a few months later the three of us were sitting on the pier at Abenaki, enjoying the post–Labor Day emptiness of the beach. Nic reached into his pockets, pulled out a bunch of flat rocks.
“Pick me a winner,” he’d said to Vivie. She’d cocked her head at him, a little crinkle between her eyebrows, then made a big show of finding the perfect skipper, handing it to him with a flourish.
“One kiss,” he’d said softly, “for every skip.”
The stone skated over the water five times, and my cousin claimed his reward from my best friend while I sat there still and silent as the pile of rocks, thinking, I guess Hoop didn’t dare him.
“Gwen’s trying to bag out on us, Vee.” Nic’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
Vivie shakes her head firmly. “Miss the first bonfire of the season?” she calls through the open window. “Not an option!” She reaches over, holds up a supermarket bag, shakes it at me. “I got the gear for s’mores!”
Nic has already climbed into the front passenger seat. He ducks forward, flipping it so I can climb in the back. “C’mon, cuz.”
I sigh and tell them to hold up while I change my soggy clothes. When I get inside, Mom’s got the phone to her ear, frowning. She holds a finger to her lips, jerking her head at the couch. Grandpa’s fast asleep, head tipped back, mouth open. Emory is curled like a cashew nut, his head in his lap, snoring softly.
“Yes, I understand. Yuh-huh. Extensive cleaning. Yes. Top to bottom. Of course. By four o’clock tomorrow? Oh, well, that is a Saturday and – uh-huh. Okay.” Mom sighs, rustling the pages of the book on her lap. “Allrighty then.”
When I come back out in a baggy shirt and an even older pair of shorts, Mom’s off the phone and buried in her latest bodice buster. She carefully marks her spot with a finger. “You’re going out?”
I shrug. “Beach with the guys. What was that? Someone already giving you hell?”
Mom sighs again. “It’s those Robinsons.”
I’d already turned toward the door, but stop in my tracks.
“They’re back?”
“Renting the Tucker house again for the next two weeks. Some wedding in town – cousins of theirs. Want the house to sparkle. By tomorrow.” She rubs her thumbs over her temples. “Here for only a few weeks every few summers, and I swear, they’re more trouble than half the regulars put together.”
“Can you pull that off ? By tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “No choice, really. I’ll manage.” Mom’s theme song. Her glance drops to her book once again and she smiles at me wickedly. “I’ll think about it later. I’m pretty sure this Navy Seal is about to find out that the terrorist he’s been sent to capture is his ex-wife – and she’s pregnant with his triplets . . . and married to his brother.”
When I slide into the backseat of the car, there is the necessary interval of waiting while Nic and Vivien make out. I hum under my breath, trying to ignore the kissing noises and rustle of clothes. After a couple of minutes, I lean forward, tap each of their shoulders. “I’m right here,” I whisper.
Nic looks back, wiping Vivien’s shiny peach lip gloss off, winks at me. Vivien just smiles in the rearview mirror, eyes bright. Then she reads my face. “What’s wrong?”
“The Robinsons are coming back,” I say flatly, digging in my pocket for the mascara I grabbed from the bathroom.
She blows out a breath, ruffling the little strands of hair stealing out of her pigtails. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Shit,” Vivie says, turning the key in the ignition, squealing backward with a jolt. Nic and I brace ourselves, his hand against the dashboard, me with my feet flattened against the back of the driver’s seat. Viv jerks the car forward and revs the motor like she’s in the Indy 500. She flunked her driving test three times.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
Nic’s leaned back now, his elbow resting on the sill of the open window. “Don’t worry about it,” he says.
I swallow, shrug, scratching at a mosquito bite on my thigh. Vivien roars into the driveway of Hooper’s house, narrowly missing the mailbox, and leans heavily on the horn, blasting so loudly I expect it to blow leaves off the nearby trees. Without looking, Nic reaches over, lifts her hand, and kisses it. “I think you’ve made your point.”
Hoop bounds down the steps, his hair sticking up in all directions. As usual he looks like he dressed in the dark – plaid shirt, ratty striped shorts. He whacks Nic on the back, then slides in next to me, too close. “Yo Gwenners!” he says, nudging me with a pointy shoulder.
“Hey, Hoop, whoa, can I have some space?”
“Sure, sure.” He slides a fraction of an inch farther away, then smiles at me goofily. We peel down the hill, headed for the less ritzy of the Seashell beaches. The summer people stick to Abenaki, which is shielded from the open sea, has gentler waves and a less rocky beach. That’s where they moor their boats. But Sandy Claw is where the local kids go, the place for illegal fireworks and loud music from someone’s car speakers. In fact, the sound of the music as we drive close is so loud Vivien has to shout to be heard. “This catering thing, tomorrow? It’s got a black-and-white theme. The uniforms work fine for us, Gwen, but Nico, you’ll need a dinner jacket.”
Nic groans. “Tell me no tux. Please, Vee. I lose half the cash I make renting the damn thing.”
“If I have to wear a monkey suit, I’m out,” Hoop says. “Turns off the ladies.”
Vivien’s eyes widen at me in the rearview mirror, comically large. Five-foot three-inch, clothing-challenged Hoop, the chick magnet. Maybe if he’d stop calling them “the ladies.”
Sandy Claw’s already crowded when we get there, kids we’ve grown up with milling around the bonfire and the shore.
Hoop springs out of the car and heads for the cooler, brushing aside the cans of Coke and orange soda with single-minded purpose, rummaging for the beer. Vivien hauls a plaid picnic blanket from the back of the truck. She hands it to Nic, giving him her glowing, mischievous smile. After laying out the blanket, they immediately begin doing their thing. It’s a testament to . . . something about Nic and Vivie that no one even bats an eye at them macking all over each other. Nic calls to me as they lie down, “Grab me a brew, cuz?”
“To drink or should I pour it on you?” I call back. He ignores me, all wrapped up – literally – in Vivien.
Pam D’Ofrio walks over next to me, says only, “Really keeping it PG tonight, aren’t they?” in her flat, deadpan voice.
We’re joined by Manny Morales, Marco’s – the head maintenance guy’s – son.
We talk for a few minutes about summer jobs – Manny’s doing dishes at this place called Breakfast Ahoy, Pam’s working at Esquidaro’s Eats, one of Castle’s rival restaurants.
“It beats babysitting,” Pam says. “Last year I sat for the Carter
