The Gilly Salt Sisters (20 page)

Whit was oblivious to her discomfort. He jumped into the surf and held the boat steady. “What do you think?” he crowed. “She’s brand new! I joined the sailing team at school. My mother just bought me this for getting decent grades, but she doesn’t know that it’s only because I pay my nerdy dormmate Peter Peckman to do my homework for me.”

The old Whit would have understood her hesitation, Jo thought, about sailing and about their meeting like this at all. The boy who’d cut his palm and held it to hers, the boy who’d rubbed salt on her lips—that person would have sensed her fear and pulled the craft up onto the sand right then and there. But Whit had changed, she realized, in more than just looks.

“Hop in!” he said. Now that he was out of his church clothes,
Jo noticed even more how lean and taut his legs had stretched and how broadly his shoulders were starting to spread. He resembled his father—Brahmin jaw, thick hair, Roman nose—but his eyes were as smoky and heavy-lidded as Ida’s. They made it hard for Jo to tell what he was really thinking.
Ida’s right
, Jo thought.
We don’t belong,
even if we are the same inside.
“Come on, chicken legs,” he taunted. “Don’t make me stand here all day. I won’t, you know.”

Jo moved through the surf.

“That’s better,” Whit said, throwing himself in after her, gathering up the lines in one hand and the tiller in the other. “Watch out for the boom!” he cried, swinging the sail in front of them, pulling on the line clutched in his hand and setting back out toward the open sea. Jo gripped the rail of the boat and tried not to let her teeth chatter.

“You’re a maniac,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light, and Whit cackled.

“And you’re still short and boring,” he answered, grinning at her.

Jo blushed. She’d quit growing, it was true, but she wasn’t really that short. It was just that Whit had gotten so tall so quickly. The boring part she hadn’t expected to hear out of his mouth, though. That comment stung. It was something Ida would have said. Jo shifted a hair away from Whit, and the dinghy suddenly dipped in a wave. Her stomach lurched. Whit shoved the tiller over, and the boat’s far rail rolled up toward them.

“Up and over,” Whit said, scrambling across to the other side, keeping his head tucked.

Jo followed him, banging her shin in the process, trying not to whimper. The sail rippled, and the boat settled back into a more reasonable angle.

“Are you okay?” Whit asked, peering at her.

She glanced back at the beach. They’d turned, but they were still headed out to the horizon. The swells under the boat were getting more regular, but bigger. Suddenly Jo wasn’t comfortable
at all, bobbing like a lost cork out there with someone who looked and sounded a lot like Whit but who didn’t feel like him. She clenched her fists. “Go back.”

Whit swept his arm out at the point. “But we need to be out this far to clear the rocks at Drake’s Point.”

Jo resisted the urge to stamp her foot like Claire. “Just go back!” Sweat beaded along her temples. She didn’t want to tell Whit, but it was the first time she’d ever been in a boat, and she was worried that if they did manage to cross the bay, it just might decide to cross them back.

Whit scowled. “Fine, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He shoved the tiller over once again, making the boat tip and roll while they switched sides one more time. If Whit kept up with the tacking, Jo knew, she really would be at sea, unable to tell anymore if she was coming or going. “Here,” he said, “you steer. Best cure for seasickness.” He put her hand on the tiller and then covered it with his own.

They’d touched each other before, of course, too many times to count. On the hottest days, they’d wrestle each other in the waves, tangling their legs underwater, trying to knock each other off balance, and Whit had a habit of grabbing her hand when he wanted her attention, but this was different. His fingers insinuated themselves in between hers now, and his leg pressed firmly against hers. She could hear his breath coming hard and fast, and she knew she had to pull her hand out from under his, but he was holding on too tightly.

“Jo,” he murmured, and leaned close to her, his lips parting. The sail rippled above them, and she stiffened, her nerves electric with alarm. Whatever happened, she knew, she mustn’t allow him any nearer. Those times between them were over.

“Watch out,” she said, and pulled on the tiller, making the boat careen. Whit grabbed her hand then, squeezing too tight, his fist crushing her fingers. “Ow!” she squealed, trying to snatch her hand away from his, but he wouldn’t let go. His face had a mean cast to it that she’d never seen before.

“Don’t go thinking you’re too good for me,” he snarled, giving her wrist a painful wrench. Jo was tempted to smack him, but she was too afraid the boat would tip over, so she said nothing, and Whit inched away from her and turned his focus to the sail. They didn’t say anything else the rest of the way back.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Jo cried when Whit pulled the boat near the sand. She didn’t wait for him to steady it. She just slid her legs over the side and fell into the surf up to her hips, freeing her hand from his in the process.

Claire was waiting for them on the beach with a pair of fishing poles, squealing in all her eleven-year-old glory. Whit pulled up the centerboard and tugged the dinghy onto the sand while Claire unfolded a ratty blanket she’d brought with her. Jo watched Whit stretch himself out across the plaid and cross his ankles. It was clear he already knew he was someone who would succeed in life without very much effort, and for a moment she envied him that.

Claire started telling him something about her school gymnastics team. “It’s not fair that Cecilia West gets to be captain just because she can do a back handspring when she can’t even do the splits all the way,” she said with a pout. Jo threaded bait onto the first pole’s hook, cast the line out into the surf, then anchored the pole in the sand and went to work on the second barb.

“Poor Claire.” Whit made a face at her.

She sniffed. “It’s harder than it looks. I bet you can’t do the splits.”

Whit dusted sand off his palm. “You’re right, but then I don’t want to.”

He had Claire there. She flopped back down next to him on the blanket—too close, Jo thought, her stomach still lurching from the boat ride.

“I don’t really want to do them either,” she said, waving her feet in the air, “but the girls on the gymnastics team are popular, and it’s easier to be popular.”

Just then Jo caught a fish. She let out a yell and began tugging on the line, reeling it in as fast as she could. Whit sprang off the blanket and rushed over to help, but she waved him away. She
already had the fish off the hook, writhing in her palms. Whit stayed at the edge of the surf, his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed.

“Claire,” Jo called. “Come help me for a minute.” She dumped the fish into a bucket. Claire sighed and stretched off the blanket, and for a moment Jo could read on her little sister’s face how much she hated all the elements of her life: salt, fish, rust, and sand.

“Check the other line,” Jo told her. “I think there’s another bite on it.” Another fish would be good. Their mother would mull the flaky flesh with potatoes, bay leaves, and broth, and the three of them would bow their heads that evening and thank the Lord for his gift.

Jo saw Claire pull the rod out of the sand and rest it against her hip. A wave rushed in and almost knocked her off balance, but Whit was suddenly there, his sturdy arms looped around her waist, righting her. “Hang on, baby doll,” he said, and put his hands on top of Claire’s on the reel. “Take it steady and slow.” Together they reeled in a mackerel. “Want me to gut it for you?” Whit asked. The fish bucked, then stilled.

Claire considered. “No. We should throw it back.”

Whit shrugged. “Whatever you want, kiddo.” He handed her the rod, rooted in the tackle box for pliers, pinched the end of the barb, and pried the fish from it. Then he lowered the creature back under the incoming water. It perked up and began thrashing again. “And away you go,” Whit said, opening his hands.

Jo splashed closer, watching as the fish flicked its tail, righting itself in the current before swimming away from shore. “What’d you go and do that for, Claire?” she reprimanded. “I swear, you’re such a ninny.”

Claire turned away, tears building in her eyes, and it was then that Jo saw she had somehow gotten the barb from the mackerel hooked into the center of her palm. A spot of blood shimmered.

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes,” Jo said, snatching at Claire’s wrist. She snipped the hook off the end of the line so she could push it all the way through Claire’s hand. It was just like Claire to have to
suffer along with a stupid fish, Jo thought. She always did have to be the center of attention. Jo gave the hook a final wrench, and it came free. “You’re a worse ninny than I thought,” she said, putting the maimed hook in the tackle box. “It doesn’t pay to be tender when you work in salt.”

Whit gave Claire’s shoulder a squeeze. “Aw, leave her alone, Jo. She’s sensitive, that’s all.”

Jo scowled. What did a boy like Whit Turner know about their lives anyway? she thought. Sensitive didn’t put dinner on the table. It didn’t pay their electricity bill, and it didn’t buy Claire the fancy clothes she was always wanting. Jo’s own hard work did that, and if Claire was delicate… well, that was her problem. Jo threaded a new hook back onto the end of the line and then flicked the rod over her shoulder and cast back out into the surf.

“Come on, Jo.” Whit leaned close to her, his breath tickling her neck. “Don’t be like that. You know I’d be a catch for you.” He put his hand on her back and leaned closer, as if he would try again to kiss her, but she jerked away at the last minute, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, all the little hairs on her arms raised.

“Not in front of Claire,” she murmured, though that was far from the real reason she wouldn’t kiss him.

He groaned in frustration and stepped away from her. “I’ve got to return the boat,” he said. “I’m supposed to play a tennis match. My mother will be looking for me to go to the club. God, I’d do
anything
to get out of this boring town for the summer. Half my friends are in Europe.”

Claire waved wildly with one arm, still sucking on her wounded palm, but Whit ignored her. He ignored Jo, too, refusing to say anything as he pushed the little craft back out through the breakers and filled the sails with wind, disappearing around the point. Jo didn’t worry, though. They’d fought before and always made up.

But he didn’t come the next week, or the week after that. When she saw him in church, he seemed distracted, keeping his face pointed toward Father Flynn. When he stood up to leave, he still
helped his mother out of the pew, nodding to the elderly ladies of the little congregation, but he declined to glance at Jo. After Mass she’d wander the beach alone, morose, dipping her toes in the water.
It’s the way it has to be
, she told herself. They were growing up and apart. Everyone had always said that it would happen, and now it finally was. Whit’s life was fanning open while hers was closing shut as a clamshell.

T
he salt was running thin that year, so of course Ida soon came sniffing around, cash in hand. Mama would never sell, though, even if it meant they lived on bread and pickles for the entire winter.

“You’re a fool, Sarah Gilly,” Ida declared through the sagging screen of the porch door as Claire and Jo stood fast behind Mama. “You’re never going to have better, but what about your girls? Don’t they want out of this place? Maybe not her”—she aimed a bejeweled finger at Jo—“but that one seems like she has potential.” She moved her hand toward Claire, who started to puff with pride at this. Jo pinched her. “Think what you could do for her with my money.”

At this point Claire shocked them. She was just eleven, but already starting to bloom her way out of childhood. She was pouty, daydreamy, and so averse to the salt that her fair skin sometimes broke out in hives after a day of skimming it, even when she was gloved and covered. “Maybe Ida’s right,” Claire piped up. “Think about it. I could go to college one day. And Jo…” She paused. “Well, Jo could do something,” she finally said. “Why don’t we take Ida’s money?”

At that moment Jo wanted nothing more than to reach across and slap her sister silly, but Mama was always more forgiving when it came to Claire. She reached under Claire’s chin with one finger and stared into her green eyes. “That’s the problem,” Mama said. “It will always be Ida’s money. Don’t you worry. If college is what you want, I got ways and means. Ida’s not the only bank in town.”
And then, without further explanation, she told Ida to get off her porch and stay the hell away from her land.

“Where is Whit anyway?” Claire demanded after Ida left. “He hasn’t been around at all this summer.” She pouted. “He said he’d teach me chess.”

Jo picked at the broken piano’s keys, filling the hall with discordant notes. “You wouldn’t like chess none,” she said.

Claire stuck her arms akimbo. “I’d like it better than all this.” For a moment Jo felt bad for her little sister. She was still just a kid, but nothing in her life indulged the whims of youth. Jo peered through the screen at the marsh’s pools. They looked rather like a chessboard, but the rules out here were very different from anything Whit Turner would know about, with his fancy boarding school and fancier new friends, and the sooner Claire got that through her thick head, the better. Jo closed the front door, ignoring the heat.