After our last first aid class the next day, Mariah suggests we all pile into her old Volvo wagon and head for the Gull’s Nest.
“It’s a gift shop,” Annie explains.
Carly says, “Let me grab my millions.”
The gift shop is all things nautical. “Look at this string of starfish lights, Nolie, and this seashell mobile.” Carly dances around the shop pointing out treasure after treasure.
I’m wondering whether I should buy a second beach towel with my birthday money when she suggests we decorate our room to look like a mermaid’s den.
“We can get Mariah to take us to a hardware store and buy sea green paint. Then we’d hang these lights and a couple of mobiles, and look, Nol, look at this coral rug!”
“You think Pete will let us paint the walls?” I ask.
“Why not? There’s nothing but graffiti on them now. We’ll paint the walls and the ceiling!”
I can barely lift my fork that night at dinner. I hope the paint will come off my fingers before our first night of waitressing.
Stella slides off her seat (where and when did Pete and Susanna eat?) and comes over to me. She touches her hand to my wrist and asks, “Will you play croquet with me?”
A wishbone pulled in two directions, I smile at Stella. I look up to see if others can be coerced into a game. No takers.
“I have an even better idea than croquet,” says Carly. “Stella, have you ever seen a mermaid’s den?”
I sigh gratefully.
That night not only does Stella get permission to come upstairs in the barn (which is normally off-limits to boys, children, and guests), but so do Nigel, Will, and the rest of the help. Kevin brings a blender and makes batches of “seaweed smoothies,” which taste a lot like blueberry banana. Will docks his iPod, and Jimmy Buffett tunes fill the room. Carly and Stella do a mermaid dance to “Margaritaville.” Then Stella lies down on my cot (twisting among the bodies seated there) and puts her head on my lap. I run my fingers through her hair, and when I stop briefly, she looks up at me and says, “More.”
Carly scoots onto the bed and puts her head in my lap too.
Nigel, with camera strung around his neck tonight, starts to take our picture. But then he slowly lowers the lens from his face.
“What?” asks Carly.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Suddenly, I feel like I’ve met you before.”