Grant looked skeptically at his uncle.
“What?”
“You have a lot of muscles.”
“Thank you. One day I’ll tell you about gay men and body dysmorphia, but not today.”
Grant shrugged. “Can just we go?” He tugged on Patrick’s Mr. Turk swimsuit.
“Where’d you get those goggles? Your father packed those, too?”
Grant nodded.
“Just, hold your horses.”
“I don’t have any horthes.”
“Then practice holding your breath.”
Grant took a huge gulp of air and clamped his mouth shut. Patrick paused. He’ll know to take a breath before he passes out, right? He held his face up to his nephew’s and could see the boy was clearly breathing out of his nose. Ridiculous. He exited and headed toward the room the kids had claimed as theirs.
Maisie was sitting on the edge of the guest bed, looking tiny, meek, staring down at her bare feet, which didn’t quite touch the floor. Their suitcases were open, but not unpacked; Patrick said they could wait and see if they still enjoyed sharing a room before they fully settled in.
“What gives?”
She kicked her feet against the edge of the bed, not angry, but clearly frustrated. “I don’t want to go swimming.”
“Of course you do, put your suit on.”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t even so much as look up. Patrick kept his attention focused on her, but she wasn’t going to budge. What was wrong with these kids? He had a swimming pool, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like Connecticut was littered with them. Wasn’t this a big deal? Eventually he threw his hands up and retreated back to the living room to find Grant. “What’s her problem?”
“She doesn’t like the thwimsuit Daddy packed for her,” Grant said.
“What, she wants me to buy her a new one? Is that how this summer is going to go? You guys are going to shake me down for stuff?” Patrick stroked his chin as that sank in. “Because, I’ve got to hand it to you. As plans go, that’s pretty smart and I’m an easy mark.”
“It’s a thecret.”
“See-cret,” Patrick emphasized. “What’s a secret?”
“She doesn’t want me to thay.”
“Did she tell you snitches get stitches? Because that only applies in prison.” He looked down at Grant, who didn’t follow. A new tactic was required. “Is she into something else now? Books? Puzzles? The sport Lacrosse? It would help us get outside a lot faster if you told me.”
Grant looked up at his uncle and then, after careful consideration, motioned for him to come closer （the promise of swimming trumped his short-lived gig as confidant）。 Patrick leaned down and Grant whispered the secret in his ear. He furrowed his brow, confused, but only momentarily; what Grant had to say sunk in quickly. When Patrick realized how gracefully Sara had handled the situation, it made him miss her even more. He looked heavenward. “You really were cut out for this; I never was.”
“What?” Grant asked, confused.
“Nothing. Got it.” He rested his hand on his nephew’s head. “Thank you for telling me. Give me two more minutes, bud. Then we’re headed out to the pool.”
Grant looked down at his arms like he was growing paler by the second and didn’t have two minutes to spare.
Patrick rounded the corner to the back bedroom to find Maisie in the same spot. “Follow me.” He motioned for her with his hand, and then turned and exited, assuming correctly she would fall in line. They marched back through the living room toward the master suite on the other side of the house, Maisie five steps behind. In his bedroom, Patrick opened his sliding closet doors and pushed a few of his shirts on wooden hangers aside, then waited for Maisie to get a good look. “See these? These are my caftans. This is my morning caftan, this one is my after-sun caftan, this one here is for company, this one is dressy, and this one is the one I sometimes wear after a night swim—right before bed. Do you know what some people would call these?”
Maisie stared at them in awe. They were every color all at once, loud paisleys and tribal designs; some looked like spin art she had once done at school. “Dresses?”
“That’s right. Are they? No. Well. Maybe. But I don’t care. Because they’re fun, and they make me feel good, and I like wearing them. When the temperature swells over one hundred, you don’t want anything tight touching your skin.” Patrick pulled his after-sun caftan off the hanger, a rich midnight blue with a loud yellow and magenta paisley pattern, and pulled it on over his head. “This is the best thing to wear for today, you understand.” Patrick affected an old-money New England accent. “Because I don’t like women in skirts and the best thing is to wear pantyhose or some pants under a short skirt, I think. Then you have the pants under the skirt and you can pull the stockings up over the pants underneath the skirt. And you can always take off the skirt and use it as a cape. So I think this is the best costume for today.”