13 · Lucy
Monday, my day off. I sleep in, then throw on shorts and a ratty Halcyon Lake Hawks hockey T-shirt, and get to work cleaning the house, something that falls on me a lot more now that Mom and Dad are both working longer hours. I’ve got a pretty good routine down, starting at the loft at the top of our log home and working my way down, the kitchen last.
I’ve just finished vacuuming the living room when I look through the sliding glass door and see Shay Stanford down at the lake. She and Simon have been here a couple of days. Simon and I have texted a few times, but I haven’t been home much, and I’m nervous about seeing him again. Nervous and excited.
Shay stands with her hands on her hips, looking out over the lake, the sunlight a bright, rippling streak across the water. The trees are starting to fill out in a brilliant green, and the air is thick with the scent of lilac and lily of the valley.
Any other time, I’d stop what I was doing and walk down to take it in, to sit in my favorite chair on the patio and let myself get lost in the cool, fresh breeze.
I can’t do that now. Shay has set up her easel and sketch pads and what looks like a tackle box, the cover open, art supplies spilling across the table. When she turns back from the lake, the smile on her face is wide and as bright as the sunlight on the water.
That’s got to be worth more than fifty bucks a week.
I open up the bank of living room windows, make a quick round of the bookshelves and tables with a dust rag, and move on to the kitchen.
The kitchen doesn’t see a lot of use these days, not with Mom at the restaurant all the time. It doesn’t take long for me to load and start the dishwasher, wipe down the countertops, and go through the stack of mail. When I’m finished, I take a glass of water out to the deck, lean over the railing, and watch Shay again. I wonder where Simon is, what he’s doing.
I don’t have to wonder very long. When I turn to go back into the house a few minutes later, Simon Stanford is standing at the fireplace, a framed photograph in his hand.
He’s here. My heart jumps a little, but my glance quickly moves to the mantel above the fireplace. I know the exact photo he’s taken down.
The four of us—me and Clay, Ben and Trixie—on the dock in front of the Porters’ pontoon, two months before Trixie died. Ben stands in between me and Trixie, his arms over our shoulders. He’s wearing jeans and a green T-shirt. But he’s not looking in the direction of the camera. He’s looking at me.
It’s my favorite picture of all of us.
The last picture.
“Put that down,” I snap, and I walk across the room and snatch the frame out of Simon’s hands.
He takes a step back, his hands in the air. “Whoa, sorry. I rang the bell. You didn’t answer, but the door was open, and I could see you out on the deck.” He grins.
“So why didn’t you come out to the deck, then? You had to snoop around?”
“I wasn’t snooping around, Lucy. This is a great picture of you. Who are the others?” He steps around so he’s standing next to me to look at the photo again. He taps the glass. “This guy must be your brother—looks just like you. Who’s the other one? Your boyfriend?”
I step away from him, set the photo back in its place on the mantel, and swallow hard.
“No.” I turn back around to face him. “He’s not my boyfriend, not that it’s any of your business.”
Simon doesn’t react the way I expect him to: He laughs. Then he says, “Lucy, I’m sorry. I guess I should have found a less intrusive way to find out if you have a boyfriend. My reasons for asking are purely selfish, of course.”
My anger dissolves in an instant. My cheeks go red, and I tuck my chin. When I look up again seconds later, Simon is grinning at me.
“So,” he says, “what should we do today? I’m dying of boredom over there and you’re finally home. Any chance you could show me around town?”
I look down at my filthy clothes and take a surreptitious sniff—sweat and the pungent pine of floor cleaner. I’m fairly certain there’s a streak of dirt across one cheek. My phone chimes as I reach up a hand to rub away the dirt.
“Hold that thought,” I say, grateful for the chance to step away and think about my answer as that queasy nervous feeling swirls through me again.
The text is from Daniel. Jeannie’s home with a sick kid. Please can you work 3–6 until Rosemary comes in?
I glance at the time. It’s 1:15 now. By the time I shower and change, it will be almost two, and then I’ll need to walk to town. Hannah’s in Texas with her mother for the book tour, Dad’s at work, and it’s doubtful that anyone from the Full Loon would be able to get away to pick me up.
“That was my uncle,” I tell him. “I help out at our family restaurant, and they need me to come in. Could you give me a ride to town, and I’ll show you around another time?”
He frowns. “How late do you have to work?”
“Until six.”
“Okay, six is another time. I’ll drive you to work and meet you there when your shift is over.”
He smiles at me, quick and wide and genuine. Sparks ignite in my chest. I blush and stare at the Captain America symbol on his heather gray T-shirt.
“Thanks,” I mutter to the white star on his shirt. “I’ll be in the driveway at 2:30.”
The minute I walk in the door, Mom gets on my case for being an hour late.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Daniel asked me to work from three to six.”
“No,” Mom says, “two to six.”
I open the message and shove my phone in her direction. She glances down and passes it back.
“Well, get your apron on and take over the front tables.”
“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.
Later, my shift almost over, Clare catches me as I walk past. “Thanks for coming in on your day off, Lucy. We would have been in the weeds without you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad somebody around here appreciates my help.”
Clare’s a hostess here and Daniel’s girlfriend. They live together in an apartment above the Goldilocks hair salon, where she also works part time.
“Give your poor mom some slack, Luce. It’s been a hard couple of months since Rita left. I’m working longer days, too, but I can’t do much more, not with my hours at the salon.”
“So replace Rita already.”
“You know better than anybody how hard that can be. You’ve seen the parade of waitstaff we’ve had come through here the last five years. Your mom wants someone dependable, who’s in it for the long haul. That takes time.”
“Six weeks?”
Clare doesn’t get a chance to respond because the red screen door opens and closes with a bang, and Ben Porter walks in.
Oh, God. It’s Monday night. Why did I ever agree to work on a Monday night? Ben and Guthrie have been coming here every Monday night since right after Trixie died.
I scurry behind the counter before he makes it to the hostess stand. From here, I’m blocked by a partition but can still hear every word.
“Hey, Ben,” Clare says. “I saved you a table.”
Please don’t let it be one of mine.
“Thanks,” he says, “but I’ll just eat at the counter. I’m on my own tonight.”
My first thought is one of relief since I don’t have the counter tonight, but then I realize that I’m standing behind it. I push my way through the swinging door into the kitchen but not before Ben slides onto the stool at the far end of the counter. I’m sure he saw me.
I press myself against the wall and take a few deep breaths.
“Whoa,” Daniel says. “You look like you’ve seen a zombie.”
“You might say that,” I say in a quiet voice, not that Ben would be able to hear me over the din of the café and the noise Daniel and Chris, another cook, are making back here.
“Ben’s here, huh? He’s early.”
Daniel’s a lanky guy with a mess of dark hair, a scruffy goatee, and a fondness for classic rock. Today he’s wearing a Blue Öyster Cult T-shirt. He’s only ten years older than me, more like another older brother than an uncle.
“Remind me never to work on a Monday again,” I tell him. I finally feel like I’m starting to catch my breath.
“Wanna take his burger out to him?”
“Very funny.”
“All right, if you won’t do that, the order for eleven is up.”
I load the plates on a tray and back out of the kitchen, pivoting so that I can’t see Ben at the end of the counter.
I make it through the next fifteen minutes, although there are times when I feel Ben’s eyes on me. I finish up my last table and pass the rest on to Rosemary. I’m untying my apron when Simon walks through the door.
Simon—I’d forgotten about Simon.
He’s asking for a table for two.
“There you are!” He pulls me into a hug. In front of everyone at the Full Loon Café. My mother, Clare, even Daniel, who is at the counter talking to Ben.
And Ben.
I pull away.
“You know Lucy?” Clare asks Simon.
“Of course I know Lucy,” he says much too loudly. “My family’s renting the Clarks’ house this summer.”
“Oh, sure, you’re one of the renters.” Clare sets menus down on the table.
I sit down and when I glance up again, I notice that we’re in Ben’s direct line of vision. I can see him and he can see me. Us.
“Why did you ask for a table, Simon?” I ask after Clare has gone back to the hostess stand.
“Mrs. Clark said the pie is really good here. What would you recommend?”
“Baked pie or cream pie? Fruit? Candy?” I slip into my waitress mode. Daniel’s pie is the best around.
“Not fruit,” he says. “It’s pie.”
“What? That’s the best kind of pie. My favorite’s strawberry rhubarb.”
“Gross. How’s the coconut cream?”
“You can’t go wrong with the coconut cream.”
Apparently Simon’s not just here for the pie, because when Patty comes over to take our order, he asks for a half rack of ribs, a bowl of wild rice soup, and a slice of coconut cream.
Simon tells me about his school—an arts magnet—and the hardware store his dad and grandfather own. “Dad wants me to take over someday, but I don’t want to be stuck at the store my whole life, you know what I mean?”
I nod. I do know what he means.
Mom brings over our order herself. “Simon, so wonderful to see you. And how nice that you and Lucy are having dinner together. Enjoy your meal. Compliments of the house.” She winks at me. I roll my eyes.
I got a slice of Loonberry pie, a crazy mix of whatever berries Daniel has on hand with a crumble topping and a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream. I watch Simon eat, half listen to him ramble on about the graphic novel he’s writing. He’s artistic like his mom.
And when I’m not watching Simon, I watch Ben. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scowls, and taps on the screen with one thumb. He puts it facedown next to his plate and scrubs a hand over his face.
Was it a text from Guthrie? His mom? Dana?
I look away, press my fork into the last bits of berry on my plate.
Simon twists around in Ben’s direction.
“Why do you keep looking back there? Do you know that guy at the counter or something?”
I nod. “Sort of.”
“Just sort of?”
“Yeah, I know him. I guess you could say that we used to be friends.”
“Used to be.” It’s not a question. He turns back around to get another look at Ben. “Old boyfriend?”
“No.”
“You have a crush on him or something?”
“No,” I say, probably too quickly, because Simon nods his head like he knows some big secret.
“Hey, that’s the guy from the picture, isn’t it? The one from your mantel? I totally get it now.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” My words are sharp.
“Well, why don’t you fill me in?”
I pause. Why should I tell him my problems?
“Come on, Lucy, don’t be like that. You’re the only person I know up here.” He smiles, and his whole face lights up under all that shaggy hair.
With Ben sitting across the restaurant, it’s hard to tell if I could like Simon. But he’s nice. And cute. And he’s sitting right here, eating a slice of coconut cream pie. No time like the present, Hannah would say.
“His name is Ben,” I say in a low voice. “We used to be friends. I mean, his sister was my best friend, and then—well, Ben and I aren’t friends anymore. He’s—I don’t know—we don’t talk anymore.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “Complicated. And it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Okay.” Simon grows quiet. After a minute he says, “What about his sister? Are you still friends with her?”
I swallow. “She died.”
“Oh.” He drags out the word. “I’m sorry.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter.” The words rush out.
“If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be spending so much time looking over there,” Simon says, his voice light.
“Trust me,” I say. “It. Doesn’t. Matter.”
“Okay, okay. I believe you.” He stands up and drops a few singles on the table. “Well, I’m ready for you to show me the town. Let’s go for a drive.”
I stand up. Simon holds out his hand and I hesitate.
“Take my hand,” he whispers. “That will get your boy’s undies in a bunch.”
I can do this. I can. And it’s just for show, right?
I link my fingers with his, warm and soft and strangely comforting. We walk through the restaurant, and Clare winks at me as we walk past.
I get into the front seat of Simon’s car. As we drive out of the parking lot, it’s all I can do to keep my head from swiveling around to see if Ben has come out of the café and is watching us drive away.
“Where to?” Simon asks.
We’re headed north, out of town. “Keenan’s Cloud 9 Vacationland,” I say. “Take a right at the next stoplight.”
“Cloud 9? Sounds euphoric.”
“Oh, you have no idea. It’s this 1950s-themed campground with a water park and an outdoor movie theater and mini-golf. It’s impossible to not have a good time at Cloud 9.”
“Sounds weird,” he says.
I shake my head. “You’re not allowed to dis Cloud 9. It’s like walking onto the set of Grease. And maybe, if we’re lucky, Grease will be playing at the amphitheater tonight, too.”
Simon groans, but after we arrive, the smile doesn’t leave his face. He insists on paying for our two-hour passes, and we weave our way through the crowd—lots of tourists and a few people I recognize from school. We head to Blueberry Hill, the mini-golf course.
“I’m absolutely terrible at this,” Simon tells me as I hand him his club.
He is. There’s no other word for it. I’ve played this course a thousand times and could make par with my eyes closed, but Simon knocks the ball onto the next green, into the stream, everywhere it’s not supposed to go. At one point, we let the foursome behind us go ahead. But he laughs at himself, shakes his hair out of his eyes, and sings along (badly) to the fifties music at each hole.
We don’t bother to add up our scores. We walk back down the hill toward the Snack Shack. He buys a bag of popcorn, and we sit on a bench near the amphitheater.
“That was fun,” he says. “What’s up next? A Grease sing-along?”
I reach into the pocket of my shorts for my phone to check the time and my fingers graze the agate.
I think about the way Ben glared at us at the restaurant.
I want so badly to move on, to just be a normal girl playing mini-golf with her date.
I’m not.
“I need to get home.” I stand up and Simon does, too. I crumple up the greasy popcorn bag and toss it in the trash can next to the bench. “Long day tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah, me too.” He follows me as I walk toward the exit. “I mean, for starters, I’m planning to sleep until at least ten. Then I might hang out down by the lake.”
“Sounds rough.”
When we reach his car, Simon opens the passenger door for me. “I’d love to come back here with you sometime.”
“Sure, we could float down the Lazy River.”
“You must come here a lot.”
I shake my head as I slide in. “Not as much as I used to.”
I don’t say anything else. He closes my door and gets in himself, and we’re quiet for a few minutes as we drive out of the parking lot and back toward town.
“I’m really sorry about your friend,” Simon says softly. “Was it—was it weird for you to be at Cloud 9 without her?”
“Yeah, a little. But it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I like that he doesn’t know my history, the details about Trixie’s death. I change the subject as we drive through town, and I give him the grand tour of Halcyon Lake. I point out the candy shop, the used bookstore, the hair salon and the apartments above.
“My uncle and his girlfriend live there,” I say as we drive past. “Daniel’s a cook at the diner and you met Clare—the hostess?”
I tell him about my family and Emily. I pause and hold my breath as we drive past Ben’s house, his Firebird parked in front of the third door.
“The park,” I say, and I wave my hand in that direction. “Sullivan Street Park. Great place for a picnic and the best swimming beach in town.”
“Cool! When can we go?”
“Go?”
“Yeah, go swimming? At the park?”
I shake my head. “I’m not much of a swimmer.”
“Really? You live on a lake.”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t like to swim?”
“Nope.” Too many weeds, too much rocky sand under my feet, too much unknown in the murky lake. “I love to be out on the lake, though. In a sound, sturdy watercraft, of course.”
He pulls into the Clarks’ side of the driveway and walks me to my door, like this is a real date or something.
“I had a great time with you, Lucy.”
For a second I think he’s going to lean in and kiss me. He doesn’t. His cheeks turn pink, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it, too.
“It was fun,” I say.
It’s the truth. I had fun with him. I smile up at him and he grins back.
“See you soon,” he says, and walks across the driveway.
When he’s almost out of sight behind Betty’s gigantic lilac bush, he turns and holds his hand up in a wave.
I wave, too, and then slip my hand into my pocket. The agate is still there, safe.