Page 6

EMERY

Then . . .

The beach! In Florida! And the place where they were staying, the Sands Motor Motel, was pretty cool. The seven cottages sat right on the sands of Sea Blue Beach in a horseshoe around the courtyard, with string lights between them. In the center was a courtyard with a low, smoldering firepit.

“He just likes to say portmanteau ,” Mom said.

“Maybe I do.” Dad reached over to squeeze Mom’s hand. “The Sands is what you’d call a motor court, where the cottages sit around a courtyard.”

“Dad, please ... One more fact and I’ll die before we get there.”

Did that stop him? Nope. Welcome to Douglas Quinn Land, where knowledge reigned supreme.

So, on a June afternoon, Emery arrived in Sea Blue Beach fully informed about motor motels but clueless about what to do with her endless summer days. When Dad and Mom had proposed the idea of a summer in Florida, she’d resisted.

“I have basketball camp in July. What about my friends? We were going to hang at the pool.”

Then Emery’s friend Brianna said two critical words that got her to see the beauty of a summer holiday in Florida. “Rocking tan.” Plus, Emery loved hanging out with her parents, even at sixteen. She’d be off to college soon. This would be a summer to remember.

Dad rarely taught summer classes and had finally talked Mom into using her horde of vacation hours.

Her job at the bank had been super intense after last year’s housing collapse.

She looked beat-up every night after work.

More than once, Emery had found her asleep on the couch when she came home from school.

Mom never came home early. She never napped on the couch.

Dad packed sandals, socks, shorts, and T-shirts.

And so many books that his suitcase weighed down one side of the Volvo.

Mom brought all the “soft clothes” she loved but never wore to work, along with her crochet and a pile of novels.

Emery brought half her wardrobe and shopped for two new bathing suits.

Day one, she went at it too hard. Burned herself bright pink from head to toe, front and back. Day two, she stayed inside, reading. The only electronics allowed on this vacation was the cottage’s radio for playing oldies.

Day three, she overdid it again. After her shower, she lathered on half a bottle of lotion and dressed carefully. The rough edges of her jean shorts scraped the back of her legs as she gently pulled them on. She hoped it rained tomorrow.

After dinner and a game of Uno with Dad, she said, “I’m going to sit outside.” The sun was still high but far enough west to leave a portion of the courtyard safely in the shade.

Getting this burnt was not the best start to the Quinn Family Summer of Fun, as Mom had coined the trip.

She seemed fixated on making memories, but so far the only memories were of grocery shopping at a place called Biggs, Dad nearly burning off his eyebrows trying to light the gas grill, and Emery’s you-must-be-a-tourist sunburn.

Delilah popped out of Cottage 1 in workout gear, waved, and started down the Beachwalk at a clipped pace. Emery settled down in the Adirondack, keeping as much of her legs as possible away from the sunbaked wood slats.

“Nice burn,” a male voice said from the edge of the motor court.

Emery twisted around. “And you are?”

“Caleb.” He leaned his bike against the side of the cottage and pointed to her legs. “You should get some aloe for that.” He stepped closer. “Next time wear sunscreen.”

“Where were you two days ago? And this morning?” She regarded him for a moment. He was cute, if not “gorg,” as Brianna liked to say. Tan, of course, with lean muscles and a flop of dark hair that needed wrangling. But his eyes ... so bright. Like a pure blue sky.

He peered through the cottage window. “Your parents?”

“Yes, and my father knows Krav Maga.”

“Excuse me?”

“Krav Maga. It’s dangerous and—” She jabbed the air with her finger. “Lethal.”

“You have no idea what Krav Maga is, do you?”

“No.” She motioned to the chair next to her. “Tell me your name again and why you’re sneaking up on me.”

“Caleb Ransom. I was following my sister—well, trying to anyway. She left with a guy in a Jeep.”

“You were following a Jeep on your bike?”

“I know. Stupid.”

“I’m surprised they got away. Did they jump to light speed?” He laughed easily. “Why were you following her?”

“Because . . .” Caleb leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s been fighting with my parents. I think she has a secret boyfriend—or had one. Something happened. She’s changed. A lot. I thought if I followed her, I’d find out what she was up to, tell her to chill out, talk to me.”

“A car would’ve been better. To follow, you know.”

“No kidding, but if she spotted my truck . . .” He motioned toward the cottage door. “You got a brother or sister in there?”

“I’m an only.”

“Lucky you.” When he gazed down, he pointed to her swollen feet. “Take some aspirin. And seriously, wear sunscreen. Where are you from, Yankee?”

“Cleveland, Ohio.”

“You know my name, Cleveland, but I don’t know yours.”

“Emery Quinn.”

“Emery Quinn. I like it. Sounds like a character in a spy novel or something. How long are you here?”

“You’re nosy.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pout. We’re here for the summer. My dad’s a professor at Case Western Reserve—”

“Where he teaches Krav Maga?”

She spit-laughed and decided she liked this sister-chasing-guy-on-a-bike. “Where he teaches molecular and microbiology. My mom is a bank exec. What about you?”

“Born and raised here. Dad’s a logistics supervisor for a big warehouse. Mom works for a lawyer. You already know my sister is crazy.”

“Only that you think she’s crazy.”

After that, talking became easy. They were both sixteen, going into their junior year.

He played football (what else?), and she played volleyball and basketball.

He was into his drafting courses because he liked structure and neat lines.

She worked on the school yearbook and wrote for the school newspaper.

“How many girlfriends?” she asked.

“None. How many boyfriends?”

“Liar. And none.”

A lady came out of Cottage 3 and snapped a sandy towel in the air, glanced at the two of them, then went inside.

“You’re the liar,” he said. “ I’ m the one telling the truth.”

“So, what’s up with your sister?” she said, swiveling in the chair to face him.

“I don’t know.” Caleb slumped down in the Adirondack. “She started acting funny in the spring, bucking the house rules and curfew. Then, right after school let out, she found her inner Godzilla. Got all mean and snarky. Only comes home to sleep or do laundry.”

“Maybe something’s wrong.”

“You think?” Sarcasm ruled the night. “Mom suggested seeing a doctor, but Cassidy refused.” He reached for the stick lying by the firepit and snapped it in two. “We used to be close, but now she hardly talks to me.”

When he looked over at Emery, she felt like she’d known him forever. Her skin tingled with a heat generated from inside, not her sunburn.

“Is it lonely being an only child?” he asked.

“Can’t say. I don’t know anything else.” He wasn’t looking at her so intently now, so she could watch him for a moment. “It’s pretty cool at Christmas.”

“I bet.”

“Emery, who’s our visitor?” Dad stepped out of the cottage looking like a nutty professor with his hair all wild, wearing his thick, ratty sweater, holey slippers, and black ankle socks.

“Caleb Ransom, sir.” He stood to shake Dad’s hand.

“Donald Quinn, Emery’s dad. You’re a local boy?”

“Yes, sir. We’re off Pelican Way.”

Dad pulled his phone out of his pocket. Uh- oh , Dad , what are you doing? “Enter your name and home number, Caleb Ransom. Do you have a cellular phone?”

“Um, yes.”

“Enter that with your father’s cellular number. He also has one, I assume.”

“Y-yes, he does.”

“Dad, good grief, what are you doing?”

“Watching out for my girl.” When Caleb handed back the phone, Dad pressed the call button and held the phone to his ear.

Caleb glanced back at Emery. She shot him her best, “ Sorry!” expression .

“Mr. Ransom? Douglas Quinn. Your son is over here at the Sands Motor Motel talking to my daughter by the firepit. Well, the pit doesn’t have a fire, it’s just dark, but he’s here and I wanted to make sure he was an upstanding young man, as well as introduce myself to you.

” Pause. “Yes, we’re down for the summer.

From Ohio.” He handed the phone to Caleb. “He wants to talk to you.”

Caleb turned away as he pressed the Nokia to his ear. “I don’t know ... He just asked for your number. Okay, bye.” Caleb handed over Dad’s phone. “Emery tells me you know Krav Maga. I was wondering if you could show me a few moves, sir.”

“Krav Maga? Do I look like a man who could take you out with my bare hands?” Dad turned back for the cottage. “Don’t stay out late, Em.”

She laughed when Caleb returned to his chair. “You are so gullible, Caleb Ransom.”

“Better than being a pathological liar.”

“Pathological. Wow, that’s a big word.” She sat up straight, deepening her voice as she said, “‘I was wondering if you could show me a few moves ... sir .’” She slapped his arm, laughing.

“I see how it is, Emery Quinn. I see how it is.”

“Okay, maybe he doesn’t know Krav Maga, but I promise you this, Caleb Ransom. Dad is the Boyfriendinator. The father who scares off any boy sniffing around his daughter. His words, not mine.”

“The Boyfriendinator? Let me guess, he’s a fan of Arnold Schwarzenegger.” He had the cutest smirk on his full lips, and her heart plunked a little. “So, does it work? The Boyfriendinator?”

“I’m not sure. He’s only tried it once.” She glanced sideways at him, grinning. “And you’re still here.”

Now . . .

Gazette Editorial

Sunday, January 12th

By Emery Quinn Editor-in-Chief

For the past three days, I’ve reacquainted myself with Sea Blue Beach and its lovely citizens, listening and trying to discover how this newspaper can best serve you.

With so much news available twenty-four seven, the Gazette seeks to be a microlocal newspaper—stories about you and the community, your neighbors and friends. Which seems in keeping with the vision and traditions set by Rachel Kirby when she took over the Gazette from her father and grandfather.

The Gazette is one of you. (Soon I’ll feel comfortable saying “us.”) This newspaper is a viable member of the community, telling the stories of your lives.

The staff—Rex Smithfield, Jane Upperton, Junie Hollis, Gayle Hamilton, and Tobias Elling—and I are committed to quality stories and quality production. We’d love to hear your thoughts at [email protected]