with her feelings.
Mrs. Archer placed her hand over Gretchen’s. Then she leaned so far forward that Gretchen could feel her breath. She smelled the mint of her toothpaste, the sweetness of the chamomile. “I know about Tim,” Mrs. Archer whispered fiercely. “I know how much he—”
Gretchen drew her hand away in shock, but at that moment Will came bounding down the stairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had washed the blood off his face, revealing only a small scratch on his left cheek. Smaller than the scar on the other side, but symmetrical. Gretchen’s head swam with relief. She didn’t want to discuss Tim. Not now.
Mrs. Archer stood up and crossed to the sink, where she placed her mug carefully. “Will, you shouldtake Gretchen home,” she said, her back turned to her son.
“You ready?” Will asked Gretchen.
“Sure.” She handed the mug to Mrs. Archer, who accepted it like a token. “Thanks for the tea.”
Mrs. Archer nodded, her piercing gaze strangely unmatched to Gretchen’s light words.
Will didn’t notice, though. He just held open the door for Gretchen and let her walk through it.
All the way across the lawn to her dark house, Gretchen couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Archer had been about to say. She knew about Tim. But what exactly had he told her? Not the whole story. That was impossible.
The day Tim died, he had made a confession to Gretchen. She had gone for a walk at the edge of the bay. He had seen her from his bedroom window, and had joined her. He’d looked serious and miserable. And then he told her that he loved her.
“Tim,” she’d started, but he put a finger to her lips.
“I know,” Tim said, staring down at her with his intense brown eyes. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”
She’d felt the tears spill over the rims of her eyes, but she couldn’t answer.
“Does he know?” Tim asked.
Gretchen shook her head.
Tim pulled her into a hug, and he didn’t seem to mind the tears on his shirt, or the fact that Gretchen’s nose was dripping. “You should tell him,” he whispered into her hair.
But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t risk it. Whether or not he felt the same way, the moment she said something, things between them would never be the same. Gretchen wasn’t ready for that. And then Tim had died, and Gretchen had started to doubt that she’d ever be able to tell Will the truth.
“Do you want me to go inside with you?” Will asked when they reached her door. It was unlocked, as usual. Nobody locked their doors around here.
“I’ll be fine,” Gretchen told him. She wanted to give him a hug but suddenly felt too fragile. “Good night.”
“Sleep well,” Will told her. “Hope the chamomile works.”
Gretchen smiled weakly, then turned and walked into the dark hall. Will started back toward his house. Gretchen looked back to her front door, thinking about her dream, about how Will had fallen over the edge yet landed down the beach … Her mind churned and buzzed with questions that had no answers.
Chapter Seven
Women of the Rocks (Traditional)
The women, the women, they call you to sea
With skin alabaster and lips of ruby
,
With voices of angels as soft as a sigh
,
And touches like fire that call you to die
.
Gretchen dipped a toe into the crystalline water. “It’s warm,” she said, surprised.
“Heated,” Jason said as he stripped off his navy T-shirt. Three quick steps and he leaped out over the water, pulling his legs into a cannonball.
Gretchen screeched as the splash sent drops spewing all over her. “You jerk!” she cried playfully as Jason broke the surface and shook his head, sending out a shower like a lawn sprinkler.
A gardener looked up from the hedge he was clipping, then quickly turned back to his work. He was Filipino, one of three workers busily weeding, mulching, and trimming the property. Jason’s mother had rented a different house this year, and the yard was pristine and very private. An ancient
Mrs. Archer placed her hand over Gretchen’s. Then she leaned so far forward that Gretchen could feel her breath. She smelled the mint of her toothpaste, the sweetness of the chamomile. “I know about Tim,” Mrs. Archer whispered fiercely. “I know how much he—”
Gretchen drew her hand away in shock, but at that moment Will came bounding down the stairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had washed the blood off his face, revealing only a small scratch on his left cheek. Smaller than the scar on the other side, but symmetrical. Gretchen’s head swam with relief. She didn’t want to discuss Tim. Not now.
Mrs. Archer stood up and crossed to the sink, where she placed her mug carefully. “Will, you shouldtake Gretchen home,” she said, her back turned to her son.
“You ready?” Will asked Gretchen.
“Sure.” She handed the mug to Mrs. Archer, who accepted it like a token. “Thanks for the tea.”
Mrs. Archer nodded, her piercing gaze strangely unmatched to Gretchen’s light words.
Will didn’t notice, though. He just held open the door for Gretchen and let her walk through it.
All the way across the lawn to her dark house, Gretchen couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Archer had been about to say. She knew about Tim. But what exactly had he told her? Not the whole story. That was impossible.
The day Tim died, he had made a confession to Gretchen. She had gone for a walk at the edge of the bay. He had seen her from his bedroom window, and had joined her. He’d looked serious and miserable. And then he told her that he loved her.
“Tim,” she’d started, but he put a finger to her lips.
“I know,” Tim said, staring down at her with his intense brown eyes. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”
She’d felt the tears spill over the rims of her eyes, but she couldn’t answer.
“Does he know?” Tim asked.
Gretchen shook her head.
Tim pulled her into a hug, and he didn’t seem to mind the tears on his shirt, or the fact that Gretchen’s nose was dripping. “You should tell him,” he whispered into her hair.
But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t risk it. Whether or not he felt the same way, the moment she said something, things between them would never be the same. Gretchen wasn’t ready for that. And then Tim had died, and Gretchen had started to doubt that she’d ever be able to tell Will the truth.
“Do you want me to go inside with you?” Will asked when they reached her door. It was unlocked, as usual. Nobody locked their doors around here.
“I’ll be fine,” Gretchen told him. She wanted to give him a hug but suddenly felt too fragile. “Good night.”
“Sleep well,” Will told her. “Hope the chamomile works.”
Gretchen smiled weakly, then turned and walked into the dark hall. Will started back toward his house. Gretchen looked back to her front door, thinking about her dream, about how Will had fallen over the edge yet landed down the beach … Her mind churned and buzzed with questions that had no answers.
Chapter Seven
Women of the Rocks (Traditional)
The women, the women, they call you to sea
With skin alabaster and lips of ruby
,
With voices of angels as soft as a sigh
,
And touches like fire that call you to die
.
Gretchen dipped a toe into the crystalline water. “It’s warm,” she said, surprised.
“Heated,” Jason said as he stripped off his navy T-shirt. Three quick steps and he leaped out over the water, pulling his legs into a cannonball.
Gretchen screeched as the splash sent drops spewing all over her. “You jerk!” she cried playfully as Jason broke the surface and shook his head, sending out a shower like a lawn sprinkler.
A gardener looked up from the hedge he was clipping, then quickly turned back to his work. He was Filipino, one of three workers busily weeding, mulching, and trimming the property. Jason’s mother had rented a different house this year, and the yard was pristine and very private. An ancient
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