Page 14 of What August Heard
The water was cold enough to be a shock and warm enough to stay in. We waded in up to our knees and stood there, the three of us in a line, the waves coming in low and easy.
“Why,” Callie said, “did my brother have to bring her.”
“Because he likes her,” I said.
“He does not like her.”
“He’s dating her, Callie.”
“He’s punishing himself with her,” Callie said. “There’s a difference.”
“He loves August,” Poppy said.
We both looked at her.
She was looking at the horizon. She said it the way she said most things — like she was reporting the weather. Like it was a fact she had verified from multiple sources and was simply sharing for the benefit of the group.
“Poppy, how do you—” I stopped. “What makes you say that?”
She turned and looked at me. She looked at me the way a very old person looks at a very young one, which was impressive given that she was nine and I was twenty-four.
“Everyone on this beach can see it,” she said. “By how he looks at you.” She paused. “He’s looking at you right now, actually.”
Callie and I both turned at the same time.
“Not together!” Poppy said, too late.
We had already turned together. Fletcher was sitting in the sand next to the half-finished sandcastle, and the second we turned he looked away, fast, his eyes going somewhere out to sea.
I turned back to the water.
My heart was doing something completely unacceptable.
“He looks miserable,” Callie said, also turning back. “Did you hear them earlier? That whole argument about the gala and the woman in the red swimsuit and that poor little boy in the bucket hat?”
“I heard some of it.”
“I heard all of it,” Callie said. “I was sitting right there pretending to drink my lemonade. He looked like a man eating food he doesn’t like because he ordered it and now he has to finish it.” She shook her head. “He does this to himself. He finds some twisted way to make himself suffer and then he just— leans into it.”
“Maybe Margaux isn’t all bad,” I said. “Maybe she just says things without thinking. Maybe she means well.”
Poppy turned to look at me.
“What evidence do you have,” she said, “that she means well? To anyone. So far today.”
I opened my mouth.
I closed it.
“I don’t like her,” Poppy said. “She looks at me like she doesn’t want me here.” She said it without any particular emotion, like she was noting an observable fact. “I like you. You always want me here. Fletcher should marry you.”
“Poppy.” I almost choked on a wave. “That is a very large leap.”
“It’s not a leap. It’s a logical conclusion.” She waded forward slightly, the water hitting her waist. “He will marry you. After he figures out that Margaux is only here for the Calloway name.”
“How do you know things like that?” Callie said. She was looking at Poppy like she was a puzzle that kept adding pieces. “You’re in fourth grade.”
“Trivia books.” Poppy waded a little further. “And history. History is full of women who married rich men for their family names and not for love. It says so in many books. It happened a lot. And as the saying goes, history repeats itself.” She nodded once, confirming her own point.
