Learning to Swim (8 page)

My cheeks felt like fire.

“Cora, this is Ronan,” Mrs. O’Leary said. “He’s just finished organizing some things in the garage and now he’s on to tackle that old boat Seamus left here.”

The boy stood squinting at the pair of us on the porch, the sun quite bright on the pale yellow of the house. Hoping he wouldn’t recognize me, I looked bashfully at the floor, but not before noticing how perfectly adorable he was. Maybe that stemmed from the feeling that we shared some great secret, but I hoped against hope that it was a secret he was
not
aware of.

“And Ronan, this is Cora, new to our corner of the ocean, and quite the delightful new friend.” The boy nodded at me slightly, uncomfortably. He was obviously just as surprised as I was to find someone else talking to his friend. “Sit down, lad, I want you two to know each other. And you must be exhausted. It’s hot in that garage.” He did as he was told and sat on the top step, one leg bent with his elbow perched on top. “I was just telling Cora about the
accident
.”

The boy seemed to be garnering courage from my awkward silence. “Am I to understand you don’t believe it to have been an accident, Mrs. O’Leary?” He looked at the old woman with an amused expression, and slapped the dirty handkerchief over his shoulder.

“Surely not, dear.” Her eyes were back on the ocean, roving the horizon, but Ronan was unfazed, speaking to her face as though she was conversing perfectly normally. He was obviously more comfortable with her odd behavior than I was. “You know as well as I what the sirens are like.”

“Ah, the sirens,” he said, nodding.

Though I had been harboring some daydream of being this old woman’s only friend, the only listener to her outlandish tales, the huge brown eyes were a pleasant surprise. And he seemed perfectly acquainted with the stories already.

“Can you believe Cora here hasn’t heard much about the accident?” Mrs. O’Leary said. “Don’t know how she could have been spared. I’ve heard of nothing but.”

Ronan looked at me again. “You’re here for the summer, then,” he said matter-of-factly. “In the big houses.”

For some reason, it struck a nerve. I didn’t want to stand out from these people, though I obviously did, and this boy was insolent enough to point it out. Emboldened by his assumption, I looked him straight back in the—beautiful, big, brown—eyes and replied, daring him to suppose anything else about my life. “Yeah, I’m here for the summer. And yes, my parents
have
just bought a house. But I think ‘big’ is a relative term.”

He only grinned. “You must know the girl who was down near the jetty when Rick Johnson was found,” he said.

I was sick of talking about it; I was prepared to deny it.

“That was Cora herself,” Mrs. O’Leary said.

Damnit
.

Ronan was surprised, but not disbelieving. “How awful,” he said.

“Which house is yours, Princess?” Mrs. O’Leary said, turning the conversation back to the dog as she frequently liked to do.

“The Pink Palace,” I said, willing my cheeks not to blush.
Cheeks, not now!

The pair of crinkly, old eyes flicked to the row of old houses before being pulled back to the ocean. I glanced to the north, just to verify. Yep. The Pink Palace stuck out like a sunburned elephant.

“Ah, you
do
live in the big houses, then,” Mrs. O’Leary said. “Do you know the Ritz family?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to avoid seeing the boy’s inevitably degrading reaction.

“My Seamus was groundskeeper for them,” Mrs. O’Leary said. “Many generations of Ritz have lived in that house. And my Seamus watched many of this generation grow up there.”

“In the summers, at least,” Ronan said quietly.

“Yes, in the winters, my Seamus loved keeping the grounds and having the place to himself. He would spend so much time there. He had a little shed at the back of the house; it was quite his little workshop. The late Mr. Ritz, you know, was a great supporter of foreign artists. He imported such lawn statues as you’ve never seen. My Seamus loved to tend to those—treating them for the winter weather and mending all sorts of ailments that befall them.”

I kept my mouth clamped firmly shut lest I let fall just how much I knew about the famed Ritz statues.

“He was quite close to the late Mr. Ritz,” the old woman went on. “The man was a very generous person, never forgot us at the holidays. They called him an industrialist. Can’t say that I particularly know what that means. Such a vague way to make a fortune, wouldn’t you say?”

“And, tell us, how did
your
father make his fortune?”

I stiffened and looked the brown eyes straight on. He was smirking, knowing—of all the impertinent questions—he’d lit on the one that bugged me the most.

“He runs Fullington Factory,” I said with all the pride I could muster. “A Midwest shoe manufacturer that services forty-two states.” At least that’s what it said above the door to his office.

“Isn’t that where those ridiculous shoelaces come from?” he laughed heartily.

“And what exactly do
your
parents do?” I stuffed the phrase full of as much assumption and acid as I could muster. I could tell, by the serious look on his face as he responded, that he’d understood the full of the intended insult.

“As it happens, my mom and dad run O’Brien Resort. No doubt, you couldn’t help but notice it. Unfortunately, it’s visible, I think, even from so far away as your
palace
.”

I was red-faced and seething, and absolutely unwilling to suffer one more joke about that
damn
pink house! I sat for a moment longer, listening to Mrs. O’Leary embark on a tale of sprites. Then I interrupted her as politely as I could muster, grabbed my bag, and excused myself.

“So sorry you have to go so soon,” Mrs. O’Leary called after my retreating back. “But do hurry back. Good-bye!”

The boy merely nodded as I flew down the steps, Princess at my heels.

“What a wonderful dog,” I heard Mrs. O’Leary saying as I walked quickly down the boardwalk. I realized with a jolt that she had a name now. My mysterious old friend full of magical tales was a prominent figure in other people’s lives, was a real person with a name in someone else’s world—in this Ronan’s world. I felt as if I’d just found out that some great legend was a farce. The old woman was Mrs. O’Leary. The magic was gone. The Easter Bunny wasn’t real—or, rather, he
was
real, a real person in a big costume.

At home my parents were unloading deck furniture from the back of the car.

“Cora, come help, your mom’s useless!”

I grumbled and went to help my dad carry the rusty items to the back porch where Mom was already pushing the pieces into different arrangements.

“Oh, honey, we just saw the Carltons and just
guess
what Mr. Carlton said!” Mom cooed. “He knows someone at St. Bernard!”

She was looking at my face expectantly, but I didn’t know just what emotion to feign.

“He hasn’t talked to the man in ages,” Dad said, “but they used to play golf together a lot—nothing bonds old men like golf. And his man’s on the board, really influential, apparently. That bodes well.”

“But I didn’t even apply to St. Bernard,” I said.

“That’s the best part!” Mom was absolutely beaming. “He thinks he could get you in without even applying!”

I unleashed a long groan, adding a severe roll of the eyes for flourish.

“Oh, yes, life is so terribly difficult,” Mom said sarcastically. “Do you not care what happens to you next year? In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s not a single school that will have you!”

“Hush,” Dad said. “Cora, St. Bernard is a great school, and the Carltons are new friends. They’d be happy to help.”

“I want to take a year off,” I said simply, gathering courage from the prospect of telling a proud Mrs. O’Leary how this conversation had gone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dad said simply. I was reminded instantly of the terrible boy, Ronan, and felt all courage drain from me.
Ridiculous
, I could imagine Ronan’s voice saying. He thought I was ridiculous. I deflated like an old balloon.

“Cora, you know you can’t do that,” Mom said. “You need to let us know what school you want to go to so that we can get you into it!”

“I don’t know if you remember, since it was ages ago that you went to college,” I said, “and rather pointlessly, too, considering you had your future set—”

“How dare you!” Mom cried.

“But,” I plowed on, “you’re supposed to
apply
to college. Which I did. And it didn’t work.”

“You are the most ungrateful child I’ve ever known!” Mom yelled. “In case you haven’t noticed, your future is just as much set as anyone else in this world. As if you’ll ever
not
be provided for! The least you can do for us who give you everything you want is go to college!”

“Yes, thank you for discussing this with me,” I said quietly. It was a tactic I’d learned from my father in countless business calls. End the discussion politely, with force. Refuse anyone who refuses you. Then hang up. I made for the stairs quickly.

“So we’ll just wait on Western. Sometimes those letters take a long time. They keep waiting to see if any spots open up.” Mom seemed to be trying to convince herself. I kept silent about the rejection letter. I wasn’t ready to let that out just yet. As long as we could pretend Western hadn’t yet stabbed me in the heart, we could put off this fight. This life-altering decision that was bound to end in tears one way or another.

“Rosie got into LNU,” I said quietly.

“See?” Mom said. “We don’t have to worry yet.”

Mrs. O’Leary’s face came unbidden to my mind. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to get into Western,” I said. “And if I did, I wouldn’t go anyway.”

I slipped inside as the yelling continued.

The next time Rosie called, I picked up simply because I was tired of ignoring her. We had been playing a game of phone tag; little did she know it was intentional on my part. I would call when I knew she was busy so that I could leave long, rambling messages. But for once, I felt up to the challenge of putting life here into words. I decided to act detached and happy, like this place was a thousand times better than any summer she could be having.

“Guess what!” was her greeting.

“What?”

“Steve and I broke up!”

“Why do you sound so happy?” I asked.

“Because I’m going out with somebody who’s a hundred times better. And just
guess
what his name is!”

“I don’t know,” I said, making a concerted effort to sound disinterested.

“Steve!” She cackled. “He works at the mall in that store that sells, oh god, what are they called, those things that—”

“I have so much to tell you,” I cut her off.

“Oh, what?”

Shit
. I had nothing really. I’d just gotten sick of listening to her good news. It was making me feel unwanted, unnecessary in her life. I didn’t actually have anything to say.

“Did you meet some hotties on the beach?” Rosie asked.

“Well, yeah,” I said, as if this was the only thing that could be expected.

“Well, dish!” she shrieked.

“Uh … well, I met this one guy, his name’s Owen. He’s really hot, looks like an Abercrombie model. We’re getting really close; we go out all the time, actually.” I sounded more and more like my mother every day, stretching the truth farther and farther, like a goddamn Laffy Taffy. “And there’s this guy who’s totally adorable, he’s, like, a swimmer and I see him pretty often.” That much, at least, was true. I didn’t mention that I saw
him
more than he saw
me
.

“
Oh
-migod! Are you gonna go out with him? The really hot guy?”

“Hey, I gotta get going, my mom’s a total nutcase out here.”

“Wait—I wanted to tell you about Josh.”

My heart seemed to slow a few paces. “Josh Watson?” I said stupidly.

“What other Joshes do we know?” she laughed. “Just
guess
who he’s going out with?”

I felt my temperature begin to rise. But it didn’t stop at normal, it went right on up, setting my troublesome cheeks ablaze. “Do you talk to him much?” I asked.