What I Thought Was True(47)

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his hand over the hair at the back of his neck. “D’you think she’d notice if I dug this up and replaced it with another bush?

That may be my only hope.”

“Got a spare arborvitae up your sleeve?” At least today he actually has sleeves, as in a shirt, thank God. I open the gate and walk in. “Maybe if you just trimmed down that top part and made the other side a little flatter?”

He revs up the hedge clippers, begins trimming on the wrong side. I wave my hands in a stop motion. Cass flips the off button again. “What now?”

“Not that side! You’re making it worse again. Just hand it to me.”

“No way. This is my job.”

“Yes, and boiling the lobsters was my job. You had no prob-lem barging in there.”

“Christ almighty. Can we move on from the lobsters, Gwen?

You honestly have this much of an issue with accepting help?”

“I’m pretty sure the issue at the moment is you not being able to accept help. Just give me the clippers.”

“Fine,” Cass says. “Enjoy.” He hands the clippers to me, pull-ing his hands back quickly and shoving them in his pockets.

Then he studies my face. “Actually, you do seem to be enjoy-ing yourself. Too much. You are planning to use those on the hedge, right? Not on me?”

“Hmmm. That hadn’t occurred to me.” I turn the hedge clippers on and look him over speculatively. He bends down, wrenches the plug out of the wall.

“Hey! I was trying to help.”

“I didn’t like the look on your face. It made me worry for 162

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the existence of my future children. I haven’t forgotten that butter knife that was the only thing standing between you and Alex Robinson singing soprano.”

“I just never thought I’d see you be inept at anything. Haven’t you done this before?”

“Hey, I’m not inept. I’m just not . . . ept yet. And since you’re so curious, no, mowing our lawn is my only landscap-ing experience.”

“Did Marco and Tony know this when they hired you? Why did they hire you?”

“I don’t know. My dad talked to them first, and when I came in they just asked if I minded hard work and being outdoors most of the day. I figured I’d be mowing. Period. Maybe some weeding. I didn’t think I’d be planting and trimming and tying bushes to fences and I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be raking the beach.”

I’ve plugged in the hedge clippers again and now I turn them on and start in on the top of the hedge. “You can always quit,” I shout over the whir.

“I don’t quit. Ever,” he shouts back. “I think you’re making it worse.”

I lop off a few more branches, then run the clippers down, making the bumpy side as flat as the other. Then I stand back.

It definitely looks better. I move over to the matching arborvitae on the other side of the steps and start working on that to make it look the same.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Cass calls. “I can do the rest.”

“No way, Jose. Clearly you can’t be trusted.”

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This sentence drops between us like a brick shattering on the pavement.

Again I get a flash of his white-knight rescue from Spence’s party. Granted, a cranky white knight, but still . . .

Jaw tight, Cass walks over to the Seashell truck, pulls a plastic bin out of the back, and starts scooping the severed branches into it. I buzz the sides of the other tree flat.

“There you are, garota bonita!” Grandpa Ben calls. He’s trudg-ing along up the road with his mesh bag full of squirming blue crabs, holding Emory’s hand and dragging the unenthusias-tic Fabio by his leash. Em is in his bathing suit, clutching a sandy-looking Hideout and looking sleepy. “I bring you your brother. Lucia is working tonight and I have the bingo.”

“Superman! Hello, Superman! It Superman,” Emory tells Grandpa, his face lighting up.

“Hey there, Superboy,” Cass says easily. My brother runs over and immediately throws his arms around Cass’s leg. And kisses him. On the knee. Cass seems to freeze for an instant, then pats Em’s bony little back.

“Hey buddy. Hello, Mr. Cruz.”

“Superman,” Emory repeats. Clearly, for him, all that needs saying. He gives Cass his shiniest smile and plunks down in the grass, nuzzling Hideout against his neck.

“I will not lie, querida. He’s been cranky. Está com pouco de bug today. We got ice cream, but no. No help.” Grandpa Ben pulls his watch out of his pants pocket. It’s not a pocket watch, but he keeps it there, out of habit, afraid, from his fishing days, that it would snag on something. “I need to go now. I get there late, Paco stacks the deck.”

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“Where’s Nic?” I’ve babysat for the last four nights that Mom has worked late. So, Nic’s turn.

“The swimming,” Grandpa Ben says. “Be good for your sis-ter, coelo.”

Emory ignores him, focused on Cass coiling up the exten-sion cord.

“Which beach?” Cass calls. “I’m pretty much done here.”

“Sandy Claw.”

“Huh.” Cass finishes wrapping and loops the cord between his shoulder and his elbow, which shows off his biceps nicely.