“Relax.” Clay puts his hand on her forearm, squeezes it. “We just show what’s there. The softer side of Grace.”
Sounds like a laundry detergent ad.
He shoves his hand into his pocket and extracts something, holding it up for us to see. One of Mom’s old campaign flyers. “See, here’s what I’m talkin’ about. Your campaign slogan last time. Grace Reed: Working for the Common Weal. That’s just awful, darlin’.”
Mom says defensively, “I did win, Clay.” I’m a little impressed that he’s being so blunt with her. Tracy and I came in for our fair share of teasing at school about that campaign slogan.
“You did”—he gives her a swift grin—“which is a tribute to your charm and skill. But ‘weal’? Gimme a break. Am I right, girls? Flip?” Flip grunts around his third bread roll, casting a longing glance toward the door. I don’t blame him for wanting to escape. “The last person who used that in a political campaign was John Adams. Or maybe Alexander Hamilton. Like I say, you need to be more relatable, be who people are looking for. More families, young families, are moving into our state all the time. That’s your hidden treasure. You’re not going to get the common-man vote. Ben Christopher’s got that locked. So here’s my idea: Grace Reed works hard for your family because family is her focus. What do you think?”
At this point the waiter arrives with our appetizers. He doesn’t miss a beat about Clay being at the table, making me wonder if this was planned all along.
“My, this looks mighty good,” Clay Tucker says as the waiter tucks a big bowl of chowder in front of him. “Now, some would say we Southerners wouldn’t know how to appreciate this kind of thing. But I like to appreciate what’s in front of me. And this”—he tips his spoon at my mother, flashing a grin at the rest of us—“is delicious.”
I get the feeling I’ll be seeing a lot of Clay Tucker.
Chapter Five
When I get home from work the next day, sticky from walking back in the summer heat, my eyes immediately turn to the Garretts’. The house seems unusually quiet. I stand there looking, then see Jase in the driveway, lying on his back, doing some kind of work on a huge black-and-silver motorcycle.
I want to say right here that I am by no means the kind of girl who finds motorcycles and leather jackets appealing. In the least. Michael Kristoff, with his dark turtlenecks and moody poetry, was as close as I’ve gotten to liking a “bad boy,” and he was enough to put me off them for life. We dated almost all spring, till I realized he was less a tortured artist than just a torture. That said, without planning, I walk right to the end of our yard, around my mother’s tall “good neighbor” fence—the six-foot stockade she installed a few months after the Garretts moved in—and up the driveway.
“Hi there,” I say. Brilliant opener, Samantha.
Jase props himself up on an elbow, looking at me for a minute without saying anything. His face gets an unreadable expression, and I wish I could take back walking over.
Then he observes, “I’m guessing that’s a uniform.”
Crap. I’d forgotten I was still wearing it. I look down at myself, in my short blue skirt, puffy white sailor blouse, and jaunty red neck scarf.
“Bingo.” I’m completely embarrassed.
He nods, then smiles broadly at me. “It didn’t quite say Samantha Reed to me somehow. Where on earth do you work?” He clears his throat. “And why there?”
“Breakfast Ahoy. Near the dock. I like to keep busy.”
“The uniform?”
“My boss designed it.”
Jase scrutinizes me in silence for a minute or two, then says, “He must have a rich fantasy life.”
I don’t know how to respond to this, so I pull one of Tracy’s nonchalant moves and shrug.
“It pays well?” Jase asks, reaching for a wrench.
“Best tips in town.”
“I’ll bet.”
I have no clue why I’m having this conversation. And no idea how to continue it. He’s concentrating on unscrewing something or unwrenching something or whatever you call it. So I ask, “Is this your motorcycle?”
“My brother Joel’s.” He stops working and sits up, as though it would be impolite to continue if we’re actually carrying on a conversation. “He likes to cultivate that whole ‘born to be wild’ outlaw image. Prefers it to the jock one, although he is, in fact, a jock. Says he winds up with smarter girls that way.”
I nod, as if I’d know. “Does he?”
“I’m not sure.” Jase’s forehead creases. “The image-cultivation thing has always seemed kind of fake-o and manipulative to me.”
“So, you don’t have some persona?” I sit down in the grass next to the driveway.
“Nope. What you see is what you get.” He grins at me again.
What I see, frankly, up close and in daylight, is pretty nice. In addition to the sun-streaked, wavy chestnut hair and even white teeth, Jase Garrett has green eyes, and one of those quirky mouths that look like they are always about to smile. Plus this steady-on, I-have-no-problem-looking-you-in-the-eye gaze. Oh my.
I glance around, try to think of something to say. Finally: “Pretty quiet around here today.”
“I’m babysitting.”
I look around again. “Where’s the baby? In the toolbox?”
He tips his head at me, acknowledging the joke. “Naptime,” he explains. “George and Patsy. Mom’s grocery shopping. It takes her hours.”
“I’ll bet.” Prying my eyes from his face, I notice his T-shirt is sticky with sweat at the collar and under the arms.
“Are you thirsty?” I ask.
Broad smile. “I am. But I’m not about to take my life in my hands and ask you to get me something to drink. I know your mom’s new boyfriend is a marked man for ordering you to serve.”
“I’m thirsty too. And hot. My mom makes good lemonade.” I stand up and start backing away.
“Samantha.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Come back, okay?”
I look at him a second, nod, then go into the house, shower, thereby discovering that Tracy’s perfidiously used up all my conditioner again, change into shorts and a tank top, and come back with two huge plastic cups full of lemonade and clinking ice.
When I walk up the driveway, Jase has his back to me, doing something to one of the wheels, but he turns as my flip-flops slap close.
I hand him the lemonade. He looks at it the way I’m realizing Jase Garrett looks at everything—carefully, noticing.
“Wow. She even freezes little pieces of lemon peel and mint in the ice cubes. And makes them out of lemonade.”
“She’s kind of a perfectionist. Watching her make this is like science lab.”
He drains the entire thing in one gulp, then reaches for the other cup.
“That’s mine,” I say.
“Oh, jeez. Of course. Sorry. I am thirsty.”
I extend my arm with the lemonade. “You can have it. There’s always more.”
He shakes his head. “I would never deprive you.”
I feel my stomach do that weird little flip-flop thing you hear about. Not good. This is our second conversation. Not good at all, Samantha.
Just then I hear the roar of a car pulling into our driveway. “Yo, Samantha!”
It’s Flip. He cuts the engine, then strides over to us.
“Hey, Flip,” Jase calls.
“You know him?”
“He dated my sister Alice last year.”
Flip immediately says to me, “Don’t tell Tracy.”
Jase glances at me for clarification.
“My sister’s very possessive,” I explain.
“Hugely,” Flip adds.
“Resents her boyfriends’ past girlfriends,” I say.
“Big-time,” agrees Flip.
“Niiice,” Jase says.
Flip looks defensive. “But she is loyal. No sleeping with my tennis partner.”
Jase winces. “You knew what you were getting into with Alice, man.”
I glance back and forth between them.
Flip says, “So…I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“We don’t,” I say, at the same time Jase answers, “Yup.”
“Okay. Whatever.” Flip waves his hands, clearly uninterested. “So where’s Trace?”
“I’m supposed to tell you she’s busy all day,” I admit. My sister: master of playing hard to get. Even when she’s already gotten.
“Cool. So where is she really?”
“Stony Bay Beach.”
“I’m there.” Flip turns to go.
“Bring her People magazine and a coconut FrozFruit,” I call after him. “Then you’re golden.”
When I turn back to Jase, he’s again beaming at me. “You’re nice.” He sounds pleased, as if he hadn’t expected this aspect of my personality.
“Not really. Better for me if she’s happy. Then she borrows fewer of my clothes. You know sisters.”
“Yup. But mine don’t borrow my clothes.”
Abruptly I hear a loud screaming, wailing, banshee-like sound. I jump, wide-eyed.
Jase points to the baby monitor plugged in by the garage door. “George.” He starts heading into the house, then turns back, gesturing me to follow.
Just like that, I’m going into the Garretts’, after all these years.
Thank God Mom works late.
The first thing that hits me is the color. Our kitchen’s white and silver-gray everywhere—the walls, the granite countertops, the Sub-Zero, the Bosch dishwasher. The Garretts’ walls are sunny yellow. The curtains are that same yellow with green leaves on them. But everything else is a riot of different colors. The fridge is covered with paintings and drawings, with more taped on the walls. Cans of Play-Doh and stuffed animals and boxes of cereal clutter the green Formica counters. Dishes teeter high in the sink. There’s a table big enough for all the Garretts to eat at, but not big enough to contain the piles of newspapers and magazines and socks and snack wrappers and swim goggles, half-eaten apples and banana peels.
George meets us before we’re halfway through the kitchen. He’s holding a large plastic triceratops, wearing nothing but a shirt that says Brooklyn Botanical Gardens. That’s to say, no pants, no underwear.
“Whoa, buddy.” Jase bends down, indicating the nak*d half of his brother with a wave of his hand. “What happened there?”
George, still tear-streaked but no longer screaming, takes a deep breath. He has wavy brown hair too, but the big eyes swimming with tears are blue. “I dreamed about black holes.”
“Gotcha.” Jase nods, straightening up. “Is the whole bed wet?”
George nods guiltily, then peeps under spiky damp eyelashes at me. “Who’s that?”
“The girl next door. Samantha. She probably knows all about black holes.”
George eyes me suspiciously. “Do you?”
“Well,” I say, “I, um, know that they’re stars that used up all their fuel and then collapsed inward, due to the pull of their own gravity, and, um, that once anything falls into them it disappears from the visible universe.”