Mom nodded, her eyes distant. “It has been some time since Teddy—since Mr. Illingworth—and I were acquainted. But now that I’m back on Selkie, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the importance of mending fences. I suppose I made a few…mistakes in my youth.” Then she pursed her lips, as if worried she’d said too much.
“What mistakes?” I asked as I searched her face. Mom didn’t make mistakes. She was an accomplished plastic surgeon—she perfected people’s appearances for a living. And she was equally controlled and orderly outside the operating room. She did the
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle with a pen. She was
Mom.
“That’s not the point, Miranda,” Mom said briskly, quickening her pace. “The point is…” She seemed to grope for her next words. “I wanted to be sure you were all right with us having company over.”
“I guess,” I replied, excitement and anxiety washing over me in tandem. T.J., in The Mariner? With me? I tried to picture it: his big brown eyes surveying the chaos of boxes, his pressed blazer hanging on the anchor coatrack.
“All right,” Mom said, sounding much more relaxed as we entered the town square. “I’ll call Mr. Illingworth and extend the invitation.”
As Mom hurried to catch up with the others, I frowned at the strangeness of the scenario. When I’d told CeeCee that I’d wanted to go on a double date with T.J., this was not the kind I’d imagined.
“So then the caddy asked, ‘Sir, is that your son?’ and all I could say was, ‘I sure hope so!’”
Theodore Illingworth the first chuckled at his own story, and I cringe-smiled as I stood beside T.J., who was grinning modestly. Mom, stirring mint into the pitcher of iced tea, murmured something about T.J.’s talent, and I envied her social skills.
Monday afternoon—teatime—was here. The elder and younger Illingworths had arrived at The Mariner only ten minutes before and we’d already been regaled with two golf stories. I didn’t know how many more I could take.
In his sharp seersucker suit, smelling of Scope and cigars, T.J.’s dad cut a dashing figure as he stood in our kitchen. But I had yet to grasp what Mom had seen in him, even all those years ago. My dad, who wasn’t as classically handsome as Mr. Illingworth, came off as much more charming, if only for the fact that he told jokes well.
“This house is amazing,” T.J. said to me, gesturing to the marble counters. “I’ve heard about it, naturally, but visiting it is something else entirely.”
What was amazing, I reflected, was how smooth and shiny T.J.’s hair looked, how neatly he combed it back off his tanned forehead. After not seeing him for three days, I found his handsomeness almost jarring. And the fact that he was standing near me, so near that I could study the weave of his blue button-down shirt, made my neck prickle.
“It’s in disarray right now,” I replied, borrowing an apologetic phrase I’d once heard Mom use. I sounded weirdly…ladylike. Across the kitchen, Mr. Illingworth opened the refrigerator door for Mom and she murmured, “Why, thank you, Teddy.”
“It could use some sprucing up,” T.J. allowed, tapping a finger against his square chin. His gaze skimmed over me for a moment before he nodded toward the curling edges of the aquamarine wallpaper.
My belly turned over. Was I paranoid, or was T.J. implying that
I
could use some sprucing up, as well? I glanced down at my white V-neck, green capri pants, and black flats. Mom and I had spent the morning cleaning, and I’d barely had time to shower and throw together an outfit. I was now the most underdressed person in the room; Mom wore heels and a pale pink, full-skirted sundress that I didn’t even know she owned.
“I was shocked when my father told me you were planning to sell The Mariner,” T.J. went on, running his palm along the countertop. “True, you could earn a thick wad of cash, but a place like this is essentially a historic landmark.”
I shrugged, wondering how I could steer the conversation away from real estate. “Our lives are back in New York,” I explained, realizing how far off New York seemed then. How far it was from Leo. “Trying to keep up this house would be like—”
“An albatross around your necks?” Mr. Illingworth boomed. I’d had no clue that he’d been listening. He chuckled, rocking back and forth on his heels, and added, “Just like in that painting of the old mariner that hangs in the corridor off the study.”
I frowned. How did Mr. Illingworth know about the painting? We hadn’t passed by it when we’d gone from the foyer to the kitchen.
“Sort of,” Mom laughed, kneeling by the stove and checking on her blueberry cobbler. I couldn’t get used to the fact that Mom suddenly appeared to relish cooking and baking. She’d even asked me to help her with the cobbler that morning, but I’d declined; food preparation held no appeal for me.
“Say it ain’t so, Amelia Blue!” Mr. Illingworth said, putting his hand to his chest while T.J. chuckled appreciatively. “I’m not sure Selkie Island could bear you leaving again.” He paused, adding soberly, “I already let you get away once.”
Okay. No.
I fought the urge to clap my hands over my ears. I glanced at T.J. to see if he, too, was squirming in embarrassment, but he was nodding at his father earnestly.
“Who’s ready for cobbler and sweet tea?” Mom asked, her voice coming out high-pitched. She held the baking dish in her oven-mitted hands, wobbling in her pumps while her face got progressively pinker. She shot me a sheepish smile.
I wished The Mariner’s kitchen had a secret trapdoor that I could fall through.
Mr. Illingworth reached for the pitcher of iced tea. “Let’s carry everything onto the back porch. It’s cloudy out, but it probably won’t rain until later.”
I shrank back against the counter. The golf stories had been
one thing, but the thought that Mr. Illingworth might throw out another flirtatious, too-much-information remark while we were on the porch wracked me with fear. No matter what Mom had said yesterday, it seemed that, to T.J.’s dad, their courtship
had
been a big deal.
Then T.J., my unlikely savior, spoke.
“Daddy, what were you saying before about a painting?” he asked. “Is there fine art here?”
“The finest,” Mr. Illingworth replied, lifting the pitcher. “I believe Roger St. Claire did the painting of Isadora that hangs in the study, did he not?” Mom nodded, and Mr. Illingworth said, to me, “St. Claire is one of the South’s best-known portraitists.”
“Oh, Miranda!” Mom trilled, her voice still sounding funny. “
I
know! Why don’t you show T.J. the portrait in the study? And the mariner painting, too, of course. Wouldn’t that be fun?” She peeked at Mr. Illingworth, who gave her an understanding smile. My heart began to pound. Was Mom taking lessons from CeeCee?
“That sounds wonderful,” T.J. said warmly, turning to me.
“Yes, you kids run along, and we’ll save you some cobbler,” Mr. Illingworth said, shooing us toward the kitchen door while winking at T.J. “Enjoy yourselves.”
“Shall we?” T.J. asked, offering me his arm.
I hesitated. Taking T.J.’s arm seemed like a big step—like
a commitment of sorts. Greg and I had hardly ever held hands—which, in retrospect, probably should have been a warning sign. But there
was
something heart-fluttering about assuming such an old-fashioned pose with a boy like T. J. Illingworth. And Mom was watching me so encouragingly that I somehow felt I couldn’t let her down.
Taking a breath, I slid my hand around T.J.’s elbow, and together we left the kitchen, and our parents, behind.
Y
ou make a great hostess,” T.J. told me as we walked toward the painting of the mariner. My hand—clammy—was still on his arm and I was wondering when it would be appropriate to let go. I could feel a hint of T.J.’s muscles under his sleeve, which made me think of Leo, which made the backs of my knees grow warm.
“Um, thanks,” I replied, my lips twitching at T.J.’s overly polite manner of speech. “I haven’t really done much,” I added as we passed the staircase.
“A good hostess makes her guests feel comfortable,” T.J. said, sounding as if he were quoting from a book on etiquette. “I really feel so…at home here,” he went on, sweeping his arm through the dust particles in the air.
T.J. did look as if he belonged in The Mariner, I reflected, taking in his ramrod posture and the noble slant of his profile.
It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine him as the young master of a grand Southern estate.
Too bad the lady on his arm was wearing capri pants and a T-shirt.
“Well, here is the mariner,” I said as we arrived in the small corridor where I’d had my nighttime scare. I took the opportunity to casually lift my hand from T.J.’s arm and point to the painting. In the gray afternoon light that fell through the front windows, the old seafarer seemed spooky once more.
T.J. ran his eyes over the painting, his expression critical. “Excellent craftsmanship,” he declared. “Nice use of sfumato.”
I had no idea what T.J. was talking about. “He gives me the creeps,” I said.
T.J. laughed. “Nah. Head into Fisherman’s Village any day of the week and you’ll see hundreds of geezers who look just like him.”
“Really?” I asked, my face becoming hot. Fisherman’s Village. Where Leo probably lived. I shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable with T.J.’s haughty tone.
“Not that a girl like you should go to Fisherman’s Village,” T.J. amended with a quick shudder, then smiled at me. “Hey. Would I be too much of a nuisance if I asked to see the study?”
“No,” I replied distractedly, pushing open the door. In the
prerain gloom, the bookshelves sat in shadows. The window was open, and a cool breeze fluttered the pages of an old
Town & Country
magazine on the writing desk.
I’d been in the study earlier that day; in her cleanup frenzy, Mom had asked me to start putting books into crates. I’d only made progress on two of the shelves and had purposefully avoided the shelf that contained
A Primer on the Legend and Lore of Selkie Island.
Though I wanted the book gone, I’d worried that if I picked it up, even to pack it away, I’d start reading again.
“Wow,” T.J. murmured, walking in a slow circle. He stopped at the writing desk and ran his fingers over the gold-buckled black box that rested on its surface. Then he glanced up at the bookshelves. “Very impressive collection.” He smiled at me as if I’d had something to do with the room’s impressiveness. I shrugged.
Then T.J. stopped and stared straight ahead at the portrait of Isadora. “Wow,” he said again, his chiseled jaw going slack. “My father was right. You do resemble her.”
I blushed. When Mr. Illingworth and T.J. had arrived on our doorstep earlier, bearing brandy and chocolates, Mr. Illingworth had taken one look at me and said, “Isadora!” I’d felt both rattled and flattered and had wondered if I’d ever get used to—or believe—the comparison to my grandmother.
Now, I shook my head. “I’m not sure,” I said, glancing up
at the painting. Isadora seemed to smirk down at me, as if she knew something I didn’t. “She was
so
…elegant. Put together. I don’t think that trait can be inherited.”
T.J. swiveled away from the painting so that he was studying me. He cocked his head to one side, and I felt like a work of art he was appraising.
“You could be elegant,” T.J. declared. He reached out and gently touched the end of my ponytail, and I tensed up. “You could try wearing your hair like that.” He motioned to the painting. “Or even a dress like that!” He laughed. “I bet you’d look great.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, bristling slightly. I couldn’t tell if I’d been complimented or insulted.
“Look, T.J.,” I said, walking backward and plopping down onto the high-backed chair I’d sat in the night I’d read Llewellyn Thorpe’s book. “That isn’t
me.
I’m not like CeeCee, or Virginia.” I paused, my throat tightening as I realized that T.J. must have admired—and unzipped—many of Virginia’s luxe dresses.
T.J.’s dark brow furrowed, and he took hold of the love seat, dragging it next to my chair and sitting down.
“Oh, no. Miranda, I didn’t intend to offend you,” he said, leaning toward me. “I think you’re pretty. I was only wondering…who you could let yourself become,” he finished, looking satisfied with this last statement.
I opened and closed my mouth. T. J. Illingworth thought I was pretty? I was unable to fight the small glow of pleasure that filled me. God. Was that really all it took to soften me up? I was turning into such a
girl.
“Thanks,” I told T.J. again, half smiling as I met his gaze. “You know I think you’re, um”—
don’t say pretty!
—“very nice to look at, too.”
For the thousandth time in my life, I wondered how I could be intelligent when it came to math and science and completely stupid when it came to boys.
Fortunately, T.J.’s face lit up as if I’d said the perfect thing. “Thanks,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
I drummed my fingers on my lap. T.J. and I seemed to be adept with pleasantries.
The sound of laughter—my mother’s laughter—interrupted my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder at the open study door and saw Mom and Mr. Illingworth pass by on their way to the living room. I swallowed hard.
“Don’t you feel like we’re sitting at the kids’ table?” I asked, looking back at T.J.
He smiled. “Yeah, I think that was pretty orchestrated.” He raised his eyebrows. “On the way over here, my father wouldn’t stop talking about what a good match you and I would make. And that was before he even met you!”
My heart skipped. Nervously, I started picking at my fingernails, and then remembered my manicure and stopped. T.J. was watching me and I tugged on my ponytail, feeling ridiculously self-conscious.
“CeeCee seems to agree,” I finally said, speaking to my flats. If CeeCee knew this moment was happening, she’d be doing backflips.
“I picked up on that at the Heirs party,” T.J. said with a soft laugh. He was still leaning toward me, and I could smell his cologne—sophisticated and spicy, just like I’d imagined it. “People aren’t too subtle, are they?” he added.
“Like my mom, back in the kitchen?” I looked at T.J. and rolled my eyes. “She’s usually never so jumpy. She was acting like—like a different person,” I admitted. It was sort of a relief to be able to confide in someone regarding my new, mixed-up feelings toward my mother.
“Aw, it’s sweet,” T.J. said. He moved his hand from where it rested on his knee to the edge of my chair. “My father used to mention your mother on and off over the years, and I think he still might carry a torch for her. I don’t know what exactly happened between them, but my guess was always that she broke his heart.”
My own heart was beating harder now. I remembered what Mom had said to me yesterday, about making mistakes in her youth. She must have meant Mr. Illingworth.
T.J. and I looked at each other, and I wondered if we were thinking the same thing: that, in us, our parents saw a way to somehow correct those mistakes of their past. As if T.J. and I, together, offered a second chance to get things right.
“You know what would make my dad happy again, though?” T.J. asked.
“What?” I prayed that he wouldn’t say something inappropriate about my mom.
“If I found a nice girl,” T.J. replied, his face looming closer until I was sure he could hear my loud heartbeat. Then, with the air of someone experimenting—in the same way I approached a test tube full of sodium bicarbonate in Chemistry lab—T.J. took my chin in his hand and put his lips on mine.
I forgot to close my eyes, so I stared, incredulous, at T.J.’s smooth, perfect earlobe as he kissed me. It was a gentlemanly kiss—closed-mouthed and soft and well choreographed. I was registering that T.J. had clearly just brushed his teeth, or eaten a mint—had he planned this, then?—when a loud
thud
came from across the room.
T.J. and I jerked back at the same time, and I glanced over at the bookshelves. The wind had knocked, of all things,
A Primer on the Legend and Lore of Selkie Island
smack onto the floor.
“I—I should pick that up,” I stammered, leaping to my feet.
“Allow me,” T.J. said, getting up at the same time. I was sure I was bug-eyed and blushing, but he appeared utterly unruffled.
“No, that’s okay,” I insisted, hurrying across the study. My head was spinning as I leaned over to retrieve the book. I couldn’t help but skim the page it had fallen open on:
The island’s merfolk blend in nearly seamlessly with their neighbors. However, certain oceanic markings often adorn their places of residence.
I shook my head. I’d been right; I
couldn’t
touch the ridiculous book without starting to read it. I straightened up and jammed the thick volume back onto the shelf.
“Well.” I heard T.J. exhale. I spun around to see him standing by the love seat, adjusting his shirt collar. “Intense, huh?” he asked, grinning at me.
I stared at him, unsure if he was referring to our kiss or to the book falling.
Had
our kiss been intense? I couldn’t say. I felt too close to it, too bewildered.
“We’d better go make sure there’s still some cobbler left for us,” I replied. I quickly touched my hand to my lips, wondering if Mom would be able to tell what had happened, and if she would be pleased or scandalized.
Before I followed T.J. out of the study, I glanced back at the portrait of Isadora. I knew it was my imagination, but my grandmother’s dark eyes seemed disapproving as she gazed down at me from her imperious perch. I sighed, feeling chastised. Isadora Beauregard Hawkins surely did not expect her granddaughter to kiss two different boys in a matter of days.
And the thing was, up until that moment, I’d never expected it of myself, either.
By the time I’d gulped down a glass of sweet tea and endured one more golf story, storm clouds were gathering in earnest. As Mom rescued the wind-tossed napkins from the porch floor, Mr. Illingworth announced that he and T.J. didn’t want to overstay their welcome, anyway. Mom tried to discourage them, but I was secretly glad. I hadn’t been able to make eye contact with T.J. since our moment in the study, and I craved space and quiet so I could figure out how I felt.
As we walked our guests to the door, I was surprised to see Mom extend her hand to Mr. Illingworth, who swiftly bent forward and kissed it. Their movements were so natural, it was clear they’d performed this dance many times before. My own hands were in my pockets, and Mr. Illingworth had
to ask me to remove one hand so he could kiss it, which was beyond awkward. I decided to shake his hand instead. T.J. gave me a kiss on the cheek, murmured, “I’ll be in touch soon,” and then all the kisses were done, and the Illingworths were off.
“How’d it go?” Mom asked me the minute she shut the door. Her gray eyes were shining and her hair spilled over her shoulders. Her eagerness, her happiness, made me sort of embarrassed for her. “Did you have fun with T.J.? Do you think you’d like to see him again?”
“Mom, I don’t
know,
” I snapped, irritated. The whole afternoon felt jumbled in my head. I couldn’t begin to parse my thoughts on T.J., or on anything—an unfamiliar feeling for me. “Leave me alone,” I added, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mom put her hands on her hips. “What did you say? Since when is it permissible for you to speak to me in that tone?”
I gritted my teeth, retorts racing through my head.
Since when did we get so prim and proper? Since when do you let some guy kiss your hand?
But I didn’t want to argue with Mom. We never argued. We couldn’t start now.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
Mom was quiet for a moment, and then she walked toward me, her heels clicking over the compass on the floor. Her expression was suddenly solemn.
“Miranda, I’m sorry, ” she said softly. “I’m being thoughtless. Here I am, going on and on about T.J. when I’m sure there’s someone else on your mind.”
I caught my breath. She
knew
about me and Leo?
“You’re hesitant because of Greg, right?” Mom went on, looking at me closely. “It’s too soon?”
“Greg?” I said, blindsided. My heart stuttered. Greg was the last person I needed thrown into the mix right now.
“I haven’t said anything to you,” Mom said, nodding, “because I know how you need time to yourself. But, look—I knew all along that Greg was more than a boy you tutored in physics. And when—when he stopped coming over, well, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that you two must have parted ways.”
I put my hands to my warm cheeks, feeling my gut tighten. “Mom, I
really
don’t feel like talking about this now.”
Or ever.
I stepped around my mother, heading into the living room. “Don’t we need to finish cleaning up the back porch?” I added.
“Miranda, I understand it’s painful,” Mom said, following me through the French doors and onto the porch. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead. “You probably still have feelings for Greg, and that’s why—”
“I do
not
have feelings for Greg anymore,” I said, whirling around to glare at my mother. It was true; though my feelings
about what had happened were knotty, even a little frightening, I didn’t miss Greg. I didn’t yearn for him.
Not like—the thought jolted me—not like I was yearning for Leo.
I turned away from Mom and looked out at the gray view. As always, the sight of the ocean settled me, and I imagined the life that teemed beneath the slate-colored waves. Leo had made appearances in my thoughts all day—every day since Friday—but now he was all I could think of. What was he doing? Was he thinking of me, too?
Would he care that I had kissed another boy?