The Dead of Summer Page 8

  My anger rushed back in full force. Of course it did. Could I expect anything less than that from Lindy?

  “I’ll have her up in no time,” Carson told me before he squatted next to Lindy and patted her shoulder gently. “I know it hurts and we’re gonna get you to a doctor, but first you need to calm down so that we can help you.”

  Her head jerked up as she looked at him and broke into a broad grin, obviously completely forgetting about the “agonizing pain” she was just in.

  “What are you going to do?” Lindy asked, with what Mama Grace used to call “crocodile tears” glistening in her eyes.

  “We’re gonna lift you under the arms and help you walk down the path,” Carson said crouching while next to Lindy. I reluctantly squatted on the other side. We both wrapped her waif-like arms over our shoulders and lifted at the same time. She tilted dangerously close to the ground on my side.

  “Owwwww!” Lindy howled. “That hurts too much. I can’t make it like that.” She jutted out her bottom lip and pouted at Carson. I seethed, steam nearly coming out my ears.

  “Okay, put her down,” Carson instructed, and we lowered her gently to the ground even though I was tempted to drop her on her bony butt.

  “What now?” Lindy asked in her injured voice.

  “I think we need to splint your leg,” Carson said seriously, turning his head away from Lindy. Only I could see that dimple deepening, Carson fighting back a smile.

  “Splint?” Lindy used her high-pitched damsel-in-distress voice. I wanted to throw up in my mouth.

  “Yeah. I was a first-aider where I used to live. I rode the ambulance with the squad and shadowed them. You can’t do actual first aid until you’re seventeen and. . .well, we left before then.”

  His face clouded over, but only I noticed. Lindy was too busy fanning herself like Scarlett O’Hara about to swoon.

  “That sounds very complex. Do you think I need to go to the hospital?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But we’re going to have to find something to splint your leg with and then carry you all the way down the hill.”

  Did he think that she would protest, not wanting to be carried and that would get her to her feet? Oh, Carson. . .you amateur. Attention is what Lindy Lincoln lives for.

  Well, I wasn’t going to stand for it today. Lindy had ruined my day and I was determined to have a little fun at her expense. Even though I knew Carson would suggest a branch or piece of wood to splint Lindy, I had a different suggestion.

  “Hey, you’ve got the perfect splint in the picnic basket!” I pointed out. I caught Carson’s eye, jerking my head toward the bread sticking out of the top, and he immediately registered understanding.

  “That’s a great idea, Kennedy!” He grabbed the loaf of French bread out of the basket.

  Confused, Lindy asked, “What. . .what are you going to do with that?”

  Carson pulled his t-shirt over his head and I quickly I averted my eyes from the shirtless Carson, as I knew it would just my heart race like a pack of wild cheetahs across the Savannah. Instead, I looked down at the bottom half of Lindy’s leg which Carson had now tied his t-shirt to. Lindy looked incredibly uncomfortable. . .and not from her ankle pain, either.

  “This is a bit, much, don’t you think? Can’t you just carry me down in your arms?” She batted her eyelashes, which got stuck in her clumped mascara. Her face twitched and contorted. She quickly turned away from Carson so he wouldn’t see her slide her fingers between her eyelids to pry them apart. But I could, and I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing at her predicament.

  Carson ignored her as he squatted behind Lindy and tucked his hands underneath her armpits. “Kennedy, can you hold Lindy’s legs while I lift her under the arms and carry her back down?”

  I simply nodded; what other choice did I have, really? Lindy was still playing along with this charade so I needed to “help” her. Never mind the fact that I really wanted to leave her here and let the coyotes munch on her innards. Okay, maybe not her innards. . .just maybe to take a little off her face. And her hair. Definitely her hair.

  I crouched by Lindy’s feet and slid my arms underneath them. First the one that had been made into a giant baguette and then the gluten-free leg.

  “Easy, Kennedy!” Lindy said. I sucked in my breath and started counting to ten in my head, the method I usually employed rather than punching her in the face.

  “Sorry,” I told her, trying to sound as genuine as possible.

  “On my count of three, we’re gonna lift her and carry her down the trail. I’m gonna walk backward so I’m gonna need you to keep an eye out so I don’t trip over sticks or a root sticking out of the ground or anything.”

  I nodded as I gripped Lindy’s legs. Thankfully we hadn’t gotten too far up the trail so it wouldn’t take us that long to get her back down. I hoped.

  “Ready?” Carson asked, and I bobbed my head. “One, two, lift!”

  As Carson stood up, I gently lifted Lindy’s weightless legs (even as a sub sandwich, her leg weighed practically nothing) and rose to my feet, trying desperately not to fall in the process. All I needed was to break her like a wishbone; she’d never forgive me for that.

  “Ouch. It hurts,” Lindy moaned anyway, her lashes fluttering as she tipped her chin toward Carson’s face. I was pretty sure she was practicing for an Emmy.

  Carson ignored her, checking behind him before walking backward toward the house. We slowly traveled to the backyard, seamlessly walking in tandem, ignoring Lindy’s little cries of “Ooh” and “Ouch” and protests that we were being too rough. When we reached the yard, Carson halted and glanced around as if looking for something.

  “What are you looking for?” Lindy asked.

  “Is there some place that we can put her down?” he asked, directing the question toward me.

  “There’s a lounge chair over there on the terrace,” I told him, with a jerk of my head.

  “Put me down?” Lindy squeaked desperately. “Why are you going to put me down?”

  “Well, you didn’t think we were going to carry you like this to the hospital did you?” Carson asked as he shuffled backward toward the deck. “As fun as this adventure has been, my back is cramping up.”

  Lindy sulked as we lowered her to the chaise lounge. “Well what now?” she inquired in a baby voice. I had a feeling she would have liked it if we had carried her all the way to the hospital like that. I could just imagine her pouty face as she waved glumly to everyone we passed throughout the neighborhood.

  “Oh, Lindy what happened?” Mrs. Forester would gush as she tended to her begonias.

  Lindy would fan herself and sob while Mrs. Benson rushed over with a refreshing pitcher of lemonade—

  “Kennedy!”

  Carson’s sharp voice roused me from my daydream.

  “Huh? What? Did you say something?” I asked sheepishly.

  He kind of scowled. “Yeah I asked if you knew Lindy’s mama’s number. Do you?”

  I stared at him for a second and then down at Lindy. “Don’t you know your mama’s number?”

  She smiled coyly and replied, “It’s in my phone and my phone is in my room. And I just can’t remember the number right now. It must be from the trauma.” She waved her hand toward her leg and shot me a cunning smile.

  I glanced at Carson. His face told me he didn’t buy her story either.

  I dug in my pocket for my own phone, but of course, I didn’t have Mrs. Lincoln’s number. I turned to Carson and placed my own hand lightly on his arm.

  “Could you go see if Maria is in the house? She would have Mrs. Lincoln’s number.”

  “No!” Lindy yelped. We both turned our heads to stare at her and she quickly said, “Why don’t you go, Kennedy? She knows you. Why, if she saw a strange boy in the house she’d be liable to shoot at Carson, now wouldn’t she?”

  I pursed my lips together and swallowed my angry response. Maria would be no more likely to shoot an intruder than I woul
d. Hell, the worst she’d do would be to throw a shoe at him and then crawl into a cabinet or something. As far as I knew, she didn’t even know how to shoot a gun. I now knew what game Lindy was playing. It was, “get Kennedy to leave so Lindy can be alone with the boy.” I hated that game.

  “Well, I can just go and get your phone then,” I told her, challenging her with my eyes.

  Lindy’s eyes narrowed into slits. I knew her phone was in her back pocket. She didn’t even go to pee without it.

  “I want Maria,” she hissed.

  “Fine,” I mumbled through clenched teeth as I stomped off on the cobbled walkway that led to the house. The walkway was uneven on purpose (Mr. Lincoln claimed it gave it “old world charm”, whatever the hell that was) and I had to be careful as I walked so I didn’t trip. My luck, I’d break my nose—my only saving grace of my features. I climbed the steps to the deck and eventually reached the back door. As I put my hand on the knob, I could hear a high-pitched giggle coming from the general direction of the lounge chair.

  “Damn her,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped into the cooled and seemingly empty mansion. “Maria!” I called out as I wandered into the kitchen, where I would normally find the housekeeper. The kitchen was empty except for a rack of cupcakes waiting to be iced. Probably for Mrs. Lincoln’s garden club or something. I stuck my arm out to grab one but then I remembered the discomfort from having to lie on my bed to zip up my jean shorts that morning.

  Cupcake-less, I left the kitchen and entered the main vestibule. “Maria?” My words bounced off the marbled walls making my voice sound hallow. I had been in this house at least five million times, but always with Lindy. I had never been here alone and I suddenly felt scared. A chill passed over me and I hugged my arms to my body, as if that would warm me up. This wasn’t a normal chill, it was that shiver you get for no reason, what Mama Grace used to say was “someone walking over your grave”.

  Her words echoed through my head as I continued down the hallway, poking my head in the doorways, calling out for Maria, praying I would see her in the living room, dusting the rarely used furniture.

  Nope, no Maria in here. I peeked into the downstairs guest bathroom, imagining Maria with a toilet wand in her hand. Wrong again. I checked in the rec room, wondering if Maria was in there, getting ready to vacuum. No such luck. I stood back in the vestibule considering my choices. I could go back outside and tell them I couldn’t find Maria, and Lindy would miraculously recall her mama’s phone number, which was not bound to happen because it would interrupt her whole “pretend to be an invalid” game, or I could climb the stairs and search for Maria on the second floor.

  With a heavy hearted sigh, I picked the latter. “Maria!” I called out as I reached the landing.

  “Kennedy?” Maria was coming out of Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom, dragging the vacuum cleaner behind her. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you going on a picnic with Lindy?”

  “Lindy fell and she needs help. She’s outside in the backyard and she needs you.” And I need to get Carson away from her! I turned on my heel, heading down the staircase.

  “Dios mio!” Maria was gasping as she followed me down the stairs. “Is there blood? I don’t like blood.” I knew this to be a fact because one time when we were playing in the yard, Lindy had a nosebleed and came up to the back door, scaring Maria with all the blood gushing down her face. Maria screeched and slammed the door in her face. She wouldn’t let her in till she cleaned up with the garden hose.

  “No, there’s no blood,” I assured her. Just a whole lot of swooning and drama.

  “Oh good. Thank heavens,” Maria said as her feet hit the floor of the vestibule.

  “She says she needs to go to the hospital, but she can’t remember her mama’s number. I think an adult will have to sign her in at the hospital,” I explained as we chugged along toward the back of the house, me practically dragging Maria.

  Maria dug her feet into the floor, causing me to stop. I had no choice; Maria was ten times sturdier than I was with her thick calves in her black orthopedic shoes. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Miss Lindy don’t know her mama’s phone number now?” She pursed her lips together as if she was thinking really hard. “Did she hit her head? I bet there’s gonna be blood if she don’t remember her mama’s phone number.” She was shaking her head doubtfully, her huge gold hoop earrings clacking loudly against her fleshy cheeks.

  “She didn’t hit her head. She just twisted her ankle,” I reassured her. Then, I conspiratorially lowered my voice. “There’s a boy out there. She’s putting on an act for him, making it like she’s more hurt than she actually is.” I lowered my eyes so Maria wouldn’t be able to tell how utterly ticked off I was by the whole ordeal.

  Maria sighed heartily and shook her head again, this time in a more jovial manner. “Oh, that Miss Lindy. She sure is a piece of work,” she said with a chuckle. She shuffled over to the back door, laughing and shaking her head.

  “She sure is,” I mumbled to myself as I trailed behind her.

  EIGHT

  After I summonsed her, Maria called an ambulance. She had reached Mrs. Lincoln’s cell after the ambulance arrived to transport Lindy to the ER. Lindy had squeezed Carson’s hand and begged him to ride on the ambulance with her, but the ambulance driver told her that only Maria could go. Lindy had pouted, but Carson and I had waved happily as the ambulance doors closed, finally leaving us alone.

  “We should take the picnic basket and have our own picnic,” he had suggested. “Minus the French bread, of course.”

  I had been about to ask whatever we would do without French bread (insert sarcasm here), my heart nearly bursting with excitement, when Mrs. Lincoln had come screeching up the driveway.

  “Where did they take her?” she had asked, leaning out the driver side window. I had forgotten it was Wednesday, David’s day off.

  “The hospital,” I answered, pointing toward town.

  “Well, don’t just stand there catching flies!” She threw open the passenger side. “Get in!”

  My mouth dropped open. “But I…” Were both Lincolns determined to wreck any chance I had with Carson?

  “Now!” Mrs. Lincoln yelled. “We don’t have all day!”

  I shrugged my shoulders apologetically at Carson and stepped off the side walk. Carson grabbed my arm and pressed his mouth to my ear. “Meet me on the path by the marsh at midnight,” Carson whispered.

  I stared at him for a second, not sure what to say. I had never snuck out at night before. Nobody had ever given me reason to. I wasn’t sure how I’d manage it. Mama was a very light sleeper. But hell, for Carson, I’d walk across hot coals, so I’d figure out a way. I nodded as I waved at him and climbed into Mrs. Lincoln’s car. She backed out of the driveway at a speed that caused my head to hit the seat.

  And so, I reluctantly ended up a passenger for Mrs. Lincoln’s try-out for the Indy 500 down all the side streets of our town; her attempt at “taking a short cut” that actually took us ten minutes longer and shaved at least four years off my life.

  When we got there and approached the front desk looking for Lindy, the receptionist made it quite clear that Lindy was already making a nuisance of herself. She had apparently “fired” a nurse when she told her they couldn’t give her Percocet without a doctor’s order, and that furthermore, it was not routine to give a narcotic for a sprained ankle. Mrs. Lincoln was livid that anyone dare deny her daughter Percocet—she was probably looking to swipe a few in the process—so she demanded to speak with the nurse’s supervisor. The supervisor promptly backed up her staff nurse and that went over with Mrs. Lincoln like a fart in church.

  After several temper tantrums on the part of both Lindy and Mrs. Lincoln (and also a janitor named Luis who got upset when Mrs. Lincoln kicked over his bucket of water), five hours, and at least three Valium later—for Mrs. Lincoln, not Lindy—we were on our way back to Lindy’s house with a Percocet script and an ace bandage wrapped
around the princess’s elevated ankle.

  “Now Lindy, you’re going to have to be careful with that ankle. I want you to prop it up on your bed and no wandering around the house all night,” Mrs. Lincoln was instructing as she turned down a side street, nearly hitting two kids setting up a lemonade stand.

  “Of course,” Lindy mumbled while rolling her eyes at me. I wasn’t fooled. She was lavishing her mama’s attention. This made up for the fact that Carson had escaped from her grasp.

  “Maria, we’re going to need you to stay with Lindy tonight,” she continued as she swerved into the driveway and bounded over the curb. I could see where Lindy got her keen driving skills from.

  “What? Why?” Lindy asked at the same time as Maria said, “Sorry, Mrs. Lincoln, I can’t stay. It’s my mama’s birthday today.”

  “But I have a fundraiser dinner tonight and James is out of town!” Mrs. Lincoln wailed. Lindy also inherited her mama’s negotiating skills. “Lindy can’t stay alone! Surely you can have cake another night!”

  “I can’t stay tonight,” Maria said firmly. “My mama is ninety-seven years old. Who knows if she’ll live to see tomorrow, let alone another birthday.”

  “Well, I guess you’re just gonna have to miss the dinner then,” Lindy said smugly from the backseat.

  Mrs. Lincoln shook her head. “I can’t. I’m head of the committee. And I got the most darling blue dress to wear—it’ll have that Missy Jorgensen spitting bullets,” she mused.

  “Maybe Miss Kennedy can stay instead,” Maria suggested. I shot laser-beams at the back of her head full of black curls. I certainly did not want to stay. I was supposed to meet Carson at midnight. Was everyone sabotaging my chance at romance?

  “I can’t. Mama wants me home tonight…” I stammered. So I can sneak out and meet a boy in the woods.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Lincoln said as she climbed out of the car. “I’ll call her and explain the situation. It’s all settled then. You’ll take care of Lindy tonight.” She waved me off as she sashayed up the driveway, her gold Louboutins clacking on the cobblestones.