Undertow (3 page)

“Hello?” a boy answered.

“Uh, Hi. I’m calling about the Jeep in the paper. Is it still for sale?”

“Sure is. I just listed it.”

“Excellent!  Where are you located?”

“I’m working at The Milk Way and it’s here. With me.” 

He said it like I should know it: Milk Way? What in the heck is The Milk Way? Some hardcore dairy farm? “Um, I’m new to the Cape. What and where is The Milk Way?” I asked, feeling out of the loop.

“Ah. Washashore, eh?
  Well, welcome to the Cape. I’m MJ and The Milk Way is just the best ice cream parlor on the planet. It’s in Centerville, near Craigville Beach. Do you know where Craigville is?”

Awareness in my head slowly brightened and I leaned back slightly, looking out the kitchen side door toward the street. Just barely visible through the trees and wedged behind the library I could see the four corner lights. Sitting at the lights was a gray, tilted building which I suddenly suspected was, in fact, The Milk Way. We had driven by it last night on our way to the house.  I started chuckling.

“Something funny?” asked MJ.

“Yeah. I think I can see the place from my new home. I’m Eila by the way.”

The line suddenly went quiet. I thought the call had been disconnected. “Um, Hello?”

“Sorry, yeah. I’m here,” he replied, but his voice sounded tight. He paused briefly again, but then finally snapped back to the jovial boy who had originally answered the phone.  “So, you live on Main? Lucky you,” said MJ, slightly impressed. “Well, if you want to see the Jeep, it’s here. Wander over from your home and it’s on the side. Dirt lot. Check it out and then come check ME out. Look for the devastatingly handsome dude in an apron.”

I snorted.

“Hey! Ye who is disrespectful to the ice cream gods will get none,” said MJ feigning insult.

“See you in thirty, Apron Boy.” I smiled into the phone.

“See ya.”

I downed the rest of my milk and quickly glanced over the to do list from Mae. No one was supposed to be here till 11:30. I had time to see the Jeep.

I jotted a quick addendum about my stubborn window then headed out the side door to check on the gardener, my mind still bouncing over the sand.

2

One long, LONG rambling histor
y
of the area later, I managed to excuse myself from our white-haired botanist. He was a very polite, slightly elderly man who loved to talk, possibly more than work, given the size of his waist. I made a mental note to avoid him, simply because I was not the most chatty of individuals.

That, and my brain had melted after the first ten minutes of his non-stop chatter.
 

I walked hurriedly past my new digs, glancing up at its glorious and imposing side. Believing that this mini mansion was mine was still unfathomable. Mae and I had great hopes for this place as a Bed and Breakfast sometime soon if the business loan came through. It better come through, because I sure didn’t want to go back to Kansas and our crappy apartment.

I took a sharp right at the white washed fence that designated our property, and trotted past the creamy Victorian next door. Still no signs of anyone inside - I began to think it might be a summer place.  I glanced around at the other stately homes. Some were Inns, some were shops, and some were private homes like mine.

I quickly crossed the road and soon approached The Milk Way, which was definitely a relic of the 1950s.
  With its sagging roof and chipped paint, I was surprised it had yet to make the town’s list of unstable buildings. As I walked up to the screen door the smell of vanilla and raspberries hit me in a wave and I dragged in a deep breath of deliciousness. Perhaps MJ wasn’t lying about being an ice cream deity.

I pulled on the white washed screen door, but it didn’t budge. I stepped back slightly and glanced around the large front window for a sign.

The Milk Way

 Open 7 days

11am to 9pm

I looked right and, sure enough, a beautiful black Jeep was sitting in the far lot.
  It looked perfect and I abandoned the storefront, heading to the parking lot.

As I passed the side of the building, I got another blast of sugar-laced air and looked over my shoulder. Standing in the side doorway with a towel in his hands and a stained apron hanging from his neck, was an athletic boy about my age and
a half-foot taller than me. He was tan with a wild mop of sun-streaked brown hair that peeked out the sides of a ratty baseball cap and tumbled into his beautiful, gray eyes.

He looked insanely familiar as he smiled and stepped through the door, “You must be Eila.”

I smiled and nodded. “MJ right? Aren’t you here kinda early?  I mean, who eats ice cream at 9am?”

“Oh. Well, my family owns this place and we make ice cream every morning. Remember: Ice Cream God,” he proclaimed as he shut the door and locked it. He slipped out of his apron and hung it on the doorknob. “So, my Jeep, eh?
  Come on, I’ll show you.”

As I watched him walk across the lot, I couldn’t shake the familiarity of his face. It was driving me crazy and I finally caved to my compulsive need to know where I had seen him before. “I give up,” I said, drawing a deep breath, “How do I know you?”

He stopped and looked at me, “You don’t. I am damn sure I’d remember your freckled face.”

I blushed, but persisted, “No seriously, you look so familiar.”

A smile curved upward on his face, “Oh yeah . . . I do look like someone. Someone famous. Everyone tells me all the time,” he said, reaching up to pull off his cap. He shook his hair and it fell haphazardly, framing his face.  The transformation was instant and I was shocked.

“WOW! You look exactly like what’s-his-name. From that movie, you know? A KNIGHTS TALE!” I said, triumphant.

“Yeah, I know. I could have been a body-double for Ledger. Don’t you think?” he asked, striking a hero’s pose. I wrinkled my nose slightly, not quite agreeing.

“What? I thought you said I looked just like him?” MJ protested, jamming his hat back on.

“I think he was a little more muscled.”

“WHAT? Oh, you are
so
not my friend,” he said, acting hurt. The smile pulled back to his face though.

“You can be a parts-double,” I said, trying to make up for the
muscularly-challenged comment, “You know, face, hair . . .”

“Butt?” he asked, “Cause I do have very nice parts, including my rear. At least, I think so.” I just laughed as we walked towards the Jeep. He stopped at the driver’s side, turning the key in the lock and swinging the door open, gesturing for me to hop in. “So, you just moved here, huh? Where ya from?”

“Kansas,” I said, sliding into the saddle brown seat. “But I guess you could say I am from here. Historically, that is, though I have never visited myself. Turns out I had a grandfather who was a sea captain.” I put my hands on the wheel and glanced around at the décor.

“So you moved here without ever having been here before? Your folks must have been here though, right? I mean, who moves from land-locked Kansas to seaside Cape Cod without knowing what they are getting into? Unless you’re nuts.”

“I ask myself all the time if I have lost my marbles, so ‘nuts’ is entirely possible – especially because I am fairly sure my parents had no idea about the house. I moved here with my guardian. She was my mom’s best friend. She raised me since I was two, when my folks died. Car accident.”

MJ was quiet for a moment, watching me flip open lock boxes and check out the back seat. I climbed out of the driver’s side and started walking around the Jeep, looking for any signs of damage.

“I’m . . . sorry about your folks,” he said, his silly demeanor slipping briefly. I just nodded. Everyone was always sorry about my parents, but no amount of apologies would ever bring them back.

 
              He went to the hood and unlatched the rubber locks, freeing the engine to the sunlight. “So, this is my Jeep which has been maintained religiously by my friend who works at RC garage. It runs great and is loads of fun,” he proudly announced. I raised my eyebrows in mock suspicion. The truth was, I fell in love with the 4x4 the moment I saw it.

“Why are you selling it, if it’s the pinnacle of perfection?” I asked sarcastically.

“Need the cash for college,” he said with a shrug.  I continued to inspect the vehicle, not that I knew what the heck I was doing.  I came over to the engine and he stepped next to me.

“So, you said you could see the shop from your house. Which place is yours?”

“The big white and black one sort of opposite the library.”

“You mean 408? Captain Walker was your grandfather?” He sounded impressed - or shocked.
  He looked at me, almost as if he was seeing me for the first time. Sizing me up. It was . . . odd.

“Are you alright?” I asked, somewhat uneasy.

He seemed to snap out of his strange appraisal.  “What? Oh yeah, I just thought that place was abandoned or the Historical Society, or rather hysterical society, owned it. Maybe even haunted. I just never imagined I would meet someone who was actually related to the Captain and his wife,” he said. “Cool history though.”

“Really? Because I never knew about them and I’d love to hear what you know.” I was damn curious now.

MJ shifted on his feet, almost . . . unsure. “Well, I don’t know tons. Just rumors. I guess Elizabeth Walker, the Captain’s wife, disappeared when she was young. Early twenties. Most people think she drowned but there was one urban legend-type thing that said she was struck by lightning.”

“STRUCK BY LIGHTNING? Are you serious?” I looked at him like he was now the one with a screw loose.

He waved the idea off, “It’s just a legend. Though I still wouldn’t run around with a golf club during a storm.” I just shook my head.

“Are you going to Barnstable?” A trickle of hope sparked in MJ’s voice.

“Don’t remind me,” I muttered, “Yeah, I’m going to be a senior. What college did you say you go to?”

He was delighted by my assumption, “Ha, no, not there yet! I’m a senior at BHS as well. Kids are pretty friendly too. Maybe not the cheerleaders though, at least where you are concerned,” he grinned as his hands slipped into his pockets.

“What? Are they some psycho clique that detests newcomers?”

“Only when the newcomers don’t seem to be the type to blindly follow orders and therefore pose a threat to their godliness,” he replied, suddenly closing the hood and putting space between us.
  “I get the sense that you’re more the rebel-type, especially if you are bold enough to move cross-country to a place you’ve never been to.”

I gave a knowing smile. No way I was some lemming that was going to follow a dictator who can do a cartwheel. I knew MJ wasn’t either, since he obviously wasn’t a fan of the Cheer Squad. Yup – I was definitely going to be pals with this kid.

           He dangled a set of silver keys in front of my face. “So, test drive anyone?” he asked, a crooked smile on his face.

 
          “Uh yeah, but you can drive. All I need is to wreck the car of the first classmate I’ve met. That would be awful.” I climbed into the passenger seat.

 
           “I know,” he replied sarcastically, “Because that would really suck for you to not be pals with someone as cool as me. It would absolutely take you down a few pegs.” I rolled my eyes and he turned the key, causing the engine to roar to life. I tugged on my seat belt to make sure I had a chance of walking away if his driving reflected his personality.

   
“Hang on,” he winked, and the Jeep vaulted forward.

   
Over the next hour or so, MJ was my tour guide, showing me the town I now called home.  He drove me down to several beaches, some on the map and some only accessible by 4-wheeling fans. We eventually ventured down to the waterfront and the busy harbor.

Lining the endless rows of docks
were all manner of sea-going vessels. There were bulky fishing boats, tiny sailboats and a wide array of aggressive-looking speedboats.  There was also a sizable assortment of yachts, complete with bathing suit-clad ladies sunning themselves on the million dollar decks.  MJ pulled up next to the front dock where the massive Island Ferry was offloading passengers and cars.

I watched the parade of people exiting the boat as one child dropped a small toy through the slats of the gangplank. It fell nearly fifteen feet to the water below, at which point the child turned into a screaming blob of jelly. The mother picked up the boneless kid and continued down toward the dock. Both she and her husband looked like they were just about ‘vacationed’ out.

            “So,” said MJ turning to me, “what’s the 411?”

 
           “The 411?” I asked, still watching the parents struggle with the child.

 
           “Yeah. Like, how did you come to move into 408 if no one from your family knew it existed?”

 
           I laughed and shook my head. It was still a crazy story. “An auction guy called me when I was in Kansas. He told me that an anonymous buyer signed the house over to me,” I said, twirling a hair elastic around my wrist. “It was a complete shock, but I guess instinct, told me I should move here. I know – it’s absurd.”

 
           “It’s not absurd. It’s just like some crazy, fairy tale come true.”

 
           “Hmm,” I mused, dubious. “The verdict is still out on the fairy tale part. It could turn out to be a nightmare.”

 
           “A nightmare?” asked MJ, surprised. “Have you looked around you?  Have you seen YOUR HOUSE?”

 
           “Yes, but I recall a mention of aggressive cheerleaders, right?”

 
           “Oh that . . . you’re right. Jury is still out,” he replied with the same, awesome grin.

 
           We sat for a few minutes longer, watching the boats and the people.  The harried parents were finally hailing a cab. As I looked across the harbor, I noticed a spectacular home situated on what appeared to be a long peninsula jutting out into the horizon.

“Who owns that house?” I asked, pointing to what looked like a mansion, possibly plucked from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s vivid mind.

“Ah yes, the house at the end of Torrent Road. Also known as the
Island House
,” said MJ, nodding knowingly, “Spectacular home and, like yours, rarely lived in.  Not sure of the owners though.”

“Island House? Why is it called the Island House?” I asked, stumped.

MJ looked at me as if I were joking, “Uh, because it is on it’s own island. Sort of, anyway.”

He leaned closer to me and pointed out toward the home, trying to show my eyes the way. “From here it looks like it’s on its own island, but it’s attached to Torrent Road by a narrow strip of sand. It’s basically an island, hence
Island House
.”

I let out a long, low whistle. “There is no shortage of spectacular homes here, is there?”

“Nope. Zillion dollar homes are plentiful here, all of which my family cannot afford,” said MJ as he started the engine. We chatted about the finer points of ice cream making and Alternative Rock as we drove back to The Milk Way.