“This is just the record book,” Posey said, running her finger down a list of names, scrawled in the same elegant script. “I need to sign you in.”
Olivia looked up at Violet.
“Maybe she wants to send thank-you notes?” Violet offered.
Olivia rolled her eyes. “So.” She turned back to Posey. “The rules?”
“Right,” Posey said. “Rules. There are only a few, but they’re important. Especially the first one.” Posey found a pen from behind her ear and began filling in the date on the next available empty line. “The first rule of Wish Club,” she was saying, “is that you do not talk about Wish Club.”
Olivia nodded as Violet rolled her eyes.
“Wish Club?” Violet droned. “Unless Brad Pitt is hiding in that closet somewhere, I don’t think a Fight Club reference is all that appropriate.”
Olivia was close to laughing when she felt Posey’s eyes, hard and severe, boring holes into the crown of her head.
“Okay.” Olivia nodded. “Got it. Next?”
Posey snapped the pen into the binding of the open book. “The second rule of Wish Club,” she went on, “is that you DO. NOT. TALK. About Wish Club.”
She stared unblinking into Olivia’s eyes, as Olivia began fiddling with her fingernails.
“Um…” She spoke tentatively. “Okay?”
“Seriously,” Posey went on. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t tell a soul. Not about the dresses, not about the butterflies, definitely not about the wishes. Not even about me or this shop.”
“Sounds like a pretty successful business model,” Violet snorted. She was now wandering around the shop, glancing at a series of framed articles featuring photos of a much younger Posey and a large, gray-haired woman draped in a muumuu.
“I don’t need the business,” Posey said sternly.
Olivia could feel Violet taking a step back from the frames, as if she’d set off an alarm.
“All that matters to me is that I help people who need helping,” Posey explained. “And if you go running to all of the Bay Area with this, I won’t be able to do that.”
Olivia nodded.
“It’s important that your sister understands that one, too,” Posey said.
Olivia looked back to where Violet was standing in front of one of the mannequins, inspecting its hard, angular face. Olivia threw her a look.
“Aye, aye,” Violet said, saluting the frozen bust.
“I think we’re good,” Olivia reported back.
Posey indicated a line on the notebook and passed Olivia the pen.
“The rest of the rules are pretty straightforward,” Posey continued, scratching a scabby bug bite near her wrist. “Every time I make you a dress, you get to make a wish. Three dresses, three wishes. You’ve already used one, so that leaves two.”
“Why only three?” Olivia asked quickly, before flushing red. “Not that three’s not enough. Just, you know, curious.”
Posey shrugged, grabbed the edge of a low, wobbly table, and hoisted herself up to her feet. Olivia didn’t get it; Posey looked and sounded like she was around her age, but the way she carried herself from place to place, her fragile bones and careful waddle, made her seem ancient.
“It’s a magic number?” she offered, pulling her argyle sweater—itchy looking, and with a big hole at the collar—down over her nonexistent hips. “I really have no idea. Do you mind if we keep this moving? I have an alteration at ten.”
Violet chortled from her perch by the window. “Shouldn’t there be elves for that kind of thing?”
Olivia groaned. “Would you please shut it?”
Posey started, nearly dropping the crowded daybook she’d been consulting at her desk.
“Not you,” Olivia assured her. “Sorry. Go on.”
Posey looked up from her planner to quickly run through the rest of the rules:
Wishes will only be granted when the wisher is wearing a magical Mariposa dress.
No wishing for ridiculously unattainable and universal things, like world peace or an end to hunger and poverty.
No wishing the same thing twice.
No wishing for more wishes.
Olivia signed her name and Posey snapped the book shut.
“That’s it,” Posey announced. “Anything else is fair game.”
Olivia crawled to her feet and joined Violet, already hovering at the door. “Wow,” Olivia said uncertainly. “I don’t even know what to—I mean, I’ve never really—”
“Don’t mention it,” Posey said, settling in behind her sewing machine. “Oh, there’s one more rule. Whatever you wish, wish carefully, and make sure it comes from your heart. Those are the only wishes that count.”
10
“At the end of the road, turn left.” The persistent GPS narrator blinked from Violet’s lap.
“There,” Violet shouted in a mock-British accent, imitating the recording and pointing toward the on-ramp. “I believe he means right there.”
It had been a full day of firsts for Olivia. Her first time seeing a ghost. Her first time talking to a ghost. Her first time believing in wishes and magical dresses…
And now, her first time driving across the Golden Gate Bridge.
When they’d gotten back to the house from Posey’s shop, Violet had convinced Olivia that they absolutely had to spend the afternoon driving around the city and finding out exactly what Violet, in her reincarnated but bossy-as-ever form, could and could not do. Bridget was at work, and Mac was napping on the living room couch, CNN news tickers flashing against his sturdy, sleepy frame. The keys to the loaner BMW were on the counter. Technically, Olivia wasn’t yet on the rental insurance, but Violet wasn’t interested in technicalities.
They’d spent the afternoon getting lost in the peaks and valleys of North Beach, Russian Hill, and the Marina, window-shopping—where they’d learned that even though Violet was solid to Olivia’s touch, she passed through everything else like ether. Much to Violet’s dismay, this made shoplifting a basket of Kiehl’s products or sipping a bowl of chai heartbreakingly impossible.
After a few rounds of their new favorite game, which involved Violet standing in the middle of the sidewalk as complete strangers walked directly through her body, Violet decided it was time for a road trip.
Enter Sir Hamish, as Violet had immediately christened the electronic device. She had programmed a secret destination into the boxy neon screen and was repeating affected commands as Olivia struggled to keep up.
“Where are we going?” Olivia asked, screeching to a stop at the crest of a hill.
“There it is!” Violet squealed, pointing through the windshield at the famous bridge, rising red and regal above the fog. “I can’t believe we live here,” she said, for the umpteenth time that day.
“I can’t believe Mom grew up here,” Olivia added. It still hadn’t sunk in that all of the sights and sounds Olivia was experiencing for the first time every day had been the backdrop and sound track to her mother’s youth.
Olivia followed Hamish and Violet’s instructions and soon realized they weren’t just admiring the bridge, they were crossing it.
“Man.” Violet sighed, stretching out the window for a better look at the turquoise water, streaked with boats and dotted with little green islands. Olivia tried to sneak a peek but was anxiously gripping the steering wheel, trying not to think about the massive red suspension beams hanging high above or the choppy water far below.
Olivia finally exhaled as they bumped back over the grating and onto smooth pavement, the lush hills of the Marin Headlands ushering them through a mountain tunnel and into the quaint harbor town of Sausalito.
Bridget hardly ever talked about growing up in Sausalito, and the one time the Larsen family had visited the West Coast, when the girls were seven, they hadn’t even seen her old house. Both of her parents—Grandma Sybil and Grandpa Joe—had already died by then, and the only somewhat nostalgic stop Bridget had made was to see her father’s boat,
a snazzy sporting yacht still docked in the marina.
“Mom inherited that boat, didn’t she?” Violet pressed as they took a sharp turn down into the valley. “I thought we could go check it out.”
“They’re trying to sell it,” Olivia protested, vaguely remembering her parents arguing about the upkeep and not having enough free time to enjoy it.
“Good luck,” Violet dismissed her with a scoff. “I’m sure people are just lining up to buy luxury yachts in this stellar economy.”
Olivia turned dramatically to face her sister, her eyebrows arched like horizontal question marks.
“I read things.” Violet shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands lately, okay?”
Part of Olivia wanted to know more. A lot of time on your hands, where? But another part, a bigger part, just wanted to enjoy the fact that she was sitting in a car next to her sister, on their way to another adventure, waiting for a stoplight to change.
The girls followed the winding cliffside road into town. The sun was just starting its long drop into the Pacific, and in the distance, T-shaped rows of clean white boats threw their reflections, shimmering and gold against the water.
They pulled into the Sausalito Yacht Harbor parking lot and Violet jumped out first. “There it is!” she shouted, pointing to a medium-size, sport fishing boat at the end of one row. Olivia immediately recognized the green canvas awning, and the gold lettering on one side of the wide, boxy hull. “Sybil.” After they’d gone back to Willis, Violet had told all of their friends that she’d have a boat named after her one day, just like her dead grandmother in California.
“I can’t believe it’s still here,” Olivia murmured, following Violet as she hopped over the margin of choppy water and landed heavily on the deck. Olivia ran her hands along the cool brass railings, stepping down into the cabin and peering inside the tinted, round windows.
“It looks like nobody’s been in here for years,” Olivia said, noting the sterile white sheets thrown over the silver-bottomed stools and heavy antique steering wheel. Like a flash, she remembered the tiny twin beds that were built into the wall in the cabin below. She and Violet had begged to sleep there, to stay the night on the boat by themselves. They didn’t care if the boat left the harbor, they just wanted to play with all of the tiny things. Tiny pillows, tiny pots and pans, even a tiny toilet that flushed with a tiny, foot-shaped pedal.
“Remember when I thought I clogged the toilet and started to cry?” Olivia asked, pulling away and turning back to Violet.
All around her, the deck was empty.
“Violet?” she called out, the sharp quiver of her voice echoing into the ocean. Her eyes wildly scanned the flat, clean surface of the blue water, the deserted deck of the ship. Was that it? Olivia thought, her stomach dropping. Had Violet left? Was she all by herself again?
“Up here!” Violet sang.
Olivia felt blood rushing back up to her face and breathed a thick sigh of relief. She followed the sound of Violet’s voice up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the upper level.
“Don’t tell me you forgot about the roof deck!”
Olivia swung her legs over the railing and found Violet lying back against the pointed bow, knees bent, eyes trained on the deepening sky.
“We live in California,” Violet announced, her voice slow and deliberate. “I used to tell everyone I was going to move here when I turned eighteen, remember?”
Olivia grabbed her sister’s wrist and gave it a little squeeze. Violet’s obsession with the Sybil had been only the first in a series of West Coast fantasies. She’d always said she was a California girl at heart, and had dreamed about living on their grandparents’ boat and sailing it up and down the coast.
All this time Olivia had spent being miserable about the move, she’d forgotten it was the one thing Violet had wanted to do most. She had been living out her sister’s dream and hadn’t even realized it.
“I guess it’s not so terrible here,” Olivia allowed with a sad smile. A graceful sailboat glided across the bay, momentarily hiding, then revealing, bits and pieces of the flickering city lights.
Violet rolled her eyes. “It’s no Willis, but you’ll adjust.”
Olivia laughed. “Everything’s just so different,” she said quietly. “At school, I mean.”
“Come on.” Violet nudged Olivia’s shoulder with her own. “You just have to give it a chance.”
Olivia nodded silently.
“Besides,” Violet added, “we’ve got all this to play with.”
She spread her arms wide, as if to wrap the city in a hug, and Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. With Violet right there beside her, it was almost impossible to remember what life had been like before. It was as if she was suddenly seeing in color again, after months of living in black-and-white. Her old, gray life felt unimportant and far away.
As the sky faded from royal blue to inky gray, the sisters lay side by side, just like they’d done since they were small; Olivia connecting the dotted constellations, Violet holding out for shooting stars.
11
“Mmmm,” Violet moaned, holding her face over the bubbling layers of tomato sauce and fat round noodles. Olivia and her parents were about to sit huddled around the sloping kitchen table, eating a non-holiday meal together as a family for the first time in as long as Olivia could remember.
It hadn’t actually been a planned thing. More like they’d all happened to be home and semi-near the kitchen around the time that Mac was pulling a casserole dish of steaming baked ziti out of the oven. Olivia had finished her homework and quickly set the table, catching herself before laying down a fourth place for Violet, who giggled at the faux pas from over Mac’s shoulder at the stove.
“This is torture,” Violet continued, slumping back against a row of lopsided cabinets next to the sink. Mac, the only Larsen who could pass for a cook, had a limited yet consistent repertoire of standby dishes, usually involving one pot, a preheated oven, and lots of melted cheese. Violet had always loved Mac’s pasta dishes best—especially during her biannual stints of vegetarianism—and baked ziti, tonight’s entrée of choice, had been her all-time favorite. Sadly, the look-but-don’t-touch rule of ghostly manners didn’t allow for eating, either.
The front door opened and they listened for the sounds of Bridget’s house keys, clinking in a dish on the entryway table. She’d been working at the office all afternoon, and Olivia watched as Violet’s eyes jumped from the food to the kitchen door, flickering with soft anticipation.
“Something smells good,” Bridget said as she entered the room, a cloud of gardenia perfume following in her wake. Probably because she had been the only one at work on a Sunday, she was wearing the casual version of her everyday suit: a champagne-colored cashmere sweater set with little pearl buttons, charcoal gray tailored pants, and black ostrich-skin flats. She gave Olivia a quick squeeze at the waist and dropped a little peck on Mac’s cheek before opening the refrigerator door and taking out a glass bottle of V8.
The whole scene was so quintessentially Mom, and Olivia watched as Violet’s eyes grew foggy. Olivia tried to imagine what it would be like, sitting there, sandwiched between her parents, not being able to touch them or talk to them. Feeling completely invisible.
Probably, she realized with a jolt, it wasn’t so different from the way she’d been feeling lately herself.
Mac served up heaping plates of pasta and passed them to Olivia, who laid them on the table before settling in a seat next to her mother.
“Thanks, O,” Bridget said as she tucked in her chair, taking her BlackBerry from her pocket and placing it next to her plate on the table. “How was the party last night? I didn’t even hear you come in.”
Olivia poured herself a glass of water from the multicolored ceramic pitcher on the table and took a big sip. “It was okay,” she said. “I was home pretty early.”
Mac ripped a big chunk of garlic bread from a steaming loaf wrapped in tinfoil and passed it a
cross the table. “Did you have a good time?”
Olivia glanced quickly up at Violet, who was following the round of questions like a spectator at a tennis match.
“I guess.” Olivia shrugged, hoping it was a better alternative to Sure, until I humiliated myself, almost got sick in a cab, and made a wish on a floating butterfly. P.S. Violet’s back.
She felt her parents’ eyes on the top of her head as she pushed piles of soppy noodles around on her plate. Bridget cleared her throat and took a sip of water before turning to Mac.
“How’s the upstairs bathroom coming?” she asked. Olivia looked up from her plate as her father wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and shrugged.
“It’s coming,” he said with a quiet smile. “Just working on those cabinets in the basement. Another coat of paint and they should be good to go.”
Bridget nodded and smiled before glancing quickly around the table and turning toward Olivia. “Could you pass the salt, hon?” she asked, gesturing to the crystal shaker next to Olivia’s elbow.
Olivia reached slowly across the table, studying her parents with careful eyes. Were they actually having a calm, pleasant, normal family dinner?
Just then, Bridget’s BlackBerry buzzed from its prominent position at the center of the table. Mac eyed the device warily.
“Hmm…” Bridget muttered, assessing the e-mail with angled brows. “It’s Mike from the office. I asked him to take a look at the title for Grandpa Joe’s boat and see what we’d have to do to get it on the market.”
Olivia looked quickly up from the forkful of pasta she’d been pushing listlessly across her plate and caught Violet’s eye. “You’re really going to sell it?” she asked.
“We haven’t decided yet,” Mac said reassuringly, taking another bite.
“I don’t see what there is to decide,” Bridget said curtly, replacing the BlackBerry on the table and stabbing a tube of ziti with her fork.
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