The Cousins(29)

“Our parents?” It comes out uncertainly from the usually decisive Milly. “Or Theresa.”

“We could, but…” I hesitate. Unlike Milly, I know what it’s like to need money. And I don’t care all that much that Jonah North replaced Jonah Story. The new Jonah is kind of prickly, but overall he seems like an upgrade from our actual cousin. “He’s not really our biggest problem right now, is he?”



Milly laughs, but I’m not kidding. Jonah North is a distant fourth on the list of things I’m worried about. Number one is my dad. Number two is having to go to brunch and a fancy-dress ball with a grandmother who’s still barely acknowledging my existence. Number three is Thomas’s weird silence, and the fact that I don’t miss him nearly as much as I thought I would. I’ve stopped texting him, and occasionally I stare at my dark phone and wonder if this means we’re broken up. And why I can’t summon the energy to care if we are. It almost seems inevitable, like there’s not a single thing in my formerly comfortable, predictable life that gets to stay the way it used to be.

The Fourth of July was two days ago, and between the fireworks and a Towhee after-party, I stayed up much too late. Then I couldn’t sleep. While Milly breathed steadily on the other side of our room, I lay in bed tracing a crack in the wall with one finger and thinking about unintended consequences. About how I did something last year that, at the time, seemed even smaller and less significant than this tiny imperfection on an otherwise pristine area. And how it set off a chain reaction that made my family implode.

The guilt of that has kept me from talking to my mother as often as I usually do since I got here, but I did text her a question on Sunday when my insomnia was at its worst. Does Dad ever talk about Cutty Beach?

Mom, who always falls asleep early in front of the television, didn’t reply until yesterday morning. Cutty Beach? Why do you ask?

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I settled for vague. I went there a couple days ago. It made me think of him.

She took her time responding. He’s mentioned it occasionally. I never thought he liked it much, although I couldn’t tell you why. Just the impression I got. But it’s been a long time since your dad and I talked about his time on the island.



That made my stomach roll with uneasiness. Not only because it added to the weird Dad–Cutty Beach connection that’s been forming in my brain, but because it reminded me how tense things are between my parents. Now, and probably for much longer than I recognized. So I made an excuse to sign off.

When I showed the texts to Milly, she’d just shrugged. “Well, it’s an ugly beach,” she said. “I didn’t like it much either.”

My cousin’s voice pulls me back to the present, and I have to give myself a mental shake to remember what subject we’re on. Right: Fake Jonah. “He can’t keep this up forever,” she says. “When he gets found out, we’ll look bad for going along with him.”

“We need more caffeine for this discussion,” I say, standing up and gathering our empty iced coffee cups. “Do you want the same thing?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

The line to order is shorter than when we arrived, but there are still three people ahead of me, so I gaze around while I wait. Sweetfern looks like the inside of a candy cane: red-and-white striped walls, white wrought-iron tables and chairs, and a shiny, cherry-red floor. The air is warm despite the hum of air-conditioning and thick with the smell of sugar and chocolate. A dozen black-framed photos line the wall behind the cash register. I look them over absently, then snap to attention as I recognize a familiar face in the picture over the cashier’s right shoulder.

It’s my father in all his youthful glory, dark-haired and handsome, one arm cradling the ugliest painting I’ve ever seen. It looks like a preschooler dragged a ball of yarn through mud. Dad’s other arm is draped casually across the shoulders of an older woman whose palm rests affectionately on his cheek. Even from a distance, I can see the distinctive port-wine stain on her hand. My elusive grandmother, showing up in the most unexpected places.



I step a little closer to read the plaque beneath the photo: MILDRED AND ADAM STORY WITH THE FIRST-PLACE WINNER OF THE 1994 GULL COVE ISLAND LOCAL ARTISTS COMPETITION. Hard to believe that a woman with a world-renowned art collection would’ve given a blue ribbon to that.

When it’s my turn to pay I swipe my credit card left-handed, even though I know it’s silly to imagine that the teenage cashier, who’s barely looking at me, would see the birthmark on my arm and realize I’m a Story. Still, not waving it in front of her gives me the courage to ask, “Are any of those pictures on the wall for sale?”

“What?” The cashier finally meets my eyes, her thinly plucked brows raised in surprise. “I don’t think so. They’re, like, decoration.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling foolish. My father was a senior at Harvard when Mildred disinherited him; he was living in Cambridge with no opportunity to return to Catmint House and gather personal effects. Someone boxed his room up and had the contents sent to him, but there were hardly any family photos included. It would be nice to have something like a picture, but there’s no way I can explain all that to a bored cashier.

I turn and nearly bump into the person behind me. “Nice picture, huh?” says a familiar voice. “Terrible painting, though.” It’s Hazel Baxter-Clement, who gestures at the next person in line to go ahead of her as she steps closer to the wall with photos. Her grandfather is nowhere in sight. “That was the first annual local artist competition. I like to think we’ve improved since then.”