Page 21 of Dead of Summer
There’s an uncomfortable pause as Faith digs her perfect toe into the sand. “I’m actually between things at the moment,” she says, glancing up at David.Already getting money from Daddy Warbucks, Orla thinks ungenerously. She is starting to get dizzy in the open sun like this. Her knees wobble dangerously. What would it be like to collapse onto the sand in front of them? Would she ever recover?
“I have to go, actually,” she says quickly, feeling like she might pass out. “Meeting someone. Just so busy, you know. Lots of, um, island things to do. People to catch up with.”
“Yeah, I bet,” David says. She turns away from them and flees, stumbling across the sand toward the parking lot. As she regains her footing, Orla is horrified to find herself still attracted to him.
HENRY
Jean’s boat pulls into the dock below Henry’s window. Henry straightens his shirt, wishing he’d thought to check on the state of his hair in the bathroom. He starts to raise his hand to wave and stops short. There is a young girl with Jean this time. Surprising. His heart twists anxiously as she follows Jean up the steps, holding up fistfuls of brown shopping bags from Danny’s.
“Morning, Henry,” says Jean, and he sees now that her hand is wrapped with a thick white bar towel. “Had to bring this one along to help.”
“Hello,” he says, his voice rough from lack of use. “Are you Gemma?”
Jean pauses at the door, and Henry sees the slight panic in her eyes. “I should have brought one of the kitchen staff but they’re all so busy this time of year. Gemma, why don’t you leave those and wait down by the boat.”
But the girl has already stepped into the house with the bags. She gives Henry an easy smile. “Where should I put these?” Henry hasn’t seen a new person in the house in so long. He tries not to stare as she moves around the kitchen island.
“Please, let me,” Henry says, taking the bags by the handles. He hasall but forgotten what young people look like, the slight awkwardness to them, as if they are still new in their skin. She reminds Henry of the young egrets he often watches fish down on the rocks. Their gawky bills as they dive their heads into the water, like they are pretending to be adults. He tries harder not to stare.
Jean watches nervously. “We’ll be in and out,” she says, glancing behind her at the door as though worried someone might be watching.
“She didn’t want the help, but I insisted,” Gemma says, plucking at a stack of small beaded bracelets on her wrist, her plump cheeks flushed with youthful enthusiasm.
“That sounds like Jean,” Henry says, getting a glare from his sister-in-law in return. “What happened there?” He points at her hand. A small spot of bright red has soaked through the towel.
“It’s nothing, slicing lemons. I just went clean through it,” Jean says. Her eyes shift between him and Gemma and she steps awkwardly between them, forcing Gemma to step away. Henry knows why. His neck goes hot with shame.
“That looks quite bad,” he says of the growing stain.
“See, that’s whatIsaid,” Gemma interjects from the living room. She is looking around his house, taking it all in. Henry sees his home through her eyes and is filled with embarrassment at the cracks in the walls, the chipping linoleum. He cringes at the piles of papers on the table, the small mountain of laundry, still unfolded against the corner by the washer. She picks up an old clay sculpture of a bird Margie made back when she was in her short-lived pottery-making phase.
“Careful,” Henry says quickly, unable to bear the thought of it breaking. She puts it back and continues on, craning her neck to look through the telescope. Henry panics for a moment, trying to remember. It must have been pointed at the Clarkes’ house.
“You can see everything with this, can’t you?” She moves it.
“I usually just watch the stars,” he says quickly. Jean’s eyes flick toward him at this obvious lie.
“Let’s hurry up and unload things, Gemma,” Jean says, and Gemmareluctantly steps away from the window and comes to help in the kitchen. Jean pounds around pointing at drawers and doors.
The three of them work in tandem, Gemma lining up cans of tuna and bags of pasta on the counter for them to put away. Henry stops and holds up another unfamiliar item, wrapped this time in brown paper packaging. He looks from it to Jean, questioning.
“Oh, that. It’s some sort of fancy new chocolate cookie. Thought you might want to try ’em,” she says brusquely. “I noticed the ice creams were a hit.” Henry ducks his head shyly. He hadn’t eaten anything so decadent in years. He’d offered one to Margie when he opened the box, but she’d refused. She’d shrunk lately, he noticed, a lump forming in his chest. The comforting width of her hips whittling down so that her pants formed little flaps on each side. “You go ahead, though,” she’d encouraged him before turning heavily toward the bedroom. He finished them off in four days, eating one after dinner each night. They were possibly the best thing he’d ever tasted. His mouth waters at the thought of another sweet treat.
“Why don’t you both stay and have one?” he asks Jean, beginning to clear the newspaper from the top of the table. He should have cleaned up a little, he thinks guiltily, pulling a pile of old newspapers into the seat of one of the dining chairs. “I could make some tea.”
But Jean shakes her head quickly. “Nope. No. We have to get back to the Crab. Going to be a big day with that Bermuda sailing race. Let’s go, Gemma.Chop chop.No time to waste.”
Jean folds a paper bag, and something wet spatters onto the floor.
“Your hand, Jean,” Henry says. The blood has soaked through the towel and left an arc of dark drops along the floor.
“Damn it,” Jean says, looking like she might break down. “I don’t have the time for this.”
“You do. It’ll only take a minute.” Henry leads her to a kitchen stool. “Sit,” he says. He removes the soaked bandage from her hand.
“That looks quite deep,” he says of the gash. It gapes open, quickly pooling with blood when he releases pressure on it. He finds an ancienttube of ointment and squeezes it into the cut, wrapping her hand again with a fresh dish towel, tighter this time, and pinning it in place with an old fishing lure.
“Be careful, or it’ll get infected.” He looks at the towel where the blood has already started to soak through again.
