Summer Harbor (12 page)

Mack gave Kiley a smile that acknowledged a complicity in something she was only partially aware of. Since her conversation with the Doublemints, there was a slight awkwardness in being alone with either one of the boys; it was only comfortable to be with them together. As a pair, they remained the familiar pals of childhood, but separated, Kiley could think of them only as boys. Deliberately, Kiley shook off the silly notion. “Bailey’s it is.”

Like so many of the old farm roads, Bailey’s Farm Road ran off the main road and straight back to the shoreline. The public path led through woods and across a meadow, back into woods, and then onto the tops of carved-out dunes. On the windward side of the peninsula there were sometimes good waves, but this afternoon boasted none. The water over the sandbar was nearly turquoise in a pale, unthreatening ocean.

Kiley stripped off her white T-shirt and denim shorts, dropping them on the sand, and dashed to the water’s edge, hesitating for only a moment before diving in. The water was sharply colder on this side of the peninsula, and she came up gasping, then struck out for the huge rocks that loomed at low tide. Reaching those massive remains of glacial progression down the East Coast a million years ago, Kiley let herself be swept into the eddying pools between them. The waves knocked her gently side to side until one big one doused her and she got a mouthful of salt water.

“Careful the tide doesn’t carry you away.” Mack was beside Kiley, the three menhirlike rocks surrounding them like petrified sentinels.

The water seemed marginally warmer where Kiley sat in the shallows, and like a great dog, it lapped at her. “Tide’s on the turn. It could only carry me in at this point,” she said.

Mack sat beside her as Kiley leaned against the rock. She felt his hip bumping against hers as the water carried them together and then apart. Then his hand was on hers, his fingers linking with hers. He would never be able to claim that this touch was thoughtless and ordinary.

“Kiley?”

“Mack?”

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was thick, as if he was afraid he’d ruined everything; knowing, as she knew, that these heart-felt words would change everything, but he was still willing to dare.

The water dragged them apart and then pushed them together as Kiley examined her heart for the answer. If they did kiss, just kiss, then what could be the harm? They would know then and there if they were destined for each other. Or if the kiss fell flat, well then, they could just pretend it never happened, like the hug. Like little kids playing “doctor,” curiosity would be satisfied. Better yet, this demon of uncertainty would be exorcised.

Kiley hesitated a fraction too long. Mack pushed away from the rock. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid thing to say.”

“Mack. Yes.” Kiley reached out for his hand. “I mean, I want you to.”

Mack fought the incoming wave and rested his hands against the rock above her head. Gently, tentatively, he pressed his water-cold lips against hers. Instinctively Kiley’s mouth softened in response, a little surprised that his mouth so perfectly suited hers. Mack’s lips on hers erased all of the turmoil. Of course it was Mack whom she loved; loved as more than a friend. Their lips grew warm and they forgot the cold of the water.

A decisive wave broke them apart, and wordlessly, they struck out for shore, walking out of the water with hands held, their young bodies yearning to touch, to never break contact. It all made sense right then, and suddenly it was impossible to get enough physical closeness. They lay on Kiley’s beach towel, hip to hip, legs threaded together; their mouths fed on each other, ravenous. No one else was on the beach to witness this transformation, no one to scrutinize their behavior.

Mack was the first to pull back. Kiley was glad. It was enough to have touched; it would have been too much to have done more. He sat up and looked at her with new eyes. “Wow.”

Kiley sat up and wiped a few grains of sand from her shoulders. Then she asked the thing that had to be asked. “What does Grainger say about this?”

Mack, already flushed, flushed deeper. “He doesn’t know.”

“You didn’t talk to him?”

“What could I tell him? I wasn’t sure I had the…the nerve to finally act on, well, to act on what I’ve been thinking about since last summer. Grainger doesn’t know about any of that. That I’ve wanted you. That I’ve hoped you’ve wanted me.”

“We have to tell him.”

Kiley saw Mack’s anguish and knew that as she had feared, everything had changed. The balance of their friendship had shifted and now Mack and Kiley sat on one side. Grainger alone on the other.

Ever since he’d come back to Hawke’s Cove, the one day Grainger really looked forward to was the Fourth of July Picnic. This year was the town’s centennial, and the preparations had been going on for days. Earlier in the week he had helped dig the pits in which steamers, corn, and lobsters would be layered in seaweed. In recent years the halved oil drum grills had given way to industrial gas grills, but the food was still good and well worth the ten-dollar contribution. Everyone brought salads or desserts. There’d be live music, games, good-natured competition in the toy boat race, a bonfire, and, as the July dusk gave way to full dark, fireworks over the water.

He didn’t even mind that he had stockpiled memories of the three of them at this annual event: playing tag in the growing dark; eating watermelon and spitting the seeds at one another; teaming up on the same side for games. Those memories had no danger for him, surrounded by the activities of the day. Old friends, new friends, customers, neighbors; all gathered, celebrated too hard, and called it a success every year.

This year might be different. This year there was Kiley. And Will. Surely they’d be there.

“Come on, Pilot.” Grainger held the truck door open for the dog. “Let’s go have fun.” Pilot cocked his head in a cartoonish puzzlement. His head-cocking was the reason Grainger had chosen this particular mutt from the litter. Pilot always looked as if he thought everything Grainger said was ironic.

The steamer pit was ready and the grills going by the time Grainger arrived. The smell of hamburgers and steaming salt water wafted his way as he walked over from the parking area. A game of pickup softball was already under way, and Charlie Worth hollered to him to get a move on and grab a glove. Pilot wandered off to sniff out the other dogs and tussle over scraps.

Standing at shortstop, Grainger pounded his fist into the middle of his glove. This was the best part for him; this game made up of players of all types, ages, and sizes, year-rounders and summer folk. Molly Frick, captain of the GHRHS girls softball league, was their pitcher. Catching was Fred Crockett, seventy if he was a day, and owner of the biggest yacht in the harbor. A casual survey of his teammates pleased him; they were well fielded and might whup some ass today. As the batter came up to the plate, Grainger smiled. It looked like the other team had some good players too. That was Will Harris, taking a few loosening-up swings. Just the way he moved up to the plate, toed in, and lifted the bat told Grainger that the kid had played some ball. In quick order, Will whacked the softball out of the ball-field and into the cooking area.

As Will trotted by, Grainger kidded him: “Not bad. Play much?”

“Not much. I was just the captain.” Will jogged backward. “Of the championship team.”

Grainger went back to his position. He’d been captain of a championship team too. He pounded his fist into his glove again. An insignificant coincidence.

The outs came quickly after that, and Grainger’s team lined up to bat. He took a cup of beer handed to him by a teammate and sat on the bench to watch. Kiley was their pitcher. The beer must be too cold; his chest felt squeezed as he drank it. Kiley had a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes; bent from the waist, the ball behind her back, she took signals from their catcher, who happened to be Will. His own cap pulled low, Grainger studied the fluid way her back arched gracefully into her pitch. The batter whiffed. Will stood and tossed the ball into Kiley’s glove. She caught it casually, as if she did this every day. Grainger sipped his beer. He’d taught her how to pitch, refusing to let her throw like a girl.
“You’ve got to use your whole arm, Kiley.”
They’d been twelve or thirteen. He’d gripped her arm and shoulder and bent her into position. Obviously, she’d had practice along the way with Will. The way these two played, they were a two-person team.

Lost in thought, Grainger was startled when Harvey Clark shoved him. “You’re up, Egan.”

Grainger Egan hoisted his bat and faced Kiley Harris across the reach between the batter’s box and pitcher’s mound. She looked at him, then set the ball down and popped off her glove. She swept her cap off, tugged at her hair, twisting it up, and set the cap back on. Then she leaned toward him, shook her head at Will, and swooped a fastball at him. Grainger whacked it foul. He heard Will’s chuckle, and smiled. Kiley smiled back, and fired another fastball at him. He tipped it. Grainger pulled the smile off his face.

Kiley shook off the sign again, and suddenly he remembered that Kiley was a good fastball pitcher, but she’d always end with a curveball—and she was a lousy curveball pitcher. As she threw the ball, Grainger stepped in. The sound of aluminum on horse-hide rang in his ear and Grainger dashed to first base.

Once the clambake was declared ready, the unfinished game was called a draw at six to six and everyone made their way into the serving line. It seemed the easiest and most natural thing to fall in behind Kiley. “I see you’ve still got your arm.”

“And you still whiff at fastballs.” Kiley handed him a paper plate.

Grainger handed her a napkin-wrapped set of plastic utensils. “I take it Will played baseball in high school.”

“Yes, he did. He’s hoping to play in college.”

“Using my name in vain?” Will cut in front of his mother.

“Just bragging.”

Grainger handed Will his packet of utensils. “So I hear you’re going to Cornell in the fall.”

Will nodded, his mouth full of biscuit.

“Good for you.”

“Will, grab a biscuit for me.”

Before Will could, Grainger put a homemade biscuit on Kiley’s plate. With that action, an elusive peace touched him in exactly the place his chest had felt squeezed an hour before. For half a moment, he could pretend there was nothing strained between them. Maybe what had happened could be left in the past, if they could just have a little time to warm up to each other.

“Is it okay if I go sit over there?” Will nodded to where a group of young people were arrayed in a loose circle.

Left without the buffer of Will’s presence, Grainger looked to Kiley to see what she wanted. An empty table was close by.

“Kiley Harris, is that really you?” Conor MacKenzie came across the picnic grove with big strides. He scooped Kiley into a big bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You look great.”

Their stiff reunion in the Osprey’s Nest should have been as exuberant as the one being enacted in front of him. Grainger looked away. The feather-light hope that they might move ahead was blown adrift. Leaving Mack’s brother and Kiley still embracing, Grainger went to sit at a crowded table. What a fool he was.

Twisting the claw from his lobster, he swore to himself that he would never again put his heart in harm’s way.

Mack and Kiley had kept their romance secret for a little while, thinking that they could hide the change in their relationship from the one person who knew them both so well, but Grainger knew from the first moment. He looked at Kiley, and knew that a sea change had occurred in their lives. Maybe it was her uncontrollable grin, or the way she took every opportunity to be next to Mack. Maybe it was Mack’s intensified teasing of Kiley.

They were in Great Harbor at the shipyard, watching as the friend of Mack’s dad stepped the mast between the eyes of the sailboat. The three had walked the mast down to where she waited alongside the pier. Mack said something to Kiley and she giggled, almost losing her hold on the heavy wooden mast.

Grainger turned around to face them and, in their guilty expressions, got the proof of his suspicions. He knew he should be happy for them. But their splitting off would never be easy for him to accept, even as he told himself that, by any standard, Mack and Kiley were very well suited, very compatible. They came from similar backgrounds; they loved the same things. They both knew where they were going, and, more important, where they had come from. If they had been contestants on
The Dating Game,
Grainger knew that she would have picked Mack for those very reasons.

But what if he’d spoken of love to her first? The suppressed passion he tormented himself with every night was so deep, deeper than Mack’s could ever be. Yet he knew without a doubt that, valuing their threesome above his own happiness, loving Mack as a brother, he would never have spoken, never have compromised what they had for what he wanted. Mack clearly had no such compunction.

Once the mast was in place, Grainger stayed behind to rig it. Mack had to work the afternoon shift at Linda’s.

“Do you want me to stay and help?” Kiley was standing on the dock. It was low tide, so she stood above him, looking down.

He was on the boat, his bare toes clenching against the floor-boards of the cockpit. Looking up into her eyes, Grainger could read the anguish in them; her fear that she was about to hurt him was so plainly written there. Her silent desire that, no matter what, they were still friends.

They were. He just needed to keep it platonic, to continue to pretend exactly as he had been all summer that his love was harmless.

For a moment he weighed the consequences of speaking his true feelings to her right then and there.

“Really, Grainger, I’ll stay and help.”

“No, Blithe. Catch a ride home with Mack. I’ll see you at the club tonight.” He turned away quickly so that she couldn’t see the emotion threatening his reserve.

It was late by the time Kiley reached the gate of the Yacht Club. The boys were already there on the deck, cans of soda in hand, leaning against the wall, side by side but not speaking. Grainger had come alone, almost not going at all. He and Mack watched Kiley as she came along the asphalt path, her sandal heels making a little gritty sound against the sand that lay on the path like salt on a pretzel. Dressed in her white dress, her dark blue cardigan tied around her waist, Kiley looked beautiful, more beautiful than ever in Grainger’s eyes. Mack pushed away from the wall to greet her, and Grainger walked away.

Inside, Don Henley was singing about summer. A few couples were already dancing; most were still arrayed along the edges of the room, no one sitting on the musty-cushioned fake bamboo furniture. Grainger wondered absently why the Yacht Club kept holding these “socials” for the kids. No one ever looked like they had a good time. Kids preferred their own dark fun, and he knew that several of the kids still in high school were dribbling stolen nips of bourbon or rum into their Coke cans. Others were making use of the empty dressing rooms. Every family had a locked cabana, and a determined teenager could always filch the key to it. The cabanas were only four by five and primarily taken up with a bench and hooks, but kids still managed to use them for privacy.

Grainger thumbed through the LPs as if desperately interested in them. He was acutely aware of Mack and Kiley as they went out onto the half-empty dance floor and began to move with the heavy beat. Then Kiley stopped dancing and leaned into Mack’s ear. They both looked at him. Grainger kept to his feigned interest in the records.

“Let’s go to the beach.” Kiley was at Grainger’s elbow.

Grainger shrugged. “You guys go. I’m not in the mood.”

Mack stood on his other side. “Man, you have to go with us. We won’t let you say no.”

“Won’t let me, huh? Since when are you—”

“Grainger, please. We have to talk.” Kiley lay one hand on his sleeve. He wore one of Conor MacKenzie’s cast-off button-down shirts, a tie from the lost and found knotted tightly against his throat. Gently Grainger removed her hand, holding on to it for a moment, then let go. “All right.”

Ducking the less-than-eagle-eyed post–cocktail-hour chap-erones, they went through the back hallway and out the unalarmed emergency door. This late in the season, full dark had already come on, with only a trickle of daylight left in the western sky. A sliver of moon hung over the sea, stars punctuating the black sky in a seemingly random arrangement. The breeze was lively and newly cool, jangling the halyards against the masts in the crowded summer harbor. In front of them, invisible but audible, were the constant waves rolling onto the beach.

It seemed suddenly important to pretend for a moment that they were only out here for the usual swim. Kiley dropped her sweater on the sand and stripped off the sleeveless dress, then shivered in the breeze. Neither boy moved to join her as she walked to the water’s edge. They sat side by side on the damp sand and said nothing. Grainger had nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like jealousy.

“Kiley.” Mack called to her to come sit beside them. In the darkness they were visible only as two white shirts, Kiley’s white dress on the damp, cold sand between them.

Kiley moved up the beach to stand in front of them, her arms folded against herself, either from nervousness or chill. “Grainger, Mack and I have to tell you something. Mack and I…”

“Save it, Blithe. It would take a blind man not to see what’s going on here.” Grainger stood up and yanked at the tie around his neck. “I wish you both the best.” He tried hard to make his tone match his words.

“Grainger, are you sure you’re all right with this?” Mack was standing up now, on the other side of him.

He put a hand on Mack’s shoulder, then his other on Kiley’s. “What’s not to be all right about?” He pulled both of them close, but his face was inclined to Kiley. He breathed in deeply of her scent, a lively mixture of lemon and powder. As soon as he had drawn them close, Grainger let them go. Without another word, he turned around and went back into the building, hoping that they would be fooled by his act.