“What, you don’t approve?”
Speed-reader and mind reader. I shook my head, clearing it. “I just don’t know too much about it. I enjoy regular reading too much to even consider reading for speed.”
“Not surprising, after what Bryn was carrying on about last night.”
Instant burn through my fingers, my skin; I felt the bloom of every red flower I could name under my cheeks.
Thankfully, Asher had already turned toward the preowned section. He shelved the King book. “Well, it helps with plowing through textbooks and those pesky required novels for lit classes.”
I heard a weird, breathy noise, mingling with the low Sinatra anthem coming from the speakers. I realized it came from me.
“I learned the speed skills the last part of junior year.” Quick shrug. “Figured I’d master it before...college.” On the last word, the light left his eyes. I wondered why. “But I’m betting you still think it’s a sacrilege.”
I wound my way around the counter. “I’ve never considered any book, especially a novel or work of literature, something you should ‘plow through.’ The whole point of reading is savoring the story, immersing yourself in a whole new place. Maybe one that doesn’t even exist.” Escaping, hiding, trading your life for another. “How can you rush that?”
He followed, leaning his forearms on the wood top. “Assumption—you hate e-readers, too.”
One step back, horrified hands over my heart.
He laughed. “I won’t say the K-word, then.”
I had to snicker. “Holding a real book is like holding something alive. There’s the grit of the pages between your fingers as you turn them. The edges get soft and worn. With a real book, you feel the weight of the story more.” My eyes unconsciously flitted to the copy of Peter Pan poking out from my tote. Then I looked up, met Asher’s gaze. “Speed-reading just squashes the whole experience. You miss detail and pacing, and everything the author intended you to feel in the first place.”
“Maybe I just like fast things,” Asher said, and the words seemed to jump from every mystery novel on the shelves, inking between us. “You’re wrong about one point, though. I don’t miss any story details by speed-reading.”
I raised a doubtful brow.
“Ask me anything from the first five chapters of that King novel.”
“What’s the famous menu item Al’s Diner is known for?”
Asher immediately said, “The Fatburger.”
“Impressive.”
“What’s more impressive is you didn’t have to consult the book to find something.”
I blushed again at the compliment. “Looks like we each have our special talents.”
I expected another laugh from Asher, but got the opposite. His face dropped—not into the dour frown I first got from him. More a softening of his sharp features, tinged with a hint of sadness.
He cleared his throat. “I should probably get back to the center. Drywall won’t hang itself.”
“Since you’re working for your uncle, hopefully he’s more laid-back than my boss.”
His brows jumped. “Um?”
“Tess filled me in,” I said hurriedly. “She said you’re doing some construction work for him?” More like Marisol’s gossip train had done the filling.
Asher nodded. “Yeah, they needed a new conference room and break area. But I have two bosses, in a way. My other uncle’s actually a contractor, and he’s giving Uncle Mike a deal on the work. He hired out the foundation job, so I’m just tag-teaming with my cousin on framing and finish work. I’m hoping to finish up before I start classes at the esteemed and prestigious San Diego State campus next semester.”
“You don’t seem too excited. State’s a good school. I’m applying there for the fall.”
He frowned. Glanced at his shoelaces, then back at me. “It is a great school. It’s just not Annapolis.”
I knew next to nothing about the U.S. Naval Academy in Maryland, only that it was überhard to score an acceptance letter. “You wanted to go to Annapolis?”
“I was going to Annapolis,” he corrected. “Always wanted to, since I was a kid. I got the final acceptance confirmation in April, just like my dad and my grandpa, years ago. I was all set, too—decent SAT scores, passed the interview, got a nomination letter from our local congressman. But now the family legacy ends with me.” He rubbed his left leg, reading the silent question in my eyes. “Annapolis wants the most mentally, emotionally, and physically fit candidates they can find. Unfortunately, there are no slots for ‘bionic knee boy.’”
Ahh... The limp. The measured movements. “Your accident?”
“Yeah. It happened in Del Mar and left me pretty banged up. My truck was totaled, and my left knee was shattered and completely rebuilt. Plenty of people and time to help rehab my leg, but there’s no rehab for a shredded acceptance letter. State was all I could manage, but I had to wait a semester.”
“I’m so sorry.” What else could I say? He looked so forlorn, and any words I could add seemed too small to dignify his ordeal and the loss of his dream school.
“Thanks.” He crossed the room to the trunk table and retrieved his Starbucks cup. A white string and paper tag trailed from the rim.
“Tea instead of coffee?” I teased. “Don’t let Tess know, or you’ll be drowning in herbal concoctions.”
“Not by choice.” Asher jiggled the cup. “Chamomile. Yum, right? I had to say goodbye to caffeine, chocolate, alcohol. Consider me the antivice poster boy.” He sipped the tea. “I’m on a virtual cocktail of meds, and I don’t mean the good kind. Also part of my PCS treatment plan.”
“PCS?”
“Post-Concussive Syndrome. Which likes me so much it doesn’t want to leave. Plus, it’s working extra hard to keep me out of the cockpit until my healing progresses. PCS doesn’t mess around. Let’s just say, if you’re considering a major auto accident for some Friday night excitement, stick to books.”
“Gotcha,” I said. Stick to books. I usually did, and usually wanted to. But not always. Most often, I poured the lonely ache of that right back into printed ink.
“Thanks for the quiet spot. It gets a little chaotic across the street sometimes, and chaos is something I’m supposed to be avoiding,” Asher said. “The legal center attracts some major drama—maybe more than in that King novel. Curious to see if it’s still here next time.”
“You know, you could just buy it?”
Another sip. “You’re thinking we’re in a bookstore and not a library, yeah?”
Damn him and his bionic knee and his bionic superhero mind reading.
He must’ve caught the slight grimace I felt on my face, because he backed away, laughing. “I spent sixty-five bucks in here the other day on a shiny book filled with Lichtenstein and Warhol masterpieces. And dealt with Mr. Winston. I figure we’re good for a bit, Darcy.”
My mouth fell open, then snapped shut. Oh, we were good? Then why did the whole store suddenly feel tilted to one side, thousands of volumes sliding down helplessly as Asher walked out the door?
To steady myself, I dug out the copy of Peter Pan. It felt good in my hands. Solid and right. I flipped to that bit after Chapter Five again, running one finger over the handwritten poetry. This time, I noticed the title I’d blown right by at first glance: “Uninvited.”
Uninvited. Like new daily coffee—no, tea—break mates? Maybe. But the thought of tea pricked another thought. I traded the novel for my laptop, searched “Post-Concussive Syndrome,” and skimmed.
Medical sites described PCS as a disorder resulting from the lasting effects of a head injury, or concussion symptoms that wouldn’t go away. Some people experienced these symptoms for months or even longer. Strong medication eased the discomfort, but it often worked inconsistently until doctors found the right dosage and the body adjusted. Diet sometimes helped, too—patients were told to avoid sugar, gluten, alcohol, and caffeine, just like Asher mentioned, which indicated he was sticking to his treatment pla
n.
The symptom list was long and daunting. A few leaped from my screen, eerily familiar. Impatience. Irritability. Confrontational attitude. Depression. Frequent mood swings. Dizziness. Headaches. Migraines.
I remembered the way Asher had snapped at me. His brooding behavior, and the way he was always rubbing his temples. I pictured him in that quiet spot on the black rock jetty. PCS explained why he could be friendly one minute, then aloof the next.
I’d gotten it all wrong—Asher wasn’t rude or unpredictable. He was ill.
Nine
Mothers
“It was the nest I have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the Never bird was sitting on it.
‘See,’ said Hook in answer to Smee’s question, ‘that is a mother. What a lesson! The nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother desert her eggs? No.’” Parenting, as explained by Hook. Even villains know what a good mother is.
—J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, and Peter Pan Mystery Scribbler
I slammed the passenger door of Marisol’s SUV and banged my head against the headrest.
“Enraged much?” Marisol asked over the idling engine.
“Oh...oh...sometimes she is so—” I caught myself preswear, spying the four-year-old twins, Carlos and Camila, in the back seat. I let out a heavy sigh instead. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Luckily you called while I was picking up los animales from tumbling.” Marisol’s youngest siblings were blissfully sucking on juice boxes, dangling matching Adidas sneakers over their booster seats. Camila offered a quick flappy wave.
“You would have come for me, anyway.” Big doe eyes.
“Possibly.” She tapped her fingers on the wheel. “Can you repeat why you’re currently without a car? You sounded like a banshee on the phone, so the most I got was—ridiculous, gas, pick up, dinner, pretty please, Marisol.”
“That’s most of it,” I said wearily. “After the Feather, I shut myself in my room for a few hours to look at sample eBay listings, so my first attempt won’t look like total newbie material. Also, homework.”
“And your car was abducted by aliens?”
“There’s mostly green aliens and purple aliens,” Carlos voiced proudly.
Camila said, “There’s pink ones and yellow, too. The books say that.”
I laughed. “Know what? You monkeys are both right.” Then to Marisol, “Mom’s gas tank was on empty, and she forgot to stop last night. She just left a note saying she was taking my Honda to work.”
“She didn’t even ask first?”
The rumble in my chest started again. “She assumed I had no plans and was hibernating with books for the night.”
“Here,” Marisol said, popping open the minicooler she always kept on the back seat floor. When Mrs. Robles got a new car, she offered her eldest daughter the red Pathfinder on one condition: Marisol would help shuttle the twins around. Between various appointments, gym class, playdates, and park excursions, Marisol soon realized (1) Eva Robles was a genius. (2) Juice boxes created peaceful car rides.
I frowned. “Juice. Really?”
“Either that or gum, babe.” She leveled an appraising look at me. “Juice, then.” With one hand, she shifted gears, pulling away from the curb. The other felt around in the cooler and drew one out.
“Cran-Grape,” I said. “Eww.”
“How did I not sense that?”
“You got any Cran-Irresponsible Mother flavors in there? What about Cran-Compulsive Shopper with ten billion gallons of perfume, but not one in her gas tank?”
Marisol blazed through a yellow light and smacked a cold white box into my palm. Cran-Raspberry. Fine. I poked the straw into the little top hole and took a few sips. And found it oddly soothing.
* * *
With the twins unbuckled and rushing to the entryway, Marisol stopped along the flagstone path. “Okay, give,” she said, like every time I came to dinner.
I whined, surrendering a paperback copy of Everything, Everything from my messenger purse.
A couple more steps, then, “Now the other one in the buckled pocket.” She flashed an infuriating smile.
Damn her—my new-old copy of Peter Pan. “Mari, you know how your family gets. After a couple hours, your parents and siblings and innumerable tíos start speaking less English and more Spanish. Everyone gets all loud and...and... I could just move to the couch and re—”
“You could, but you won’t. You’ll socialize and have fun. Besides, you are family.” I let Marisol snatch the book; I knew she’d never open it. She skipped up the porch and stashed both novels in the Robleses’ mailbox. “You can bail these out before I drive you home.”
I would’ve grumbled, but the smell. The front door of their two-story, Tuscan-style house hung open, and love wafted out in the form of garlic and roasted chilies. Of savory meats and citrus and sugar. I followed it and the sound of lively conversations chimed over chilled bottles of cerveza and iced colas with lime.
We stashed our jackets and purses in the foyer to the echo of laughter beaming around the rooms. I felt customary pats on my back, returned rosy-warm smiles. Brisk Motown music shook from the entertainment system, and children snaked through with hot, buttered tortillas and devilish cackles.
Eva Robles poked her head from the kitchen and waved us in. “There’s my girl. Just in time.” Marisol’s mom kissed my cheek, chortling. And from this seemingly innocent exchange, I already knew my fate.
The vast kitchen, crowded with bodies—most of whom I recognized—fell suspiciously silent. Family members hovered in front of dark wood cabinets as Señora Robles sprinkled salt from scarlet-manicured fingers. Then one last lime squeeze over the huge bowl of homemade salsa. Marisol’s sister Natalia handed me a tortilla chip and snickered as her mother presented her creation.
I tiptoed the chip into the red concoction. After one bite, heat, dragon-breath burn, and straight-up flame coated my tongue, my throat. I coughed. Gasped. Sputtered and sniffed with teary eyes and flailing arms.
The room erupted, boisterous and alive again.
“Bueno, it’s perfect, no?” Mama Robles said, presenting the bowl to her other guests.
Unfazed, Marisol already had tissues and a glass of milk shoved into my watery vision while she chatted with a cousin. She discarded a purple gum wad onto her gold bracelet, then my fire-breather friend hit the salsa bowl.
I blew my nose and sucked down the cold, soothing milk. I knew from experience that water would only make it worse. “Whew,” I told Mama, blinking.
“Pobrecita.” She cupped satin-soft hands around my cheeks. “I’m sorry, mija. But you’re the best guinea pig!” She stepped back and held up one finger. “A ver...” Mama bent around to the granite island and grabbed a small container. “I made un poquito just for you. No seeds, and the other chilies you like better.”
I accepted the bowl from the small-boned brunette. Mama Robles often prepared a milder version for me, but tonight, after empty gas tanks and emptier assumptions, her thoughtful gesture made my eyes fill. They burned with salt—and not the kind that gave the salsa life.
* * *
“Marisol.” Another two steps. “I need an elevator. And thank God your dad’s a doctor, because ohmystomach.”
Ahead of me on the staircase, my friend chuckled. “Welcome to your penance for going back for seconds.”
It was thirds, but Marisol didn’t know that. And wouldn’t have blamed me—the food was otherworldly. My usual dinners consisted of omelets or salads or grilled cheese and boxed tomato soup. But tonight, I lost all control when Eva Robles presented platters of grilled carne asada, vats of chunky guacamole, and shredded chicken stewed with tomato and onion. Plus Marisol’s dad’s favorite Cuban-style empanadas filled with spiced ground beef, and countless other sides. “Why do we have to go upstairs again?”
“Now you have beans in your brain. Remember? The Much Ado costumes? I’ve done enough for you to have a look.”
Right, those. She�
��d been working all week on dresses for the female leads, Hero and Beatrice. After a few more painful strides, I followed her into the large sewing room she shared with her mother. Two steps across the threshold, I walked into a fairy tale. Yards of ivory fabric, expertly honed into one of the most beautiful wedding gowns I’d ever seen, hung from a ceiling hook like an elegant ghost. Eva Robles worked alone—except for her assistant, Marisol—and stylish brides waited months and paid small fortunes for one of her custom creations.
Marisol noticed my drool. “Yeah, this baby is beyond.” She fingered the neckline. “Mama hand-sewed all these seed pearls, and there’s a double row of them. I helped with the bodice. Gah! Those pleats.”
I believed her. And like every time I stepped into this room, I wondered if it would ever be my turn, one day. Custom satin and someone to wear it for. But what would happen when I slipped a white gown shaped by Marisol’s mom onto my own body? I could already picture the sweeping lace train, blackening with dust and straining under the clutter that always dragged behind me. So much for some happily in my ever after.
I sighed and left my worries with the silk; Marisol was waiting to show me her creations. The other side of the studio belonged to her. Two sewing machines, supply racks, and a wide cutting table filled the corner where she spent much of her time.
“I’m so stoked on how this one is shaping up. It’s for Beatrice,” Marisol said at the first mannequin. The robin’s egg blue gown had cap sleeves and a high empire waist. “I decided on Regency-period styles, and Mrs. Howard loved the idea. Don’t you think the color will look good with Alyssa’s complexion?”
“For sure. I love it, too.” I examined the neat stitching and fluid drape. Even a novice like me could recognize the expert workmanship. The extra details and artistic flourishes.
Marisol hauled over her sketch boards and some loose fabrics. She lifted the edge of a thick brocade with blue and pink flowers. “For look one, I’m going to make a short bolero jacket with this floral to fit tightly over Beatrice’s gown. And she’ll have a straw bonnet with blue ribbons and white gloves.” She pulled out the second fabric, a pistachio-green background dappled with blue leaves. “Then for the big wedding scene, I’ll use this for a long cutaway top layer with puffy sleeves and lace trim. And we’ll swap out the accessories.”
The Library of Lost Things Page 8
