He lifted his leg to begin his ascent, but Ann pulled him back. “Later. We need to get going.” She swung the door shut with a disheartening thud.
Michael wanted to explore the house, but the girls explained that they’d stay only long enough to change into swimsuits and head straight to the beach. This was a family tradition, the first thing they did after their annual drive halfway across the country from Milwaukee to Wellfleet. But Michael wasn’t ready to leave.
The house had seemed peaceful and dark when they’d first walked in, as if it were sleeping. It wasn’t like any home he’d ever been in. It even smelled different, because it sat closed up all winter long. Now the house was already buzzing with life. Connie pulled the sheets off the furniture. Michael walked to the couch to help her, but his mind was still on those stairs. He wanted to know where he’d sleep—no, he needed to know. He’d spent too many nights not knowing.
Ed walked with purpose to the window and pulled up the heavy wood blind with a hearty yank of the yellowed cord. Dust rose and lingered like confetti in the abrupt sunlight, revealing four playing cards, all aces, nailed to the wall above the door to the sunporch.
“What are those?” Michael asked.
Ed smiled. “Oh, that’s the stuff of legend. My grandfather Cullen, he won this house in a game of poker.”
“He won a whole house in a game?”
“They were gambling out here. The homeowner, Hopkinson, he’d built the newer house next door to be closer to the cove. At the time, this was just the back house—his man cave. Anyway, Cullen was way up. Hopkinson was low on chips but he wanted to stay in for one last game. He had a winning hand, and you know what he did? He bet the house.”
“The house?” Michael couldn’t imagine being so reckless.
“Well, at that time it wasn’t worth a plug nickel. And Hopkinson, you know, he didn’t think he’d lose. He had four kings. But that was Cullen’s hand.” Ed pointed at the playing cards, pinned unevenly to the wall and stained from the long, rusty nails. “He’d tell that story to anyone who would listen.”
Connie playfully swatted Ed on the behind with the dust rag she was holding. “You’ll tell it to anyone who will listen.” She wiped down the top of the bookcase. “The little room next to ours is a birthing room, where women had their babies so they could stay warm near the fire. And this room we’re in, this is called a keeping room.” She was happy to show off the old house, and clearly happy to finally be there. “See these tall, thin doors? They called them courting doors because of the tiny windows above them.” She pointed up. “For spying.”
Poppy opened a cabinet on the side of the large, squat fireplace that dominated the room. “They used to bake bread in here,” she said. “Check this out. This is the best part.” She walked over to a bookcase on the other side of the fireplace and gave it a push, revealing a hidden compartment one or two small people might fit in if they huddled together. “A hiding place.”
“To hide from what?” Michael asked.
“Well, as you can imagine, back in the day the natives weren’t too happy with the colonists.” Ed’s statement was innocent enough, but it hit Michael sideways, heightening his awareness of insiders and outsiders, natives and impostors.
Still, he was happy to be there. More than happy. He found the house, with its leathery smell and unexpected spaces, even more magical than he’d anticipated—as magical as he found the Gordon family with their traditions, games, inside jokes, Sunday dinners, and summer vacations “out East.”
Ann emerged from the bedroom. He looked beyond her and saw her clothing already scattered all over the twin beds in the room she and Poppy shared. She adjusted the shoulder straps of her suit with a snap. “Let’s go. I’m dying to swim.” Ann dabbed some Coppertone on her cheeks. The room smelled suddenly of coconut. He wished he could reach out and smooth out the glob of lotion next to her nose that she’d missed.
“You go ahead,” he said. “I can wait here.”
“Don’t you want to see the back shore?”
He did, he supposed, but he hated the idea of leaving. “I want to unpack.”
Ann walked toward the door. “You’ve got all summer to unpack. Come on, get changed.”
“I’ll just wear my shorts,” Michael said.
He didn’t want to tell her that he didn’t own a swimsuit.
* * *
MICHAEL RACED DOWN THE DUNE behind the girls, so intent on staying steady in the deep, rust-colored sand that he didn’t look up or ahead as he followed their winding tracks around beach blankets, Frisbee players, coolers, sandcastles, and the lifeguard stand. They stopped just short of the surf. Michael stood next to Ann and stared in awe at the limitless expanse of blue sky and churning gray water spread out in front of him. His lungs and legs burned. He’d seen Lake Michigan plenty of times. The lake was just a puddle compared to the Atlantic. The ocean was as frightening as it was beautiful. He felt as if he were standing at the mouth of a massive and hungry living thing.
Poppy squealed with delight when a wave broke against her leg. She was always in her own world, daydreaming and doodling palm trees on her folders and the textbook covers she made out of old grocery bags and Scotch tape. She changed when she got near the water. It was as if he could see her snap into herself, become her own person.
“It’s even colder than I remembered.” Poppy’s smile was broad, her shoulders glistened, and the thick rope of her braid hung over one bare shoulder. He’d always been so preoccupied with Ann that he felt as if he was only now seeing Poppy. Her looks were more rugged and outdoorsy than Ann’s. Poppy didn’t seem like she’d just arrived at the beach; it was as if she’d been there all along. “Put your foot in, Michael.”
The girls watched Michael expectantly as he took in the rise, curl, and crash of waves against the shore. He couldn’t move. He was overwhelmed by both the power of the surf and the girls’ intense focus on him. He began to feel there was something pressingly selfish about their interest, as though they didn’t really care if he connected to Cape Cod; what they wanted was for him to recognize their attachment to the place.
“C’mon,” Poppy said in her dreamy voice, splashing the water like a dancer. “It’s amazing.”
“It’s cold at first,” Ann said, “but you’ll get used to it.”
He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t shake his fear that the Gordons could still change their mind about him. During the drive out, he was convinced they’d leave him stranded at a gas station or rest stop. He couldn’t believe they’d asked him to come along to this place Ed called “the outermost Cape.” “Outermost” was right: it seemed about as different and as far away as he could possibly get from Milwaukee.
He thought he’d known what to expect. Poppy and Ann had shown him their scrapbooks stuffed with pictures of Wellfleet. The photos made the place seem quiet and peaceful, and he looked forward to going there the way his mother had talked about going to heaven. He hadn’t anticipated the wind ripping in his ears, the ocean roaring like a freight train, and the girls staring at him.