What I Thought Was True(55)

Tonight, when I take Em for our weekly dinner with Dad, I put his life jacket on, just to cross that tiny three-slab-long stretch of sun-dappled water. Even Emory thinks this is crazy.

He keeps shoving at the straps, saying “Gwennie, off.”

I’m pretty sure, to him, the whole falling off the dock thing was much worse for Hideout.

I can smell pancakes as we come up the path. Dad always does the breakfast for dinner thing. He gets sick of actual lunch 190

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and dinner, after churning them out at Castle’s all day and night. I’m carrying Emory, who may not have a fear of the water but seems to hate setting foot on the ground now.

“How’s the old lady?” Dad calls as we come in. “And what the hell is your brother doing in that thing?”

There it is.

I miserably explain about the fall. Mom and Grandpa didn’t blame me aloud . . . but this is much worse than not fixing a broken door. Dad’s not exactly one to hold back on the criticism.

Kneeling down, Dad unbuckles the life jacket, then hands Emory a plate of scrambled eggs with ketchup frosting.

“Hideout fell in. Superman save him,” Em summarizes cheerfully, settling down at the card table where we eat.

“Yeah, fine.” Dad clears his throat. I left out the Cass part of the story, so he no doubt thinks that’s just another one of Em’s dreams. “Guinevere.” He stands, looks at me. “You screwed up, but you didn’t lose your head. Still, the kid doesn’t need a life jacket on dry land. You’ll get him all worried.”

This time I do tell him about Cass and the lessons.

“Somers . . .” Dad says doubtfully, rubbing his hand against his stubbled chin. “Like Aidan Somers? The boat-building guy?”

“His son.” I turn to the cabinet, pull out more plates, haul out the syrup, start moving it all to the table.

“Rich kid,” Dad says flatly. “Don’t know about that. Besides, why isn’t your cousin doing this, Mr. Big Swimmer?”

“Nico already tried to teach him, Dad, and wanted to try again.3 Grandpa said no, he said it was easier to learn from someone who isn’t family.”

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Dad grunts. “That’s hogwash. I taught Nic to change a tire, pitch a tent, drive. He learned all that just fine.”

“Well,” I venture. “You’re not technically related to Nic. I mean—he’s mom’s nephew, but—”

“Technically?” Dad says, dumping more eggs onto a plate and tossing the pan into the sink with a muffled sizzle. “I took that kid under my roof when he was a month old, changed his diapers, took him to the ER when he broke his arm, paid for his whole life. That makes me family, the way I see it.”

He hands me the big serving plate of pancakes, eggs shoved to the side, mutters “Technically!” again, and sits down at the table, immediately picking up his fork.

“What’s your interest in all this?” he asks, scraping his chair in with a loud squawk.

“Wha—?” I’m blushing again, picturing Cass asleep on his stomach, the smooth, taut lines of the muscles in his back, the look on his face when I blurted that question, his eyes flashing wide and ears going bright pink. Little boy Cass that summer, cheeks puffed, blowing a dandelion wish for me when I told him my secret about Vovó.

I stack pancakes on Em’s plate, adding butter and syrup.

Cutting them up neatly and precisely, tasting a forkful to make sure it’s not too hot. Avoiding Dad’s eyes.

“How well do you know this guy?” he finally asks against my silence, whacking the bottom of the ketchup bottle to dis-lodge the last dregs.

Better than I should. Not at all. I knew him the summer we were seven. We go to school together.

“He’s on the swim team with Nic.”

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Dad’s impatient. “How well do you know him?” he repeats.

There’s a warm, silty breeze blowing in from over the salt marsh, but I have goose bumps. Does Dad know? What does Dad know? We’re best off when I’m his pal, like when I was a kid. He stopped hugging me the year I turned twelve and sud-denly looked much less like a kid than I still was. Every once in a while, he’ll look at some outfit of mine and say something like, “Pull your shirt up . . . there,” gesturing at my chest without looking at me. That time with Alex on the beach . . .

he hardly knew what to say. Started with “Nice girls don’t—”

and then went mute. He hasn’t mentioned it since. But it’s not forgotten. I can see it in his eyes.

“Gwen?” Dad’s voice is sharp now.

“Be nice to Gwennie,” Emory urges. He leans on one fist, trailing a square of pancake through a lake of syrup. He has a milk mustache.

“Look, I’m not asking for the kid’s résumé. He’s the yard boy. I’m sure Marco and Tony checked him out. But if I’m going to trust him with my son in the water, I want to know he’s responsible.”

Well, not with hedge clippers, that’s for sure. And not with . . . not with . . . I can’t think of an answer that isn’t totally inappropriate. My life lately seems to be an endless series of mortifying encounters. I push my pancakes around on my plate.