Last Year's Mistake - Gina Ciocca Page 0,8
to contribute to the conversation. So I stood up and said, “Excuse me, I need to run to the ladies’ room. Good luck in Costa Rica.”
I didn’t have to look to know my mother’s mortified eyes were following me as I left the table.
By the time I came back, my father was on his feet, fists raised above his head in victory, people clapping and patting him on the back before drifting back to their own business. He’d actually won, and I didn’t get to see it because I’d been hiding in the bathroom.
“Good thing I took a picture,” my mother said pointedly. “You missed Daddy winning.”
I mumbled something unintelligible under my breath as we filed up to the front of the store to place the rest of our orders. That was the other part of our tradition: Once the competition was over, everyone else got their ice cream and we headed over to the Cliff Walk, the walking/biking trail between the mansions and the beach.
“So why didn’t you want to talk to those girls earlier?” David asked as he licked a glob of salted caramel from the softball-size mound on his cone. We had separated into groups as we walked, with Dad and Uncle Tommy at the front, Mom and Aunt Tess with Miranda between them in the middle, and David and me lagging in the back.
“Because I can’t stand when my mother tries to turn me into a social experiment. She thinks my personality is faulty because she enjoys starting random conversations with strangers and I don’t.” I kicked a pebble out of my way. “I get all paranoid that I’ll come off boring and stupid and they’ll end up thinking I’m lame anyway. Is it really so wrong to not like talking to people I don’t know?”
David nudged me with his elbow. “But you don’t know me.”
“Sure I do. You’re David. You think you have mad video game skills, and you definitely have a terrible Spanish accent.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “And you’re cool with that?”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t know how to explain that I didn’t click with people very often, but when I did, it was instant and lasting. David was one of those people who was just easy to be around.
“Ditto. And for what it’s worth, you’re not lame at all.” He looked thoughtful as he took another swipe at his cone. “I guess I’m the opposite. You seem really close with your family. I talk to everyone, and the only people I think suck are the ones I’m related to.” A hint of bitterness hardened his voice. It disappeared when he added, “Except my dad. He’s awesome.”
We stopped walking, eating in silence for a few seconds as David stared through the chain-link fence separating us from the expansive lawn behind the Astors’ sprawling mansion.
“Can you believe this place was built as a summer ‘cottage’?” he said. “I mean, if they made something this behemoth to live in for two months a year, can you imagine what their permanent house looked like?”
I hooked my fingertips around one of the wire links and stared dreamily at the stately windows and pillared wraparound porch. For an instant I pictured myself floating down the grand staircase inside with layers of Victorian ruffles billowing around my feet. Newport always had that effect—making me wish I could go back in time and spend a day in the shoes of the filthy rich Gilded Age elite. “I think I must’ve lived here in a past life. Maybe that’s why I love it so much.”
David’s eyes darkened. “Some people live here now and don’t even appreciate it.”
“Well,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood as we started moving again, “if my present-day luck is any indication, Past Kelsey was probably a scullery maid.”
That got a chuckle out of him. “You know, you’re pretty funny for someone with a defective personality.”
My father saved David from a retaliatory shove by yelling, “Slippery footing up ahead! Hold on to your cones!”
We’d reached the part of the Cliff Walk that lived up to its name—where the cement trail gave way to boulders and rocks without a guardrail in sight. The part that never failed to bring out my inner chickenshit.
“Um, you can go ahead if you want to,” I said, pulling the hem of my shorts over the mottled splotch David had noticed earlier. “I’m going to head back. I don’t think the ice cream is agreeing with my stomach.”
“No, I don’t want you to