Page 21 of The Treasure House

When Aunt Bet headed outside to rescue the boys from themselves, Marly shuffled upstairs. She found her mom and Sylvie ensconced in the main bedroom, their excited chatter drifting through the open door as they discussed rumors that Debbie Reynolds was dating Eddie Fisher. Marly rolled her eyes. The two attic bedroom doors were wide open but there was no sign of Priscilla. Marly took the opportunity to snoop in her cousins’ new bedroom and discovered Aunt Bet really had done some decorating. The walls were painted a dreamy shade of pale pink, and the twin beds had been moved in from next door and covered with the flounciest of coverlets in dusky rose. There were gauzy mint-green curtains at the dormer window and fussy little pink lampshades with tassels on the brass lamps next to the beds. And there were pillows everywhere, all of them in rosebud prints with pink frills. It looked like something from a TV show.

Marly could just imagine Priscilla and Sylvie in here. Aunt Bet had probably bought them matching rosebud nightgowns too. Marly could smell their cold cream and talcum powder, as though they’d been here for weeks. But this year there was another scent too, brand new. Fancy. Adult. Aunt Bet had always forbidden the girls from wearing perfume, saying they were too young, but things had clearly changed. Priscilla was nineteen and had just finished her freshman year at Smith, and Marly could definitely smell real perfume. It was cloying and floral, like sticking your face in a dish of potpourri.

Marly was glad she didn’t have to sleep in that stink.

Or so she told herself. But in truth she was feeling painfully discarded. Secretly, she liked rooming with her cousins, even if she did have to sleep on a camp bed. She liked listening to them gossip about their friends and boys and cheerleading and what made a good husband and what they’d do after graduation. Now she’d be stuck on her own.

Marly was feeling sour and surly as she stepped into the other attic bedroom, the one she’d have all to herself now that the girls had a boudoir. The attic room under the oak tree had a cane double bed in the center of the room, sitting adrift on the circular blue rag rug. That was new. Marly opened the dormer window to clear out the odor of Cilla’s dead flower perfume, which had followed her in. The oak leaves outside snapped in the sea breeze like they were waving hello. Down in the garden, Marly could see Aunt Betty bossing the boys around. The roses were in full bloom, a riot of color planted by Marly’s grandmother decades before, and the lupines were thickly crowded spikes of purple.

Marly unpacked her things, which took all of two minutes, and then flopped on the bed, which was far comfier than the old folding cot. She stared at the sloping ceiling. The last couple of summers had been boring. There weren’t any kids her age in Oxeye. The place next door belonged to an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Stafford, who basically napped all the time. When they weren’t napping, they were complaining about the noise Marly and the others made. The rest of the houses on Tinker Street were owned by families with babies and toddlers. Other than that, the town was full of locals, none of them interested in a kid from Boston. Marly’s brothers didn’t want her around, and now neither did her cousins. She scowled at the ceiling.

Of all of them, Priscilla has always been the nicest to Marly. When Marly was little, Cilla had played with her, dressing her up and carrying her around, babying her. She’d gotten standoffish the last couple of years, though, not wanting to be hanging around with a kid all summer. Cilla thought of herself as grown up and tended to join Mom and Aunt Bet downstairs, pretending she was interested in their boring grown-up chat. Still, even talking to stuck-up Cilla was bound to be more fun than lying here, staring at the ceiling.

“Where’s Priscilla?” Marly demanded, barging into her mom’s room. Sylvie was curled up on the loveseat, bent double over the forbidden magazine.

The mention of Priscilla got Sylvie’s attention, though. Her head snapped up, her blue-gray eyes wide and gleeful. “Oh, didn’t my mom tell you? Cilla’s at luncheon at Saint-Cyr.”

“What?” Marly’s mother jerked as though she’d been kicked. She was unpacking her bags, folding her things into painfully neat rows in the drawers. Marly didn’t think she’d heard Mom say what so energetically since Frank Sinatra had an affair with Ava Gardner. Except maybe when Frank divorced his wife to marry Ava Gardner.

“I know!” Sylvie put aside her magazine to stress how momentous it all was. “And she was invited there by a boy.”

Mom joined Sylvie on the loveseat. “A boy!”

Marly collapsed into one of the overstuffed armchairs, giving up all hope of fun.

“She met him through her college roommate,” Sylvie said, lowering her voice dramatically. “He’s at Harvard. His family is staying at Saint-Cyr for the summer—or at least they are now. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had them change their vacation plans just so he could be close to Cilla.” Sylvie’s eyes were shining just like they did when she talked about celebrities.

“No! Surely not…” But Mom’s tone suggested it could be entirely possible. “Has your mother met him?”

Sylvie nodded so vigorously that it looked like her head might bounce right off. “Just this morning, when he came to collect her. He was driving a Chevy Bel Air in the most elegant gray, with—”

“Slow down, Sylvie. What did your mom think of him?”

“Oh, you know Mom. She thinks we should die old maids.”

Marly’s mom shook her head at that. “I think she just wants you to be safe and careful. You don’t know what boys can be like, honey.”

“Well, I think Mom liked him as best as she was able. He was so charming. Really, Aunt Lori, you’ll die when you meet him. He looks just like Montgomery Clift.”

Mom made a little sighing noise at that.

Marly kicked her heels against the floorboards. Was this what they were going to do all day?

Mom leaned forward. “What’s his name? What’s he studying? Tell me who his folks are! Are they from Boston or Philadelphia?”

“His name is Freddie de Marche and he’s at law school. That’s all I know. Cilla has been so close-mouthed, which is how I know it’s serious.”

“What do they eat for luncheon at Saint-Cyr?” Marly interrupted. “Prawn cocktail? And do they have one of those dessert carts, where they lift up the silver lids and you can pick what cake you want? Do you think Priscilla will have dessert, or will she say she’s watching her figure?” If Marly was there, she’d eat dessert. She wondered if they had lemon chiffon pie. Marly loved lemon chiffon pie. But of course, no one bothered to answer her questions; they were too busy fussing over what Priscilla had chosen to wear.

“She had new white gloves, luckily, because her old ones were horribly worn,” Sylvie explained. “And she wore her apricot dress with the full skirt, which looks awfully good on her, but I really thought she should have worn the green and white polka dot with the bow at the chin. It’s much more elegant.”

“If she’s lunching with his folks, it must be serious!”

“Indeed,” Sylvie said, satisfied with her aunt’s enthusiasm.

Marly left, assuming they wouldn’t notice, and they didn’t. She headed out to the beach, where she tried skimming stones, but mostly just ended up pelting them into the water.

Being fourteen-almost-fifteen was a total drag.