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While Rosalind shrieked and Gwendolyn blushed through an impromptu swimming lesson, Bea and I sat at a corner of the deep end, dipping our feet. Marta brought down a tray of biscuits and lemonade and set them on a table near the stairs, as far from the actual pool as possible. I gave her a little wave of thanks, but I couldn’t tell whether she saw it.
The down side of an indoor pool is the echo. Even whispers carry. So it was probably just as well Rosalind was carrying on like a drowning cat. To my immense gratification, whenever I peeked over at Liam, I could see his growing irritation with her. Meanwhile, he was really gentle and patient with Gwendolyn. Which, of course, only cause Rosalind to get louder and more obnoxious.
“So . . .” Bea began, forcing me back to the more pressing issues at hand.
“The Globe,” I said.
“Geography?” Bea asked.
“The Globe Theatre,” I clarified. “You know, the memorial thing for Dad.”
Bea gave an exaggerated nod of understanding. Then she said, “But I thought you didn’t want to go do the whole family-in-mourning-for-the-cameras thing.”
“I don’t,” I said. And I really didn’t. “But it might be a good chance to—” I was interrupted by the spattering end of a wave as someone (probably Liam) splashed someone else. “A good chance to, I don’t know, catch Eoin out?”
And there I had to admit I had no idea. “If I say I’d like to do something special . . .” I mused.
“Oh, like in Hamlet,” said Bea.
I’ve got to say this much for Bea: Even though my dad was the actor and the Shakespearean and all that, she’s got the better head for it. All those plays get jumbled in mine, but Bea can practically quote them all, just like Dad could. Whenever I try, I get the words all wrong.
Still, I knew enough Hamlet to know I was practically living it at the moment. I mean, I remembered the dead dad and the ghost, and that was exactly what I was dealing with, right? Bryce Dey was still treading the boards from beyond the grave, and I was the involuntary audience participation.
“Remind me,” I told Bea.
“When Hamlet tries to figure out if his uncle really killed his dad, he puts on a play. You know, that shows how the king, Hamlet’s dad, died. So he—Hamlet, I mean—can judge his uncle’s reaction.”
“A play about someone brushing their teeth doesn’t sound like a great memorial for my dad,” I said.
Bea laughed. “Sorry,” she said when she saw my face, “but it’d make for great tabloid copy.”
“Dey’s Daughter Goes Daft Over Daddy’s Demise,” I speculated. “Can you stay over tonight?”
Bea looked askance at her brother and my houseguests. “With them?”
“Please don’t leave me alone with them,” I said.
“We won’t get a chance to talk . . .”
“Sure we will. They have their own rooms, but you can sneak into mine after everyone’s asleep.”
Bea shrugged. “I’m sure my parents won’t mind. But I’ll need to go home for my stuff.”
“Have Liam bring it.” I stood up and went for a snack. After grabbing a biscuit and pouring a cup of lemonade, I threw a towel over my shoulders and headed out the glass door to the patio. It was cool out (April, after all), but the fresh air felt good after the stuffiness of the pool. Or “aquatorium” as my mother called it. She thinks she’s clever.
Bea followed me out and we sat in the cold chairs and nibbled our biscuits and sipped our drinks and didn’t talk for a long time.