Swept Away (18 page)

“Oliver's grandfather is an insanely good cook,” I promise them. “Your taste buds will be in ecstasy.”

Lexi picks up a sandwich and unwraps it. “It's true. Ol' Freaky is a freaking brilliant cook.”

Everyone freezes. All eyes flick to Oliver. I carefully study the sandwich in my lap.

“Freaky?” he repeats. He looks around, but now everyone's avoiding his eyes. “Mandy?”

I swallow my bite of mozzarella, pesto, and arugula sandwich. “It's, uh, kind of a nickname. It's stupid. Just kid stuff.”

“Oh.” Oliver looks down and fiddles with the laces of his sneakers. He clears his throat. “Look, I know he's kind of eccentric, but he's actually—”

“He's awesome,” Lexi says, cutting him off. “He knows all this stuff about art, and building things.”

“If people would get to know him,” Oliver says sharply, “they wouldn't be so mean.”

“That's not fair,” Patti argues. “He doesn't
let
us get to know him. He's like this recluse up in the woods. The only time I ever saw him in town he practically growled at anyone who tried to talk to him.”

I stroke Oliver's arm, sorry I brought him here, sorry that he had to hear this, sorry that—well, just sorry. “Patti's right,” I say gently. “Until I got to know him, I thought he was kind of scary. You know how kids are.”

Oliver gives a little nod and takes a sandwich. I'm encouraged by the fact that he's still sitting here.

“And now that I've been spending all this time up at the house, I see him differently,” I say.

Oliver unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite. As he chews I can tell he's thinking. Mulling. I reach for the cooler with sodas and hand him a can. He pops it open and takes a swig. “It's okay,” he finally says. “I thought he was pretty odd when I first got here too. And he's definitely got his moods. So I understand. And this town seems pretty big on nicknames.”

He smiles weakly to show he's not mad, and I see everyone relax. My own shoulders drop back to where they belong, and my stomach unclenches. The sandwiches get distributed, and after Patti takes a bite, she says, “Oh man. Lexi's right. These are freakishly good!”

“From now on,” Lexi says, “that's what we mean if we call him Freaky. That he makes freakishly good food.”

Oliver laughs for real, and I know the awkwardness is definitely over.

“You think these are good,” I say, “wait until you taste the cookies!”

“Did someone say cookies?”

“Hi, Vicki,” Lexi says. She moves over to make room.

“That was the cutest boat,” Vicki says to me, but she's eyeing Oliver. I can't tell if it's because he's so good-looking, because she's never seen me with a boyfriend, or because of the Freaky connection.

“This is Oliver,” I say. “From California.” I lean into Oliver and look up at him. “Vicki's in some of my classes.”

“California?” Vicki says. “Cool.” She reaches for a cookie, then looks around at us for permission.

“Go ahead,” Oliver says with a smile. “I brought plenty.”

“How'd the performance go?” I ask, munching my sandwich.

Vicki's in drama club with Cynthia, and for the last few years they've been performing on one of the stages set up in the Square on the Fourth.

“I skipped it this year,” she says, then gazes at the cookie. “Wow, this is good.”

“Why?” Lexi asks. “You always do it.”

Vicki shrugs. “Cynthia's the one who's into it. I'd rather just enjoy the great big party, since most of the summer I'm baby­sitting.”

“Then why do you do it?” I ask.

Vicki shrugs. “You know how Cynthia can be.”

I'm about to ask what she means when my hand is crushed under a stranger's foot.

“Yeowch!” I yelp.

“Sorry,” I hear someone call.

Normally part of the fun of the Fourth of July is the giant and crowded beach party. But tonight I'd rather not get stepped on and have a bit more private time with Oliver.

“What time is it?” I ask.

Joanna checks her cell phone. “Eight forty-five.”

That gives us fifteen minutes before the show begins. “I have an idea,” I whisper to Oliver. “A better place to watch the fireworks. But we have to hurry.”

“Okay.”

I grab a cookie and stand. “We're going to take off.”

“But you're going to miss the prize announcements,” Vicki says.

The ribbons are given to the boat-float winners just before the fireworks begin, along with the usual announcements, thank-yous, et cetera.

“Somehow I don't think we're going to win,” I say.

“Unless there's a prize for the most foolhardy,” Lexi comments. She shakes her head and picks up another sandwich. “I still can't believe you pulled it off.”

“If we win,” Oliver says to Lexi, “you accept for the team.”

Lexi gives him a thumbs-up as she chews.

We head toward the wharf, stepping around blankets and skirting kids racing around waving pinwheels and sparklers. “Do we have time for me to grab some sodas from the booth?” ­Oliver asks.

“If you hurry.”

“Don't move.” He rushes away into the crowd. The lines at
the booths aren't bad now since the fireworks are about to start, and soon Oliver reappears carrying a take-out box. He hands me a soda. Then he holds out something else.

A lobster roll. For me.

He looks so adorably proud of himself. “I got it at Kyle's booth, as promised.”

“I'm not really hungry,” I say.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “Kyle says theirs are the best. After all, it's a day to show our patriotism. Eating a lobster roll in Maine could be considered a patriotic act.”

I smile weakly as I take it from him. My nose wrinkles at the smell.
Wash it down with soda
, I tell myself. Mask the flavor with a bite of cookie. You can do this.

He's still watching. I take a teeny-tiny bite, hoping to get mostly roll. But the reason Kyle's family has so many fans is because of how overstuffed the rolls are.

Dis-
gus
-ting.

My taste buds want to leap off my tongue, and I force myself to swallow without gagging. It's not easy. I immediately take a big swig of soda, swishing it all around my mouth as if it's mouthwash. I take another gulp of soda, trying to wash away the grossness of lobster chunks drenched in mayo. I actually shudder.

Luckily, Oliver is loving his lobster roll so much he actually shuts his eyes and practically swoons. Excellent. I take advantage of his closed eyes and drop the sandwich.

“Oops!” I say as he opens his eyes. “Clumsy me.”

“I'll go get you another,” Oliver says.

I grab his arm. “No! We, uh, we don't have enough time.”

“We can split this one,” he says, holding it out to me.

“You have it. I can have them anytime, remember? But we actually do have to hurry.”

I take a huge bite of Freaky's cookie—chocolate chip with walnuts—to disguise the lingering fish flavor and grab his arm.

“Where are we going?” Oliver asks as I lead him away from the wharf.

“To the most fitting place to celebrate this day,” I say.

Then he gets it. “Candy Cane!”

“Exactly. We spent the day with Candy Cane Jr., so now we should spend the evening with the lady herself.”

“I like the way you think.” Now that he knows where we're headed, Oliver picks up his pace. We're practically running as we reach it. He follows me around to the entrance. “We're going inside?” he asks.

I give him a smug smile “We're going to the top.”

I fish out my keys, and together we shove open the door.

I've never been in the lighthouse at night. It's pitch-black, which I'd expected, and also pretty spooky. “Hang on,” I say. “Hold the door open.”

Even with door propped the moonlight barely makes a dent in the dark. “Take this,” I say, handing Oliver the rest of my cookie. “I need both hands. Actually, finish it,” I add. I anticipate some kissing before, during, and after the fireworks, and I can't bear the idea of Oliver having fish breath.

That taken care of, I carefully shuffle to the entryway bench. It's a much easier target than the lamp on the table farther in. I flip up the seat and rummage around inside. “Bingo!” I exclaim,
pulling out a flashlight. I flick it on. Oliver lets the door shut and takes the flashlight as I pull out another one.

I train the light on the table with the lamp. “Over there,” I instruct Oliver.

He walks to the table, then stops. “Let's not.”

“Let's not what?” I ask as I stand.

“Turn on the lights. Let's pretend we're way back in time. We're in the era of Mrs. Gilhooley.”

“I don't think they had these.” I wave the flashlight.

“They had lanterns. These will stand in for those.”

I shake my head and smile. “You're not going to make me put on Mrs. Gilhooley's outfit, are you?”

“Maybe next time.”

I cross to the doorway leading to the spiral staircase. “I wouldn't want to climb these in the dark in that dress.”

Something about being in the tower with nothing but our flashlight beams to guide us keeps us from speaking. Maybe it's because we're concentrating hard—it would be bad to take a misstep, and we're both self-admitted klutzes. But there's also something mysterious and private and magical about climbing with only our flickering lights that invites silence.

It gets me thinking about the footsteps of all those lighthouse keepers who made this very same climb in the dark. Oliver may be right—there is something compelling about the history of this place, once it starts to seem more personal.

But neither of us can stay quiet when we emerge into the lantern room. “Oh my,” I breathe. Oliver gasps behind me.

I know this is the view tourists travel to see, but none has
ever seen it like this. I quickly turn off my flashlight, and Oliver does the same with his. We carefully place them by our feet.

The lantern room is made entirely of glass panes fitted into metal frames, giving us a panoramic view of all of Rocky Point. Straight ahead the new(er) lighthouse flashes signals from its rocky outpost where the bay and the harbor join together to become the wide-open sea. Out the windows on my left side, I can see the lights from the ferry docks and the food booths. Tiny fluttering green dots that remind me of fireflies sparkle along the coast. I'm guessing they're glow sticks carried by all of the kids huddled around their parents. Across the bay, lights on the Cranston peninsula dot the shoreline.

On the right-hand side it's pretty dark in the harbor. I can make out the running lights on boats where people are holding their own Independence Day celebrations on board. I turn all the way around and look at the town—the lit homes, the streetlamps, the illuminated shop windows. “It doesn't look real,” I murmur.

“Like something out of a storybook,” Oliver agrees. “This must be what it looked like to all those keepers who had to make sure the lantern stayed lit.”

“Beautiful.”

We're both lost in the timelessness of this moment. It's as if history is seeping into me, the way it has seeped into the stones of the tower.

Boom!

We both jump. “Wh-what was that?” I stammer, clutching the guardrail.

Oliver starts laughing. “There seems to be some sort of event going on. . . .”

I look up at him, then smack my head. “D'oh! Fireworks.”

“They were the reason we came up here, right?” Oliver kisses the tip of my nose. “Or were they just an excuse . . . ?”

I lay my arms on his chest, with my hands on his shoulders. “A little of both.”

He lowers his head to kiss me when we're both startled by another explosion. “Kissing later,” I say. I spin him around to face the right direction. “Fireworks now.”

“I'm sure there's a bad joke to make but I can't—”

Boom!

We stand mesmerized by the colorful display. There's something about how gorgeous they are—but last only for moments—that gets to me. All this effort and risk just to give us a fleeting vision of something exquisite.

We're too far away to hear the music programmed to go with them, but there's something even more dramatic watching them streak across the sky accompanied by nothing but natural sounds. Just the water splashing against the rocks below and people so far away it's hard to discern what's music and what's chatter, though every now and then shrieks, laughter, and applause drift up to us.

I'm super aware of how close Oliver is, the sharp little intakes of breath when an explosion surprises him, the laughter when he realizes he startled. He keeps glancing at me as if he's enjoying my enjoyment of the fireworks as much as his own.

Best idea ever,
I congratulate myself with a smile.

As the rousing finale booms and bursts and explodes, Oliver
moves behind me and encloses me by placing his hands beside mine on the guardrail. I feel his warmth against my back, welcome heat in the chilly tower. I feel protected, and think again about the original lighthouse keepers—the extraordinary risks they took every single day just doing their jobs. What did Mrs. Gilhooley feel like, living here to watch over sailors and ships, before there were real roads and everything was done by ship? How brave they must have been. And how lonely.

The applause on the beach is loud enough to hear in the tower. It's an incredible feeling knowing that we've shared this not just with each other but with all of Rocky Point. All of Cranston. All those boats. All of time, it feels like.

“Spectacular,” Oliver says in a long exhale.

“I did good?” I ask, leaning against him.

“You did good.”

I turn and smile up at him. It's hard to see his face in the dim light, but I can see he's gazing down at me with something that looks a lot like love. It startles me, how open he is, then I remember I've got my own neon-sign face. He must have seen that same look on me.