Dolly All the Time(32)

“I have a perfectly good bathing suit. Let’s not blow this out of proportion. It’s just going to be a really nice thing for Gus.”

“If you say one more thing about Gus, I swear I’m going to hang up. You are going to have a whole day of yacht fun. Champagne and really good cheese on those expensive crackers that have raisins and rosemary in them. You know the ones?”

“I do. They cost eight dollars.”

“Exactly. Send me a selfie in the morning and eat all the eight-dollar crackers. Comfort Inn, my ass. He likes you.”





Chapter 13





On Saturday morning I find a white gauzy sundress in Patsy’s closet and wear it over the turquoise bikini Naomi brought over at eight a.m. Apparently, she woke up terrified by the prospect of me wearing my perfectly good bathing suit and headed straight to her store. Of the four choices she brought me, this one gave the most butt coverage. I put on sneakers and pack flip-flops in my straw bag. Gus is very excited. He makes pancakes for Christopher and himself, tiny little silver-dollar ones, and serves them in a teetering stack. He pours Christopher’s syrup around the tower like a moat and serves it with a low “Your Highness.” Christopher laughs that laugh that totally smooths out my nervous system.

The old green Range Rover pulls in to the driveway just as Clay arrives by bike. Christopher forks the entire stack of pancakes and follows us out to the front porch. Stewart gets out of the car and raises a hand at us. He looks younger in a navy-blue T-shirt—no collar—washed enough times that it rests lazily on his shoulders. He smiles a half smile, and I think of Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles. I make my way down the steps, and I feel like this dress is too short.

He watches me approach. “Your thighs,” he says. “The whole leg, actually.”

I look down to see what’s wrong with my legs. “What?”

“The compliment. I’m practicing. I saw you and that’s what popped up.” He shrugs.

“Oh.” I blush like I’m twelve and look over my shoulder at Gus approaching in his Red Sox hat. “Thank you.”

“Clay. Gus. This is Stewart Whitfield,” I say.

“Hi,” Stewart says, shaking both of their hands. “I’m a Red Sox fan too. Do you play?”

“Third base,” Gus says.

“What do you think of Howie Carver?” asks Stewart.

“I think he’s going to change everything,” Gus says. This makes me smile, though I try not to. Just the certainty he has around this particular topic.

“I think so too,” Stewart says. He looks up and takes in the house. He waves at Christopher on the steps.

“That’s my brother, Christopher,” I say.

“Would he like to come?”

“He likes to sit right there,” I say.

Because Stewart hasn’t known Christopher for thirty-six years, he asks anyway. “Do you want to come out on the boat with us?”

“Who are you?” Christopher calls, the plate of pancakes teetering on his knees.

“Stewart. I’m a friend of Dolly’s.”

Christopher stares him down in a way that makes me smile. It’s the protective glare of a million other brothers. “I’ll stay here,” he says finally.

“Okay,” Stewart says. “You guys ready to go?”

Gus and Clay reply enthusiastically, and Stewart opens the door to the backseat for them and then the passenger seat for me.

“Thank you,” I say, and get in. I don’t know why I’m a tiny bit nervous. The compliment about my legs has totally thrown me, and Stewart seems different dressed in his off-duty costume. He’s clean shaven, but his hair isn’t arranged as precisely as it usually is.

I sit in the passenger seat of the Range Rover and realize it’s the first time I’ve been in it or any car like it. The brown leather on the seats is like a fine handbag, lovingly restored.

Gus and Clay talk a mile a minute in the backseat. About this car, other cars, all the cars.

I steal glances at Stewart as he drives. He’s comfortable, like this car is a favorite pair of jeans, molded to his exact shape. He looks my way and catches me staring. I smile the world’s most neutral smile.

“This is my actual car,” he tells me. “I’m getting rid of that shiny black one. I can’t stand it.”

“Is this the part where I ask you why you love this car so much? Because Busy warned me that your answer might make me want to stab myself in the eye.”

“With a fork,” he says. “Yes, she tells me that all the time. Since you don’t have a fork, I’ll just say they stopped making this car in this quality in 1994. So I keep it going.”

“Are we going on a sailboat or a motorboat?” Clay asks from the backseat.

“Sailboat,” Stewart says into the rearview mirror. “I called this morning to ask them to get it ready. Just check the sails and the lines. My dad’s worried I don’t remember how to sail it. But I’m sure I do.” He turns to me and lowers his voice a bit. “He was thrilled, by the way. My mom too. This was a great idea. All around.”

I didn’t even think of how good this would look to his parents. Stewart’s new girlfriend encouraging him to engage in a leisure activity. “Stick with me, Stewart,” I say, and turn my smile to the window.