I open the door to find Big Mrs. McCloud, as she’s always called on Seashell (her daughter-in-law is Little Mrs. McCloud), Avis King, Mrs. Cole, as always clutching her tiny terrier Phelps like a purse, and, surprisingly, Beth McHenry, who used to work with Mom cleaning houses until she retired. They’re all wearing straw hats, sunglasses, and bathing suits. Among the ladies, there are no cover-ups, no sarongs, just brightly flowered suits with skirts, freckled skin that’s seen a lot of sun, wrinkles, and what Mom would call “jiggly bits.” I didn’t imagine my day would involve so many octogenarians in swimwear, but it’s kind of nice to see it all displayed so proudly. I usually wrap a towel around my waist when I’m in my suit in public. Avis King, who is built like an iceberg—small head, ever widening body—marches in first.

“Where’s Rose?” she growls, sounding like Harvey Fierstein with bronchitis. “Don’t tell me she’s still asleep! It’s high tide and perfect weather.” She looks me up and down critically. “Lucia’s gal, am I right? You’re the one hired to be her keeper this summer. Ridiculous waste of money, I say.”

Keeper?

“Hello, Gwen!” Beth McHenry says, smiling at me, then furrowing her brows at Avis King. “Lordy, Avis. Rose did get a concussion just a week ago. Henry’s only being careful.”

“Pish. Just because Rose has a few memory lapses and a bum foot!” Mrs. McCloud pronounces. “Twice last week I hunted for my reading glasses when they were on my head, and put my car keys away in a box of saltines. No one’s hiring me a watchdog.”

“I’d like to see them try,” Mrs. Cole murmurs in her sweet voice.

“Typical of Henry Ellington, though. Just like his father. Won’t come take care of the situation himself, hires other people to do it.” Avis King shakes her head. “How can you possibly know you’ve got good help unless you look them straight in the eye and interview them yourself? Any fool knows that.”

Help? My shorts and gray T-shirt suddenly morph into one of those black dresses with the ruffly white aprons servants wear in Grandpa Ben’s movies. I resist the urge to bob a curtsy.

Then I hear the slow thump and drag of Mrs. Ellington descending the stairs and hurry to reach her, but before I can, she appears in the doorway, smiling at her friends. “Shall we move on, girls, before the tide turns? Come, Gwen!”

* * *

After the beach, the ladies scatter, Mrs. E. lunches and naps. Then asks me to read her a book, and hands me—I swear to God—something called The Shameless Sultan.

Yup. Whatever else it may be, calm, quiet, well-ordered, lucrative . . . apparently the Ellington house is not going to be a refuge from the overdeveloped muscles and half-naked torsos that decorate most of the books at home.

But at least I don’t have to read aloud to Mom.

“‘Then he took her, as a man can only take a woman he yearns for, pines for, throbs to possess,’” I read softly.

“Speak up, dear girl. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

Oh God. I’m nearly shouting the words now—over the sound of the lawn mower rumbling from the front lawn. At any moment Cass could come around the corner to find me pining and throbbing.

I read the next sentence in a slightly louder voice, then halt again as the mower cuts off.

Mrs. Ellington waves her hand at me impatiently. “Gracious! Don’t stop now!”

That sounds frighteningly like a line from the book. I doggedly continue. “‘With every movement of his skilled hands, he took her higher, hotter, harder—’”

“Just with his hands?” Mrs. E. muses. “I was under the impression more was involved. Do continue.”

Was that the sound of the carport side door opening and closing? No, I’m getting paranoid.

“‘Waves of rapture such as Arabella had never dreamed existed swept through her ravished body as the Sultan moved, ever more skillfully, laving her supple curves with his talented—’”

Someone clears their throat loudly.

Mrs. E. looks over at the porch door with her expectant smile, which widens even further at the sight of the figure standing there. “My dear boy! I didn’t know you were coming.”

“No,” a male voice says, “apparently not.”

Chapter Thirteen

I’ve closed my eyes, waiting/hoping to literally die of embarrassment. But the deep, rumbling voice does not belong to Cass.

Instead it’s a middle-aged man wearing a pale blue V-neck cashmere sweater, creased khaki pants. He walks farther onto the porch with an air of ease and authority. Do I have to explain what I was reading, or do I just pretend it’s all good, la-la-la?

I have no idea who this even is until he looks me over with Mrs. Ellington’s piercing brown eyes.

Henry Ellington. Whom I barely remember and who just caught me reading virtual porn to his elderly mom.

He reaches down to hug Mrs. E. “I had a meeting in Hartford this morning. I’ve only got a few minutes before heading back to the city for another one, but I wanted to check on you.”

“Poor boy—you work too hard.” She pats his cheek. “Even when you’re on vacation here. I cannot imagine how anyone can think of numbers and balance sheets and the stock market with the ocean only a few feet away.”

“That may be why I hardly ever vacation.”

I stand up, slide The Shameless Sultan discreetly, cover side down, onto the table next to the glider, and edge toward the screen door. “Mrs. Ellington—I’ll give you two some time to . . . um . . . catch up. I’ll just go—”

Henry immediately straightens up and holds out a hand. “Guinevere?”

“It’s just Gwen.”

“Gwen, then.” He sweeps his arm to one of the wicker chairs. “Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. You look like your mother—I’m sure you hear that all the time. A fine woman.”

I smooth my hands on my shorts, which suddenly seem really short, especially when I see him glance quickly at my legs, then away.

“Mother,” he says suddenly. “Would you be so kind as to give me a private moment with Gwen?”

I blink, but Mrs. Ellington doesn’t seem remotely surprised. “Certainly, dear heart,” she says, reaching for her cane. “I’ll be in the parlor.”

Listening to the slow scrape and thump of her receding, I sense I’m losing an ally. Henry looks at me somberly from under lowered brows.

“Um . . . the book . . . Your mom picked it out. I wouldn’t have chosen it myself. I don’t read that kind of thing. Well, not a lot, anyway. I mean, sometimes you just need . . . that is . . . Not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of book, I mean, they’re actually really empowering to women and—”

He cuts me off with a raised hand and the ghost of a smile. “I’m well aware of Mother’s taste in literature, believe me. You don’t need to worry about that.”

His tone’s flat. I try to interpret his last sentence. What do I need to worry about?

He shifts back in the glider, looking out at Whale Rock. Lifting a hand to his forehead, he slides it down to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“We’re all grateful—my sons and I—that you’re available to look out for her. She’s always been very capable. It’s hard for her to accept that things change. Hard for all of us.”

I can’t tell if he’s simply speaking thoughts out loud or wants some answer from me. “I’m happy to help,” is all that comes to mind.

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t; still gazes instead at the waves flipping over the top of Whale Rock—high tide—where a cormorant is angling its dusky wings to dry.

Eventually, I look out too—at the grass running down to the beach plum bushes, which part to make way for the sandy path to the water. Then there’s Cass, kneeling, edging the weeds away by hand from the slated path, about ten yards from the porch. He’s now wearing a—it can’t really be pink?—shirt that sticks to his back in the heat. I watch the muscles in his back flexing.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Henry seems to pull himself back from some distant place, clearing his throat. “Well then, er, Guinevere, tell me a little about yourself.”

Flashback to my conversation with Mrs. E. I get this awful, familiar tingle, like a sneeze coming on, but worse—a sense of terror about my impulse control. Like when it’s incredibly still in church and your stomach rumbles loudly, or you just know you won’t be able to suppress a burp. I dig my nails into my palm, look Henry in the eye, and desperately try to give appropriate answers to bland questions about school and career plans and whether I play a sport, without offering that my most notable achievement so far appears to have been becoming a swim team tradition.

The questions trail off. Henry looks at my legs again, then out at the water. Over by the bushes, Cass swipes his forearm across his forehead, then his palm against the back of his pants, leaving a smudge of dirt. I count one, two, three waves breaking over the top of Whale Rock.

Then Henry leans forward, touches his hand, rather hard, to my shoulder. “Now listen carefully,” he says. Up till now he’s been shifting around in his seat, kind of awkward and ill-at-ease. Now his eyes spear mine, all focus. “This is crucial. Mother needs her routine kept consistent. Always. I’d like to be able to count on knowing that you will give her breakfast at the same time every day, make sure she gets out in the fresh air, eats well, and takes a nap. It was in the evening that she had her fall, and she hadn’t rested all day. She managed to get herself to the phone, but she was very confused. If one of the neighbors hadn’t come by . . .” He rubs his chin. “Mother will just go and go and go. I need to make sure these naps happen like clockwork from one to three.”