I’m in the henhouse early on a warm June morning, gathering eggs, when I hear voices coming closer across the field. We’re not expecting visitors. Standing up straight, I lower the warm eggs I’m holding into the pocket of my apron and listen closely.
Ramona Carle—I’d recognize her throaty laugh anywhere.
Ramona, along with her siblings Alvah and Eloise, are summer folk from Massachusetts whose family bought the Seavey homestead down the road several years ago. Alvah is the oldest; Eloise is my age, Ramona a few years younger. They stay in Cushing from Memorial Day to Labor Day. But unlike some other from-aways (with their languid indolence, their impulsive thrill-seeking), the Carles do their best to fit in with the locals. I always look forward to seeing them. They organize egg-in-spoon races at our annual Fourth of July clambake on Hathorn Point, convince everyone to play games like Red Rover and Olly Olly Oxen Free, and bring bags of fireworks to light after dark.
Ramona is my favorite. A friendly, impulsive girl, she is slight and energetic, with hair the color of melted chocolate and eyes as large and shiny as a fawn’s. Once, when I was with her in town, an old lady told her she was as cute as a button. (No one has ever said anything remotely like that to me.)
Ducking out of the henhouse with my bounty of eggs and a big smile of anticipation, I nearly run into a man I’ve never seen before. “Why—hello!” I say.
“Hello!” He’s about my age, I think—I’ve just turned twenty—and about half a foot taller than me, with light-brown hair that flops in front of wide-set blue eyes. He’s wearing thin linen pants and a soft white shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows.
Self-conscious all of a sudden, I smooth my sleep-matted hair, glancing down at the soiled apron I baked bread in this morning and the wooden clogs I wear to wade through mud.
“Walton Hall,” he says, extending his hand.
“Christina Olson.” His hand is surprisingly soft. This is a man who has never handled a plow.
“Walton is visiting from Malden,” Ramona says. “He and Eloise went to high school together. At the end of the summer he’s heading off to Harvard.”
“Admit it, you’re shocked,” Walton says with a small wink. “‘Must not be as dull as he looks.’”
“Just because you’re going to Harvard doesn’t mean you’re not dull,” I say.
When he smiles, I see that one of his front teeth slightly overlaps the other. He raises an invisible glass in a mock toast. “Good point.”
“All right, enough,” Ramona says. “Let me remind you, Walton, that an entire household awaits breakfast.”
“Ah, yes,” he says. “We’ve come to procure some eggs.”
“Right,” I say. “How many?”
“Two dozen, yes, Ramona?”
She nods.
“Okay, that’ll be fifty cents for the eggs and a penny for the bag,” I tell them.
“My word, you drive a hard bargain!”
Ramona rolls her eyes. “You could’ve asked for fifty cents an egg, Christina. He has no idea what he’s talking about.”
One by one I slide the eggs into a bag, counting out twenty-four as he teases: “Not that one! It’s not oval enough,” and “They must all be exactly the same size.” He is standing quite close to me and his breath smells of butterscotch. Ramona’s talking about the weather, how dull a winter it was and how she counted the days until June, what a beautiful day it is today, but do you think it might take a turn? Will it be calm enough to go out for a sail later on? She wonders what her mother will do with all these eggs if breakfast is over by the time they get back: a soufflé, perhaps? An omelette? A lemon meringue pie?
“Come with us,” he says.
Ramona and I both look up.
“What?” I say, confused.
“Come sailing this afternoon, Christina,” he says. “The wind will be perfect.”
“You might’ve said that when I was fretting about the weather,” Ramona mutters.
I don’t usually take off afternoons, especially to sail with strange boys I’ve only just met. “Thank you, but—I . . . can’t. I have to make bread. And my chores . . .”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, come along,” Ramona says. “We have to entertain Walton somehow. And bring your brother Sam. He’s such fun. I need someone my own age to flirt with.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think so.”
“My word, you’re a hard sell. Look, I’ll sign your hall pass,” Walton says.
“Hall pass?”
Seeing my puzzlement, Ramona laughs. “They don’t have hall passes in one-room schoolhouses, Walton.”
“I can’t,” I say.
He shakes his head and shrugs. “Ah well. Another day, then.”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Ramona tells him with the confidence of a girl accustomed to getting her way. She flashes me a smile. “We’ll try again. Soon.”
When I return to the house from the brightness of the yard, I lean against the wall in the dim foyer, breathing heavily. What was that?
“Did I hear voices?” Mother calls from the kitchen.
I touch my face. Smooth the front of my blouse. Take a deep breath.
“Was somebody here?” she asks when I come in, untying my apron and taking it off.
“Oh,” I say, straining for a casual tone, “only Ramona, to buy eggs.”
“I could’ve sworn I heard a male voice.”
“Just a friend of the Carles’.”
“Ah. Well, the dough’s ready for kneading.”
“I’ll get to it,” I say.
OVER THE NEXT few weeks, Ramona and Walton, sometimes with Eloise and Alvah, stop by every other day or so, seeking eggs or milk or a roasting chicken, staying longer each visit. They bring a picnic basket and an old quilt and we sit on the grass, drinking tea steeped in the sun. I come to expect the sight of them sauntering up the field in the late morning or early afternoon. My brothers, with their gentle ways, tend to shy like deer from the summer folk, but the Carles and Walton gradually win them over. When they’re finished with chores, Al and Sam often join us on the grass.
One morning, when it’s just Walton and Ramona and me, Ramona says, “We’re kidnapping you, Christina. It’s a perfect day for a sail.”
“But—”
“No buts. The farm will manage without you. Alvah is waiting. Off we go.”
As we make our way down the path toward the shore I feel Walton’s eyes on me from behind. Aware of my awkward gait, I concentrate carefully on my movements. In front of us Ramona chatters away—“The sun is so bright! Mercy, I did not even think of it, but we do not have enough hats; maybe Mother left one or two on the boat”—seemingly unaware that neither Walton nor I say a word in response. And then the very thing I fear happens: I trip on a root. My legs buckle; I feel myself pitching forward.
Before I can make a sound, an arm is under mine. In a low voice, so Ramona won’t hear, Walton says, “What a long path this is.”
Though only moments ago I was flushed with anxiety, now I am oddly calm. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I have never been this close to a boy who isn’t related to me. My senses sharp, I notice everything in the clean morning light: daffodils pale and bowed; guillemots gliding overhead, black, with bright red legs, squeaking like mice; the trees in the distance, red spruce and firs and juniper and slender scotch pines, that frame the field. I taste the salt on my lips from the sea. But mostly I am aware of the warm mammal scent of this boy whose arm is ballast: sweat, perhaps, and the musky smell of his hair, a whiff of aftershave. Sweet butterscotch on his breath.
“I hope you won’t think this impertinent, but did you know that the blue flowers in your dress match your eyes exactly?” he murmurs.
“I did not,” I manage to answer.
The Carles’ boat is a single-mast sloop, with a jib in the front and a large white mainsail attached to the back of the wooden mast. They keep a wooden dinghy on the shore near Kissing Cove, paddles tucked inside, to row out to the sailboat. When we get to the beach, Alvah is waving from the deck of the sloop, about a hundred yards out in the bay. We drag the dinghy to the water. Walton insists on taking the oars and we meander toward the sailboat, this way and that. I have to bite my lips to keep from laughing: his strokes are choppy and inexpert, nothing like Al’s rhythmic motion. When we arrive at the boat, Ramona ties the small craft to the buoy, and Walton, taking Alvah’s proffered hand, jumps up first so the two of them can assist us.
“Gallant of you, I suppose, but unnecessary,” Ramona says, batting away Walton’s hand. I don’t protest. I need all the help I can get.
Once aboard, I’m more at ease. It is a mild, warm morning, with a gentle wind, and I know how to sail, having learned with Alvaro on his small skiff. Alvah hoists the mainsail, which flaps dramatically in the wind like a sheet on a clothesline, and I pull down firmly on the halyard until it stops. He turns the boat to starboard, weaving away from the wind, lessening the tilt to bring us to a more comfortable sailing angle as we approach open water. I have to warn Walton to duck so he won’t get hit in the head by the boom.
He seems surprised and a little impressed that I seem to know what I’m doing. “So many hidden talents!”
It’s a miracle I’m any help to Alvah given how distracted I am by the skin on Walton’s neck, slightly sunburned just above his collar. The small flaps of his ears turning pink in the sun. The quick flash of his gray-blue eyes.
Alvah, passionate for sailing in the way that boys who grew up on boats with their fathers and grandfathers can be, is happy to do the brunt of the work, and once we’re out on the ocean we fall into an easy rhythm. Ramona opens a basket and cuts chunks of bread, slices of cheese, passes around hard-boiled eggs and salt and a tin canteen of water.
In the course of conversation, I learn bits and pieces about Walton’s upbringing. His mother is obsessed with social decorum, his father a banker who stays in Boston in a small apartment several nights a week—“when he has to work late. Or at least that’s what he tells us,” Walton says. I’m not sure what he’s implying and fear it’s rude to ask; I don’t want to look ignorant but also don’t want to pry. It’s as hard to picture where Walton grew up as it is to imagine life on the moon. I conjure parlor rooms out of Jane Austen, a redbrick mansion, the walls of the dining room adorned with gilt-framed paintings of Harvard-educated ancestors.
He tells me that he had a curved spine, scoliosis, as a child, and had to wear a plaster body cast for a long, hot summer after an operation when he was twelve. While other boys were climbing trees and kicking balls around, he lay in bed reading adventure stories like Swiss Family Robinson and Captains Courageous. He doesn’t say so, but I know he’s trying to explain that he understands what it’s like to be me.
As the hours pass, the sky drains of warmth. It’s not until I notice goose bumps on my arms that I realize I’ve forgotten a sweater. Without a word, Walton peels off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. “Oh,” I say with surprise.
“I hope that wasn’t too forward of me. You seemed chilly.”
“Yes. Thank you. I just—I didn’t expect it.” In truth, I can’t remember the last time anyone noticed my physical discomfort and did something about it. When you live on a farm, everyone is uncomfortable much of the time. Too cold, too warm, dirty, bone tired, banged up, injured by a tool or hot grate—too preoccupied to worry much about each other.
“You’re quite an independent girl, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am.”
“You’ve never met anyone like Christina, Walton,” Ramona says. “She’s not like those silly girls in Malden who don’t know how to light a fire or clean a fish.”
“Is she a suffragette, like Miss Pankhurst?” he asks in a teasing voice.
I feel woefully ignorant; I don’t know what a suffragette is and I’ve never heard of Miss Pankhurst. I think of all the years Walton spent in school while I was washing and cooking and cleaning. “A suffragette?”
“You know, those ladies starving themselves for the vote,” Ramona says. “The ones who think, God forbid, they can do anything a man can do.”
“Is that what you think?” Walton asks me.
“Well, I don’t know,” I say. “Shall we have a competition and find out? We could split logs for firewood, or fix a drainpipe. Or maybe slaughter a chicken?”
“Careful,” he says, laughing. “Miss Pankhurst was just sentenced to three years in jail for her treasonous words.”
There is, I am almost certain, a spark between us. A flickering. I glance at Ramona. She raises her eyebrows at me and smiles, and I know she senses it too.