The Beresfords (18 page)

Aunt Terri’s cooler-packing job was masterful: every nook and cranny filled with perishables, from sliced cheese to cold cuts to grapes to French Onion dip. Her legacy, such as it was. I heard the scrape of a barstool as I transferred the items to the fridge. Caroline perched herself at the counter, face propped on her hands, black curls spilling about her shoulders. “I wonder how long Jonathan will be.” I didn’t answer, but she didn’t expect me to. “And where has Tom gone? I have a sneaky suspicion he’s taking advantage of your aunt’s absence and planning something naughty.” I had the same suspicion, which, considering the message Dave left, amounted to a certainty.

“I would try to comfort Julie,” Caroline went on, “but when a girl has a heartache, sometimes it’s more pleasant to nurse it.”

This provoked a response from me. “You think Julie doesn’t genuinely feel bad.”

Caroline’s lashes fluttered at me. It might have been my surly tone. “Oh, no! I think she genuinely feels bad—but not about your aunt, sadly. I’m afraid we all don’t feel as bad about your aunt as we probably should.”

It was my turn to go all red. Poor Aunt Terri! How true it was that, once we knew she was going to survive, the thought of her being laid up for a few days lifted a weight from our shoulders. But that was for family to think, not outsiders like Caroline Grant.

“Your cousin Julie’s ailment, however,” she continued, pretending not to notice my embarrassment, “seems entirely traceable to my terrible, terrible brother. Eric can’t help himself. He’s a charmer and girls just fall for him left and right. Whenever he turns his attentions on a girl she hasn’t got a chance. And when he withdraws those attentions”—she snapped her fingers—“it’s like the light going out.”

“I don’t think he’s that charming,” I muttered. It was stubborn of me to say, and rude, but there it was.

She only gave me a pitying smile. “We’ll say that’s because you’re so young. Going into eighth grade, right? Because in every other case I know, if a girl says such a thing, it’s actually because she’s mad Eric doesn’t notice
her
.”

Fury overcame my embarrassment, and I whipped away to hide my burning face in the open refrigerator, stalling there by arranging and rearranging the six-packs of soda and gallons of milk. I hated Caroline Grant! With her stupid implication that I wanted her brother’s attentions! Attentions so cheaply given they became worthless. If she could think such a thing, she would never be worthy of the kind of love Jonathan could give. He, who would never in a million years flirt with every girl he saw just to lap up her adoration and watch her suffer.

Caroline’s thoughts, strangely enough, must have gone the same direction because when she spoke again, her voice was softer, meditative. “I must say, your Beresford cousins have far more natural charm than my brother. Or they could, if they put the slightest bit of effort into it, like Eric does. It’s like a latent gift they have. The Beresford charm. If they ever chose to use it—to wield it—it could be deadly. Even so, there are these flashes. Irresistible, almost, because they’re unconscious.”

I saw Jonathan’s smile again, as I crouched beside him before the ambulance came. When he looked at me that way—fond, encouraging, trusting—yes, I would do anything for him. Jump over the moon. Beg, steal, or borrow. If Caroline Grant felt that same pull, who was I to blame her?

We fell silent then, both of our minds elsewhere, the only sounds being the opening and closing doors and drawers and cabinets until the food was unloaded and put away. “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable,” the apostle Paul writes the church in Philippi, “whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” He meant, of course, that the Philippians were to think of Christ, but in my idolatrous heart, I thought the words almost equally applicable to my cousin. Caroline Grant wouldn’t have put it that way of course, not knowing a Bible book from a backhoe, but in our different ways we both considered Jonathan Beresford as the very best the world could offer.

Julie was the first to reappear. She emerged some time later, eyes puffy and face drawn but otherwise herself. With relief, Caroline leapt from her barstool. “There you are! At last. It’s stuffy in here—why don’t we go swimming at this famous Waterhole of yours? What’s the point of all those lessons Jonathan gave me if I can’t put them to use?”

“They aren’t back yet?” Julie asked listlessly.

I saw the gears ticking behind Caroline’s eyes. She decided not to misunderstand her. “I bet Rachel and Eric are already there,” she answered. “C’mon. Does this place have towels, or do I dig mine out?”

When they were on the point of leaving, Julie paused. “You coming, Frannie?”

I shook my head. Whenever Tom brought the phone back, I planned on sitting by it. And just as the girls’ voices and footsteps grew fainter, my cousin threw open the back bedroom door. He was whistling, swinging the handset by its antenna. In his other hand was a bottle which I thought was empty but then realized held a clear liquid. Glancing around, he tossed the phone on the counter. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Swimming.” I replaced the handset in the cradle to charge. “Are you going?”

“Already went, remember?” He frowned at the cabinet open before him. “Could’ve sworn they had some.”

“Some what? I know where everything is now because I just put stuff away.”

“Nothing. Oh—there it is.” Before I could see what he was referring to, he pushed his bottle onto the shelf and shut the cabinet. “Why don’t you go swimming, Frannie?”

“Because Jonathan told me to wait until he calls.”

“Whatever. I’ll wait for his call. You go swimming.”

“I don’t want to swim.”

My cousin grimaced at me, more surprised than irritated. I usually did whatever I was told, no questions asked. “God—why’s everyone such a pain in the ass today?
Beat it
, Frannie—and put down the phone. I said I’d get the phone.”

Seeing no alternative, I went outside on the porch, sitting on the lowest step so that Tom wouldn’t see my head if he looked out the front window. At least I would hear when the phone did ring.

More time passed. Through the trees I watched the rippling surface of Lake Tahoe, traversed by the occasional boat. More boats than usual because of the weekend races. The Beresfords were more of a powerboat family but we all learned the rudiments of sailing at a Yacht Club day camp—another skill for which I showed little aptitude and which my cousins were relieved to let me drop.

I wondered if Aunt Terri were in more danger than we thought—what else could be taking Jonathan so long to call? Or maybe Aunt Marie told him to call Uncle Roger, or even Uncle Paul in China, and Jonathan was having to explain the whole sorry business over and over. Shutting my eyes tight, I clasped my hands together. “Dear Father in heaven. I’m sorry I forgot to pray earlier, after I told Jonathan I would. Please, please, please help Aunt Terri to be okay. Help the doctors fix her head. Forgive me that I don’t love her more. Please don’t let Jonathan get in trouble with Uncle Paul—”

The spray of gravel interrupted me as a car skidded to a halt at the entrance to our drive. It couldn’t come further, with the 280ZX and the BMW and Jonathan’s Civic already there, but it halted within inches of their bumpers. The doors kicked open, unleashing the thrashing metal of Metallica, and through the gaps between the doors and the frame I saw fragments of Steve and Dave, heads and fists pumping like machine pistons. Before I could move, Tom shot out the front door, nearly stumbling over me. “What the—?
Sheez
, Frannie—watch it! He-e-e-
ey
!” Steve cut the engine and lots of back-slapping and high-fiving ensued. Steve and Dave made a classic comic pair, Steve being
Guiness
-Book tall and rail-thin, while Dave was shorter than me and stocky. To compensate for their differences in frame, they sported identical shaggy blond mullets.

“Got
’
em
,” said Dave. “Check these out.” He dug a tattered wallet from his even-more-tattered Bermuda shorts and fanned some cards in front of Tom. Tom’s shoulder twitched. He gave me a nervous glance and muttered, “Inside.”

I swallowed a sigh. Frankly, I didn’t care what Tom was up to. His shenanigans were old news. But as they strode past me, Steve ruffling my hair like I was eight and saying, “Hey there, Francine,” Dave fumbled the contraband, and a shower of
plasticky
cards ricocheted off the steps: fake IDs. Rachel’s landed face-up at my feet. It looked convincing enough, except that
Tom supplied his cronies with what I imagine was the only photo he could get his hands on—her senior portrait, complete with fake fur neckline. Hers would certainly be the most elegant driver’s license at the casinos.

Deciding the game was up, Tom rolled his eyes at Dave’s clumsiness and gathered the scattered cards, inspecting each one. “God, what happened here?”

“The laminator wasn’t hot enough,” said Dave.

“Well, I can’t use that,” Tom said. “Good thing I still have my other one, but now I have to be the only guy from New Jersey, and you all are from California.”

“So work on your accent,” said Steve.

“But why would there be three Beresfords from California and one from New Jersey?”

“What is with you?” grumbled Dave. “No one’s gonna look that hard, and just don’t stand around next to stupid Jon and your sisters, if you can even get Jon to take this thing. Say you’re the visiting cousin.”

“Speaking of cousins,” Steve said, pointing at me, “I don’t think the fake ID is gonna fool anyone into thinking Francine’s twenty-one. They’ll probably take one look and throw the whole lot of us out.” He was the only one who ever called me Francine, and he was consistent in it. It didn’t add to his charms.

Tom considered the ID and me in turn, holding the card out of reach when I tried to grab it. “You’ve got a point there. Frannie, you’re staying.”

“I don’t want to go anyhow,” I bridled, “wherever you’re going.”

“Good. Then everyone’s happy.” His arm relaxed and I snatched the card.

“Hey! This is my ASB picture. You cut up my ASB card?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Dave. “I just worked with what I was given.”

All Tom said was, “Who needs an ASB card in junior high?”

“How long were you planning this?” I demanded. “You were going to drag everyone to the casinos? What were you going to tell Aunt Terri, if Julie didn’t hit her with the car?”

“Whoa, feisty,” Steve grinned. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Puberty,” mouthed my cousin. And to me, “Look, Fran. Quit acting like an idiot. Of course I didn’t want to take you anywhere. I had Dave make you an ID, though, just in case there was no alternative. We were gonna tell Aunt Terror we were going to the movies. As it is, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and you can stay behind.”

My mouth clamped shut. I didn’t want to go—of course I didn’t want to go—but contrarily it hurt to be told no one wanted me along in any case. But Jonathan— “What about Jonathan?” I blurted. “He doesn’t know about this, I bet. And I bet he won’t want to go either.”

Tom shrugged, bored of discussing the subject with me. Steve and Dave were already headed inside in search of beers. “I don’t care who goes and who doesn’t. I was just covering my bases. Saint Jonathan can do whatever he wants. But he’ll go if the others do. Wait and see.”

If I had hopes no one would be interested in Tom’s half-baked plan, I was disappointed. Eric Grant and Rachel leaped at the idea when they reappeared, and Julie, while she seemed bent
on ignoring those two, was at least eager to escape being lumped with me. “We might as well,” she said more than once. “I mean, it’ll take our mind off Aunt Terri. And we don’t have to gamble just because we’re there.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Rachel, running her finger over her fake ID with delight. “If we have these, we might as well pull a few slots. What’s the harm?”

“The harm is in this hideous picture,” Caroline Grant laughed, examining hers. “Tom—wherever did you get this? My eyes aren’t even all the way open. I’ll stick with my fake Tennessee ID, thank you very much. That is,” she hesitated, “if I end up going.” I interpreted that to mean she would wait and see what Jonathan decided.

When the phone rang at last, I only heard it because I was holding it in my lap. Steve and Dave came equipped with a
boombox
, so the Metallica tapes made their way inside and the two of them put on an impromptu
headbanger
concert while Tom pulled his bottle of clear liquid back out of the cabinet. It turned out to be vodka, with which—along with
Kahlua
that must have been a decade old—he was concocting some poison he called White Russians.

“You’re bringing Jonathan back first, aren’t you?” I pleaded, following Tom outside. He hauled his duffel bag out of the BMW’s trunk and unzipped it, rummaging through. “You’re bringing him back before the rest of you go to Harrah’s?”

“Where’s my leather jacket? I swear I packed it,” Tom grumbled. “No, Frannie. Jonathan’s coming with us to keep an eye on things. Ah, forget it. I’ll just put on a button-down shirt.”