Sea Change by Aimee Friedman Page B

couldn’t see him walking inland toward the dunes, nor could I spot him wading into the water. Had he disappeared into the fog? Jumped into a speeding fishing boat? Or had I—in a truly un-Miranda-like fashion—imagined him entirely? But no, Mom had seen him, too. I shook my head, dismissing him from my thoughts.
    We were nearing The Crabby Hook. From what I could see, the Heirs party was dwindling; the band had stopped playing, and only a few people milled about on the deck. I felt fatigue wash over me.
    “I guess the party got to be a bit much,” I finally told Mom. “Actually, do you think we can head back to The Mariner now?” The thought of returning to the crowd, of having to explain my absence to CeeCee, T.J., and the others, made me want to crawl inside a clamshell and remain there, pearl-like.
    Mom’s face softened, and she gave me a sheepish smile. “Sure we can,” she said. “And forgive me, my love. I didn’t mean to freak out. I think I’m still on edge from being back here, seeing all the folks I used to know…”
    Like Mr. Illingworth? It was the perfect opening, but I didn’t take it. I sensed that if I broached the topic with my mother right then, she’d only grow uncomfortable. Or, worse, she’d reveal something illicit, something I wouldn’t want to know. There is always that danger in research.
    So I nodded. “Maybe we can just avoid everyone else for the rest of the time we’re here,” I offered. Mom and I lying low in The Mariner, away from all the gossip, seemed like a logical solution. I could already feel the two of us reverting to our regular selves as we bypassed the party.
    Mom chuckled. “That’s not a bad idea. But good luck trying it out with CeeCee.”
    Sure enough, I was awoken the next morning by a cheery rapping on my door.
    “Five minutes, Mom!” I groaned, rolling over onto my back. A glance at the clock on the dresser told me it was ten o’clock.
    I was usually an early riser, and I was eager to tackle our tasks for the day, but I’d again had trouble falling asleep. I’d tossed and turned in the oppressive heat, wishing for air-conditioning and entertaining the notion of going downstairs for more of Llewellyn Thorpe’s tales. Thankfully, I’d drifted off before I could act on that plan.
    “Silly! It’s me!”
    With that, CeeCee flounced into the room, a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed belle. She was clad in a floral sundress and holding a covered tray.
    “CeeCee, what are you doing here?” I asked, scramblingto sit up while pulling the sheet tighter over my rumpled pajamas.
    “Bringing you breakfast,” CeeCee replied breezily, lifting the lid off the tray. “Mama was concerned that you and Amelia didn’t have proper food in the house, so we came to deliver some down-home delicacies.” With a flourish, CeeCee gestured to the strips of bacon, golden-brown hush puppies, and bowl of grits.
    “You know what? I’m great,” I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Breakfast was always whole-wheat toast and a strawberry yogurt. I’d never tried grits, but their off-white mushiness didn’t appeal to me.
    “Mama says that a true Southerner always has stone-ground grits in the house,” CeeCee pronounced, marching over to my bed and ceremoniously setting the tray in front of me. “You eat up, and I’ll fill you in on everything you need to know.”
    “What are you talking about?” I asked. I was still half in my dream—something about a green-scaled fish swimming between my hands.
    “Well, first off, T. J. Illingworth wants to see you again,” CeeCee said, plopping down on the edge of the bed and beaming. “Before I left the party, he asked me if you were staying at The Mariner. You realize that means he wants to come and visit?” She widened her already huge eyes at me.
    “He does?” In my cotton-mouthed, sloppy-haired state, I couldn’t comprehend how a member of the opposite sex would find me attractive. Still, my stomach leapt at the thought