Swept Away (15 page)

“Well, now that you're going to play the role of the lighthouse keeper's wife, we should paint it the color it was when Mrs. Gilhooley was there.”

“Makes sense.” I eye the stack of paint cans in the corner. “Any idea what that would be?”

“Not so much, no,” Oliver admits.

“I'm sure the info is at the historical society,” I say. “Should we go to the library?”

He taps his chin the way he does when he's thinking. I know he's toting up how long it will take to get there, look around, and get back. Then he holds up a finger in his “eureka!” gesture. “The attic!”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“There's a filing cabinet up there full of historical society newsletters and old photos, and other stuff about Rocky Point,” he explains.

“There is?” Every day I seem to discover something new and confusing about ol' Freaky.

“See what you can find while I get set up down here.”

I salute him. “Yes, sir!”

The house is quiet when I go through the kitchen. A peek out the living room windows shows an empty front yard. Oliver's mom and Freaky are both out. I'm a little relieved—it only just occurred to me that either of them could have witnessed our mini make-out session a minute ago.

The attic is crowded but fairly organized. The filing cabinets are against the back wall, and I manage to get to them without knocking anything over, tripping on anything, or banging into something. Oliver's waiting, so I force myself to keep from poking around, even though my flea market mentality is itching to see what odds and ends live up here. Unfortunately, my eyes start itching too. Dust allergies.

I riffle through the files, and though I don't find any color photos, I do discover a newsletter all about the keeper's house through the years. A quick glance tells me that there are several paragraphs devoted to its various paint jobs.

Mission accomplished. As I squeeze sideways through a narrow aisle, I notice a stack of framed paintings leaning against the wall, their backs facing out.

Curious, I wiggle over to them. I pull the first frame toward me, stirring up a huge dust cloud. They must not have been moved in a while. I let out three gigantor sneezes, then peer down. Even upside down I can tell it's a beauty. I lean it against my legs and pull the next one forward.

“What are you doing?”

I whirl around, making the paintings clatter.

Freaky stands in the doorway glaring.

“I—I'm sorry. Oliver wanted me to find these.” I hold up the historical society newsletters.

He just continues staring.

I turn and straighten the paintings. “These are so good,” I say. “I bet a gallery would snap you right up. You should enter them in the Fourth of July art show.”

“Little know-nothing girls should mind their own business.” He storms out of the attic.

What'd I do?
I count to ten to make sure I won't run into Freaky on the way down the stairs, and hurry back out.

The screen door bangs behind me and Oliver turns. “I think I made your grandfather mad,” I say.

“You didn't go into his studio, did you?” he asks nervously.

“No, it was up in the attic. All I said was that he should put some of his paintings in the art show. He got super angry.”

“He's really touchy about his art,” Oliver explains, crossing to me. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Don't let him upset you.”

“But I was complimenting him.”

“I'm not really sure what the deal is,” Oliver explains. “Mom says he was kind of famous for a while, but then he got really bitter about the art world. Mom doesn't even know much.”

Just when I think Freaky isn't so freaky, it turns out that maybe he is.

E
ven though I'm
so
not a morning person, I wake up at the crack of dawn on the Fourth of July. Actually, I woke up every few hours all night, so around six a.m. I decided I might as well just get up. Spinning-brain syndrome.

Justin came home yesterday, and I immediately coerced him into joining Team Candy Cane Jr. The float is finished except for one crucial part: attaching it to the boat. Thanks to Oliver's nutty scheme, that can only happen once we're down at the river.

Today not only are my two favorite guys going to meet, it could also be the day that I drown. Oh yeah—and reveal to gossipy Rocky Point that I have a boyfriend.

At least I think I do.

I'm sniffing the can of coffee Mom left on the counter when Justin comes into the kitchen. I don't like the taste of coffee, but I do like the smell. I'm hoping that I can inhale some of the caffeine to help me wake up.

“What are you doing up so early?” he asks, taking the coffee away from me. He fills the filter basket, asking, “Aren't you the one who always wants to sleep in?”

“Couldn't sleep.” I eye him, already dressed in running gear. “What about you? You usually sleep till the crack of noon when you're home from school.”

“I'm running in the Red, White, and Blue Five-K Run,” he says, “then I'm going to check out my buddies playing at the noon concert.” He pulls a coffee mug from the dish drainer and uses it
to fill the coffeemaker, then hits the on button. “Where's Mom?”

“Already gone when I got up.” I nod toward a note on the fridge. “There's her to-do list.”

Justin scans it just like I did a few minutes ago, checking to be sure we aren't on it. She knows all about the boat parade, of course, but it's possible that because it doesn't start until later in the day she expects us to help with historical society events.

The July Fourth celebration is like the Lupine Festival, only on steroids. It's the
true
summer season kickoff, and all the locals know it. This is the first opportunity to catch the eyes (and ­dollars) of the Summer Regulars. Everyone—year-­rounders, Regu­lars, day-trippers—is trying to cram as much as possible into these two short months, and the frenzy starts today. People who haven't seen each other all year catch up in the townwide party atmosphere. We're all happy; we're all celebrating together. Sure, a lot of locals are working their butts off today, but even so it's celebratory.

“Free and clear,” Justin announces.

“For now,” I say, giving him a warning glare. “Remember, you're driving me and Lexi at four.”

He leans against the counter, crosses his arms and grins. “So. You and Freaky Framingham's grandson.”

“His name is John Framingham,” I say, “not Freaky.”

Not that I've ever managed to think of him as anything other than Freaky myself. Still working on that.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You're not going to embarrass me, are you?”

“No promises, Sneezy.”

We don't officially have to check in until five, but with all we still have to do our plan is to meet Freaky and Oliver at the launch site at four thirty. I asked Oliver if he wanted to enjoy the festivities beforehand, but he begged off, saying he still had fine-tuning to do.

Am I a bad girlfriend for not offering to help? I'm afraid if I go over there we'll get into a fight—we're both so tightly wound about this project. I figure it's safer to hold off until the last minute.

Which brings me back to the question: Am I an actual girlfriend?

Is it possible to sprain your brain? All this going around in circles in there has me dizzy. I need to lie down. “I'm going back to bed,” I tell Justin. “I need to start this day over at a more reasonable hour.” I shuffle out of the kitchen. “Don't be late!” I order over my shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mutters, scrounging for cereal.

The whole day I'm antsy. No matter how many times I lie down, I only manage to get in a few twenty-minute catnaps. In between those completely unsatisfactory mini snoozes, I changed my outfit and fixed my hair twice, phoned Cynthia three times (voice mail), and arranged with Patti and Joanna where we should all meet to watch the fireworks tonight. By late afternoon I'm crawling the walls.

I nearly jump out of my skin when my phone rings. “Are you heading over?” Oliver asks nervously.

“As soon as Justin gets here, we'll pick up Lexi.” I pace in front of my window, scanning the street for Justin's car. “He was
going to the concert, but that ended ages ago. I'll text you as soon as we're on our way.”

“Maybe you should call him to make sure he's—”

“There he is!” I click off, then realize I just hung up on him without even saying good-bye. Oops.

I grab my bag and race out the door. “Took long enough,” I snap at Justin as I scramble into the car.

“Whoa,” Justin says. “I'm doing you a favor, remember?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” I drum my fingers on my leg, trying to will myself to settle down.

Justin gives me a sideways glance. “You okay?”

“No!” I blurt. “And yes!”

Justin laughs. “All righty, then.”

At Lexi's I get out and help her load her supplies into the trunk. I slide into the backseat. My nervous energy needs space. Lexi joins Justin up front.

Justin and Lexi are talking, but I'm not capable of following their conversation. My head is too crammed with all the many things that could go wrong. I just hope I'm not the one to cause them.

The launch site isn't too far from where Oliver and I had lunch down by the river. Up past Freaky's house is the spot where the river branches. One part continues on down the hill to the harbor, the other forms an inlet where the boat parade takes place.

Justin parks next to Freaky's pickup. The boat is already off the trailer and down at the shoreline, the keeper's house replica still intact in the stern. I must say, Candy Cane Jr. looks awfully
sweet perched up there in the truck bed. Then I hear cursing and realize that Oliver and his grandfather don't think Candy Cane Jr. is all that sweet. More like a major pain in the patootie.

Justin swings out of the car and into action. “Let me help with that!”

As he trots over to the truck, Lexi and I unload two bolts of fabric and stacks of newspapers. I carry the bib I'll be wearing and the toy lantern I bought as a “pity purchase” at a flea market. From a distance no one will notice that one side is missing a pane and the other side is cracked. The important thing is it looks like Mrs. Gilhooley might have carried it, and with a new battery it actually still turns on.

Once Candy Cane Jr. is off the truck, it's a lot easier for them to manage. The three of them carry it to the shoreline, but only place it on the ground once Lexi and I spread newspapers to keep it from getting muddy.

“Gotta say, it looks pretty darn spiffy,” Justin says, taking a step back. Then he frowns. “But how—”

I cut him off. “It's all under control.” I don't want to have to get into the whole “how are you going to row, much less see?” argument again. “Oh—Justin, this is Oliver,” I add, realizing I hadn't introduced them.

“Didn't I see you on the other side of a lighthouse?” Justin jokes.

“That was me.” Oliver smiles. “Unless you mean my grandfather. Mr. Framingham.”

Freaky just grunts a hello and continues laying out tools on the newspaper beside Candy Cane Jr.

My sneakers sink a bit in the muddy bank and make little sucking sounds each time I lift my feet. Maine being Maine, we had a brief shower this morning, but thankfully, both the weather girl on TV
and
Freaky have declared that the rest of the day and the evening will be completely clear.

Oliver bounces a little on his feet, looking nervous. “Let me show you Lexi's brilliant idea,” I say to distract him.

I glance around and spot a large boulder. “Over there,” I say to Lexi. She follows me with a roll of fabric. I duck behind the boulder and attach the bib. I put on Mrs. Gilhooley's hat that Mom generously loaned me (after multiple promises to jump in the river after it if it blows off my head) and pick up the toy lantern. Then I rise up to the point where the scuffed doll shoes tap against the top of the rock.

“I'm Mrs. Gilhooley,” I announce. “My husband the lighthouse keeper asked me to say hello.”

Justin bursts out laughing, but in a good way. Oliver grins and applauds. Even ol' Freaky seems amused.

“I know you're worried about what it will look like from the side,” Lexi says, “so come around here.”

As Justin and Oliver head over, she pins the dark brown fabric to my shoulders and fans it out along the grass. “See?” she says. “We'll cover the inside of the boat with this. That way no one will see Mandy, and it will look as if Mrs. Gilhooley is standing on the ground.”

“Brilliant!” Oliver exclaims. “This is what you two have been whispering about!”

I stand all the way up. “We wanted to surprise you.”

Oliver brushes my lips with his. “I love it,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

I'm embarrassed for Justin to see me kissing Oliver, so I duck my head. “It was really Lexi who came up with the idea,” I confess.

“But I'd rather kiss you,” he whispers. As an enormous grin practically eats my face, he adds in a louder voice, “Thanks, Lexi. You've been awesome! We never could have done it without you.”

“Well, you haven't exactly done it yet,” Lexi points out. “We can celebrate after you manage to get the boat past the judges' stand.”

Gulp. Rowing is Oliver's job. Navigating is mine. And we're both novices. Not to mention self-proclaimed klutzes.

As if reading my mind, Justin says, “This should be interesting.”

“Suit up and do a test run,” Freaky says. “I know you've been practicing, boy, but the load is going to be different from when it's empty.”

I force myself to not stare. That was probably the most I've ever heard from him at one time.

“You're right, Pops.” I can feel Oliver tense beside me. He's got a lot riding on this. Neither of us really cares about winning. But we don't want to be humiliated, either. This was all Oliver's design—mostly, anyway—and Lexi and I gave in to his insistence that he can row blind. We're about to put all that bravado to the test. And we all know it.