Swept Away (29 page)

My head keeps nodding with each idea.

“Then maybe we'd want to keep the café open,” Celeste continues. “So they have somewhere for lunch.”

“I'll get everyone from drama club to act in them,” Cynthia says.

“But you'll always be the star,” I promise.

“I can build anything we might need,” Lexi says.

Oliver frowns.

“What?” I ask. Everyone's so excited. Why is he looking so down? “You don't think it's a good idea?”

“I want to help too,” he says. “But this will all happen after . . .” He stops himself and shakes his head. Then he puts his hand on top of mine and smiles. “This is good.”

He feels left out. Candy Cane means a lot to him, too. “You can help us put together a proposal. Your mom's input would be great! Then we'll give it to Mom to bring to the next meeting.”

“We still have to figure out a way to bring in money
now,
though,” Lexi says.

“At least enough to keep it open to put these ideas into place,” Justin says.

“Yeah . . .” I stare down at my list. It is definitely not long enough.

“At my school they do auctions where people donate not just stuff but also services,” Oliver says. “Massages, dance lessons, whatever. Maybe you can do something like that?”

“Freaky should donate catering services,” Lexi says. “I'm still thinking about those sandwiches from the Fourth of July.”

“And cookies,” I add. “Mmmm.”

“Somehow I don't think that's going to happen,” Oliver says with a laugh. “But I suppose I could try.”

“Listen, this is a great start,” Justin says from the screen. “But I have to get to class.” He signs off, and I reach up and shut the laptop.

“So I guess we're done for now,” I say. “Keep thinking, though.”

“Will do!”

“For sure!”

Lexi, Vicki, and Celeste take off, leaving me with Cynthia and Oliver.

“You know, I'm kinda surprised you're all in on this,” Oliver says to Cynthia. “Knowing how you feel . . .”

“Just because the lighthouse doesn't matter to me,” Cynthia replies huffily, “doesn't mean I don't care what happens to it. Not when it means so much to the people I love best.”

Oliver's eyes widen a little, then he says, “Sorry. That was wrong of me.” He looks down at his clasped hands. “And that makes it extra great of you to be involved.”

Cynthia looks from me to Oliver to me to Oliver. She grins. “Truce?” she says.

He looks up with a grin and shoves his bangs out of the way. “Truce.”

W
e're all systems go on Operation Save Candy Cane. Cel­este and Cynthia have been working on getting auction donations. The two of them together pack a powerfully persuasive wallop—both beautiful, and with Cynthia's outgoing energy, how could they miss? Oliver has nearly finished his little ­keeper's house replica to donate to the auction, and he and Justin are putting together the proposal for Oliver to give to his mom. Vicki's asking the parents of the kids she babysits what might work to bring them to the lighthouse. I'm doing some of everything.

And for now, in case our plans don't work, we're keeping it all from Mom. Who still hasn't mentioned this little bit of HUGE NEWS about closing Candy Cane.

Today I'm up in the attic again, rummaging through Freaky's files for Oliver. He decided to make his model from the year when the lighthouse keeper's daughter, Martha Kingston, saved Abner Rose. He picked it because, just like me, they remind him of us: brought together by Candy Cane. We're going to write up the story too, in a fancy font, and print it on thick paper to include with the model. I'm poking around for anything that might be useful. We've already been through everything at the historical society about it.

I pull out a thick folder that seems to be full of articles and pictures that could be potentially helpful. I cross to the window for better light and—unsurprisingly—trip over something. The folder flies out of my hands, scattering pages everywhere.

“Oh, great,” I mutter. I get on my hands and knees on the dusty floor and start collecting the papers. I crawl under a table that has paintings leaning against it, hoping I don't knock them over.

I reach for an article titled “Women Lighting the Way,” which could have information about Martha Kingston in it. Then I stop, hand in air.

I'm looking at a painting—well, part of it—leaning with the image facing the table. The image and the signature. A signature that rings a bell.

John Oliver.

I crawl back out from under the table and squeeze past the sofa
with sprung springs and the chair missing its upholstery. I come around to the paintings. All of them are stacked picture side in.

Carefully, soooo carefully, I pull the paintings out and slide them into what are hopefully safe places to rest them. I don't look at the others; I'm after that John Oliver.

I take a deep breath before turning it around. Could Freaky Framingham actually own a valuable John Oliver painting? Why would he just stash it up in the attic?

I turn it around and gasp. I actually stumble backward a little, thankfully not into anything that could fall over.

“It can't be . . . ,” I murmur.

I'm looking at a very familiar image. Candy Cane. In the fog.

The picture on the postcard sold all over Maine. The one I've been selling all summer.

“I was right!” I exclaim.

This painting—the original that the postcard had been made from—includes the bow of a boat. The boat the artist had been on to capture the image. It had been cropped out, along with the signature, when it was made into the postcard.

I shake my head several times, unable to believe what I'm seeing. I turn and look at the paintings that had been resting in front of this one. My mouth drops. They're
all
signed John Oliver.

Something clicks in my brain, and I feel so wobbly I actually sink to the floor to process.

“You looking for something particular?” Freaky stands in the attic doorway.

How does he sneak up on me so easily? My head snaps up. “It's you! You're John Oliver. Why doesn't anyone know?”

He frowns and steps into the attic. He frowns more deeply when he sees that I'm sitting among his paintings. “I don't want them to. And you're not going to tell.”

I stand carefully and gape at him. “But someone
must
know—this postcard is sold all over Maine!”

“Direct deposit. An account in Boston.”

“Is Framingham your real name?” Has he been living under an alias all this time?

A small smile plays on his lips. “John Oliver Framingham is the full handle.”

I look down at the painting. “Why would you keep it hidden up here? It's so beautiful.”

He stops as if he doesn't want to get closer. He leans against an old dresser. “It's the one that was my breakthrough,” he says. “Oliver's ma was too young to remember it. I never let her in the studio because of the chemicals. I suppose I've got what they call a love-hate relationship with it. Brought me into the limelight, but then trapped me in endless requests for lighthouses. I had to get out of Maine, find new vistas, new subjects. Some took. Most didn't.”

I study the painting. “You painted it from a photo you took from your boat from the Cranston side.”

He nods.

I frown, thinking. “This is why none of the recent paintings are signed. You don't want anyone to know.”

He nods again.

“But it's so sad,” I tell him. “They're just . . . wasted up here.” I turn back to the paintings. “If I could paint this beautifully, I'd
want everyone to know. I'd hang them all over the house just so I could see them.”

“You ain't me.”

I glance at him again and see pain etched on his face.

He takes a step closer, as if maybe he's a little less afraid of the paintings now. “They're from a time when . . . Well, let's just say I'm not very proud of the me that painted them. It was a very selfish time. I didn't know that then. I know that now.”

He must be talking about leaving his family, about the things Oliver's mom was angry about. “I wish they didn't make you feel bad,” I say softly. “Because I bet they made a lot of people really happy. Just looking at them.”

“Maybe.” He doesn't sound very convinced. He rubs his face with one hand, then sighs. “Well, let's put them back.”

Together we drag the paintings back to their position. I pick up the file I found for Oliver and follow Freaky out. When I get to the door to the attic, I turn to gaze at the backs of the paintings.

“I'm trusting you, girlie,” Freaky says with a sharp edge to his voice.

“I won't tell anyone,” I promise. “Even if I think you're wrong. Totally and completely.”

“Won't be the first time,” Freaky says, a touch of humor returning to his eyes.

Then he does something absolutely unexpected. He ruffles the top of my head, just like Alice does to Oliver.

Before I can react, he lopes down the stairs, leaving me gaping behind him.

T
he thing about having a lot at stake at this year's Good-bye to Summer event is that it doesn't give me time to dwell on the Good-bye to Oliver aspect. Each time I start to get morose, someone calls about Operation Save Candy Cane, and I have something new to do.

This is where Oliver's micro nature comes in super handy. He's amazing at list making, and has even drawn up charts of what has to be done by when and by who.

The project also gives us something to focus on when we're together other than his imminent departure. Still, every now and then I catch him looking at me sadly, or nervously. I know my own face reflects the exact same miseries.

We made a pact to not talk about it until after we get through Operation Save Candy Cane. Which doesn't leave much time for good-byes. He's leaving before Labor Day weekend, like a lot of the Regulars who need to get ready for school, get back to work, and otherwise return to their “real” lives. The lives that we in Rocky Point aren't actually part of.

And here come those tears again.

I wipe them away as I reach for my chiming phone. Five new texts. “Whose brilliant idea was this again?” I mutter. Oh yeah. Mine.

“What idea is that?” Mom asks, coming into the kitchen.

“Just some more ideas for the auction,” I say. I told her about finding contributions for the auction since she has to register them all, but not that it's part of a larger plan to save Candy Cane.

I hold up my phone. “Cynthia and Celeste got Kyle's dad, Mr. Marcus, to donate a bucket of bait, and Ms. Hughes three hours of after-school algebra tutoring. And we're all donating baby­sitting hours.”

Mom's eyes crinkle, and I think she might be about to cry along with that smile. She comes over and kisses the top of my head. “Have I told you how amazing it is that all of you kids are helping this year? It means so much. I just hope . . .”

I glance up when she stops speaking. She's blinking rapidly. Uh-oh. “Hope what?” I ask.

She shakes her head and crosses to the sink. “I hope you're not running yourself ragged with this on top of everything else you're doing.”

“'S cool,” I say. Funnily enough, it actually is. I think I may have the micro gene too. I'm really loving pulling all this together. Cynthia says it's like that with shows, too—it's a huge amount of organizing, but everyone works as a team, so it's fun and culminates in something to be proud of. I hope that's how I'll feel after tomorrow. Only then will we know if we actually managed to save Candy Cane.

Problem is, even with the additional auction items, Alice thinks we still won't raise enough money to make a dent in the amount that's actually needed.

Mom starts washing the breakfast dishes. Oops. That was supposed to be my job this morning, since she had to race out to a meeting. I jump up from the table. “Sorry, Mom,” I say, stepping beside her at the sink.

“Nah, it's fine,” she says. “You've been working hard. You deserve a break.”

“You sure?” I ask. “You've been working hard too.” Like, around-the-clock hard.

“I actually find it soothing,” she admits. “Nicely mindless.” She glances sideways at me. “Do you have plans with Oliver today?”

“I might go hang over there later. He's finishing up his ­keeper's house model.”

My phone buzzes, and I cross back to the table. Another text from Justin.
Proposal finished
.

The water turns off, and I feel Mom looking at me. “Mandy . . . ,” she begins very gently.

I can tell by her tone that I don't want this conversation to happen. Certainly not now. It's either her confession about Candy Cane closing, or it's something about Oliver leaving. I don't want to get into the first one because maybe it will all be fine. I don't want to get into the second because, well, just because.

I hold up my phone. “I need to answer this in an e-mail,” I tell her, and quickly leave the kitchen.

Up in my room I pop Justin an e-mail, telling him to send the proposal to Oliver
and
to me, since Oliver's Internet connection is so wonky.

I read through the proposal. It's really great, but there's a big problem. These are all ideas to sustain Candy Cane once repairs are made and bills taken care of. Nothing we suggest can happen without a major flow of cash first.

I lean against the back of my desk chair and twirl my pen in
thinking mode. Slowly an idea begins to take shape. An idea so perfect—and perfectly outrageous—that I throw down my pen and race out of the house before I can chicken out.

I bike to Freaky's in record time. I leap off the bike and hear it crash to the ground, but I don't care. In moments I'm banging on the front door.