Daria brushed her hand over a spot on her khaki shorts, where glue from the installation of the countertops had found a permanent home.
One more ruined pair of shorts. She must have sighed, because when she looked up, Chloe was staring at her. The extremely short haircut Chloe was sporting this summer made her huge brown eyes seem even larger, the dark velvety lashes longer. For a second, Daria was mesmerized by her sister’s beauty.
“I’m a little worried about you, Daria,” Chloe said.
“Why?”
“You seem so down,” Chloe said.
“I don’t think I’ve seen a smile on your face since I arrived.”
She hadn’t known her unhappiness was that obvious.
“Sorry,” she said.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Chloe said.
“I just wish there was something I could do to help. I don’t understand Pete, frankly. Does he ever call you?”
Daria stretched her arms out in front of her.
“He’s called a couple of times, but it’s definitely over,” she said. On the phone, Pete sounded relieved to be away from her, and the few times they’d spoken, he’d lectured her about putting herself first for once. It was painful to hear from him, and while part of her wished he would call again, she knew prolonging that relationship would only hurt her in the long run.
“Can you tell me why he broke off the engagement?” Chloe asked gently.
She had avoided that question so far, probably hoping Daria would provide the answer on her own.
“Oh, a bunch of reasons,” Daria said evasively.
“Shelly was part of it.” Shelly was all of it, actually.
“Shelly! What did she have to do with it?”
Daria drew her feet up onto the seat of the rocker and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“He thought she needed more supervision than I was giving her,” she said.
“He thought I should put her in some sort of home or something.”
Chloe’s eyes were wide with disbelief.
“That’s crazy,” she said. She leaned toward Daria, covering her hand with her own.
“I’m so sorry, honey. I had no idea Shelly had been that taxing on your relationship with Pete.”
Shelly had always been an issue between her and Pete, but after the plane crash it had come to a head. But Daria didn’t want to discuss that with Chloe. There was no one she could discuss it with.
“It’s Pete’s problem, not mine.” Daria got to her feet.
“I’m really tired,” she said.
“I’m going to lie down for a while. Call me when Shelly gets here and we can do the cake, okay?”
Upstairs, she lay on her bed, but didn’t sleep. She stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the night sounds of the ocean and the shouts of the Wheelers’ grandkids from the yard next door. Since the summer she turned eleven, every one of her birthdays brought back memories of the day she’d found the infant abandoned on the beach. She closed her eyes, saying a quick prayer that Shelly was safe out on the beach, then let herself remember the day twenty-two years ago—the day that had shaped the rest of her life.
The baby had been the talk of the neighborhood all that day, and for many days to come. The police had questioned everyone on the cul-de-sac, as well as people on neighboring streets and the other side of the beach road, but Daria had been aware only of the little world on her street. As the police made their rounds that afternoon, Daria had sat on the porch with Chloe and their cousin, Ellen, pretending to play with her bug-catching kit while listening to them talk about all the girls in the cul-de-sac. Ellen and Chloe sat in the rocking chairs, their long, bare legs stretched in front of them, their bare feet on the molding beneath the screens of the porch. Daria sat at the picnic table, hunched over her microscope, pretending to be absorbed in studying the wing of a dragonfly. She understood only bits and pieces of the conversation between her sister and cousin. They were talking about sex, of course. She knew that if she asked questions, they would stop talking completely, so she kept her mouth shut and feigned great interest in the dragonfly.
“The cops are in the Taylors’ cottage now,” Ellen said.
Daria braved a glance across the cul-de-sac at Poll-Rory, the Taylors’ cottage.
“I am so white,” Chloe said, examining her legs. Her legs were hardly white; like Daria and Ellen, Chloe was of Greek descent and had inherited the trademark thick black hair and olive skin of the Cato side of the family. Nevertheless, Chloe would complain all summer long about her inability to tan, even as she grew darker week by week.
“I don’t know why they’re bothering to talk to Polly,” Ellen said.
“I
mean, who’s going to get a mongoloid pregnant? “
“Well, she is fifteen now,” Chloe said.
“But I really don’t see how she could hide being pregnant from Mrs. Taylor. Polly’s always with her.”
