Page 92 of Summers at the Saint
“Chrissy worked as a counselor at Little Minnows, while she was in high school,” Traci explained, sliding the menu to the side of the table. “You know what you want?”
“Whatever you’re having,” he said.
To his amazement, she ordered biscuits with sausage gravy, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and grits, and when the food arrived at their table shortly afterward, she tucked in like a… man. Which Whelan found refreshing.
She was slathering a packet of grape jelly on a biscuit but paused, the knife hovering above her plate.
“Whelan? What’s your story?”
“Me? No story. Just a guy trying to make an honest living.”
“C’mon. There’s more to you than that. I just spent the night at your apartment. While you were asleep this morning, I looked around. Lots of books, some original artwork. No nudie magazines or neon beer signs…”
“Really, I’m not that interesting.”
She took a bite of biscuit and chewed.
“I disagree. But also, what’s with all the bins of random stuff? Like, there must have been thirty or forty toothbrushes and tubesof toothpaste and hotel-sized bottles of shampoo and hand cream in there.”
Whelan debated trying to deflect her questions, but then decided to tell her the truth. What did he have to lose?
“I didn’t just come here for a job,” he admitted. “I came because I need some real answers.”
“Existential questions?”
“You asked about the bins. They belonged to my mom. She died last year, and I found all that stuff when I went to clean out her condo. She’d turned into kind of a hoarder.”
“I’m sorry,” Traci said.
“Me too. We hadn’t been close in a long time. My folks split up when I was a teenager, and I was sent to live with my dad’s family. She remarried and then she and Brad, the new husband, had a baby together. Funny little kid. I wasn’t around him that much, because by then I was an adult, and also because of Brad, but when we were together, he was like my shadow. And then, Hudson drowned, and my mom’s life went to shit.”
Traci’s eyes widened. “Did you say your little brother’s name was Hudson? And he drowned?”
Whelan nodded. “Summer of ’02. At the Saint.”
“Is this some kind of a stunt? I was one of the lifeguards on duty that day.”
Whelan calmly poured more coffee in both their mugs. “I know.”
“So what? You’re here to try and pin the blame on someone?” Traci balled up her paper napkin and tossed it onto the table.
“I am sorry for your loss. I am. It was heartbreaking, for all of us. But we did everything we could that day to save Hudson. It was an accident. One minute he was goofing around, trying to prank us, the next minute he was drowning.”
She pushed her chair away from the table, grabbing for her purse.
Whelan reached across the table and grabbed her wrist. “Don’t go. Please. Hear me out.”
She crossed her arms. “So talk.”
“I’m not blaming you, or your friend, the other lifeguard. But I need answers.”
“Why now? It was more than twenty years ago. Answers won’t bring back that little boy and they won’t bring back your mother.”
“But maybe it’ll give me some peace,” Whelan said. “My mother’s life went completely off the rails after Hudson. Brad blamed her. He left, and she basically came out of the marriage with nothing, because he made her look like a neglectful parent. She was never the same after that. She’d been this vibrant, outgoing woman…”
Traci’s attitude visibly softened. “I remember her. Sort of. Her name was Kasey, right?”
He nodded.
