Swept Away (14 page)

July

T
here are only three days left before the boat parade, and I have discovered something else Oliver and I have in common. We don't work well under pressure.

We're behind schedule. Our classic Maine weather hasn't helped. Luckily, Freaky is a freakishly accurate weather predictor, so Candy Cane Jr. (Oliver's adorable nickname for our float) has never been caught outside, no matter how sunny the weather forecast is on the news. But the rain, the humidity, the general dampness that is Rocky Point slowed down our progress. A lot.

We're supposed to wait twenty-four hours between layers of papier-mâché, but it stayed sticky longer than that. And until that's dry we can't paint it.

But don't worry. We found ways to fill the downtime. That first flour-paste-covered kiss changed everything.

Kisses. Kisses that last forever and not long enough. That keep me occupied in my daydreams and as I drift off to sleep. I don't even text Cynthia. It's as if the kisses exist in their own perfect world. A world so private, so delicate, I'm not ready to share it with anyone. Not even her.

I've never had a single experience—certainly not one this big—that she hasn't in some way been part of. We dissected, analyzed, and categorized everything together down to the most
minute detail. As exacting as Oliver is with his measurements.

This is different. For once I don't want to overthink. I just want to . . . be. To . . . discover. To find out what this bright and shiny new energy is.

It's not that I'm keeping a secret from her. It's that I have no words to describe how I'm feeling. What our time together is like. The expression on his face when he confesses what he misses about predivorce days. How he holds my hand without a word and just lets me talk about Dad. Complain about Mom. How we make the work go faster by making up ridiculous sea chanteys or impossibly complicated stories. What it's like to have him casually sling his arm across my shoulder as he points at something on Candy Cane Jr. as if of course that's exactly where his arm is supposed to be. The way I just as casually slip my hand into his back pocket, lean into him, and just listen, happy to be exactly where I am.

Is this what it's like to fall in love?

Only I'm not feeling a whole lot of love today. For the past week stressing over Candy Cane Jr. has made us pretty snippy with each other, and after yesterday's not very successful work session, I'm mostly irritated, annoyed, and exasperated. I thought this project would bring us closer together, but if things keep going the way they have, it might actually make us stop being friends—or whatever—altogether!

The rain outside completely matches my mood. It's also brought in more Candy Cane customers than normal, so I'm actually a little bit busy. Also good, otherwise I'd stew all day long.

I finish counting out the change for one adult, two kids' admis
sion prices, then as the visitors move away, I spot Lexi Johnson hovering at the entry. She's flanked by a skinny boy with hair as red as hers, and a chubby little girl who looks like a kindergartener.

“Hi, Mandy,” she says as she approaches the desk. “I heard you were working here.”

“Mom,” I reply. It's enough of an explanation. Everyone knows about my mom and the historical society.

“Babysitting,” she says with a nod toward the two kids. “Cousins.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” the boy protests.

She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know,” she assures him. “I'm really just babysitting your sister.”

“Right,” the boy declares emphatically.

Lexi pays for their tickets, and the kids wander to the gift shop area. “How's it going?” she asks.

“Not so bad.” Then my eyes open wide. “Lexi! Are you making a boat float this year?”

She frowns. “No. We were away the beginning of the summer so I missed the chance to join a crew.”

“Want to join mine?”

She looks surprised. “You're making a float?”

“Yes, and we are so behind, and my . . . friend, well, just yesterday he asked if I knew anyone who could help. You'd be perfect!” Lexi is always part of the group building sets and props for school plays.

Her eyes travel to her cousins, who are now crawling under the display tables. “I think you may have just saved my sanity. Now Lara will have to take over the babysitting.” Lara is Lexi's
younger sister. She grins at me, dimples showing in her heart-shaped face. “Thanks for the rescue!”

“Believe me, you're the one rescuing me! I need the reinforcements!”

L
exi slows her bike to a stop as we arrive at the turnoff to the house in the woods. “You didn't tell me you're building a boat with Freaky Framingham!”

It's finally sunny, and although I filled Lexi in on most of the details, I confess I did leave out the location. I told her we should just head there together from my house. I was afraid she would back out.

“Don't worry,” I assure her. “It's totally fine. And it's not Freaky . . .”

“Oh. My. God.” She straddles her bike and stands staring at me. “The new guy! Freaky's grandkid or something. Everyone's been wondering where he disappeared to! He's been with you!”

I blush. “We started working on the boat only a few weeks ago. I think he spends every waking moment working on it or praying for it to stop raining.”

We resume biking. Lexi has always been pretty quiet, rarely speaks up in class, isn't one of the girls who spread gossip—or is the subject of any. Cynthia knows her better than I do, because of their school-plays connection. She once told me Lexi's shy, but speaks her mind when she has ideas for designs or how to do things. Right now I'm grateful she's not the type to pry. She probably has a million questions but is too polite to ask any.

We lean our bikes against the porch, and I lead her inside, calling out, “We're here!”

I sent Oliver a text last night saying I was going to bring a helper, but with his spotty cell service I have no idea if he ever got it.

There's no answer, so I head for the kitchen. Then I realize Lexi's no longer following me. Just like my mom, and me, she is dumbstruck in the living room.

“I know,” I say impatiently, “different on the inside. But come on. Times a-wasting!”

“Right . . .”

Oliver is out back, of course. Even though I'm braced for more arguments, I can't help smiling. He's kneeling by a can of paint, stirring. We're finally going to begin painting. I'm not sure if I should just launch into my plan to get him to see reason, or if I should work up to it slowly.

“Cool lighthouse,” Lexi says, walking over to the tower sitting near the shed.

“Oliver, this is Lexi,” I say. “Lexi, this is Oliver. He's the mastermind.”

“Thanks for doing this,” Oliver says. “We still have loads to do.”

Lexi studies the structure. “So is this going in the stern?” she asks.

“In the center,” Oliver responds.

Okay, I guess we're getting into it now. I'm glad it's Lexi raising the subject and not me this time.

She glances at him, puzzled. “Where you row?”

“Yup.” Oliver stands and carefully lays the wooden stirrer on the lid of the paint can. “It's going to be cool. I'll get in the boat and then the lighthouse will be lowered over me.” He crosses to the tower and points at the bottom windows. “See? At this scale, they're big enough to put the oars through.”

“Uh-huh.” Lexi walks around the lighthouse structure, studying it.

“Lexi does a lot of building for the school plays,” I say. “She's even been in the boat parade before.”

Oliver looks a little uncomfortable. I know what he's feeling. This is his baby, and now someone—a stranger—is assessing it. I suddenly want to protect him.

“The lantern house looks great!” I say.

“The light works,” Oliver says. “It's one of those battery-­operated candles. I think from a distance it will look like a lantern.”

“Definitely.” I glance at Lexi. “Uh, he wants it to be as exact a replica as possible.”

I had already told her about the problems: that he won't cut a door, that he'll be rowing through the windows. But the most ridiculous issue is the one I'm hoping she'll solve. The fact that he won't cut eyeholes.

“There aren't any windows on the side you'll be facing?” she asks.

“No.” There's a hard tone in his voice. His “don't argue with me” voice. I've heard it more than a few times. “And I'm not cutting any,” he says. I know this is meant for me because I've hounded him about it all week.

“But how will you steer?” I ask for the ten thousandth time.

“You sit backwards to row anyway,” he says. “So what difference will it make?” He turns away from us and opens up another paint can.

I throw up my hands and give Lexi a “see what I'm dealing with” look.

“I totally respect your commitment to accuracy,” Lexi says. “But, dude, you have to be able to see.”

Oliver just keeps stirring.

I walk around to the front of the lighthouse, then into the shed where the boat we'll be using is stored. I climb into it and sit on the middle bench, where Oliver will be sitting.

I really want Oliver to be able to stick to his vision. But I also don't want him to be insane. It's not like he's an expert rower to begin with.

My eyes travel up to a small painting hung above one of the tool cabinets. I don't know why Freaky hung one of his paintings out here, but I don't know why Freaky does anything. A little girl stands at the front of the painting with her back to the viewer. Way in the background, looking tiny, is a barn. An equally tiny man leans against the barn wall, but even as small as he is I can tell he's looking at the little girl. Because she's in the foreground, she's huge in comparison.

An idea forms.

I clamber out of the rowboat in my typically clumsy way and rush out of the shed. “I've got it!”

Oliver and Lexi both look at me. They're on opposite sides of the tower, painting. It looks like a somewhat uneasy truce. I hope Lexi isn't mad at me for pulling her into this. I hope Oliver isn't
mad that I dragged someone in who might challenge his plans.

“I'll be your eyes!” I declare. “I'll sit in the bow and guide you!”

“But—”

“Hear me out. I know you're worried about scale. But perspective!”

Oliver looks at me blankly, and Lexi's eyebrows scrunch together. Then it's as if a lightbulb goes on over her head. “Perfect!”

Oliver looks from me to Lexi. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I got the idea from the painting in the shed,” I explain in a rush. “It's okay if I'm bigger than I should be, because of perspective. It will be as if I'm in the foreground. I'll be the first thing anyone sees—even if just for a second.”

“I don't know . . .” I can tell Oliver wants to find a solution, but his perfectionist side is resisting.

“I know!” Lexi says, putting down her paintbrush. “I can make you a costume that will make it look as if you're much smaller.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” she says. Oliver and I share a quizzical look and then follow her into the shed.

“Get in the bow,” she instructs me. I do. “Lean forward.” I do.

She turns to Oliver. “I'll make a kind of bib for Mandy. With feet on the bottom. She can lean forward so that the feet will touch the edge of the boat.”

“I love it!” I exclaim. “And the dress for the bib can be old-fashioned. I can be Mrs. Gilhooley, the wife of the first lighthouse keeper.”

Oliver still looks dubious. “But the illusion won't work when the boat is seen from the side.”

Lexi and I look at each other. Then we look at him. Then we look at each other.

I fling my hands into the air. “You can't row without being able to see!”

“You gotta give in a little,” Lexi says more calmly.

Oliver slouches and stares down at his sneakers. “Okay,” he mumbles.

“You guys paint,” Lexi says. “I'm going to try to find a doll's dress that will work for the bib.” She claps her hands together. “Come on, people! We have work to do!” She points at each of us, then rushes away.

“And I've always thought of her as shy,” I say once she's gone.

“Shy?” Oliver says. “She's like a general.” Then he grins at me. “But in a good way.”

I'm relieved that he's not angry. I'm even more relieved that he's listened to reason and won't wind up crashing into the shore.

He steps up to me and wraps both arms around me and squeezes. “I'm sorry I've been such a jerk.” Then he takes a step back. “Thank you,” he says. “It means a lot to me that you care so much about our project.”

I tug at the hem of his T-shirt, my eyes down. “It's important to you. So it's important to me.”

He lifts my chin with his finger, and I look into those blue eyes that always make my breath catch. He brings his lips to mine, and I taste salt and a hint of peanut butter. But more, too. I shut my eyes and melt against him and detect the flavors of trust, and
happiness, and gratitude, and I imagine I taste the same to him.

We pull apart and I lay my face against his chest, listening to his pounding heart. His chin sits on top of my head as he plays with my braid. “I guess we should get back to work,” he murmurs.

I nod, making his chin bounce. I take a step away from him, and his hands clasp behind my back, keeping me close. I peer up at him with a grin. “So what now, boss?”

He glances over his shoulder. “The paint needs to dry. Let's finish painting the keeper's house.”

We release each other and go into the shed. “Have you decided what color scheme to use?” I ask. Over the years the keeper's house has been painted different colors.