TWENTY‑FIVE

WREN

I WAITED ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE OF MY MOTHer’s office while she spoke to the glass guy about the damages. Without a party going on, the Camelot showed its age. Sir Gus was a sorry, dusty knight with nothing to preside over. The wood paneling and burgundy curtains–which usually added a homey, secluded air–made me feel like I was sitting in a dated medieval‑theme‑park ride. Even the portrait of my great‑grandfather looked a little corny in the plain light, without the glow from the fireplace. The place truly was a relic from another time. And soon a wrecking ball would dash right through it. The thought was thoroughly depressing.

A half hour had passed since the police cars had left, and I was still burning with anger at the way my father had dismissed me so forcefully from the scene–even more embarrassing was that he’d done it in front of Grayson. I couldn’t imagine what Gray was going through at the police station, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. I was tortured enough just anticipating my own private, Dad‑led interrogation.

Eben pushed through the front door in jeans and a dark coat, unraveling his scarf as he came farther into the lobby. Sadness overwhelmed me. Everything I’d been stuffing down since the police had arrived bubbled to the surface. He softened when he saw my face.

“Wren.”

I threw my arms around him, putting my cheek to his shoulder. He smelled so good, like oranges and spicy black pepper.

“Baby, why the tears?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wiping my tears on my sleeve.

“Ruthie called me in to wait for the glass guy . . . and since I have no social life to speak of, here I am.”

“I totally screwed up, Eb,” I said. “The cottage is . . . wrecked.”

“So I heard, but you were involved?” he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack near the office. He waved at my mom, who was still on the phone.

“And Grayson . . . and two of his friends . . . and I’m in deep doo‑doo. . . . My dad isn’t even speaking to me. He’s been out there cleaning up the cottage all this time,” I said, sitting down on the bench again. Eben sat next to me.

He patted my hand. “Darlin’ . . . you and three boys in the love shack? That’s not what I meant when I said go hang there with Grayson.”

My skin flushed; I leaned my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me.

“Daddy‑O will come around. He probably just needs to breathe a little, I bet.”

“The way he looked at me? What he said? I’m–”

My dad steamrolled through the front door with a broom and dustpan in hand. Eben and I both sat up straight. He gave Eben a quick, mechanical smile, once again ignoring me. Eben’s eyes widened.

“Oh, my.”

“See?”

“Wren, I don’t mean to sound like a total wuss, but um,” he said, lowering his voice, “you didn’t tell them where you got the key . . . did you?”

I mimed locking up my lips. He swiped his forehead dramatically and mouthed, Whew .

“I don’t even get why they are going to so much trouble . . . the place is going to be dust in a couple of months. Why even fix it?”

My mom breezed out of the office. “Eben, thank you so much for coming in.”

Eben stood up and gave her a quick hug. It was odd to see Mom in jeans and a casual tee at work. Then I remembered it had been date night for her and Dad. Guilt from interrupting their night gnawed at my insides.

“You haven’t told her the Camelot news?” Eben asked

“Something else you’re not talking to me about?”

My mother held up her hand. “Wren, it’s a new development. One that . . . well, is a solution I feel better about.”

“So we’re not closing?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, we are closing. It’s time, but someone gave us a different offer. Someone who’s not going to knock it down.”

I looked wide‑eyed at Eben. “You?”

“Oh, hell no, well, indirectly yes, but no, I’m not the proud new owner. My culinary school will be. In February they start renovations to get ready for the summer semester. This is going to be a satellite campus. It’s perfect, good location, parking, kitchens.”

“We’re going to finish out the last few weddings and then turn it over,” my mother said, smiling.

“I think I even convinced them to keep Guinevere’s Cottage. Give it a fresh coat, slap on a historic‑landmark plate, and turn it into a boutique restaurant. The students can hone their craft while the school charges an exorbitant amount of money for tiny food. So yes, the glass guy is definitely not a waste.”

“That’s, like, the best news ever,” I said, “and no little hot dogs.”

“Oh, mais oui , Mademoiselle Wren, but we shall call zem cochons en couvertures Eben said, bowing dramatically. I laughed, a genuine feel‑good laugh, until my father returned to the lobby. His sullen presence vacuumed up all the cheer. My mother grabbed her coat off the rack.

“What would we do without you, kiddo?” my father said, tossing Eben the keys. “The heat is on low, but there’s a space heater in the office if you get cold waiting.” Dad finally looked at me.

“Let’s go,” he said, making a slicing motion with his hand.

“The glass guy should be here within the hour. If there’s any trouble, don’t hesitate to call me,” my mother said, shrugging on her coat.

“Will do, Ruthie.” Eben smiled and gave me a sympathetic look.

I hugged him.

“Sure you can’t come with me? As a buffer?” I whispered.

He squeezed me tighter. “Baby Caswell, you are fierce. No worries.”

At home my father rocketed upstairs to shower. My mother put on a pot of coffee. I sat at the kitchen table and tried not to hurl from nervousness. I wondered if Grayson was still at the police station . . . and what version of the truth he had told. Everything happened so quickly once Luke and I had arrived at the cottage. There was no way I was going to tell my parents the real reason we’d been there.

My heart surged, fearful, when I saw Dad’s socked feet padding down the stairs. He’d changed into jeans and a maroon pullover, his hair freshly tousled and wet from the shower. My stomach dropped when I saw his stern face. He came to the table and pulled out the chair across from me.

The three of us sat. Quiet. This had been our dinnertime ritual since August, when Josh had left for school. Except there was no dinner. Just us. No paper, no banter, nothing to hide behind. I wished Josh would explode through the front door, weekend laundry in hand, brimming with some wild story to make my father laugh and to deflect whatever I had coming my way. For a moment my father studied me. Then he spoke.

“Why?”

The disappointment in his voice cut into me.

“I . . .” I began, but stopped. How could I explain? I organized a faux revenge hookup so Grayson could talk to his friend about getting out of their con game didn’t seem like it would fly. I decided to keep it simple.

“We were just hanging out, and things got out of hand,” I answered.

My parents shared a look.

“We, as in you and three boys?” my father asked.

“Um, well, not really.”

“Did we not just find you with three boys, two covered in blood and one with drugs, at our place of business after hours?” he continued.

“Yes . . .” I said, looking at Mom.

“Wren, you told us you were going out with Maddie. Why did you lie?” she asked.

“I . . . well . . . I . . .”

I had no answer to that one. My dad’s face reddened.

“Please, it just happened . . . an accident . . . I’m sorry,” I said, trying to tamp down the tears that were finally coming.

“Sorry? What were you doing there? ”

I wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. There was no easy answer for this.

“I was there to be with Grayson . . . alone.”

He ran a hand across his face and got up from the table.

“Jim,” my mother said.

“Ruthie, don’t.”

He walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. He brought it over to my mom before pouring another one for himself. “Do you want something, Wren?”

His tone had changed slightly, lightening even. The gesture was encouraging.

“No, no thanks.”

He sat down again, hands clasped around his mug.

“You’re . . . seeing . . . the Barrett boy?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “Let me guess, you’ve been seeing him about a month now?”

“Well, yes, seems about right.”

“Hmm , now imagine that, because I’ve noticed some changes in you this last month. . . .”

“Dad.”

“Am I wrong, Ruth?”

“Wren, you have been more . . . animated lately,” she said.

“Animated? What are you talking about?”

“It’s like this, Wren,” my father began, “ever since you were in kindergarten, I’ve barely had to raise my voice to you. Every parent/teacher meeting your mother and I have ever been to could have been scripted. They would tell us we didn’t even need to be there, but if they had one complaint, it was that you should speak up more. That’s a complaint I can live with.”

“And that’s a good thing?” I asked.

“After Josh? Yes, it’s a very good thing,” my father continued. “You’ve never once been late to school, and then we get a call you cut your last period. You’ve lied about where you were going and who you were with. And now we find you with three boys, and your hair . . . is . . . blue . . . all since you’ve been seeing this boy.”

“You think all of this happened because I met Grayson?”

“Wren, we’re just concerned,” my mother said.

“To hell with concerned,” my father said. “I don’t think he’s the kind of friend we want you to have.”

My first instinct was to storm away crying, but I stopped myself. What would that solve?

“You’re wrong, Dad. All of this happened because of me. Me . I’m tired of being the quiet one. The kid who teachers don’t have anything to say about–you really think that’s the way I want to be remembered? How I want to go through life? I cut class . . . because . . . well, that was wrong, and being at the Camelot and breaking the window, all of that was stupid, but I didn’t do it because of some boy.”

“Wren, calm down.”

“No, Dad, because you know if Josh did this, you’d already be laughing about it, probably swapping stories–”

“That’s not true–”

“And if Brooke did this–”

“Brooke wouldn’t do this,” both my parents said.

“No, because Brooke is perfect and pregnant–”

“Wren, stop,” my mother said.

“No. I won’t stop. For the first time I’m making my own mistakes, doing my own thing. You guys are just going to have to deal with it. And Grayson is the kind of friend I want to have, because he likes me for who I am, Dad. He’s a good person–we made a mistake tonight, a huge one, but . . . you don’t even know him–so don’t tell me he’s not the kind of friend you want me to have because . . . I . . . I love him.”

My words rang out through the kitchen, filling the empty house. Had I actually told them I loved Grayson? I took deep breaths, getting my anger under control. My mother reached for my father’s hand. He seemed reluctant at first but then wrapped his fingers around hers.

“Fine,” my father began. “You won’t be seeing him for a very long time, because I’m not sure you’ll ever leave the house again for anything other than school or work. And we can be sure you won’t work the same shifts; I know the owner.”

“So . . . you’re not going to fire him?” I asked, looking between them.

“Wren, I’m not happy about what happened tonight, but no, I’m not firing Grayson,” my mother said. “He’s a good worker. If he wants to stay on through January, he’s more than welcome. And you can certainly work the same shifts; don’t listen to this guy.”

“But any and all keys to the love shack shall be given to me,” my father added. “I don’t want you there again unless it’s for an event. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Dad,” I said. “Could I, um, get myself some hot chocolate now?”

He nodded. “Grab us some Oreos while you’re up.”

I turned on the kettle, grabbed the Oreos, and arranged some on a plate before returning to the table. I slid back into my chair and put the cookies in the center. My dad and I reached for the same one. He mock‑scowled at me, and I smiled, letting him take it. He twisted the cookie apart and gave me half.

“Wait a minute. . . . Dad, who told you the staff calls the cottage the love shack?” I asked, raking my teeth across the Oreo cream.

Mom stifled a smile and squeezed my dad’s hand. They shared a playful look that seemed to transform them into teenagers again, and suddenly I felt like I was the one interrogating them. My father chuckled, and this odd realization came over me, one that made my skin crawl just a little. . . .

Was my father actually blushing?

“Who do you think named it that twenty‑three years ago?” my mother said.

I swallowed my cookie and pushed away from the table to check on my boiling water. Maybe the three of us being quiet and going off to our separate spaces without talking wasn’t such a bad thing sometimes.

“Guys . . . that’s just . . . wow . . . TMI.”

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 640