A Piece of the World(25)

“Admit it, you’re shocked,” Walton says with a small wink. “‘Must not be as dull as he looks.’”

“Just because you’re going to Harvard doesn’t mean you’re not dull,” I say.

When he smiles, I see that one of his front teeth slightly overlaps the other. He raises an invisible glass in a mock toast. “Good point.”

“All right, enough,” Ramona says. “Let me remind you, Walton, that an entire household awaits breakfast.”

“Ah, yes,” he says. “We’ve come to procure some eggs.”

“Right,” I say. “How many?”

“Two dozen, yes, Ramona?”

She nods.

“Okay, that’ll be fifty cents for the eggs and a penny for the bag,” I tell them.

“My word, you drive a hard bargain!”

Ramona rolls her eyes. “You could’ve asked for fifty cents an egg, Christina. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”

One by one I slide the eggs into a bag, counting out twenty-four as he teases: “Not that one! It’s not oval enough,” and “They must all be exactly the same size.” He is standing quite close to me and his breath smells of butterscotch. Ramona’s talking about the weather, how dull a winter it was and how she counted the days until June, what a beautiful day it is today, but do you think it might take a turn? Will it be calm enough to go out for a sail later on? She wonders what her mother will do with all these eggs if breakfast is over by the time they get back: a soufflé, perhaps? An omelette? A lemon meringue pie?

“Come with us,” he says.

Ramona and I both look up.

“What?” I say, confused.

“Come sailing this afternoon, Christina,” he says. “The wind will be perfect.”

“You might’ve said that when I was fretting about the weather,” Ramona mutters.

I don’t usually take off afternoons, especially to sail with strange boys I’ve only just met. “Thank you, but—I . . . can’t. I have to make bread. And my chores . . .”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, come along,” Ramona says. “We have to entertain Walton somehow. And bring your brother Sam. He’s such fun. I need someone my own age to flirt with.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”

“My word, you’re a hard sell. Look, I’ll sign your hall pass,” Walton says.

“Hall pass?”

Seeing my puzzlement, Ramona laughs. “They don’t have hall passes in one-room schoolhouses, Walton.”

“I can’t,” I say.

He shakes his head and shrugs. “Ah well. Another day, then.”

“Maybe.”

“That means yes,” Ramona tells him with the confidence of a girl accustomed to getting her way. She flashes me a smile. “We’ll try again. Soon.”

When I return to the house from the brightness of the yard, I lean against the wall in the dim foyer, breathing heavily. What was that?

“Did I hear voices?” Mother calls from the kitchen.

I touch my face. Smooth the front of my blouse. Take a deep breath.

“Was somebody here?” she asks when I come in, untying my apron and taking it off.

“Oh,” I say, straining for a casual tone, “only Ramona, to buy eggs.”

“I could’ve sworn I heard a male voice.”

“Just a friend of the Carles’.”

“Ah. Well, the dough’s ready for kneading.”

“I’ll get to it,” I say.

OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Ramona and Walton, sometimes with Eloise and Alvah, stop by every other day or so, seeking eggs or milk or a roasting chicken, staying longer each visit. They bring a picnic basket and an old quilt and we sit on the grass, drinking tea steeped in the sun. I come to expect the sight of them sauntering up the field in the late morning or early afternoon. My brothers, with their gentle ways, tend to shy like deer from the summer folk, but the Carles and Walton gradually win them over. When they’re finished with chores, Al and Sam often join us on the grass.

One morning, when it’s just Walton and Ramona and me, Ramona says, “We’re kidnapping you, Christina. It’s a perfect day for a sail.”

“But—”

“No buts. The farm will manage without you. Alvah is waiting. Off we go.”

As we make our way down the path toward the shore I feel Walton’s eyes on me from behind. Aware of my awkward gait, I concentrate carefully on my movements. In front of us Ramona chatters away—“The sun is so bright! Mercy, I did not even think of it, but we do not have enough hats; maybe Mother left one or two on the boat”—seemingly unaware that neither Walton nor I say a word in response. And then the very thing I fear happens: I trip on a root. My legs buckle; I feel myself pitching forward.

Before I can make a sound, an arm is under mine. In a low voice, so Ramona won’t hear, Walton says, “What a long path this is.”

Though only moments ago I was flushed with anxiety, now I am oddly calm. “Thank you,” I whisper.

I have never been this close to a boy who isn’t related to me. My senses sharp, I notice everything in the clean morning light: daffodils pale and bowed; guillemots gliding overhead, black, with bright red legs, squeaking like mice; the trees in the distance, red spruce and firs and juniper and slender scotch pines, that frame the field. I taste the salt on my lips from the sea. But mostly I am aware of the warm mammal scent of this boy whose arm is ballast: sweat, perhaps, and the musky smell of his hair, a whiff of aftershave. Sweet butterscotch on his breath.