Sea Change (4 page)

I
slept like a stone last night,” Mom remarked the next morning as we struggled onto the front porch, carrying heavy cardboard boxes. “I haven’t done that in ages. It must be the fresh sea air.”

“Too bad it didn’t work its spell on me,” I said through a yawn. I’d slept fitfully in the narrow twin bed. And now the sea air felt soupy and sticky—not ideal weather for manual labor.

For the past half hour, Mom and I had been lugging broken lamps, threadbare throw rugs, and cracked vases out onto the street. According to Mom, on Thursday afternoons, garbage collectors came by in golf carts to sweep people’s junk away.

“Probably because you saw that mariner painting,” Mom huffed, setting her box down on the corner. “He used to give me nightmares as a child.”

Over breakfast, I’d filled Mom in on my run-in with the old seafarer in the hall. But I hadn’t mentioned my discovery of the study, or of Llewellyn Thorpe’s tome. The experience seemed even more embarrassing in the light of day, and I figured I’d feign ignorance whenever Mom and I tackled Isadora’s book collection.

As Mom took a box of cutlery from my aching arms, I heard a female voice cry out behind us.

“Amelia? Amelia Blue Hawkins! As I live and breathe!”

I whirled around to see a skinny woman about Mom’s age trotting up the road and waving. She wore gigantic sunglasses, a purple head scarf, a tight sundress, and high-heeled sandals.

I glanced back at Mom, whose expression was both stricken and resigned. I felt a sympathetic twinge of dread, but my curiosity was definitely piqued.

“Speaking of nightmares…” Mom muttered under her breath. Then she pasted on a smile, waved, and called back, “Hello, Delilah!”

“Well, well, well!” Delilah sang, snapping off her sunglasses as she neared. “Felice Cunningham said she spied the lights on in The Mariner, and Teddy Illingworth swore he spotted you by the docks yesterday, so I
had
to come see for myself!”

She stopped in front of Mom and gave her a peck on each cheek as I backed up a few paces, crossing my arms over my
chest. “Amelia Blue Hawkins,” Delilah repeated, shaking her head from side to side.

“Actually, it’s Merchant,” Mom corrected gently. “Amelia Merchant. I kept my married name after I got divorced. For professional purposes.”

“Oh,” Delilah replied, looking flustered. “Of course. Anyway.” She patted Mom’s arm. “You’re as gorgeous as you were at eighteen. I thought being a big-city doctor would have shriveled you up by now!” Delilah let out a high laugh, then swung around to observe me. “And this
must
be your daughter. Why, she’s the spitting image of Isadora—may she rest in peace,” she added hastily, lowering her head.

I wasn’t prepared for the quick rush of pleasure I felt at the comparison. “Thanks,” I mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Amen, darling,” Delilah instructed, widening her heavily lined blue eyes at me. “You say ’amen.’”

“Yes, this is Miranda,” Mom spoke up, coming to my rescue. “Miranda, this is Delilah LeBlanc Cooper of Atlanta.” I recognized the last name LeBlanc; Mom had said that family had started the Heirs party. “Her summer home is just down the road.”

“Has been for generations,” Delilah drawled, draping an arm around Mom’s shoulder; her long crimson-painted nails resembled talons. “Growing up, your mother and I were
inseparable. It’s such a shame we drifted apart.” I did my best not to meet my mother’s eye; I doubted she mourned this loss.

“You have a son, too, don’t you?” Delilah asked Mom, who quickly explained that Wade was in Los Angeles with his father.

“Well, it’s more fun for mothers and daughters to spend time together, anyway,” Delilah said, grinning first at Mom and then me. “You can swap lipstick and jewelry, and shop together.”

This time, Mom and I couldn’t help but exchange a glance. Neither of us wore much makeup or jewelry, and Mom never had time to go shopping. In the Mother and Daughter Olympics, it seemed, we would have finished last.

“Oh, speaking of which!” Delilah exclaimed, clearly capable of keeping a conversation going all on her own. “Miranda, I
have
to introduce you to my daughter, Cecile. Everyone calls her CeeCee. She’s fifteen and absolutely precious, and the two of you will get along like a house afire.”

Once again, Mom and I looked at each other, and Mom appeared to be holding back a laugh. We both knew that if CeeCee was anything like her mother, our friendship prospects were very slim.

“And,” Delilah was saying, “y’all can meet CeeCee this afternoon at the Heirs party. I assume you got an invitation?”
When Mom nodded, pursing her lips, Delilah grinned at me again. “Every summer, Amelia and I got dressed up together for the Heirs party. And how the boys would
stare
when we entered the restaurant! It was no wonder that your mother won the affections of the most eligible—”

“Is it almost noon already?” Mom interrupted, taking my wrist and studying my watch. Her face was suddenly flushed. “Miranda and I still have a lot of work to do in the house…” Mom trailed off, looking at Delilah pointedly.

No!
I almost cried, my heart thumping with delayed suspense. I wanted Delilah to keep going. I’d never thought of my mother as having had a love life; she hadn’t really dated anyone since she and Dad split up.

But the moment had changed, had taken on a charged quality. Delilah looked miffed as she removed her arm from Mom’s shoulder and slid her sunglasses back on.

“I need to pick out my outfit, anyway,” she sniffed, glancing disdainfully at our cleanup gear: Both Mom and I wore cutoffs, ratty T-shirts, and sneakers. “I’ll see you ladies later.” She waggled her fingers at us, but before walking off, added in a teasing tone, “And there are others who will be pleased to see you, Amelia.”

I wanted to ask Mom what Delilah had meant—and also how the two of them had ever been close—but I felt dazed by the human hurricane that had just swept over us.

“It’s amazing,” Mom said once Delilah was out of earshot. Her face had returned to its normal shade. “That woman hasn’t changed a bit. I’m exhausted just thinking about spending time with her at the Heirs party.”

“Should we skip it?” I asked reluctantly. Delilah
was
crazy-making, but I wondered what else she knew about my mother, or even about Isadora.

“You should go, my love,” Mom said, wiping perspiration off her forehead, “but I’m afraid I may have to conveniently come down with a headache.”

However, after two hours of cleaning and mowing the lawn, Mom was ready to get out a little bit. So was I. As we left The Mariner, freshly showered and dressed—Mom in a linen shift and Grecian sandals, me in my red drawstring skirt and black tank top—I felt a jumpiness, an excitement in my stomach. The afternoon smelled of fresh-cut grass and flowers, and possibility hovered in the air along with the seagulls.

Mom led me through the town, which was comprised of a gourmet food market, a swimwear shop, a store dedicated entirely to hats, and a beauty parlor. Everything was clustered around a lush green square with a fountain at its center. As
Mom and I walked through the square, we passed two women in long, colorful skirts, weaving grass baskets before a small crowd. When we turned onto the boardwalk that ran along the beach, I felt I’d been more or less oriented to the island’s layout.

The boardwalk offered an ice-cream stand and a store called Selkie Sandbar that had bobblehead pirate dolls and shark-shaped surfboards in its window—exactly the kind of touristy shop I’d envisioned on the ferry. There was also a clam shack called A Fish Tale, and a restaurant called The Crabby Hook, complete with an inflatable red crab on its roof. The restaurant was our destination, but before we walked inside, Mom squeezed my hand, something I couldn’t recall her ever doing before.

A mass of bodies filled the large, airy space, everyone chattering and cheek-kissing. Silver streamers and blue balloons tickled the tops of our heads, and from the open kitchen came the sizzling sound and delicious scent of frying food. Along one wall was a buffet table laden with fried chicken, lobster tails, and plantains, and against the opposite wall was a bar. Those armed with drinks and plates of food were making their way out onto the sunny back deck, where a 1940s-style swing band was playing.

Mom and I had taken maybe two steps toward the
buffet when I heard someone say, “She’s here!” and we were swarmed. Leading the charge was Delilah, on the arm of a pudgy, mustachioed man who bore an eerie resemblance to a walrus—Mr. Cooper, I assumed. An emotional woman in a diamond necklace embraced Mom, almost spilling her glass of golden-brown liquid on me, and an elderly man in a panama hat tried to pinch Mom’s cheek. On the fringe of the throng stood the man with the salt-and-pepper hair from the ferry, looking dapper in slacks and a jacket. He was watching Mom with a wistfulness that made me uneasy.

I was about to subtly point him out to Mom when someone tapped my shoulder.

“Miranda?” the someone inquired excitedly.

I turned around and faced a petite, pretty girl in a white dotted swiss sundress and wedge espadrilles. Her long red tresses, big blue eyes, and sprinkling of freckles across her nose instantly gave her away as Delilah’s daughter. I stiffened.

“CeeCee?” I ventured.

“Oh, my gosh, Mama told me all about you!” CeeCee cried, clapping her hands together. The charm bracelet on her wrist jangled. “You don’t understand! I feel like we’re sisters or something!” And with that, she swept me into a hug of surprising force.

Trying not to choke on CeeCee’s voluminous hair or
the scent of her flowery perfume, I wondered if Mom was witnessing this encounter. CeeCee was right; I
didn’t
understand. The fact that our mothers had been friends in another lifetime—something my own mother now appeared to regret—did not remotely make us relatives.

“I’ve always wanted a sister,” CeeCee sighed, finally releasing me. “Are you an only child, too?”

“I have an older brother, but he’s in California for the summer,” I managed to reply, smoothing my ponytail. I was rattled, but I had to admit there was something refreshing about CeeCee’s warmth.

“Ooh, is he cute?” CeeCee squealed, her eyes shining. “I bet he’s real cute.”

“He’s all right,” I replied, thinking that Wade—reckless, witty, and a lothario at Yale; in other words, Dad 2.0—would have probably appealed to a girl like CeeCee. My brother and I couldn’t have been more different. While Wade was constantly getting grounded in high school, I always toed the line. I never even
thought
about crossing it.

“It’s so cool that you’re from New York,” CeeCee bubbled. She pronounced
York
in a songlike way, breaking the
o
into two syllables. “I’ve only been there once, and I could
not
stop shopping! Daddy practically had to drag me and Mama out of Henri Bendel’s before we bought more handbags. How do
you do anything else?” she asked me. But her slightly critical gaze, as it traveled down my outfit, seemed to answer her own question.

“Somehow, I find a way,” I replied dryly. When I did go shopping, it was mostly in vintage stores, where Linda and I were pros at finding cheap jeans and cardigans. And while Linda and I shopped, we talked—long, winding talks about gender and birth order and astronomy. Linda was undeniably brilliant, with a thirsty mind. CeeCee’s mind, on the other hand, seemed to have been thoroughly watered by the fountains of Fendi and the streams of Sephora. The thought of her as my sole companion on Selkie filled me with a kind of emptiness.

If CeeCee picked up on my reticence, she didn’t show it; instead, she brightly asked for my cell phone number, and then announced she wanted to meet Mom, who was still surrounded by a circle of admirers. As CeeCee flung her arms around my mother, I shook hands with Mr. Cooper, the walrus (CeeCee had certainly dodged that genetic bullet), and Delilah kept winking at CeeCee and me, as if she’d set us up on a successful blind date. Then CeeCee suggested that the two of us head out onto the back deck so I could meet her friends.

I was torn; though it would be a relief to escape the close, sweaty crowd, I suspected CeeCee’s friends were replicas of
the girls on
Princess of the Deep
—cool confections of female perfection. Plus, I didn’t want to abandon Mom, who at the moment was listening to a coiffed elderly woman ramble on about the price of oysters. But when I glanced questioningly at my mother, she leaned close, whispered, “We’ll be out of here in ten minutes,” and waved me off.

Stopping to get sodas from the bar, CeeCee and I maneuvered our way out onto the deck, which smelled of suntan lotion and beer and faced the beach. I gazed at the striped umbrellas, the creamy sand, the figures bobbing in the surf like sleek seals, and felt a prickle of envy. Maybe I could go swimming later.

CeeCee steered me past the band and the swing-dancing couples over to two girls who were sipping sodas, charm bracelets dangling from their wrists. One was a curvy blonde wearing a halter dress printed with small cherries, and the other was model-tall, with skin the color of dark chocolate, and she wore a short yellow dress cinched with a belt. Like CeeCee, they both appeared to have been cut out of a
Teen Vogue
spread.

They don’t know the properties of helium,
I told myself.
They don’t know what Newtonian mechanics are, or who discovered penicillin.
They will
not
make you feel insecure.
Still, I tugged discreetly on the hem of my skirt, hoping the hole wasn’t visible.

Oblivious to my discomfort, CeeCee made introductions—the blonde was Virginia, the brunette Jacqueline—and Jacqueline smiled, linking her arm through mine.

“Delilah was raving about you earlier,” she said, her voice soft.

“Jackie’s my best friend from Atlanta,” CeeCee explained, taking my free arm. “She’s been coming out and staying with us for the past three summers.”

As I stood sandwiched between CeeCee and Jacqueline, I was surprised to feel a warm rush of belonging. I’d forgotten how comforting it was, the casual intimacy that could exist between girls.