Page 20 of The Treasure House

Sometimes Marly imagined they were rich and were actually on their way to stay at Saint-Cyr, with its wide porches and its black-and-white-striped awnings. The resort was a white temptation in the woods, with unmatched views of Penobscot Bay. In summer it was full to the brim with families, and in fall with romantic couples having illicit rendezvous. Or so her brothers said—but they’d never spent fall in Oxeye and so how would they even know? Aunt Betty said Saint-Cyr had fleets of waiters in little jackets with shiny buttons, and bathrooms stocked with French soaps. From the car Marly could see the tennis courts as they drove past, and lawns leading down to the water, and there was a lifeguard’s chair set up by the stone stairs that led into the bay. From the Oxeye cliffs you could get a clear view of the little yachts and canoes that sailed out from Saint-Cyr’s private pier. It was like a place in one of those movies Mom dragged Marly to, where lazy beautiful people led lazy beautiful lives. Marly bet they served shrimp cocktail and ice cream at every meal at Saint-Cyr, and slept in beds with canopies, and quaffed cocktails on the verandah. Cary Grant probably even stayed there.

Maybe now that Marly was almost fifteen, she could convince Mom and Aunt Bet to take her there for a visit. Sometimes they took pity on her when the older kids ditched her, and they’d take her to the movie theater or the ice cream parlor in Rockport. Maybe now that she was almost fifteen they’d feel even sorrier for her? Because it was desperate to be fourteen-almost-fifteen and all alone for summer.

And she really was all alone this summer. Because her wretched brothers had decided to pack their damn tent. They said they’d pitch it just on the fringes of the woods, behind the wild little orchard of crabapples, and fend for themselves. Mom seriously thought all of their Boy Scout expeditions were paying off, but Marly knew it was because they planned to sneak off every night to Rockport, where there was a bar that didn’t ask for ID. She couldn’t believe Mom let them camp on their own.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Mom argued, flapping Marly out of the way as she tried to wrestle the dogs out of the wagon. “I thought you’d be happy to have your own room.”

“My own…” Marly was crestfallen. Which was stupid, because having your own room should be great, but she couldn’t deny the deep sting she felt that the girls were finally ditching her for good. “What do you mean my own room? Where are Sylvie and Cilla going?”

“They want the boys’ room. Aunt Bet fancied it up this spring. She said she needed something to keep her busy while Uncle Don was on that work trip, remember? So she came up and did a bit of decorating. I’m sure I told you,” Mom said absently. “She thought the girls would enjoy a nice new nest.”

Marly was sure her mother hadn’t told her. Mom never remembered to tell Marly anything.

“Yoo-hoo!” her mother called as she opened the front door. “We’re here!”

There was the sound of big band music drifting through the house. The warblyness told Marly it was coming from the old wireless, which Aunt Bet kept in the kitchen so she and Mom could listen to it while they “cooked.” Their cooking looked a lot like sitting around yapping.

“Aunt Lori!” Sylvie came crashing down the stairs. For a skinny girl she crashed around a lot, Marly thought sourly. Sylvie was what Mom called “pert and perfect,” a five-foot three natural blonde who looked like she belonged in an advertisement for Coca-Cola. She was sporty and suntanned and always seemed about to burst into a cheer.

Marly secretly committed to memory all Sylvie’s little gestures and movements, wishing she could be half as pretty and peppy. Although she would have died if anyone had guessed.

Marly’s mom adored Sylvie. And Sylvie adored Mom. The two of them were mad for movie stars and swapped magazines all summer long: Modern Screen, Screen Stories, Silver Screen, Filmland. Sometimes they took Marly along to a double feature and occasionally they forced her to sit through the same film multiple times. The previous summer Marly had seen Singin’ in the Rain at least half a dozen times—she knew the dialogue by heart.

“Please tell me you brought your copies of Confidential, Aunt Lori!” Sylvie exploded as she reached the bottom of the stairs, her ponytail swinging vigorously. “Mom says I can only read it if you think it’s okay. Please say it’s okay or I’ll die. I’m the only girl in my class who hasn’t read it yet!” Sylvie was seventeen and prone to exaggeration.

Marly watched as her mom pursed her lips and gave the kitchen door a surreptitious look, just to check Aunt Bet wasn’t listening in. “If I lend it to you, you can’t let your mother see,” she whispered. “It’s very… adult.”

Normally that would have pricked Marly’s ears, but she knew that in this case “adult” just meant some old gossip was telling tales about Rita Hayworth or Frank Sinatra.

Sylvie didn’t deign to say hello to Marly; she was too busy conning Mom out of her magazines. She and Mom disappeared upstairs, Happy and Yappy scrambling along after them, leaving Marly all alone in the hall.

Marly went looking for Aunt Bet, who at least knew how to say hello to a girl. She found her aunt out on the back porch, watching the boys wrestling their tent as she sipped a glass of iced tea from the comfort of the swing. Sun streamed through the porch screens, golden and dusty. Aunt Betty was in her fifties, fleshy in a firm way, strong looking, with a square forehead and jaw, and bright blue eyes the color of a gas flame. She was wearing a billowy blue-and-white-striped sundress that made her look a bit like a beach ball.

“Hi,” Marly said, squinting out at her brothers, who weren’t winning their battle with the tent. So much for being Scouts.

“Hey, Peach. Oh, look at that, you’ve grown.” Aunt Bet’s gaze was fixed on Marly’s chest.

Marly flushed.

“Well, good for you. Did your mom get you a brassiere?”

Marly scowled at the memory and Aunt Bet laughed.

“My girls felt the same way.” She patted the swing next to her. “Come watch these boys for a while. It’s better than Abbott and Costello.”

Marly flopped down beside her and the swing arced forward.

“I made iced tea.” Bet gestured at the jugs on the coffee table. “But make sure you drink from the jug with the sailing boats on it, not the one with the seashells.”

“What’s in the one with the seashells?”

“Just a dash of vacation cheer.” Aunt Bet winked. “But don’t go telling Uncle Don—”

“—or he’ll drink it all.” Marly filled in the punchline. “Good thing he’s not here, then.”

Aunt Bet laughed when the boys’ tent collapsed on their heads. “Won’t it be nice to have the whole house just for us girls?” she said, bumping her shoulder against Marly’s. “Although I guess we’ll still have to share the bathroom.”

“Dad and Uncle Don will still be here on weekends,” Marly reminded her.