I glance in the mirror over my dresser, put on lip gloss, remember Nic telling me guys hate it because it’s sticky, wipe it off. Mom comes up behind me, puts her arms around my waist and rests her chin on my shoulder, staring into the mirror.

Dad’s always saying how alike we look, and generally, I don’t get it. I see nitpicky things like the gray scattered in Mom’s hair, or the way my eyes tip up at the corners like Dad’s, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the fact that she has a dust of freckles and I have none, that my skin is darker olive than hers. But today, the resemblance hits me as it never has before.

I’m not sure why this is until I realize: It’s the optimism in our smiles.

All good, but I don’t know what to do with myself in the land of sunshine and butterflies. By the time I’m clattering down the steps in heeled sandals I never wear, my nerves are buzzing.

What if things are different in the light of day? How do I handle this, anyway? Do I run up to him when I see him mow-ing? Or is he going to want to keep things professional around the island?

Does this come easily to most people? Because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here.

I listen for the sound of the lawn mower but can’t hear anything. No handy arrow pointing to a yard to say “Cass is here.”

Over-thinking. I’ll just get to work. I pick up my pace, then

nearly scream when a warm hand closes on my ankle.

“Sorry!” says Cass, sliding out from under the beach plum bush by the side of the Beinekes’ house. “I was weeding. You didn’t seem to see me.” He slides back, stands up and beams at me.

Suppress goofy smile. “Um. Hi. Cass.”

He brushes off his hands—still gloveless—and comes around to the gate, slipping through it. Today he’s in shorts and a black T-shirt. “You can do better than that.” He loops his arms around my waist and pulls me to him.

“Where are your gloves?”

“Better than that too.” He drops a kiss on my collarbone.

“Good to see you, Cass. I dreamed about you, Cass. . . . Feel free to improvise.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing those work gloves?

When you’re working? Or at least the leather ones because . . .”

Gah. I sound like Mom, or the school nurse.

I’m no good at this.

Luckily, Cass is good enough for both of us. “I missed you, Gwen. It’s good to see you, Gwen. I dreamed about you, Gwen.

Yeah, haven’t gotten around to the gloves. More important things to focus on. Want me to tell you what they are?”

“Can I have a do-over?” I ask.

He nods. “Absolutely. Thought we got clear on that.” He shifts his hands over my back. I want to tell him not to do that, it’s got to hurt, but I’m not going to be the nurse anymore.

I trace the scar in his left eyebrow. “How’d you get this?”

“My brother Jake threw a ski pole at me in Aspen when I was seven. In fairness, I was making kissing noises while he helped his girlfriend put her boots on. Back when he had girlfriends. You were saying?”

“I—I—” Give up. “I don’t have any words today.”

“Good enough.”

Lots of kissing after this. Apparently too much, as a pair of ’tween boys walking by whistle, though one of them mutters, “Give her the tonsillectomy in private, man.”

Laughing, Cass pulls back, his hands still locked around my waist. “I have a bad feeling the yard boy is going to be more useless than usual today.”

“As long as you steer clear of the hedge clippers, it’s okay, Jose. I can think of a few uses for you.” I graze the corner of his mouth with my lips, nudging it open.

“Killing spiders,” he mutters, kissing back wholeheartedly.

“Opening jars.”

“And so on,” I whisper.

“Look,” he says, pulling back after a while, for the first time seeming awkward. “I can’t see you tonight. I have another . . .

family thing.”

“Oh, yeah, I understand,” I say hurriedly. “No problem. I have to—”

He catches my hands and waits till I turn my face back so I’m looking at him.

“This got set up before you and I figured things out—a com-mand performance kind of deal. I’d much rather be with you.”

“Your grandmother?”

“And a few trustees from Hodges,” he says. “Fun times.”

Dad slams the screen door behind him that night, brandish-ing a crumpled piece of paper, laundry bag over his shoulder.

“What exactly is this?” He drops the bag, flicks his hand against the paper. Irritation crackles off him as palpably as the smell of fryer grease. It’s eleven o’clock at night, so Castle’s must have just closed. Not his usual laundry drop-off time.

“What’s it look like?” Mom asks, unperturbed, barely glancing up from her book. “It’s a flyer for my business.”

I click off the television, looking from one of them to the other.

“You clean houses. That’s not a business.”

“Well, it sure isn’t a hobby, Mike. I clean houses and I want to clean more because We Need the Money. Like you keep saying. So I’m advertising.” She plucks the paper from his hand, running her finger across it. “It came out good, didn’t it?”

Dad clears his throat. When he starts speaking again, his voice slows, softens. “Luce. You know Seashell. They see these posted around, get the idea you’re hard up for work, for cash, and next thing you know, the minute something disappears, some little gold bracelet from Great-Aunt Suzy, every finger will be pointing straight at you.”

“Don’t be silly.” Fabio hurls himself onto the couch, gasping for breath from the effort, climbing into Mom’s lap. She ruffles his ears and he snorts with pleasure, eyeing the melting ice cream in her bowl, ears perked. “My clients know me better than that. I’ve worked for most of the families on Seashell for more than twenty years.”

Dad collapses next to her on Myrtle, rests elbows on his thighs, bows his head into his hands. A streak of white skin gleams at the back of his neck above the sunburn he probably got last time he went out on the boat. “Doesn’t matter. When the chips are down, you’re not in the Rich Folks Club.”