Swept Away (24 page)

“I'd like to see him try going through airport security,” Mom jokes.

“Can you see me fitting into Mom's car like that?” Oliver says. “We'd have to cut a hole in the roof for the lantern house!”

“The car rental company would have a lot of questions,” I say.

We're all laughing now. “Perhaps if Mrs. Gilhooley explained things . . . ,” Mom says.

I haven't seen Mom laugh like this in a long time. I give ­Oliver's knee another squeeze. He puts his hand on top of mine and pats it.

“Are you sure your grandfather doesn't want it?” Mom asks.

Oliver shakes his head. “I kind of think he'd love for me to get it out of the garage, actually. But it would feel weird to just toss her.”

“Well, I'd love it. It would make a nice addition to the historical society office. Thank you.”

“Maybe if you can get the second floor of the Keeper's Café open, it could go up there,” I say, hoping this will open the imminent closing as a topic of conversation.

Mom's face shadows a moment. “That would be a lovely idea, yes.” She reaches for our empty bowls.

As we pass them to her, I ask, “Do you think you'll be able to reopen it?” I know I'm kind of pushing it, but I go there anyway.

Mom takes the stacked bowls and carries them to the sink. “Did Mandy ever tell you that her father proposed to me at the lighthouse?” she says with her back to us.

Okay. The subject is obviously off-limits. For now.

“No,” Oliver says.

She turns and leans against the counter. “That lighthouse has been very special to me for so many reasons, but I think that's the biggest.”

“Even bigger than your wedding there?” I ask.

Mom has a wistful smile on her face. “In a way . . . I guess because it was so private. The wedding was fantastic,” she adds, coming back to the table, “but the proposal was . . . magical.”

She smooths out her napkin, then gives us a mischievous look. “I probably shouldn't tell you this, but we snuck in late at night. I was already a volunteer for the historical society so I had a key. Anyway, it was incredibly romantic up there in the tower, with the stars up above and all of Rocky Point below.”

I look down so she can't see my blush.

“Sounds perfect,” Oliver says, and I know he's remembering the Fourth of July too.

She stands and gathers our napkins. “I do wish we could still host weddings,” she says.

“Why can't you?”

“The costs are just too high. We wouldn't turn a profit. Catering, insurance, the extra people required. Marketing to get clients. We're having enough trouble.” She waves a hand. “Never mind.
Let's get back to convincing Mandy that the real stories about the lighthouse are nearly as interesting as the fabulous ones she invents.”

“You should tell Oliver some of the local legends and ghost stories,” I say.

She grins. “How easily do you scare?” she asks Oliver.

I lean back in my chair, trying to grapple with the mom sitting in front of me. She still has those worry lines between her eyebrows, but I've never heard her call my stories “fabulous.” Mostly she tells me to stop daydreaming and get to my homework. I'm discovering all sorts of new things this summer—and not just about boys!

H
ey, Mom, is it okay if I go with Oliver and his mother over to Cranston?”

Mom looks up from the front-porch swing. “Sure, honey.” She closes her battered paperback and peers at me over her reading glasses. “Something happening over there?”

I perch on the arm of the swing. “Just some shopping, I think. But Oliver's mom is going to show Oliver the house where she grew up. And where his grandfather keeps his boat.”

“He goes all the way over to the Cranston wharf?” Mom looks puzzled. “Why doesn't he dock over here somewhere?”

“According to Oliver, Freaky only fishes alone and doesn't want anyone asking to tag along.”

“Funny,” Mom says. “Your dad was like that.”

I slide off the arm to sit on the seat beside her properly. “Really?”

“Some people like to fish with friends. Your dad thought it was the perfect time to think. Alone.”

“Did that bug you?” I don't think I'd like it if Oliver wanted to spend time doing something that he wouldn't want to share with me. Though, come to think of it, there are probably plenty of things Oliver enjoys that would drive me around the bend. Okay, never mind.

“At first,” Mom admits. “But frankly, sitting still for such a long time? Definitely not my cup of tea.”

“Oliver also said that Freaky doesn't like attracting attention or—as he put it—‘feeling the prying eyes upon him' every time he wants to go out on the water.”

“Sounds like Freaky.”

“Mom!”

“You started it,” Mom says.

I push the floor with my feet to set the swing in motion. “I really have to come up with something else to call him! But Mr. Framingham doesn't seem right.”

“Ask Oliver. Or his mother.”

“She told me to call her Alice. Do you think he'd be okay with me calling him by his first name?” I try to remember what it is. John, I think.

She shrugs. “Only way to know is by asking one of them.” She tilts her head and looks at me sideways. “You're spending a lot of time over there. You sure they don't mind?”

“I—I don't think so. . . .” I turn to face her. “Do you think they don't like it? Alice always invites me to stay, and Freaky always makes enough food to feed the whole town. . . .” It hadn't
occurred to me before that maybe I was wearing out my welcome.

“I'm sure it's fine. I just miss you, is all.”

“Really?” It's out of my mouth before I can stop it.

She tugs on the ends of my braids. “Of course, silly.” She leans back again and adds, “Don't worry. I understand. I know there are more fascinating ways to spend time than with your boring old mom.”

I'm not sure what to say. I mean, she's not wrong. It's not that she's boring. Well, she kind of is, but only in that way that moms are. Though these last few weeks I've been seeing her kind of differently.

But compared with Oliver? Sorry. No contest!

A horn honks, and we both look out at the street. Oliver's mom pulls up.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Mom asks.

“Probably not.” I shift my weight to one foot and fiddle with the strap on my bag. “You don't think they mind, do you?”

“Of course not. How could they mind having you around?”

I lean over to give her a quick kiss. I realize when I straighten back up that it's been some time since I've done that. The surprise on her face shows me just how long.

“See you,” I call as I race to the street. I climb into the backseat and we take off.

Cranston is a bigger town than Rocky Point and a lot more twenty-first century. As we approach the outskirts, where several big-box stores claim space, Oliver's mom suggests we check out her old house first. “Then,” she says, turning off the highway to
take a smaller, wooded road, “we can get to the stores and the farmers' market.”

But as we drive around for a bit, she grows perplexed. “The roads look right,” she says, “but the houses are different.”

“Uh, Mom, it's been a while,” Oliver says. “It looks like there's been all kinds of building around here.”

She drives up one street and then circles back around and drives up it again. Finally, she stops the car in front of a cleared piece of property with houses on either side. “Oliver, go check the numbers on the mailboxes,” she says.

“I think it's gone,” she murmurs as we watch Oliver jog first to one side of the grassy plot then to the other.

He climbs back into the car. “Seven forty-one Moosehead and 745.”

“That's it,” she says, nodding. “That's what's left of the place. We were 743.”

“Oh man . . . ,” Oliver breathes.

“It's fine,” she says, patting his knee. “In a way it's heartening to know that things actually do change. Even in Cranston.”

“Do you want to look around anyway?” Oliver asks.

“Nah,” Alice says. “There's a pretty view of Candy Cane, but it's not like you never see the lighthouse.” She gives me a wink over the seat. “And I don't think I'd even recognize your grand­father's boat in the marina down there.” She turns the ignition key. “Let's just head into town.”

We drive to Main Street (do all towns have a Main Street?), and as Oliver pokes around in a hardware store, Alice and I wander through the bustling farmers' market. I spot a brightly
colored poster stapled to a telephone post. The state fair! I had forgotten all about it.

I see Oliver crossing the street carrying a huge shopping bag. I wave wildly to attract his attention in the crowd. He grins and crosses over.

“Looks like you found what you were looking for,” I say, eyeing his haul.

“Yep,” he says.

I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn't. “That's all you're going to say? Wow, you really are becoming a closemouthed Mainer.”

He laughs. “I'll tell you later. Maybe. I'm still trying to decide if it should be a surprise.”

“Okay, now you
have
to tell me. Because if you don't, I'll make up a wild story, and then the truth will just be boring.”

His mother joins us, carrying a large bag of her own. “I think your grandfather will approve of my selections,” she says. “At least I hope so. He's awfully finicky about his veggies.”

“Hey, Mom, do you mind if Mandy and I take the ferry back?” Oliver asks.

“Of course not. It's a beautiful day for it.”

As we stroll back to the car, I point out the state fair poster. “We should definitely go,” I say. “My friend Cynthia will be back by then. We can get a whole group together.”

“Sounds fun,” Oliver says.

Alice drops us off at the ferry dock. Oliver does a quick check of the schedule. “Oh good. We'll be back in time.”

“For what?”

“Pops asked me to drop off some film to be developed. I forgot to do it on the way here.”

“He's a photographer, too?” Will I ever stop being surprised by ol' Freaky?

“Not in the way you're thinking. He takes photos to use as references for his painting, and he refuses to use a digital camera.”

“Ah.”

We buy our ferry tickets, then board, claiming spots at the rail on the top deck. As is typical in Maine, the once bright and sunny day turns darker. “Is it going to rain?” Oliver asks. “Should we go below?”

“I think it's just fog,” I say. “Let's stay up here.”

I like fog. Other people think it's gloomy. I think it's romantic. Mysterious. So much of Maine is pointy and sharp. Fog softens the edges.

I gaze at Candy Cane as the pink-hued fog starts to roll in. “I can't believe it's going to be closed down,” I say.

Oliver pulls me into his side. “I know.”

“She didn't even tell Justin.” I called my brother to find out if maybe she had confided in him, but he was as shocked as I was.

I bang the railing with my palms. “I wish there were something we could do about it.”

“Maybe there is,” Oliver says. I turn to face him. “I don't know what, exactly, but if we put our heads together . . .”

I nod slowly, hoping some idea comes to mind, but right now my brain is full of the stacks of bills raining down on an empty lighthouse-shaped bank.

“If it closes, it really will become haunted, “ I say. “All that
will be left of it will be the past. No new memories will get made there.”

Oliver weaves his fingers through mine. “If it had been closed, we probably would never have met,” he says softly. “I hate to even think about that.”

I slump against him and gaze forlornly at Candy Cane. “She just looks so lonely out there,” I say, then straighten up sharply. “The postcard!” I've never paid attention to the lighthouse from the Cranston side. But the person who painted the image used on the postcard sure had.

“I'm going below,” I tell Oliver. “I have to check something.”

I scurry down the metal staircase, gripping the handrails. The fog makes things wet, and I don't want to slip—as it would be oh so me to do. I hurry to the bow on the lower level. “I don't believe it,” I murmur.

Oliver comes up behind me. “What are you looking at?”

“The view!” I say excitedly. “Look at the angle. Whoever painted the Candy Cane postcard painted it from a
boat.
From this side of the bay.”

“You're right,” Oliver says, leaning on the railing.

“I always wondered why it looked different from all the other pictures I've seen.”

“The artist could have been a Cranston local. Or a visitor.”

“We'll never know,” I say. “The postcard lists the artist as anonymous. I just may have to make up a story about it.”

“Do you want to stay here below?” Oliver asks.

“Nah, let's go back up on deck. But how about a lemonade first?”

Oliver digs into his pockets and comes up empty.

“I've got money,” I tell him. “My treat.”

I buy us a lemonade from the snack bar and pick up two straws. “So are you going to tell me what was in that huge bag?” I ask as we climb the stairs back up.

“Maybe . . . If you ask really nicely.”

The weather has driven most of the passengers below so we have the deck pretty much to ourselves. With the thick fog it's as if we're in our own world. A world made up of just Oliver and me, with a soundtrack of lapping water, gull cries, and the mournful foghorn.

“How about a lemonade bribe?” I ask, peeling first one straw and dropping it into the oversize plastic cup, and then the other.

He smirks. “Depends on how good the lemonade is.”