The Beresfords (16 page)

“I don’t like to go without your father,” said Aunt Marie.

“None of us do, Mom. But we have to make the best of it. Dad would want us to.”

She shook her head, frowning. “No…no. I don’t think I’d enjoy that. You kids go along.”

“But, Mom!” Seeing his plans crumbling for the second time, Tom shot Jonathan a worried glance. “Dad would want us to have a chaperone, especially if the girls are coming. You won’t have to do a thing—not drive, not pack, not cook—nothing! You can just bring your book and we’ll put up the hammock for you.”

She sighed. “Oh, I don’t think so. It sounds like too much trouble. You’d better ask your aunt Terri, if you really want to go. I’m sure she’ll be happy to chaperone you at the cabin.”

Tom’s face was a sight. “I’m sure she would.”

Aunt Marie’s defection caused a hubbub that night. Not a one of my cousins—not even Jonathan, truth be told—relished the thought of replacing their mother with their aunt.

“She’ll ruin everything!” protested Rachel, to vigorous nods. She and Julie were united in this, at least, though they had been barely speaking since the Carnival. Not since Eric and Julie finally showed up that afternoon, sharing a cotton candy and more than a couple inside jokes.

“She can be a little much in close quarters,” Jonathan conceded. “I don’t know how much the Grants would enjoy such a big dose of her.”

“Aunt Terror is
not
an option,” declared Tom.

“Maybe Uncle Roger would come instead,” Julie suggested. “He’d be as laid back as Mom.”

Tom brightened for a moment until Jonathan said, “I can’t imagine Aunt Terri would agree to Uncle Roger going to the cabin with us while she stayed behind. And Uncle Roger would have to share a room with the guys, since he could hardly share with Frannie.”

Grim, my cousins fell silent. I had brief hopes the plans would be scrapped.

“Jon,” Tom began again, “you think you might reconsider the whole chaperone thing? I mean, come on. What’s gonna happen? I kicked out Steve and Dave. It’s just us and the Grants, and it’s not like we don’t hang around here all the time without Mom paying any attention.”

Rachel and Julie also turned eager eyes on Jonathan. I could see him waver, but then he shook his head. “Tom, I’m sorry. Then we’re back to square one. Dad wouldn’t go along with it, so I couldn’t either. And I couldn’t conceal it.”

“But Jonathan, Caroline is so excited!” Rachel argued. “You know how we’ve been talking about the Waterhole and the drag boats and the rope swing. You can’t back out now! She’d be disappointed.”

“I know she would. I’m sorry for it. I’m trying to think about what the best thing to do is. For everyone.”

“We could have Aunt Terri
and
Uncle Roger,” proposed Julie. “Then Aunt Terri would have someone else to worry about than just us.”

“But then Frannie has to cram in with us,” Rachel pointed out.

“She could sleep on the couch,” said Julie.

“Or stay home,” agreed her sister. “You don’t really want to go anyhow, do you, Frannie?”

“I do,” I croaked. “If you all are going, that is.”

They all looked somewhat stunned to have me express a decided opinion on the subject, especially when the girls were so clear they’d prefer me to back out. Jonathan gave my ponytail a tug. “You want to go, Frannie? Even under the circumstances?”

“It’s not that—” I
backpeddled
, fearing he would misunderstand me. “I—I wouldn’t want to go if you didn’t think it was right, Jonathan. I just meant that if you all were going with Aunt Marie or Aunt Terri and Uncle Roger, then I would like to go too.”

“Sure you would. And you should, if this is being billed as a family trip. But Mom’s not up for it, so that leaves Aunt Terri and Uncle Roger.” Or nothing, he might as well have said.

Tom threw up his hands. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he complained. “Fine—I give in. We’ll ask Aunt Terri. But not Uncle Roger.
She
’
s
bad enough. We don’t need to drag along two chaperones, and God knows Aunt Terri is worth a whole army of them. With her there, Steve and Dave probably wouldn’t stay at the cabin even if I begged them. I may sleep outside myself.”

Unlike her sister-in-law, Aunt Terri accepted the proposal with alacrity, and, despite Tom’s assertions to his mother that he was well old enough to do the organizing and packing, he happily turned the tasks over to his aunt. “We’ll have to run to Price Club,” she informed me the next morning, tucking a pencil behind her ear and smoothing out her list. “I’ll need help carrying it all. Burgers, cheese, buns, chips, soda, milk, cereal, fruit, lettuce, tomatoes, frozen lasagna, pizzas…I bet the condiments at the cabin are still good, and I
think
there’s still laundry detergent. I’ll call the property manager and have her go check everything out.”

But when she spoke to the property manager, another obstacle presented itself.

“Tom, sweetheart,” Aunt Terri said, shaking him from his poolside nap. “I called Debbie in Tahoe, and she says there’s been a rash of break-ins on Jameson Beach Road.”

She had to say this a few times before she could be understood, Tom not being at his quickest when woken from a dead sleep. “Well—so? What kind of break-ins?”

“You know—robberies. Broken windows, things stolen.”

“Well, our place isn’t on Jameson Beach Road.”

“It isn’t that far away.”

Tom sighed. “Did Debbie say they broke into
our
cabin?”

“No, but I’m thinking this might not be a good time to go up. Not till they catch the person or people.”

“No one was hurt, right?”

“Debbie says one old lady was home and screamed. The guy threw something at her and ran.”

“So, no. No one was hurt,” said Tom. “That means we should go up. For one thing, they’re less likely to break in if people are there, and for another, clearly all they want is the stuff. Just pillaging, no raping.”

“Tom!”

“There’s not even anything good to steal from our place,” he went on. “Old skis, old bikes, old record player, old TV—what is it? A twelve-inch? Tell Debbie to hang a big sign on the door: ‘Rob us, please.’ Then maybe Dad would shell out for some decent equipment.”

Aunt Terri threw up her hands. “I give up. On your own head be it. If someone tries to break in while we’re there, I’m sending
you
to deal with it.

Tom reclined the lounge chair once more and flopped onto his stomach to continue his nap. “Have I ever let you down?”

Her lips disappeared in a thin line, but she didn’t reply. For politeness’ sake, that question could only be seen as rhetorical.

With eight of us going—Aunt Terri, my cousins, me, and the Grants—it would take two cars to get up to the cabin. The station wagon of my childhood was long gone, and when Uncle Paul bought a Suburban Aunt Marie simply stopped driving. Aunt Terri trucked us kids to our activities in it for a few months until she backed into a fire hydrant. That was it for the oversized vehicles. Uncle Paul replaced the Suburban with a more manageable BMW 5-series, and now on the rare occasions when we all needed to get somewhere together, we caravanned.

The fateful Friday morning, my cousins and I stood in the driveway with our duffel bags and the coolers Aunt Terri packed.

“I think we can manage between the BMW and my Civic,” said Jonathan.

Rachel gave a loud groan. “It’ll be too crammed if we take your Civic unless we put three in the backseat of the BMW and let whoever’s in the back of the Civic stretch out.”

“I would gladly offer my car,” Aunt Terri sighed, “but then what would your mother and Uncle Roger drive, if they need to go somewhere this weekend? I don’t think they would like to use Tom’s RX-7.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” put in Tom, who was certainly as loath to offer his car to Aunt Marie and Uncle Roger as they would be to drive it. “Yours isn’t any bigger than Jon’s Civic.” Not to mention Aunt Terri and Uncle Roger drove a 1980 dull-white Chevy Malibu which my cousins were not eager to be seen in.

The distant thump of bass made us pause, listening, as it grew from a rhythmic growl to a displacement of air that hit us with physical blows. Aunt Terri, in particular, looked stunned, her hands halted halfway to her ears. Into the driveway spun a gleaming black
Datsun
280ZX, the panels from the T-top removed and the Grants inside, grinning and shouting like maniacs. I didn’t catch the words—something about money and woes and highs and lows. When Eric noticed Aunt Terri, he courteously cut the engine and the noise.

“What—what on earth?” she sputtered as the twins leapt out.

“Top of the morning!” Eric called. “Who’s riding with me?”

Both Rachel and Julie made movements, and I saw Caroline Grant’s lips twist derisively. “It’s a treat,” she said, drawing a compact mirror from her clutch and checking her hair. “Not every day that our wicked stepfather feels generous with his material possessions.”

“Actually, today wasn’t one of those days either,” her brother confessed. “I told him I was borrowing the sedan. He’ll get a shock when he finds out.” He smiled at the sisters. “No volunteers? I did hope someone could share the driving with me. Stick shift, you know. Hard to change gears and drink at the same time on those twisty mountain roads. Drink soda, I mean,” he added for Aunt Terri’s benefit.

“Better be Julie, then,” said Tom. “She could use all the practice she can get on a manual transmission.”

Before Rachel could formulate an objection, Julie bounced into the driver’s seat. “And I better take the keys to the cabin, Aunt Terri, because I bet we’ll beat all you slowpokes up there.”

“No speeding,” her aunt reminded her. “I don’t know about this—driving this car. Eric, you really think this won’t get you in trouble with your stepfather?”

He only shrugged and laughed, climbing in the other side. Julie started the engine and shrieked with surprise when the stereo boomed out again. “Turn it off! Off! I have to concentrate,” she giggled. Twice she stalled the car when she tried to put it in reverse.

“Don’t just pop the clutch like that,” Eric coached her. “Let it out bit by bit. Wait till you feel it grab.”

After another few tries, Julie lurched back into the street and they were off, a long strand of her brown hair snaking from the T-top and the subwoofers working overtime. Without another word, jostling Tom as she pushed past, Rachel yanked open the door to Jonathan’s Civic and squished into the backseat. Caroline Grant caught the door lightly before Rachel slammed it and smiled at Jonathan. “May I? Does my chariot await?”

“Please.”

That left Tom, Aunt Terri and me in the BMW. With such company, I could see my oldest cousin wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to stay home after all, drag boats or no drag boats, but in the end he jerked his chin for me to get in while Aunt Terri yelled inside to Paola that we were leaving
right now and the number for the cabin was pinned on the bulletin board
. She only got in one comment before Tom cranked the stereo to forestall further conversation, but I remembered it later as a funny thing to say: “Give me a bigger car like this any time. That flashy little one Eric was driving—it just doesn’t seem safe.”

Aunt Terri’s bladder got the best of us. We made stops in Fairfield and Placerville, Tom drumming his fingers on the hood of the car. She would come dashing from the gas station mini-mart bearing placatory offerings of beef jerky and gum which he would accept wordlessly and rip open with his teeth as he merged back onto the highway.

Along about Echo Lake I had to go pretty badly myself (having held it during Aunt Terri’s pit stops to avoid being lumped with her as an object of wrath), but I knew better than to mention it. Instead I crossed and uncrossed my legs, fidgeting and counting mileposts. Where the 50 intersected the 89, traffic slowed to a crawl. Every third car towed a boat, it seemed. Nearly all were headed to the denser development around South Lake Tahoe, however, and when at Tahoe Valley we took the split toward Camp Richardson, we broke free. From there it was a solitary run up the 89 to Cascade Road. Plunging into the shade of the pines, through which we occasionally glimpsed the lake in shards of deep blue, we left the paved surface after a half-mile or so and crunched onto gravel. It used to be, when I was younger, that we wouldn’t see a single house after the asphalt ended, but now a cabin or two nestled among the trees. Like ours, they
had steeply-pitched roofs to shed snow, and like ours, they appeared not to have been recently occupied.

When we made the last turn before the cabin, the lake now rippling before us, Tom gave a grunt of surprise, his first sound since Placerville. “What the—?”

We were the first car—the only car—pulled up, but Rachel appeared instantly from behind the house, scowling. “Have you seen them?” she demanded, as soon as the BMW doors opened.

Tom ignored her huffiness. “Where’s Jon?”

“He and Caroline went into town to hunt up a key from Debbie so we can get in. Can you believe it? Stupid Julie takes the keys and she’s not even here to open the place up! What took you guys so long? We got here an hour ago. I’m starving!”