I can’t flirt with rebellion. If there’s anything the last several weeks has taught me, it’s that life can get real in a matter of seconds.

  All it takes is one moment and your entire life can change.

  Just like that.

  Chapter 3

  Thayer

  “Thayer, you want to take over once I get us turned around?” Granddad steers us portside as Westley tightens the flapping sheets in the second mast of the ketch. It’s just us three this afternoon on the water. Junie packed us a picnic basket filled with enough food to feed an army, and Rat Pack music plays from the tinny speakers of a portable radio.

  I’m lying on my back, hands behind my head and the sun warm on my face.

  “You need me to?” I ask, sitting up.

  Granddad’s smile fades, and I realize he was only asking because he takes pride in watching me follow in his footsteps in any capacity. He never had a son—but the way he treats Westley and I, you’d think we were his.

  “I got it,” I say, motioning for him to get out of the way as I take over steering duties.

  He moves to the windward side, taking a seat and grabbing the handrail for balance. There’s a look on his face, the one he gets when there’s something he wants to talk about, so I brace myself.

  “So.” Granddad clears his throat. “That girl. That … Lila.”

  “What about her?” I adjust my sunglasses. I’ve done my best this week to avoid being overly friendly, but I couldn’t help talking to her when I came back from my hike and she was in my room. It would’ve been rude not to make small talk when we were in such close quarters, and I refuse to ignore her, to treat her like she’s beneath me just because she’s a housemaid.

  Granddad chuckles. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. Wasn’t born yesterday. I know what it means when a young man looks at a young lady a certain way ...”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He leans forward, elbows on his tanned knees. “She’s a beautiful girl, and I remember what it was like to be nineteen. That said, I just want to make sure you remember our conversation the other day.”

  Westley finishes tightening the sheet and glances back at us, removing his hat and replacing it as he tries to determine if he should join us or not.

  “Granddad, I can assure you I would never create a liability for you,” I say.

  “You’re a good kid, Thayer,” he says, and I cringe at the fact that he still views me as some knobby-kneed, freckle-faced child running around the island. “But you’re young. And you’re naïve. And there’s a lot of life you haven’t experienced yet. All I’m saying is if you’re smart, and I know you are, you won’t waste your time on some meaningless fling. She might be beautiful, but beauty fades and summer always ends.”

  “All due respect, I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”

  He leans back, almost grinning at the water like he’s lost in his own thoughts for a second.

  “Because as different as we are, I still see so much of myself in you,” he says. “And I see a whole future for you that won’t happen if you lose yourself in someone else at your age.”

  “I’ll never lose myself in anyone.”

  He turns back to me, removing his sea-misted aviators. “That’s what I always said too. And then I met your grandmother.”

  He draws in a long breath between parted lips before slipping his glasses back over his nose, and then he lets it go, shoulders sagging. He always gets like this whenever she’s mentioned—contemplative, melancholic. And I get it. She was the love of his life. She was his person, his everything, his soulmate.

  A part of him died along with her, and he’s never been the same since. At least that’s what my mother says. I was only four when Gram passed. I don’t remember much of what he was like before that, but I do have pictures of him bouncing us on his knees, playing “horsey” and letting us try on his skipper hats.

  I know he means well, he’s just trying to protect me from the hurt and the pain he’s been suffering since losing her, so I let the conversation go.


  The gruff old man with the hard outer shell turns his face from mine, and from the corner of my eye, I watch him wipe a single tear from his eye.

  “May I ask if Westley got the same warning or does this only apply to me?” I ask in partial jest, though I’m curious to know just the same.

  “I’ve already had this talk with Westley on three separate occasions,” Granddad snips back, his tone a wordless reminder that it’s none of my business. “Anyway, should we check the lobster traps?” he asks a second later, as if the last two minutes never happened. “Yes. I think we should. And we will. Westley ...”

  The two of them adjust the mainsheet and boom, and I steer us toward one of Granddad’s lobster traps.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent in contemplative silence, Granddad likely thinking of better times with Gran and Westley probably thinking about lacrosse.

  By the time we get back, the sun’s just beginning to set over the water, and once the ketch is stowed away and we head back up to Granddad’s, it’s almost dark and there’s a chill in the air.

  The Twins will be starting the bonfire soon over at the alcove, and I can’t help but wonder if Lila might change her mind about coming and show up.

  I can’t say I’d be disappointed.

  Quite the contrary.

  Granddad can lay down all the laws he wants, but it doesn’t make me any less curious about her. Despite the fact that we’ve spent all of maybe ten minutes around one another total, I can already tell she’s unlike anyone else I’ve ever met.

  On the outside, she’s the quintessential sun-kissed, bleached-blonde Californian, but there’s nothing warm or laidback about her. She’s guarded and distant, but I know there’s something more beneath all of that. All the times she’s caught me staring at her, she’s stared right back—and I don’t even know if she realizes it. And earlier? In my suite? I clearly made her nervous. She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  All I know is she’s a cocktail of contradictions and I find her utterly fascinating.

  Chapter 4

  Lila

  I have a couple of hours to myself after breakfast clean-up Saturday morning, so I take it upon myself to do a little exploring.

  There’s another cottage, practically a carbon copy of the one my grandparents live in, just over one of the cliffs and down the hill. I noticed it the day I arrived and my grandma mentioned it had once belonged to the nurse who was hired to care for Mrs. Bertram some fifteen years ago when she was ill, but once Mrs. Bertram passed, the nurse’s job was done and no one has set foot in there since.

  I traipse through a grassy path filled with wild flowers that hide the stones that once made a proper path, and when I get to the front door, I peek in the window, fully expecting to find nothing but dusty dilapidation. But to my surprise, the place is fully furnished, complete with books and magazines littering the coffee table in the living room. Almost as if someone was here just yesterday and picked up and left.

  Just for the hell of it, I twist the doorknob, but once again I’m shocked to find the place completely unlocked. Then again, on an island inhabited by nothing but family and two caretakers, there’s not much reason to lock doors around here.

  Showing myself in, I close the door behind me and step across the small foyer. There’s a dining room to my right, filled with a farmhouse-style table and white wooden Windsor chairs. To my left is a living room which holds a hunter green and burgundy floral sofa, a worn leather recliner, and a boxy TV resting on a wooden TV stand.

  I reach down and grab one of the magazines—People, May 17, 2004. It appears to be an issue dedicated to what’s real and what’s fake in the world of reality television. I put the magazine back and find a stack of books, mostly Danielle Steele and Nora Roberts novels, beside it.

  Moving on to the kitchen, I poke and prod my way through drawers and cupboards, all of which are empty, but there’s an adorable farmhouse-style sink with a window above it that overlooks a small bay on the west side of the island.

  When I’m finished there, I head down a hall, poking my head into two bedrooms and a bathroom before meandering into the biggest bedroom, which also happens to have breathtaking ocean views.

  It’s a shame this place sits here alone, unused. I’m sure my grandparents would love these views, but Mr. Bertram probably demands that they live in the closest cottage to his estate.

  I take a seat on the bed in the center of the biggest room and let the silence swallow me for a moment, soaking in as much of the present as I can.

  The burn in my chest is followed by the hot sting of tears in my eyes. Ever since Mom passed, I’ve been going back and forth between feeling nothing and feeling everything. And I swear all week my grandparents have been constantly watching me from the corner of their eyes to make sure I’m okay, whispering amongst themselves in their bed at night, as if I can’t hear them through the paper-thin walls that separate us.

  But here, alone with my thoughts, away from prying eyes, I can miss her in peace.

  Crawling up to the head of the bed, I lie on my side and bury my face against the musty white pillow beneath me and allow myself to cry, really cry, for the first time in over a week.

  I’m not sure how much time passes when I hear the creak and gentle closing of the front door, followed by footsteps too heavy and fast to belong to my grandparents.

  “Hello?” a voice calls.

  Sitting up, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and brush the hair from my face, knowing damn well there’s no hiding my current state.

  The footsteps grow louder by the second until the door to the bedroom swings open and Thayer’s muscled frame fills the doorway.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asks.

  I rise from the bed and slide my hands in the back pockets of my cutoff shorts. “I just needed a minute to myself.”

  He studies me.

  “There are just so many people … everywhere ...” I continue.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I … don’t know how to answer that.”

  “I’m sorry.” He lifts a hand. “That’s a horrible question and I shouldn’t have asked. Obviously you’re not okay. I mean. You’re okay. But you've been through a lot. And … I’m going to shut up now.”

  He smiles his perfect, straight, bright white smile and it instantly makes me reciprocate, almost like I have no control over my facial expressions. But it doesn’t stick for long.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask.

  “I saw you heading west after breakfast this morning. There’s really nothing on this side of the island except this cottage.”

  “Oh. So you came looking for me? Like on purpose?”

  He laughs under his breath, an easy, relaxed sort of chuff, like he finds my question adorable.

  “I guess so,” he says. “Yeah. Guess I wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost or anything.”

  “Appreciate it.” I don’t buy it for one second. “I should probably get back. It’s almost time to prep lunch.”

  I squeeze through the doorway and make my way down the hall when I hear him say my name. Nothing else. Just … Lila. Turning back, I see he’s standing still, feet planted, in no rush to go anywhere.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “If you ever want to talk ...” he clears his throat. “I’m sure you miss your friends. And I know you’re going through a lot right now ...”

  There’s a gentleness about him, an easiness that I didn’t anticipate. It’s in the smoothness of his voice, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He never talks about himself—even during meals. He’s always asking everyone else what they’re doing or what’s going on in their lives. And it’s plain to see he’s the clear favorite among the three grandchildren. He’s the apple of Howard Bertram’s eye.

  And I get it.

  So far … he seems like a nice guy—a good person.

  I almost wish he wasn’t.

  I almost wish he fulfilled every
stereotype I conjured up about someone with his name and his background and his family and his privileges.

  But now all I feel is guilt and an onset of extreme self-awareness, suddenly second-guessing the placement of my hands or the puffiness of my eyes.

  “Does this house have a name?” I ask, changing the subject because I feel another wave of emotions about to wash over me when I think too hard about his unexpected kindness.

  “What?”

  “You know. Like your house is The Ainsworth,” I say. “And Grandma and Grandpa’s house is The Hilliard. What do you call this one?”

  Thayer shrugs before shaking his head. “Nothing. I guess we mostly pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  "That’s kind of ... sad. Is it weird that I feel sorry for this place?” I half-laugh.

  He smirks. “Yeah.”

  His on-the-spot honesty makes me respect him that much more.

  “Back home, my mom had this friend, and she was always talking about how everything had a soul. People, animals, plants, even inanimate objects. Mom said even if that isn’t true, it doesn’t hurt to treat everything with respect, like it has feelings. I thought they were out of their minds, but I guess a little bit of them rubbed off on me.”

  “You think the house’s feelings are hurt?” He scratches at his temple.

  “Maybe. Sort of. So what if I do?” I bite my lower lip for a flash of a second. I’m teasing, flirting, and I shouldn’t be.

  He doesn’t say anything, which makes this moment as awkward and nerve-wracking as possible. I swear I hear my heart beating in my ears—that, or it’s the whoosh and crash of the ocean outside. I’m too distracted right now to differentiate.

  My mom’s crazy friend always talked about auras. I never saw them, never believed in them, but she claimed mine was dark red, which meant I was self-sufficient and able to persevere anything.

  She also told me that at my mother’s funeral, so she might have simply been trying to comfort me.

  If Thayer had an aura, I bet it would be light blue. The color of the sky. Serene and calm.