She's Up to No Good(38)

I had a million questions. But his suggestion that I was too invested meant I kept them to myself.

We walked along the promenade next to the water in silence, and I felt a sense of dread rising the longer we went without speaking. I cursed my grandmother for making me spend time with this stranger instead of letting me have the beach trip I had assumed I was getting. Yes, I should have known better with her because nothing she did was ever straightforward. But still.

A boat cut through the water near us, and I looked over at it. The logo on the side boasted “Whale Tales and Tours.”

“That’s a thing here?” I asked, gesturing to the boat, grateful for a topic other than Tony.

He shrugged slightly. “Tourists love it.”

“Have you ever seen a whale?”

“A few times.”

“Why are you not more excited about that?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. “You obviously didn’t grow up on the water.”

“Like forty-five minutes from the Chesapeake Bay. If that counts.”

“It doesn’t.” He looked over. “Do you want to go whale watching?”

I sensed condescension at the idea of a tourist activity and said no. “But do they know a ‘whale tail’ is a girl’s thong sticking out of her pants?”

Joe laughed, and I felt tension drop from my shoulders. “I didn’t know that had a name.”

I nodded sagely. “You learn things like that when you grow up forty-five minutes from the Chesapeake Bay.” I was rewarded with another laugh.





The ship was fading into a dot on the horizon, so I let my eyes wander over the shop windows as we passed instead, not paying much attention until—

“Wait,” I said, retreating a few steps, back to the picture that had taken a moment to process. Joe followed, and I stopped in front of a store called Hereford Heirlooms, looking at a framed black-and-white photo that had caught my eye. I was sure I must have been wrong, but I wasn’t. “That’s my grandmother.”

She stood on the front of a parade float; the name of my great-grandfather’s store just decipherable on the side. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and two other Bergman-looking girls flanked her—the younger one had to be Vivie, but I always got confused about which of the older sisters was which. Margaret maybe? Not that anyone watching that parade could have been focused on anyone but my grandmother. Vivie looked uncomfortable in that gawky, early teenager stage, and the older sister looked bored and like she had been strong-armed into being there. But my grandmother? She had a hand on one hip and the other in the air, waving exuberantly to the crowd as if she were royalty and they, her subjects, were all there to catch a glimpse of her.

I felt Joe’s eyes on me and looked up.

“You look like her,” he said.

I shrugged noncommittally, glancing at my reflection in the shop window, then looked back down at the picture. Features-wise, maybe. But that confidence, the absolute sureness of who she was, that was all I saw when I looked at the picture. I didn’t have that.

“Come on,” Joe said, opening the door, a blast of air conditioning hitting us. “Let’s find out the story on it.”

He held the door open for me, then reached into the window display to grab the frame, which he carried to the counter at the back of the store, where an older woman sat. She looked up, and her face split into a smile as she looked at Joe.

“Aunt Lina,” he said as she came around to embrace him, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Lina, I thought. Would that make her Tony’s sister? She looked about the right age.

She asked him something in Portuguese, but he shook his head. “Aunt Lina, this is Evelyn’s granddaughter, Jenna. Jenna, this is my great-aunt Lina.”

I found myself smushed into a tight hug, then held out at arm’s length. “I should have known. You look just like her.”

“I—uh—thank you.”

“I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen when Tony brought her home.” She smiled sadly. “Such a long time ago now.” She noticed the frame in Joe’s hand and took it to look, smiling broadly again in recognition. “This one’s a funny story.”

“It is?”

There was an old dining table with matching chairs to the left of the register, and she gestured for us all to sit. “Your grandfather took this picture,” she said to Joe.

Joe tilted his head. “You mean Tony did?”

“No. Lipe took it. He had a secondhand Brownie box camera.”

Joe looked to his great-aunt in surprise. “I have that camera.”

Lina patted his cheek. “You’re a better photographer than he ever was. But he took this during the Memorial Day parade in”—she thought for a moment—“must have been forty-nine. It was before Tony met her.”

A bell chimed at the door as a customer walked in. Lina rose. “Take the picture. But tell your grandmother to come see me. It’s been too long.”

“How much is it?”

Lina shook her head. “I won’t take your money,” she said over her shoulder as she went to greet the woman who had walked in.

I looked at Joe, who sat studying the photograph. “You should have it,” I said.