Tack & Jibe

by Lilah Suzanne

  “What if—” she starts, voice low and tight. “What if we do this, and it ends badly? You, you’re young. But I can’t start all over, Willa. I can’t— Not again.”

  And Willa would never hurt her, not on purpose, but she can’t see into the future, either. She knows herself, too, her tendency toward impulse and deep-seated insecurities. She can’t promise that they will never carelessly wound each other in a stupid fight or the heat of the moment.

  “I think sometimes you have to take a chance and sail close to the wind.” In sailing terms, that means to sail close-hauled, or to trim the sails tightly so that the boat can push into the wind as close as possible, so close that the sails are nearly horizontal, like a wing. In not-sailing terms, it means taking a risk, even when that seems foolhardy.

  Lane dark eyes scan her face; reflected blue and yellow light flickers. “I don’t know if I can.”

  Ch. 40

  Willa doesn’t stay after the movie ends. She has more work to do on the cottage, needs to find a short-term housing solution for the summer, and has to find a new roommate for the fall. Plus, she has an important interview in the morning.

  “Let me drive you home,” Lane says. Willa nods and doesn’t push Lane any further. If things are ever going to change between them, it’s really up to Lane now.

  The drive is quick and quiet. Lane pulls up in front of the cottage, putting the car into park next to the newly trimmed azalea bush on the curb. Willa’s mom planted it when Willa was in elementary school. Back then it was just a spindly sapling stuck in the ground, and now it has grown so large that it’s nearly consumed the entire mailbox; the bush is as wide as it is tall. “Bloom where you’re planted,” her mom would say when Willa had a tough day and refused to talk about what happened. Maybe she took that sentiment a little too far.

  “Just you here right now?” Lane glances up the dark driveway. There’s no bike or kayak or assorted outdoor gear in sight.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of weird. Though I was alone for a bit after my mom left and before Bodhi moved in.” Willa releases her seatbelt and leans toward the door.

  “Why did she leave?”

  Willa pauses with her hand on the door handle. “Well. She fell in love, I guess.”

  “Ah,” Lane says.

  “I mean she’d have to really love him, right? To leave here and go to Missouri. I dunno. I don’t get it, Tim’s whole appeal. But I’m glad she’s happy.” She is glad. But Christina could have been happy here, was happy here. Willa cracks the door open, and the interior light pops on.

  “Not a big fan of Tim?” Lane’s face is amused and soft in the sudden bright light.

  “No. I dunno. He and my mom met when I was teenager; like of course I wasn’t gonna like him. He was dating my mom!” Tim first met Willa’s mom when he was living on the island as an interim manager for a new hotel. Christina went in for an interview. She’d heard the pay was slightly better and the benefits much better there, and the rest is history. Or whatever. “He’d show up like, every night, with flowers or chocolate or a cheesy teddy bear. And he’d act like we were best buds, like right away he wanted to be my new dad, and it was way too much.” Willa rolls her eyes at the memories. “How was school today kiddo?” he’d ask. Then he’d try to give her some sage advice and invite her to learn how to change the oil in a car. She’s surprised he never suggested throwing a ball around out back.

  “I guess it took me a long time to get over my first impression of him.”

  Lane smiles. “Yeah, I can understand that. Well. Good luck with your interview tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” Willa desperately wants to say something else. She wants, so badly, to give Lane some sort of ultimatum. “I’m in love with you,” she’d say, “and we should be together and you know it” And Lane would kiss her and not say it back, but it wouldn’t matter because Willa would know, without a doubt, that she felt the same. But what would change if she did?

  She hops out of the car.

  * * *

  “Ms. Rogers, thank you for coming in. I must say, I’m impressed by your resume.” Jenn and Robin snicker at the joke, pretending they’ve only just met, sitting across from Willa at the table where she’s had countless meals and countless staff meetings that were really just the four of them, Jenn, Robin, Bodhi, and her, gossiping and laughing.

  “Thank you for having me,” Willa says, playing along. She’s nervous, a little, though she shouldn’t be. It’s Robin and Jenn, who are essentially her second and third moms. She goes to their house for dinner. They buy her clothes. Once when she had the flu, they took her to the doctor, and Willa threw up on the floorboards of Jenn’s car. Besides, no one knows this store the way she does. No one cares about this store as much as she does. She has this on lock. She tells Robin and Jenn as much. On lock.

  “Here’s the thing, Willa.” The mood turns somber. Robin’s face is drawn, and Jenn’s hands are folded tight on the table. “The past five years you have been instrumental to the success of this store—”

  “We couldn’t have done it without you,” Jenn adds.

  “Your knowledge. Your customer service skills. Your can-do attitude—”

  “A model employee.”

  “And a wonderful friend to our Bodhi—”

  “The best friend.”

  Willa is starting to get whiplash going back and forth from Robin’s serious expression to Jenn’s matching one. Willa is starting to get the sense that this isn’t going anywhere good.

  “But…” Willa prompts.

  Jenn sighs. She looks at Robin, who nods. “We don’t think this is the right choice for you.” Jenn unfolds her hands to reach for Willa’s. Willa pulls her hand away.

  “This is because I lied to you. About knowing how to sail.”

  “Willa, no.”

  “Not at all.”

  Willa shakes her head; tears burn behind her eyes. Of course it is, how could she have been so stupid? Why would they want a liar and fake to run their store? How could they trust her? And even though it’s completely understandable and totally her own fault, anger flares in her chest.

  “Then what?” she spits. “That guy that—rich asshole. He’s better than me? He doesn’t even live here! He isn’t even from here! What does he know?”

  “Willa,” Robin says. The placating tone of her voice makes Willa realize she’s been yelling. Willa looks down, ashamed.

  “I’m sorry.” Why can’t she just stop and think sometimes?

  “It’s okay.” Jenn reaches for her hand again, and this time Willa lets her take it. “It’s okay to feel your feelings and be a human being with flaws.”

  Willa sniffles and nods. She mostly feels like a child. “Thank you for the opportunity,” she mumbles and starts to push her chair back. This is what she gets for thinking she can be something more than what she is. For being real instead of faking it.

  “Wait. Please.”

  When she first interviewed at the sail shop, she was desperate for Jenn and Robin to like her. They were so cool and chill, and their easy affection and commitment to each other and to the island and to Bodhi were like a drink of water after crawling through the desert. Willa, at eighteen, suddenly all alone and so unsure of herself, had a chance at a future. She had hope and people who were looking out for her. This store, Robin and Jenn and Bodhi, they saved her. All she ever wanted was to be worthy of that.

  “Over the years,” Robin starts, “We’ve come to think of you as another daughter.” Willa has to swipe tears away. “And we have always raised Bodhi to be herself and go after the things that bring her joy. To…”

  “Be free,” Jenn fills in.

  “You’ve done a great job because she definitely is very free.” It’s a jab at Bodhi and their parenting, but it’s true. No one could ever accuse Bodhi of not following her bliss or being herself, no matter what.


  “Yes, well. We always had faith she’d find a place to land eventually.” Robin pats Jenn’s hand and smiles reassuringly. How many sleepless nights did they spend, worrying that Bodhi would never figure out how to get to work on time, find a path, or settle down with someone. Or someones.

  “And Willa, we want the same for you,” Robin continues. “We have loved having you here, but this store, this little sail shop, it’s not the end of your story.”

  “I don’t—” Willa’s glances back and forth, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “We feel as if we would be doing you a disservice if we made you manager—”

  “Not that you aren’t qualified and not that we don’t want you to be,” Jenn cuts in.

  “Exactly. There is so much more for you out there, Willa.

  “So much life for you to live.”

  “This store was our dream. We just want you to have your dream.”

  Willa lets their words sink in. There’s a dried blob of pasta sauce on the table that must be from the Chef Boyardee ravioli Bodhi had for lunch a few days ago. She scrapes it off with a fingernail.

  “What if I don’t know what my dream is?”

  Jenn squeezes her hand. Robin takes the other one. “Then you go out and find it.”

  The job is hers if she wants it, they tell her. But they want her to really think about what they said, to take her time and be honest with herself. In a daze, head everywhere but in the present moment, Willa nearly walks right into Bodhi who is coming in as she goes out.

  “Whoa, you okay?”

  Willa frowns. “I don’t know.”

  Bodhi glances inside, to where Robin and Jenn are still sitting at the table. “The moms got to you, huh?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Bodhi grabs her shoulders as if to hold her upright. “Just remember, whatever they said, it comes from a place of love, okay? Also, sorry if it was weird.”

  “Love,” Willa repeats. Love. Go out and find it. “I gotta go find Lane.”

  Ch. 41

  Lane isn’t at work.

  “You just missed her,” the front desk assistant tells Willa, with a distressingly wide grin. She doesn’t know where Lane is, the assistant answers when Willa asks, or, if she does, she certainly isn’t telling Willa.

  Lane isn’t at home either, nor out on the beach. She’s not at the yoga studio that shares space with an acupuncture clinic, not at The Oyster Bar or The Sand Dollar or any of the kitschy tourist stores or the regular ones people actually shop at. Willa finds herself back where she started, resting near the marina before she takes the long trip around to the other side of the island.

  Then Lane’s SUV pulls into the lot, and Willa pushes her board to the side of the road, letting it coast into a patch of sand as she jogs over.

  “Hey.”

  “Willa, hey.” Lane jumps a bit, surprised to see her. “How did your interview go?”

  Willa, who was planning to confess her feelings in a rush the moment she saw Lane, isn’t sure how to answer. “Um. Confusing?”

  “Oh.” Lane frowns. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah. I—” Willa shakes her head. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Before Lane can respond, Mr. Kelley and his terrible nephew walk up.

  “Ms. Cordova!” Mr. Kelley says. “She’s all ready for you. I think you two will be very happy together.” For a baffling second, Willa thinks he’s talking about her and Lane, as if he somehow knew that Willa was looking for Lane to tell her that she loves her and wants to be with her and won’t take “I can’t” for answer. Then Mr. Kelley says, “Come see,” and gestures toward the boats docked in the marina.

  She is a boat.

  “You bought a boat? You’re sailing again?” Willa trails after the group; their footsteps patter discordantly on the dock. They all come to a stop at a boat painted white with a bold blue stripe on the hull. It’s a Westsail, an older one, probably a thirty-two footer. It is, frankly, in terrible shape.

  “I bought a boat,” Lane says, cupping her hands over her eyes to inspect it. “Max helped me find it. Perfect, right?” Willa scowls instinctively. Of course Max helped her find it. Of course Lane likes him. But when did Lane buy a boat? And why didn’t she say anything?

  To Willa’s unasked questions, Lane says, “I’d been thinking about it for a while. And after that dinner with my parents, I just thought, I dunno. Now or never I guess.”

  “Okay.” Willa tries to pretend that Mr. Kelley and Mr. Kelley’s irritating nephew aren’t there. She moves around them to be closer to Lane. “I think it’s great. I thought you would never sail by yourself again.”

  “Yeah, me too. I guess I just had to find the right reason. The joy of it.” Lane got the same inspiring speech from Mr. Kelley, Willa guesses. Lane bites at her lip, uneasy about something.

  “Well, that’s great.” Willa scans the boat again and tries to remember what she knows about the model. Built in the 1970s most likely, and someone—Max—has put in some upgrades. It’s sturdy, despite its rough shape. It’s probably not very fast and meant for, “Long-distance bluewater cruising,” Willa murmurs, understanding settling on her shoulders. “You’re leaving.”

  “That’s the plan.” A nervous glance again, which now makes sense. She was worried about telling Willa that she was leaving.

  “What about your job?”

  “I quit.” She lifts her chin, obviously sure of this decision. “But not before I made my first and last sale.” She smiles at Willa in a strangely secretive way. “Um,” she looks over to Mr. Kelley and terrible Max. “If we could have a minute?”

  A minute to say goodbye, Willa knows, so when Max says he wants to show Lane a few things on the boat really quickly, Willa is relieved that he’s there. She’s not ready to say goodbye. As Max shows them some repairs he made to the plumbing and gray-water system, new standing rigging, the solar panels, the brand-new, queen-size mattress in the hull, Willa also knows that she could never, ever be the person who asks Lane to stay.

  Mr. Kelley and Max take Lane up to the deck for the rest of the tour. Willa sits in the kitchenette. It’s a great boat or will be once it’s fixed up a little more. Her hands itch to take a picture and post it, to pretend that this boat is hers and she knows exactly what to do next. Being herself has not been working out so great. There’s a clatter of footsteps above deck, then the thunk of someone coming back down the little stairwell. Willa tries her best to look happy for Lane, who slaps a key down onto the table that is just big enough for two.

  “What is this?” Willa loops the keyring onto her finger.

  “A key. To your house.” Lane sits and looks over at Willa with that same nervous glance.

  “Okay…” She is not following. “Why?”

  Lane nibbles on her lip. “Bodhi let me make a copy of her key. I guess I wanted something symbolic, but maybe the deed would have been better.”

  Willa scowls. What is this game? What the hell is Lane talking about? “The deed to what?” Willa says, not as patiently as she would like. She knows Lane has trouble communicating sometimes but she is totally lost here.

  “Oh. Oh, gosh, I thought they would have told you by now.” Willa waits, impatience still radiating from her. “You grandparents,” Lane says. “Your mom and I convinced them to turn over the deed of the cottage. To you.”

  Willa stares at the key, silver and catching glints of sunlight through the portholes. It’s something she never even thought to ask for, and not even something she’s even sure she wants. The cottage is hers. Hers alone.

  She presses the key into her palm; the teeth dig sharply into her skin. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Lane looks at the table, traces the grain of the wood. Her dark hair is a glossy curtain falling just below her chin; her full lips are softly parted
; her eyelashes are lush and full, casting shadows on her high cheekbones. In so many ways, she is the person Willa never saw coming, who crashed into her life like a rogue wave, sending her topsy-turvy and unsure which way was up. But she didn’t change her; she made Willa feel that she was enough, just on her own, that she could do the things she wanted to do, instead of just pretending.

  “You can rent it out,” Lane says of the cottage. “If you want to. And I was hoping you might want to because—”

  “I’m in love with you,” Willa says, blurting it out before Lane can finish.

  Lane looks up, smiles softly. “Because I was hoping you might want to come with me.”

  Ch. 42

  There’s a spot on the windowsill in the kitchen that’s marred by scratches and nicks in the white paint. Willa’s never bothered painting over it since it’s usually covered by a row of fake potted flowers, but today she lifts the pots out of the way and begins to sand each mark smooth. There are random lines and crosses scrawled into the soft, flaking paint: her initials, a crooked smiley face, a Willa was h, a message she guesses wasn’t finished because her mom fussed at her to stop. It brings her back to slow mornings, sitting up on the counter while her mom made banana pancakes with the sun bright and hot through the window and the day full of the sort of promise and freedom a childhood summertime can bring. She runs her fingertips over the words Willa was h, then scours them away.

  She’s just finishing the last corners and edges on the windowsill when someone knocks on the door. “Come in,” she calls over the music, sets down her paintbrush, and turns the volume down on her phone with her non-paint-splotched hand. Charlie Cordova lets himself in.

  “Looking good. Really coming along.” Charlie has been to the house a few times already, first to survey the property, then to recommend ways to make the property more valuable, then taking pictures, then walking around with a home inspector. He looks quite a bit like Lane, perhaps predictably, given that Lane looks like their parents, who sort of look like each other. He’s one of the top real estate agents on Porter Island and has an easy sort of affability, all warm handshakes, easy smiles, and the kind of eye contact that makes people feel as if they’re hanging on every word, as if everyone he speaks to becomes the most important person in the room.