Crimson And Clover

1

It was summer again in Cantonsville, Frank's 23rd summer in the town, and the place was in full swing.

Cantonsville was a summer place. Its most popular attraction was the beach, and the various arcades dotted along the pier. Frank had been going there every summer since he was three, to see his family and from the age of eighteen, he'd helped out at the beach café run by his grandparents.

He didn't mind Cantonsville. It was quieter than NJ, and there were less shops, but at least it was more relaxed. He didn't have to worry about being late for anything, and he could go out for beachside strolls whenever he wanted.

At that particular moment, Frank was in the passenger seat of the car, his mom driving. They were driving up a steep hill and Frank could just about make out the huge Cantonsville Clock Tower in the distance, about ten minutes away in the car. The sun was shining warmly and only a few small, wispy white clouds bounced across the blue sky. Frank closed his eyes and imagined the roar of the sea in his ears, the smell of the salt and the seaweed, the feel of the sand under his bare feet, or the smooth stones he used to skim when he was little, or the waves as they pushed on his ankles as he paddled. He remembered building sandcastles with some kid with black hair-or brown, Frank wasn't sure, but he knew the hair colour was dark. Frank knew the kid's name began with a G. Graham, he thought it was. He remembered seeing the kid a lot when he was little, and he had a feeling that the kid's parents owned a holiday home there or something. The kid was a damn good swimmer, Frank could remember that.

The car slowed on the brow of the hill, and Frank looked out of the window, smiling. Cantonsville hadn't really changed much in the years he'd been coming. Sure, the buildings had been modernised, but the place still managed to retain the sleepy, old timey feeling of the past years. He liked that.

He closed his eyes and let the feel of nostalgia take him back as the car drove down the hill and into the town.

--------------------------------------

"Frankie! Come stai?"

Frank's grandma smiled and kissed her grandson's cheeks, smiling widely.

"Bene, grazie." He smiled and returned the gesture. Although all of his family spoke English, it was almost a tradition to greet each other in Italian. Frank didn't mind it. It made sure his Italian didn't get rusty, after all.

"Where's grandpa?" Frank asked, and smiled when he saw a white-haired man in a maroon jumper, beige trousers and slippers enter the room. He shuffled over and hugged Frank.

"Merda, you've grown." He smiled, and Frank chuckled softly.

"I'll always be short, Papi. Don't try and make me feel better." He smiled and headed into the back, where the bungalow the couple lived in was attached. Frank, his mother and his grandparents all sat down on the large purple velvet sofa, and his Grandma got up after a moment.

"I'll get us all a coffee. Linda, you probably need it after the drive." She chuckled lightly, and shuffled off to the kitchen.

----------------------

"Hey, tiny tot. It's been a year."

Patrick smiled when he saw Frank walk along the pier. Frank chuckled softly and raised an eyebrow.
"And you're what? An inch taller?" He laughed, rolling his eyes and looking over at the sea, where the sunset had begun to descend on the sky, tinging it pink.

The beach was still pretty crowded, Frank noticed. There was a healthy amount of surfers still riding the waves, and Frank wasn't surprised in the slightest. Cantonsville was famed for the high waves.

Patrick smiled. "Remember when we used to surf over there as kids?" He chuckled lightly. "And that kid who could swim like a fucking dolphin? What was his name now?"

"It began with a G. Graham, I think. Or Gray. Or Gerald. Probably Graham." Frank shrugged. "My mom used to call him Guppy."

"I swear I still see him occasionally. He was like, two years older than you, so that makes him..." Patrick trailed off.

"28 or 29." Frank shrugged. "Wonder if I'll see him while I'm working. Doubt I will, though. I see hundreds of tourists at that place."

"I saw him every year when I came as a kid. I bet his parents had a holiday place here. Or a caravan, there's a caravan park about fifteen minutes from here." Patrick smiled.

Frank nodded. "They probably sold up though." He shrugged and looked down at his tattooed hands. "Billie's tattoo parlour still open? I might get me some new ink while I'm out here."

Patrick nodded and pointed to a large building, Billie J's illuminated by flashing lights on a large sign. Frank chuckled softly. Typical Billie, being larger than life. He made a mental note to head there when he had the time-he was gonna be here until October 10th, the last day his grandparents regarded as tourist season.

Patrick looked down at his watch. "It's seven thirty. I'd better go. Eliza's probably losing her shit and worrying."

Frank raised an eyebrow.
"New girlfriend." Patrick explained. Frank seemed a little shocked at that. Patrick always seemed to have had eyes for Pete Wentz, one of the pro surfers, but Frank knew all too well to hold his tongue and so he kept his mouth shut as Patrick walked off.

"Well..." Frank thought to himself. "...I should probably head back too."

-------------------------------

Frank sat on the bed in the spare room he always stayed in, looking at the small photo album in his hands. His grandma had found it out earlier and given it to him so he could see all of the things from when he was a kid.

The first photo was of him clutching a teddy bear almost as big as him in the arcade. He didn't remember that one, and he looked like he was maybe three or four. No, wait, he could remember a little of it. He was definitely three, and this was his first visit to Cantonsville.

The second picture was of a day he had no recollection of at all. He was sitting on a wall by the beach, next to a chubby kid in red swimming trunks that could have only been Patrick. They looked about five, and both of them had ice creams. Frank's was clearly mint chip and Patrick's was strawberry.

He could remember the day of the third picture. He was nine, standing beside his first surfboard that his grandpa had made for him. The kid whose name had eluded him-Frank had settled on calling him Graham-was standing next to him, eating a cheese sandwich, and Patrick was behind the board, head peeking over the top.

It was then that he noticed something weird.

The Graham kid had webbed fingers.