I smile. “Hedge clipping?” I ask.

“Not my first choice.”

“Come on, Romeo,” Spence calls. “Vivien’s got it. We all need to relax here and do this.”

“Speak for yourself,” offers Nic.

“I do, Cruz,” he says flatly. “Always.”

Viv clambers to her feet and I’m right there with her. At least we can still read each other’s minds. She puts a comforting hand on Nic’s back and I place mine on Spence’s, and then Cass comes up next to us, and Viv and I shove all three of them into the water at once. I laugh. But Viv is pinwheeling, too close to the edge, eyes wide. She grabs at me—I flinch back—and we both go over in a tangle of arms and legs, until all of us are splashing and spluttering in the water, and it’s almost impos-sible to tell which slippery body is whose until you see their laughing face.

Chapter Thirty-four

“Far too beautiful to go back indoors,” Avis King says deter-minedly. “I propose we have our reading session on the beach instead of some stuffy porch.

A chorus of agreement from the ladies, although “stuffy” is the last thing anyone could call the Ellington porch.

“I personally am in favor of being rebellious and forgoing my nap today. My word, Henry is becoming fussier than any old woman. He called last night to make sure I was going to rest from one to three. I dislike being nagged,” Mrs. Ellington says crossly.

But, since we didn’t bring any reading material to the beach, I’m dispatched back to the house to fetch The Sensuous Sins of Lady Sarah.

When I get there, I am not at all surprised to see Henry’s car parked in the driveway.

As I push open the screen door, I have a wave of weariness, then near fury. Other people’s stories, I repeat to myself.

The door slams behind me and I shout, “Hello!” The way I learned to make noise coming home when Nic and Viv might be there alone. Hello. I’m here. A witness. Don’t let me catch you.

Henry Ellington turns, startled, from the kitchen sink, where he’s standing, drinking a glass of water. He doesn’t look well. His skin’s pale, almost gray, and a sheen of sweat marks his forehead.

Spread out all over the kitchen table are silver bowls and all those complicated pieces of the tea set and these little cups with handles and engraved initials and silver bears climbing up them. Over the summer, they’ve become more than things to polish and wash. I know their stories. The powdered sugar sifter Mrs. Ellington’s father used, “on Cook’s day off” to top off the French toast, the only thing he knew how to make for Mrs. E. and her brothers. The ashtrays she and the captain bought at the London Silver Vaults. “They were so lovely. Nei-ther of us smoked, but look at them.” The grape shears. “We got five of these as wedding presents, dear Gwen. I enjoyed thinking that everyone, so proper, who danced at our wedding, imagined us dangling grapes over each other’s mouths, like some debauched Greek gods.”

So many moments of Mrs. E.’s are laid out on the table, like silver fish resting on ice at Fillerman’s. I wonder if Henry even knows the stories. And if he does . . . how can he possibly sell them?

“Guinevere? Where’s Mother?” His brow draws together.

He straightens, somehow seeming to make himself taller. “I’d assumed she was napping, but there was no sign of either her or you.”

“At Abenaki with the ladies,” I say flatly. God, I’m suddenly so tired. I could sit at the blue enamel painted chair, rest my head on my arms, just go to sleep. Except that I’d have to move aside the silver first.

“You left my nearly ninety-year-old mother on the beach.

With a bunch of eighty-year-olds to watch over her. This seemed like a responsible choice to you?”

He’s peering over his reading glasses, literally looking down at me.

It isn’t until I shove my hand into the pocket of my jean skirt and hear the crackle of paper that I remember what it is. Dad’s had extra loads of laundry lately. This was my one clean skirt. I didn’t think twice when I put it on this morning.

I pull out the check that Henry Ellington gave me, holding it out of sight.

I took it, that day Henry offered it. I don’t need to open it again to see the amount, scrawled firmly in blue ballpoint pen. I haven’t deposited it. But I didn’t tear it up either. I never threw it away.

“Do you have an answer for me, Guinevere?” he asks.

Last night, I finally asked Mom why she named me Guinevere, after a woman no one admired. We were eating ice cream on the porch, passing the spoon back and forth, nearly over our heads to avoid the hopeful, slightly toothless leaps of Fabio.

“Really, Gwen, honey? I always liked her. She wasn’t a wimp or a simp like that Elaine. Not helpless, asking someone to res-cue her. Knew she loved them both. Mr. Honorable and Mr.

Heroic. Arthur and Lancelot. I always thought she was the star of her own story. At least she knew what was really going on.”

Which, of course I do.

So yes, I do, in fact, have an answer.

I smooth the check out on the kitchen table. Next to the fish knives. The silver ashtrays. All the stories. Henry Ellington looks down at it, his face showing nothing at all.

The day Dad gave me his “she’s loaded and she’s losing it”

advice, I never thought it would actually apply to me, and defi-nitely not like this.

I take a breath.

“Mr. Ellington,” I say. “You told me you were giving me this because I deserved a little extra. I don’t think you meant that.

I don’t think you admire my work ethic. I don’t think you like me or value my service. I think you expect my silence.”

His face crumples for a moment, the lines of his cheeks, his eyes, all contracting, freezing. Then he holds out a hand, palm outraised, like my words are traffic he’s stopping. “I don’t think you understand my position here, Guinevere. I’m protecting my mother. A helpless old woman.”

Helpless old woman, my ass.

“Mr. Ellington.” I close my eyes. Another deep breath. Open them. “Does she really want . . . does she really need . . .

your”—I raise my fingers to form air quotes—“protection?”

Henry’s face flushes crimson. “It’s my job,” he says. “My mother is . . . elderly. Not in full possession of her . . .” He darts a look out the window, as though making sure we won’t be overheard, even as his own voice rises. “Damn it, why am I explaining this to you? Mother’s getting older, times have changed, and she just won’t make allowances for reality. When she goes, I’m going to have this entire estate to deal with, all of her promises, her debts of honor that don’t matter anymore.