The California Dashwoods Page 9

  “I’m Jack,” the guy said at last, holding his hand out. “Jack Willoughby.”

  “Elliott Dashwood,” Elliott said, shaking his hand.

  Jack looked to be around Elliott’s age, maybe a year or two older. He was good-looking. He had dark hair, long enough on top to be tousled by the wind, but the undercut itself neat and fresh. His features were defined, any sharpness in them mitigated by a nose that was more snub than straight and his broad, easy smile.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Jack said. A worried line creased his forehead as he looked back to Marianne. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

  “It’s fine,” Marianne repeated. She reached out and curled her fingers around his wrist. “I’m fine.”

  Greta took Elliott’s pillow and eased it under Marianne’s ankle.

  Marianne’s mouth tightened, and she huffed out a breath. “The caves are lovely, Elliott. Slippery as hell though!” She smiled at Jack. “I’m lucky Jack was there.”

  Marianne looked at Jack, and he looked back, and their gazes caught and held. There was a moment between them, laden as a lacuna in an orchestral piece. It was weighted enough for Greta to roll her eyes, and for Elliott to excuse himself and go and fetch some Tylenol from the tiny bathroom.

  He stared into the age-spotted mirror above the sink and wondered if he and Ned had ever had a moment like that—what a moment like that even was. Attraction? Chemistry? More than that? A connection, or at least the start of one? How was anyone supposed to know? Would Elliott recognize it if it ever happened for him?

  Or maybe it had, and he’d let it pass unnoticed.

  He turned the Tylenol over in his hand and thought of Ned. He replayed their kiss in the greenhouse and their moment of craziness in Henry’s study. Had there been more there? Did it matter if there wasn’t?

  Did Ned think of him too?

  For some reason, the possibility made his heart skip a beat.

  Stupid.

  Stupid and pointless.

  Elliott stared at his reflection a moment longer before he turned away and took the Tylenol to Marianne.

  Jack was spending the summer with his aunt, Sophia Smith, who had a house on Allenham Road, which overlooked the northern side of the lake. He was bored, mostly, he told them with a deprecating laugh, and was glad he’d finally met some people his own age in this town full of retirees and stuffed shirts. He promised to take Marianne out onto the lake when her ankle healed.

  For someone who was staying in one of the lakeside mansions, he didn’t seem at all bothered by the Dashwoods’ cramped apartment. He even made Greta laugh, which was almost unprecedented and possibly a sign of the apocalypse.

  He left once he was satisfied that Marianne was comfortable. Less than ten minutes later, Marianne was checking her text messages with a smile.

  Greta exchanged a knowing look with Elliott.

  Hours later, when Abby had arrived home, Jack returned with a bag full of boxes from the noodle bar in Whitwell, a new bottle of Tylenol, a proper ice pack, a selection of DVDs, and a single extravagant red-velvet cupcake that he presented to Marianne with a wide smile.

  Marianne was charmed.

  She wasn’t the only one, Elliott thought, as Abby’s delighted laugh echoed throughout the apartment.

  ***

  Elliott spent the night in Marianne’s bed.

  “Is he still here?” Greta whispered from the top bunk.

  “I think so.” If he listened carefully, Elliott could still hear a movie playing faintly from the living room. He didn’t want to listen too closely, just in case.

  “It was pretty cool, Elliott,” Greta confessed in a whisper. “Marianne slipped and fell, and then this guy just swept in from nowhere, making sure she’s okay, and then he lifted her up like it was something out of a movie.” She made a small noise of disgust that didn’t entirely cover her awe. “Not a movie I would watch. Like, a dumb movie.”

  “Obviously.”

  “But it was still pretty cool,” she admitted. “He’s pretty cool.”

  Elliott wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that Jack’s Porsche didn’t tell an entire story of its own: one where the Dashwoods were as good as invisible to people like him, to the people in the big houses on the other side of the lake, because they didn’t have Henry’s money anymore. It was hard to remember that not everyone was like the Family. That old money didn’t always mean closed doors. Plenty of times it did though. There was no greater sin to some of these people than having money and then not having it.

  Elliott wanted to believe that Jack was better than that. Marianne deserved someone better.

  He thought again of Ned. He thought of Francesca, her face contorted with outrage when she’d busted them together: “Oh my God! You dirty little gold-digging whore!”

  Elliott swallowed, a hot lick of anger flaring in his chest. If anyone ever said that to Marianne . . . He cut the thought off before he could finish it.

  Jesus. Not everyone was like that. Not everyone was the Family. And Jack seemed like a decent guy. He was clearly head over heels for Marianne already, and he hadn’t even blinked when he’d seen the apartment. Not everyone was poisonous.

  “Elliott?” Greta whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “I really miss Dad.” It spilled out of her like a confession, like something she thought was secret, was too shameful to admit. All those sharp edges Greta honed had never been more fragile.

  “I miss him too, Greta.” Elliott closed his stinging eyes briefly. “I’m going to miss him every day, I think.” Their loss was the same, but in some ways it was incomparable. Greta was thirteen, still a kid. She still needed their dad in a way that maybe Elliott didn’t. Except . . . An aching breath shuddered out of him. “I feel so little, you know? Like how am I supposed to figure stuff out without Dad? If I get it wrong, who’s supposed to help me?”

  Greta made a small, sad noise that tore at his heart.

  “But we’re going to figure things out together,” Elliott said, his voice wavering a little. “You and me, and Marianne and Mom.”

  “I know,” Greta whispered. “It’s stupid, but who’s gonna walk me down the aisle when I get married? If I get married. I don’t have to. Because marriage is dumb. Fuck the patriarchy.”

  “Fuck it,” Elliott agreed, but he’d seen Greta eyeing Barbie bridal sets in Target not that many years ago. “But if that’s something you want one day, then I could do it. If you want.”

  Greta was silent for a long while.

  “Okay,” she finally whispered back through the darkness. “Who’s going to walk you down the aisle though?”

  “You and Mar,” Elliott said.

  “Can I wear a suit?”

  A smile tugged at Elliott’s mouth. “Of course you can.”

  “Good.” She sighed, and Elliott heard her sheets rustling. “Goodnight, Elliott.”

  “Goodnight, Greta.”

  His sisters’ room was darker than the living room. There was no play of lights on the ceiling from outside. Their window was small, and the curtains were tugged closed. A thin sliver of light spilled through a tiny gap, lying across the floor like the blade of a knife. It was enough to catch Elliott’s gaze, but not enough to illuminate the room.

  From outside he could hear the movie playing softly and the occasional low murmur of voices that confirmed Jack was still there.

  Elliott hoped that Marianne knew what she was doing.

  ***

  Elliott slept later than usual the next day without the sunlight to wake him. When he finally stumbled into the kitchen, still dragging himself awake, it was to find Marianne sitting propped up on the folded-out couch, a store-bought coffee in her hands, and her sprained ankle elevated.

  “What time’s it?” Elliott mumbled.

  “Almost nine,” Marianne said. “Mom’s downstairs in the store, and Greta left for school ages ago. Welcome to the land of the living.”

  “It�
��s overrated,” Elliott said. “Where’d you get that coffee?”

  “Jack,” she said, raising the cup to her mouth and smiling at Elliott over the rim.

  “Huh.” Elliott dragged his fingers through his hair. “And what time did he leave?”

  “Pretty late,” Marianne said, her smile growing.

  Elliott sat down beside her, the springs wheezing. There were a hundred things he wanted to say to her—

  Don’t move too fast, Mar.

  Be careful.

  You don’t even know him yet.

  —but it was nothing she would hear. He and Marianne were too different. She was reckless where he was guarded. Fearless where he was cautious. If she believed it was love, she’d throw herself into it headfirst. Elliott envied her sometimes. She wasn’t afraid to truly live.

  Maybe . . .

  Maybe when Ned came to Barton Lake, Elliott could borrow some of Marianne’s bravery. Maybe he could take a risk for once, and see if there was something there.

  Maybe it was time Elliott learned how to live.

  Elliott finished his lunchtime shift at Russo’s and headed back toward the apartment. He was halfway down the block in the narrow laneway behind Main Street when an engine revved behind him. He moved over to the edge of the laneway, and Jack’s silver Porsche pulled in beside him.

  Marianne grinned at him from the passenger window. “Get in, loser,” she said cheerfully. “We’re going to get waffles!”

  Elliott grimaced, uncertain. He was tired and his feet hurt, but waffles did sound good.

  Jack leaned across her, an easy smile on his face. “Come on, Elliott. You won’t regret it.”

  “Elliooooooott!” Greta called from the back seat. “Get in!”

  He’d been outvoted, clearly, and his reluctance would not be allowed to stand. Elliott knew when he’d lost the fight. He climbed into the back seat.

  Marianne twisted around to smile at him, her eyes bright, and Jack revved the engine of the Porsche again, and they zipped down the laneway.

  ***

  The diner was halfway between Barton Lake and Whitwell, on a curve of the highway that cut through a swathe of woodland. Elliott, who hadn’t made it further than the grocery store yet, was strangely taken by the beauty of the landscape. The day was bright, and the air was cool. The diner itself was one of those hokey little places that had gone for a milkshakes-and-bobby-socks retro sort of vibe. The booths were cherry red with white Formica tables and chrome napkin dispensers.

  Marianne hobbled inside leaning on Jack’s arm. She slid into the booth and pulled Jack down beside her. They rested their clasped hands on the surface of the table.

  “Ugh,” Greta said, sitting down across from them and moving over to make room for Elliott. “I don’t even like waffles.”

  “You don’t like anything,” Marianne reminded her.

  “You’ll like these waffles,” Jack promised. “These waffles are life changing. These waffles are the only things worth coming to Barton Lake for.”

  “Hey!” Marianne exclaimed.

  “Well, they were.” Jack quickly leaned in to kiss her.

  “Ugh.” Greta looked up as the waitress approached, and held out her hand for a menu. “Thank you!”

  She opened the menu, set it on the table as a barrier, and ducked behind it. Elliott reached out and tousled her hair. She narrowed her eyes at him, and then scowled at the menu.

  “How was work?” Jack asked, apparently unfazed by Greta’s behavior.

  That was probably a good yardstick to measure him by, Elliott thought. He had a sudden flash of memory: Greta haranguing Ned in the kitchen of Norland Park for not being able to beat an egg, and how Ned had enjoyed the way she’d needled him. It made him wonder what it might have been like to sit in a diner booth with Ned, leaning against him the way Marianne was against Jack.

  “Work was good,” Elliott said. He looked at his menu. “What did you guys do today?”

  Marianne beamed at Jack. “We just hung around the apartment and watched movies and stuff.”

  “Best day ever.” Jack put an arm around her.

  “You guys make me want to puke.” Greta glared at them over the top of her menu for a moment, then brightened as the waitress returned. “Can I get the Nutella Banana Boat, please, and a strawberry milkshake?”

  “That sounds disgusting,” Elliott said.

  “Oooh!” Greta exclaimed. “Look, everyone! Elliott’s about to order the blandest and most boring thing on the menu, because you are what you eat!”

  Elliott froze.

  Just a joke.

  He knew it was just a joke, but maybe it hit a little too close for comfort. He forced a smile and scanned the menu. “You know what? I’ll have the Nutella Banana Boat as well. And a black coffee.”

  “That’s how it’s done,” Greta said, and raised her hand for a high five.

  Elliott raised his eyebrows at her—A high five? Really?—and passed his menu back to the waitress.

  Marianne hummed over her choices for a while, finally declaring that Jack could order for her. He did so with a good-natured smile.

  They talked while they waited for their order. Greta complained about her history teacher, who was also her homeroom teacher, and, apparently, an entire bag of dicks. Elliott let her vent, and wondered if it was something he’d have to mention to Abby. Greta was the sort of kid who would happily let her grades tank out of spite. She’d always been the smartest out of all of them, but if she wasn’t challenged by her schoolwork, she had no fucks to give. Henry and Abby had never cared about grades, but it frustrated Elliott because Greta could so easily ace every subject. She just didn’t bother.

  They talked about the few people they’d met around town. Jack knew Paula and John, and he’d been into the shop before.

  “So, you guys work there now,” he said. “How is it even still open? Like, how does it turn a profit?”

  “That’s one of life’s eternal mysteries,” Marianne said. “Except you’d be surprised by the number of people who buy tarot cards. I sold three packs in a single day last week. You wouldn’t think there’d be three people in a town this size who suddenly needed to buy tarot cards, right?”

  “It’s probably witchcraft,” Greta said. “Are we considering the possibility that all of that shit is real, and John is a warlock, and he’s making blood sacrifices under the full moon to keep the shop solvent?” She grinned at Jack. “Do you get a lot of missing virgins in town?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “That’s exactly the sort of thing an accomplice would say,” Greta said.

  Jack blinked at her. “I’m an accomplice now?”

  “It’s probably a town-wide conspiracy.” Greta shrugged. “Sorry. You’re guilty by association.”

  “Seems fair,” Jack said with a nod. “So, who else have you met? I probably don’t know that many people since I only come here for the summers. And mostly I only meet my aunt’s stuffy neighbors.” He rolled his eyes. “Like that Brandon woman.”

  “Oh, we know her!” Marianne said. “She seems . . .”

  “Abrupt,” Elliott said.

  “She’s a— Ugh,” Jack said. “She’s a total killjoy. And she’s always been like that. Way before she lost her leg.”

  Elliott felt a jolt of surprise. He thought of Colonel Brandon’s stiff gait, and the way she held herself so particularly. He thought of the lines radiating out from her tightly pressed lips, and the tension she carried in her.

  “She lost her leg?” Greta was wide-eyed.

  “Afghanistan or something.” Jack looked slightly abashed. “I mean, she’s a veteran, and obviously I respect that, but it doesn’t give her a pass on being an asshole, right?”

  “Right,” Marianne echoed, and looked to Elliott for his agreement.

  He was saved from having to answer by the arrival of their food.

  ***

  Jack watched as Greta helped Marianne to the bathroom, and then dragged
his finger through the remains of the powdered sugar on his plate. “So this is where you give me the shovel talk, right?”

  Elliott considered the question for a moment.

  It was only teasing, but Elliott had never been comfortable with the idea that either Marianne or Greta needed a male family member to metaphorically sign off on their choice of partner. Okay, so Greta was only thirteen, but last year back in Massachusetts her class had held a dance, and she’d actually been invested enough to go—Elliott had suspected she’d only gone for the shock value. Greta Dashwood doing something normal? The horror! So a boy had turned up on the doorstep. His father had driven them to the dance. The father had waited in the car.

  “So, um, my dad says I’m supposed to introduce myself to your dad?” the boy had said, skinny and anxious.

  “Why?” Greta had asked bluntly. She’d strapped her corsage to her wrist aggressively, then grabbed the boy by the hand and dragged him toward the waiting car. “Bye, Mom! Bye, Dad! I’ll try not to get pregnant!”

  Henry Dashwood had raised his daughters to make their own decisions. He hadn’t been their keeper. And neither was Elliott, now that Henry was gone.

  He shrugged. “Do you like Marianne?”

  “Yes. Very much.” Jack smiled and shook his head. “I can’t even believe how lucky I am right now. I love Marianne.”

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  “I won’t hurt her,” Jack said, his smile fading. He looked earnest. “I want you to know that. She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before. She’s incredible.”

  “I think she thinks you’re pretty incredible yourself.”

  Jack’s smile was back, as bright as before.

  The waitress came over and set the bill on the table.

  Jack reached for it before Elliott could. “No, this was my treat.”

  He left a generous tip.

  ***

  “We were right to come here,” Abby said later that night, sitting with Elliott on the couch. Greta was at the table, working on her homework. Marianne was sitting outside on the steps, texting back and forth with Jack even though it had barely been an hour since she’d seen him. “We made the right choice.”