Denial was Poppy’s best option. She decided to pretend this would be just another summer, and the house would always be there, and her parents were on a quick trip to the Stop & Shop in Orleans and would be right back. Only it wasn’t even summer yet. It was the first week of April, and the damp cold went straight to her bones. That first night at the Cape house she did manage to find the breaker and turn on the lights, but she didn’t know how to turn on the heat, and when she went to the bathroom she discovered that the toilet bowl was drained, empty. Fortunately, her father had left heaps of wood in the woodpile outside the back door. She sat under a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace, dreading the moment she’d have to emerge from her cocoon and go to the bathroom or actually do something. She could hear mice scampering between the walls; maybe that was the life she’d felt in the house when she first arrived?
Ann ditched her, but the next morning Noah arrived to spend the weekend with her.
“Aunt Poppy!” he said, his voice lower than she’d imagined it would be. He was awkward at first, and so was she: How could this be the same little guy who’d squealed with delight when she’d given him a bath? She hadn’t seen him since he was six. He had Ann’s precise features—her sculpted, thin nose and wide-set eyes—but he was sturdy in a way that neither Michael nor Ann was, barrel-chested and thick, with long, luscious blue-dyed bangs and dark brown hair.
Their connection was instant—two free spirits who cared little about what other people thought of them. Blue hair? Awesome—and even more awesome that Ann could raise a child so comfortable in his own skin. Noah told her he had spent as much time as he could with his grandparents every summer, and she could see her father’s influence when she watched Noah work the house. In no time, he got the water running and the old boiler chugged to life. They watched classic films and sat next to each other on the couch playing games on Noah’s laptop. He showed Poppy how to use Garage Band and he’d parse out the separate tracks for the mournful-sounding songs he’d recorded. Poppy thought his music was brilliant, like everything else he did. But what really united them was their love of the house.
“I don’t understand why my mom would want to sell,” Noah said. “This place is perfect. And it fits us. It’s, like, us.”
“I know,” Poppy said. “I can’t even imagine anyone else living here.”
“I hate them.”
Poppy laughed. “Me too. I’ve already imagined who they are. The woman—she has an elegant name. Something like Evelyn or Jacqueline. She buys organic and sleeps on one of those acupressure mats. She has a rule: no makeup on vacation.”
“Except lipstick,” Noah says, “because lipstick isn’t really makeup.”
Poppy laughed. “Her husband, his name is Travis.”
“Totally! And he’s a banker.”
“He likes to talk about deals. At parties, he tells everyone we’re due for a correction soon.”
“He’s on his phone all the time.”
“He can’t go to the beach because the sand irritates his feet, and the sun makes his psoriasis flare up,” said Poppy. “Instead, he sits around and reads Malcolm Gladwell books when he isn’t following the market.”
They went on like this about everything.
As soon as Poppy got used to Noah’s company, he had to go back to Boston, promising to return the next weekend. Poppy fell to pieces during the week. She missed her parents, Noah, and especially Brad. She even missed Ann, and was irritated that she hadn’t bothered to visit.
One morning, while Poppy was resting on the couch, someone knocked at the door, which startled her. Nobody knocked on doors in Wellfleet.
More efficient tap-tap-taps. “It’s me, Carol. Anyone home?”
Not Carol, the evil Realtor. Ann went on and on about all the stuff Carol wanted her to do around the house—Carol says this, Carol says that. She was like a stepmother.
Poppy looked around and thought about the messes she’d made. She’d let her clothes sit in rebellious heaps on the floor next to her bed. The frying pan with dried eggs had remained unwashed in the sink for days. Empties. Damp towels. Dust. Poppy could have done everything Ann asked her to do, but she didn’t—not because she was lazy. There was more to it; a simmering anger, a willful effort to defy Ann, who had been terse and cold when they spoke on the phone. Instead of talking about anything that mattered, she went over to-do lists at a clipped pace, cold and practical. What did it even mean that they were sisters? Ann treated their relationship as an inconvenience.
Another knock. Don’t answer, don’t answer.… She heard the key turn in the lock—of course Carol had a key. Poppy abruptly tossed off the throw blanket, stood up in the harsh chilly air, and smoothed out her hair. She felt guilty, busted. The door swung open, followed by energetic footsteps. Poppy said, “Um, hi?”
“So, someone is here.” Carol’s voice was cold, even angry. “I saw the car in the drive. I have some paperwork, and since I was on my way to a showing in Brewster I figured—wait.” She stopped in the doorway. “Poppy?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that really you?” It was remarkable to see her transform at that moment, from Realtor to surfer, professional to friend, like a play of the light.
“Kit?”
“Oh God, I haven’t heard that name in years. I go by Carol now.”
“Why would you go from Kit to Carol?”
Carol—no, Kit—laughed, a low, grumbly laugh that reminded Poppy of all the times they’d gotten high together at Dirk’s. “That was a name I gave myself when I started surfing. Typical teenage-girl thing to do, trying to change my identity. The surfer persona. I thought it would catch on, but I guess I wasn’t cool enough for Kit.”
“I thought you were Kit. And cool. Seriously, you changed my life.”
“Oh stop.”
“You did! I became a surfer because of you. You’ll always be Kit to me.”
Carol looked around the house. “I can’t believe you’re Ann’s sister. The ‘itinerant.’”
“Is that what she called me?”
“Sure did. She’s a ball-breaker.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You guys are really related?” She looked at the Wisconsin Badgers mug on the table. “I should have put it together. You were, like, the only person I’d ever known from the Midwest.”
“I’m so exotic.”
“God, I can’t believe this is your house. Hey, sorry about your parents. I was afraid to ask Ann what happened. I heard from the librarian in town. Everyone loved your mom and dad.”
“Thanks.”
“This place is a wicked mess.”
“Yeah—I know.”
Carol frowned. “You’re depressed.”
“I probably am.”
“Swells are supposed to be good tomorrow. Offshore. Storm coming. Let’s go.”
Poppy crossed her arms tight in front of her, defensive. “I don’t really surf anymore. It’s been a long time. And I’m used to warmer water.”
Carol smiled.
“I don’t even have a wet suit.”
“Some things don’t change. You never had any gear, Wisconsin. I’ve got an extra, I’ll bring it by. See you in the morning at your home beach. Let’s get you out of your funk.”
Carol was about to put a folder on the kitchen table but hesitated. “I have some paperwork for Ann.”
“She’s never here. She’s avoiding me.”
“She’d better avoid me now, too.” Carol set the folder on top of the bookshelf. “Can you give this to her when she finally shows up? She won’t answer my calls.”
“She won’t answer mine, either.”
THERE HAD BEEN SO MUCH EROSION over the years that the parking lot at LeCount was half the size it had been when Poppy was a kid. The lifeguard stand was blown on its side. There weren’t just trucks in the lot but cars—nice cars, the same cars she’d seen in the parking lot at the boulangerie. Poppy stepped out of Carol’s car with her wet suit halfway up, the top hanging limp from her hips, nervous. The sun broke over the dunes and fractured over the steel-gray water. The wind was cold, but it was a good cold, unlike the chill in the lonely house.
She expected to see the same hard-core crowd and join in the super-tight camaraderie. Instead she saw clusters of surfers who looked at her with suspicion, making her feel like the outsider, although she could tell they were mostly newbies and old guys in their fifties and sixties with longboards and stand-up paddles. At least half of them were girls. She was used to this in other places, but it threw her off on the Cape, where she expected everything to remain unchanged, where she and Kit used to be among the only girls in the inner circle of OGs, or “originals,” and everyone treated them like younger sisters.
The surfers acknowledged her. Poppy could tell they thought she, too, was a newbie. She didn’t care what they thought, and she didn’t participate in the surf world one-upmanship that happened on land. What mattered was how well you could read and ride the waves. She wanted to lose herself in the water and the rhythm and the rush. She wanted to forget about Brad and Ann and the sale. She wanted to forget that her parents had died.
“Ready?” Carol said, looking more like Kit with her messy morning hair and broad smile. “Keep your eye out for sharks. They’re bad now.”
Poppy zipped up, got into the water, paddled out so she could take off deeper, and started reading the waves. She’d forgotten how heavy the water was in Wellfleet, how salty and thick with a stew of seaweed, how real.
The cold made her ankle and jaw begin to ache, and she felt the tug of insecurity that chased her out of the water a few years ago. Forget about it, she told herself. This wasn’t the pipeline, it was her home break. She paddled out to the lineup. The surf was good and Poppy was in great form. She started hitting the lips and cutbacks and got the little barrels. She surfed like she was in a dream, letting her thoughts recede the way they did. It felt great, amazing even, to be alive like this, all animal instinct and muscle memory. She was in the moment, standing on top of the water like she owned it.
She overheard some surfers talking.
“That girl is charged.”
“She rips.”
“Who is that?”
Their jealousy turned into respect mingled with resentment when Gary, one of the OGs paddled close and said, “Hey, I remember you. You’ve picked up some skills. Tell me you didn’t learn to ride like that on Lake Erie.”
“Lake Michigan.”
Poppy was conscious of the strange sound of her own laugh, a laugh that once came easy to her.
“So, where you been?”
Poppy shrugged. “Everywhere, just about.”
“But there’s no place like here, that’s for sure. Once a dunebilly, always a dunebilly.”
GARY AND CAROL TOOK POPPY under their wing, introducing her to the other OGs. Gary’s family had a shell-fishing grant; grants were priceless. You had to be grandfathered in, and you had to stay active to keep it. The guys who had grants might drive crappy rusted-out trucks over the flats, but they could buy out anyone on the Cape with all the money they made. Some of the guys scored two to five thousand bucks a week working both tides, day and night. These were the real Fleetians, and Poppy knew they’d accept her, but only to a point.
Carol convinced Gary to score a coveted town permit for Poppy. “You need something to keep you busy,” she said. “And this is the best job on the Cape.” She’d put on waders and hit the mudflats with the equipment Gary loaned her: a rake, a culling knife, a bushel basket, and a ring to measure the oysters. Shell-fishing was hard: she had to bend over for hours at a time, lugging a bucket and ice through the muck, culling and clearing off baby oysters spat from the adult shells. Picking wild was good, lucrative work—perfect for a surfer, because it offered what she was already used to: solitude, and the tides.
Gary explained that some guy at Oysterfest a few years back had eaten a bad oyster and blamed it on the bacteria. Now there were laws that required the pickers to ice the oysters, and log every oyster they picked, where it was picked, what time they iced. Her friend “Andy Clam” said, “They even make you record your shits.”
Some of the more experienced pickers could pull as many as three hundred and fifty oysters in a tide, while Poppy felt good if she could get to two hundred. She’d sell them to Wellfleet Harbor for forty to sixty cents each. In two to three hours, she could make four or five hundred bucks. She was new at this, but after only a few days she felt the money take on weight. With every oyster, her plan for her future came into focus. She’d put Ann off for a few years. She could save up, rent out the rooms to the seasonal workers who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. But after all those years of “go” money, it was hard to think of her savings as an anchor instead of an airline ticket.
When she wasn’t in search of oysters over three inches, she was on the water with Gary and the rest of the crew. The surf was decent thanks to a series of squalls offshore. At night, they’d hang out at the Bomb Shelter, or the “Bomby,” a bar under the Bookstore Café that reminded her of a typical Milwaukee corner bar, and it made her homesick for her old city, and for Brad. She was actively trying to forget him, but found herself drunk-dialing him when she returned home. He always answered, and the sound of his voice made her hungry for him.
One night, Carol bought Poppy a beer and sat on a stool next to her at the bar. “It’s good to have you back,” she said.
“Actually, I didn’t really feel like I was back until you showed up.”
“Listen,” Carol said, her expression serious. “When someone asks me not to say something, I don’t say it.”
“Did I ask you not to say something?”
“Not you. Someone else. Pops, you’re my friend. I have to tell you something.” Carol tore at the label on her beer bottle with her fingernail. Whatever she wanted to tell Poppy, it wasn’t good. “It’s about your house.”
Poppy had never thought of the house on the Cape as hers. It had always been ours. “Oh no. I hate this house stuff. I keep trying to forget you’re a Realtor.”
“You and me both.”
Carol smiled, revealing the bright white crowns on her front teeth. This was nothing new to Poppy; so many of the surfers she knew had messed-up teeth.
“So,” Carol said. “You know when I came over with some paperwork?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t looked through it, have you?”
“No,” Poppy said. “I just put it in a pile for Ann. She’s the one who deals with this stuff. Why?”
“I kept waiting for you to say something. Those papers? They terminated my contract. I can’t sell your house.”
“Why?”
“Because I got a visit from your brother a few weeks ago.”
Brother. An image of Michael popped into her head—his sheepish smile, his easy manner. She got the chills. But Michael hadn’t been her brother for a long time.
“You mean Michael? He’s on the Cape?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I never thought he’d—I mean, no. I didn’t know, but that’s nothing new.” Poppy was so shocked she could hardly speak. “It didn’t ever occur to me he was right here, so close, although now that I think of it, it makes perfect sense.”
“He said he lives in P-town. Didn’t get a gay vibe, but who knows. He’s cute.”
“I still can’t believe this. Why did he see you?”
Carol took a swig of her beer. “Good old Ann misrepresented the sale.”
“She did what?”
The bartender set another round on the bar and pointed at some guys in the corner. “They sent this over.”
This happened to Poppy all the time, only now, because the beers arrived just when she needed them most, she felt like they’d been ordered not from the men in the corner, but from a higher power.
Carol said, “He’s entitled to his share of the house from what I can tell.”
“His share? Ann said he wasn’t—that we didn’t have to worry about him.”
“She’s wrong. You do. And she knows it. That sister of yours was supposed to list him as an heir, but she didn’t. I knew something was up from the first time I met her. She seemed like she was holding back. I revoked the contract.”
“I’m sorry, but damn, I’m so confused about what this means.” Michael was alive and well? And the house—maybe it could stay in the family after all. She didn’t know what to think. She resolved right then and there to call Brad as soon as she got home. She needed him, she didn’t want to deny it any longer. She couldn’t get through this without his support.
Carol said, “You’ve got a lot of shit to work out. Shit that’s above my pay grade. Lawyer shit, right? But you’re lucky. I could have put a lien on the property and sued for misrepresentation. Believe me, I thought about it. That’s what I was planning to do the morning I stopped by, I was so pissed. But then I saw you.”
“What do we do now?”
“We? Honey, I’m out of it. I just want to be your friend. My advice? Keep looking for the will. You’ve got a mess on your hands without one. Michael wants the house, and from what I can tell, he’s got a right to it.” Carol reached into her purse and dug around. “Here, he gave me his card.”
Poppy couldn’t believe it when Carol put the card in her hand. It was Michael’s. He really was real, and he was here, on the Cape.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. I know you’ve been through a lot.”
The men who’d sent the beers over slowly started to make their way to the bar, but hesitated and turned back around when they saw Poppy look at the card, grab Carol’s arm, and tell her she had to go.