The Language of Cherries

by Jen Marie Hawkins

  She’d keep her lies consistent. Maybe Loretta and Ben would even discuss the adventures of Evelyn and be jealous of her world travels.

  Loretta Deveraux: Right on.

  Evie frowned. So Loretta was adopting Ben’s dismissal phrases now. This did not bode well for the hypothetical are-you-my-boyfriend conversation.

  Evelyn Perez: It’s pretty dangerous, but I’m going with a local guide. I’ll try to take pics.

  Loretta Devereaux: You probably look adorable all bundled up like an Eskimo. I bet you miss swimming, though! Speaking of, I bought the hottest bikini today. Bright blue. Looks good with my eyes. Gonna wear it to the July 4th celebration at WW.

  Evie deflated under her bulky hoodie. She could swim here, but the natural geothermal water in the guesthouse pool smelled like farts. As it turned out, the earth was a gassy beast and Iceland didn’t keep the secret.

  She didn’t want to hear about Loretta’s bikini or the weather that allowed her to wear it. Not to mention the awesomeness of the 4th of July bash she’d miss. Loretta’s dad had secured FloRida as the musical act. FloFreakingRida. Resentment burned at her fingertips. Screw it, she was asking her.

  Evelyn Perez: How’s Ben? I heard you guys had dinner.

  After ten minutes of the cat clock on the wall tick, tick, ticking the seconds away, Evie accepted that Loretta wasn’t going to answer.

  She clicked back over to Ben’s IM window for one last-ditch effort.

  Evelyn Perez: Wanna video chat?

  After the message was marked read, a notification popped up on screen.

  Ben Benson is now offline.

  Maybe they weren’t getting her messages. Maybe it was the shitty Wi-Fi. Evie shut her laptop and swallowed a gallon of unshed tears. All of this time away was going to cause her to lose them both. Maybe that meant she never had them in the first place.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Oskar’s Journal

  The chord progression

  makes the hair on my forearms stand.

  The notes are sure of themselves.

  Right at home.

  There’s nothing better

  than translating feeling to art.

  I lounge backward on my bed and readjust Pabbi’s old guitar.

  Dragging my pick across the strings,

  I play the familiar melody again.

  A minor, F major, C major,

  G major.

  And again.

  Notes reverberate

  through my loft bedroom

  upward through the morning sunlight

  echoing in the rafters above.

  I haven’t wanted to play lately.

  But for two days,

  this song has refused

  to leave me

  alone.

  It wars for space in my head

  with the spoiled American girl,

  who invites herself into my thoughts

  the same way she invited herself

  into my orchard.

  I take it from the top.

  Before my fingers slide to G,

  her annoying accent

  creeps into my ears.

  Muffled words.

  I didn’t mean to cause trouble.

  But trouble is exactly what she caused.

  Trouble squared.

  As I strum again,

  her voice comes from the air vent

  in the wall below me.

  Talking to Agnes about that boy in the orchard.

  I drop my guitar on the ground.

  The reverberating bonnnng

  is quieter than my panic.

  She’s here.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Evie

  Evie was on sensory overload from the minute the bell clanged against the shop door.

  Grimmurson’s smelled like home. The scent of warm pastries and cherries inundated the cozy, wood-walled space. It gave her the urge to both stay and leave as quickly as possible. Because as much as the fragrance of baked goods and homemade preserves reminded her of Abuela’s kitchen, it just made her miss her even more.

  The carefully curated souvenirs lining the shop shelves brought back memories of the roadside mom-and-pop places she’d seen in the southern Appalachians when her Papá had taken her and Abuela to the mountains of Tennessee one fall—the year her mother left.

  Evie was surprised to find a Scottish woman running the place. Agnes was a tall, robust woman with long red hair pinned to the back of her head, a hospitable smile radiating from her rosy face. She wasn’t at all how Evie had pictured her. But she seemed nice enough, so Evie took a leap and told her about the ordeal in the orchard. And then she told her about the grumpy boy she’d met there—hoping to clear herself of any wrongdoing.

  “Oh, ye mean Oskar? Aye, the boy’s a strange one.” Agnes grumbled in that strangely affectionate way adults often complained about young people they cared about.

  Above them, the faint strumming of guitar chords came to an abrupt halt. Agnes’s bright green gaze followed the absence of sound to the rafters. Evie turned and looked above and behind her to a dark loft area.

  The boy stood there, hands on the railing, looking down at them. Evie whirled back toward the counter, swallowing the nerves lurching up her throat. Agnes punched keys on the cash register, tallying the order.

  “Does he speak English?” Evie asked, barely above a whisper.

  Agnes glanced up again, and it took everything Evie had not to look back at him, too.

  “Nay,” she said as she bagged the sandwiches and jam. “How will ye be paying?”

  “Oh.” Evie fumbled with her wallet. “Do you take cards?”

  “Surely do.” Agnes gave her a polite nod as she took the Visa. Evie gave in to temptation and peeked up and over her shoulder again while Agnes swiped her card. He was gone.

  Evie had lots of questions for Agnes, but the nervous energy made her mind go blank. “So are you sure you don’t mind if I paint in the orchard?” Stall. Think.

  Agnes glanced down at Evie’s card as she handed it back. “I said it was fine, didn’t I, Miss Perez? Customers are welcome back anytime.” An exasperated grin pulled her wrinkles away from her starched collar.

  “Oh, good. It’s just that your orchard is an artist’s dream. I don’t think I’ve ever been so inspired,” Evie babbled. “After I had the pie, I knew I had to see this place. The cherries are really delicious, too.” Evie searched every corner of the shop, taking it all in, wondering where he went.

  “Yes, dear. Matter o’ fact, here are some fresh cherries to take with ye. On the house. We have lots of them.” Agnes reached under the counter, hands coming out with a small plastic bag full of cherries.

  “Oh, wow. Thanks. That’s very kind of you.” Evie took the bag. As she turned to go, the floorboards above creaked, someplace just beyond her line of sight.

  “Come back and see us, lass,” Agnes called.

  Evie nodded. Oh, don’t worry, she thought. I definitely will.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Oskar’s Journal

  The wall fits coolly against my back.

  Agnes’s voice nags at me the moment the door closes.

  Care to come out of hiding and tell me what that was about?

  I step to the catwalk again and look down.

  Not r-r-really.

  Crossing my arms, I prop my elbows on the railing.

  People decide who you are whether you tell them or not.

  I don’t plan to give her ammunition

  to feel sorry for me.

  Bonny lass. Surely ye noticed.

  I won’t dignify rhetoricals with an answer.

  Where’s the fearless boy Maggie always spoke of?

  Don’t plan on talkin’ to her?

  She asked about ye.

  I resent the third degree

  and the way she brings up my mamma

  when she’s trying to manipulate me.

  Tha-tha-tha-thanks for not telling her.

&n
bsp; I’m grateful for that, at least.

  Isn’t mine to tell, lad.

  Agnes pins me in place with her trademark grimace.

  She’ll be back, you know.

  Which is her fault.

  Maybe if Agnes knew

  what had been in that painting,

  she’d be less inclined to hand out open invitations

  to the entitled American girl.

  I don’t want company while I work.

  I leave the conversation

  and head back to my room.

  When the embarrassment passes, the cherries await ye.

  My neck tingles with heat,

  either from leftover anger,

  or the way her rassin1 looked

  in those jeans.

  Channel it into the song, I tell myself.

  So I pick up the guitar

  open up my veins

  and bleed music

  over the strings.

  ____________

  1: rassin (ras-sin): [Icelandic] ass

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Evie

  Evie waited a couple of days before she dug in to the goodies from Grimmurson’s.

  She’d wanted to prolong the reward. And part of her wanted to wait to enjoy them with Papá. No such luck there. She’d kept herself busy inhaling books and taking walks around the guesthouse property, not wanting to stray too far in case her papá came back and wanted to spend time with her. But she’d barely seen him for more than five minutes each day, and she fell asleep each night thinking quizás mañana.

  Tomorrow was here again, and she had nothing but the food to keep her company. Everything she bought from the store had same ingredient: pure culinary magic. Roasted ham with cherry glaze on open-faced bread made her taste buds squeal with delight. She gobbled it up with a quickness that made her regret not savoring it.

  So she ate half of the one she bought for Papá, too.

  It wasn’t like he’d be home any time soon. Besides, she waited three whole days on him. He came and went while she was sleeping most days. And she’d barely eaten anything since they arrived in Iceland. The cherries were addictive. The leftover pie sat in the fridge—and she spent the afternoon fighting the urge to cut a slice and eat it, too. If she didn’t watch it, she’d be a Sea World sideshow by the time she got back to Florida. Her mother’s voice taunted her still.

  Eat more carrots, less chips. Move your ass, Evie. Jog.

  You aren’t wearing that, are you? It looks like a tent.

  I guess you got all the Cuban genes.

  Thank God for that last one. The more she could separate herself from Rhona, the better.

  Despite all her distraction techniques—Netflix binges being first and foremost when the Wi-Fi was cooperating—Evie couldn’t stop thinking about being in the orchard. She had become mildly obsessed with running into the boy again, now that she knew he wasn’t being rude. He simply hadn’t understood her. Maybe now that her expectations were different, she could get some kind of reading on him. Find out how old he was, what he liked, and if he was kind, like Miss Izzy predicted.

  Oskar. She liked the way his name sissed past her lips. Like a little sizzle.

  She packed up her supplies and made the haul over the hills, through the fence, and into the orchard, breaking a sweat from the weight of her supplies. A briny sea breeze brushed her skin as she weaved a path through dappled sunlight, looking for the perfect spot to set up her canvas. She searched beneath the branches for a few minutes before she invariably found her way back up to the far side of the orchard, to the sense of kinship she felt in the shade of that single tree.

  As she lounged against the fencepost and set up her easel, another inexplicable image burned itself into the recesses of her mind.

  Her process sometimes began with a song. She’d see a picture the lyrics painted, sketch it, and then she’d listen to the music on repeat until the painting was done. But something different was happening now, something she couldn’t pin down or explain. The image was already in her mind somehow. Loud and ever-present through the silence, it was like a borrowed memory, stored in a drawer of her brain. Instead of controlling the scene, the scene controlled her.

  Time escaped her as she did a quick sketch and then translated it to canvas.

  Beneath her paintbrush, a young boy with golden-blond hair huddled in the shadow of a cherry tree, much smaller than the ones surrounding her. His legs were crossed, his elbows propped on his knees, and his chin rested between dirty palms. He was waiting for something. What, she had no idea.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Oskar’s Journal

  I was stupid to think

  she wouldn’t have the guts to come back

  just because several days have passed.

  As I swing my arm, the empty metal bucket smacks against my leg.

  I tell myself it’s something I always do.

  Which is completely untrue.

  I just want her to hear me.

  I glimpse a red blob between branches.

  The side of a slouchy red beret.

  I take a tentative step.

  Her bottom lip lies trapped between her teeth,

  dark eyes pinch ever so slightly,

  as if she’s staring at a glare

  from the shade.

  She sits

  poised as a statue,

  her wrist the only movable joint.

  Come here to harass me some more?

  she asks without looking up,

  scrunching her nose.

  I jump

  at the sound of her voice.

  So irritating

  I almost laugh.

  I bite the inside of my cheek instead.

  The song plays so loud in my head now

  my lips itch to put words with it.

  Maybe I could sing her a song,

  start this whole thing over.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Evie

  “The lady who owns the store said I was welcome here, in case you’re wondering.” Evie said it with way more confidence than she felt.

  The words were still coming out wrong, though. Too defensive. He intimidated the hell out of her. His air of mystery left her filling in too many blanks. Broody Icelandic boy who worked for a Scottish woman and didn’t speak English. Her pulse galloped in her throat, remembering the way Miss Izzy had said it. A hahnd-some boy. Si. Muy guapo. Muy amable.

  Never mind that Miss Izzy was tweaking out on God-knew-what almost every time Evie stopped in to bring her a load of cookies or pastelitos. Abuela had been on a mission to bring the pseudo psychic to Jesus, so she sent her plates of baked goods regularly by way of Evie once she’d started having directional blunders and couldn’t make the nine-block trek to and from Miss Izzy’s place herself.

  Oskar propped his ladder against a tree adjacent to her and hooked the bucket around his forearm, ignoring her as he climbed. She pretended she wasn’t watching him from the corner of her eye. He reached through the fronds, plucking the ripest cherries in the bunch with a methodical cadence. Evie couldn’t tell if he noticed her or even cared. The uncertainty crawled under her skin and burrowed there.

  “Oh, so you hum but you don’t talk? How charming,” she said, shooting for flippancy. Maybe he wouldn’t understand her words, but tone transcended languages. Evie put her brush down and stretched her back, placing her hands behind her on the damp ground.

  Her fingers tripped over something cold and smooth. Turning, she found a rectangular rock, engraved with a somewhere-in-her-brain familiar symbol.

  She felt the warmth of his gaze through the branches and it distracted her. She twisted her body around and stood, then walked to the base of the tree where he worked. Abuela would tell her to face her fear head-on. Sé valiente. It was time to confront this irrational intimidation factor.

  Evie watched him as he filled the bucket more quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. She concentrated on the plunk of the cherries again
st galvanized steel and waited. He climbed down and hooked the ladder around his left shoulder, chewing furiously on a wad of gum.

  “What is your deal?” she asked him. “Can you not understand me at all?” How did he communicate with Agnes?

  He said nothing. There was no indication he could understand her, so she decided to be brave and test it.

  “So, would you like to model for me or what? I can do a full nude this time.” Evie giggled and heat painted cherries on her cheeks as she twirled her paintbrush between her fingers. It was so freeing to be able to say whatever she wanted. “Go ahead and strip down. I’ll wait.” She crossed her arms, heart beating in her throat.

  Oskar froze, staring at the tree’s bark, and she thought she detected a change in his breathing. It could’ve been her imagination, probably was. But when he turned to face her, his stormy eyes flashed with something mischievous.

  He took a step forward, into her bubble of personal space, her comfort zone. She could’ve reached out and touched any part of him. The dimple in his left cheek twinkled. He studied her like a piece of art, starting with her feet and stopping only once he reached her face. His lips parted, and she breathed a whiff of spearmint.

  Time left them there, locked in a gaze, as it moved on without them. Nobody had ever looked at her like that, much less for so long. She forgot what she’d even asked. Abuela told Evie once that body language was the most important language. It will tell you all of the things a person isn’t saying, nieta. If words are kind but the face isn’t smiling, the person is being insincere.

  She tried to decide what his body language said in this moment, since there were no words to compare it to. His chest rose and fell under his dark t-shirt in even, calculated breaths. His feet planted firmly to the ground, shoulder-length apart. Hands clutched white-knuckled—nervous?—around the ladder and bucket, and his gaze sizzled against her retinas, unflinching. She remembered from a book she once read that more than ten seconds of direct eye contact meant the person either wanted to screw you or kill you.