“Thanks,” I say. “That’s nice of you to say. If also faintly condescending.”
He spins toward me, horrified. “It was a compliment!”
“And I said thank you.” I grin to let him know I’m teasing. I feel bright, like I’ve been lit up on the inside. Cute. He thinks I’m cute … at least when I sing. My heart is tap-dancing in my chest. Maybe I should do another song tonight after all. “Cute is nice. It’s not great. I mean, you could have said that I was radiant. Or…” I search for another adjective. “Fetching. But cute is okay. Could be worse.”
“‘Fetching’?” he says slowly. “Honestly, Prudence, there are times when I wonder if you might be a time-traveler from a different century.”
I laugh. “The old-fashioned name gave it away?”
“Maybe a little,” says Quint.
Jude loudly clears his throat.
Quint and I both startle and look over at Jude and Ari. They’re staring at us—Jude looks mildly embarrassed. Ari has a hand pressed over her mouth, but she can’t conceal her impish smile.
Jude gestures at a table that just opened up across from our booth. “Should Ari and I give you some privacy or…?”
I flush. Quint laughs, but it’s tinged with discomfort.
“Welcome to Karaoke Tuesday at Encanto!” Trish howls into the microphone, and even though most of the restaurant patrons ignore her and continue on with their conversations, the four of us are more than happy to give her our full attention. Like last time, Trish explains how karaoke night works, then kicks things off by singing Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman.”
She’s good. Really good. Her voice is powerful and raw, her presence hypnotizing. At one point I glance toward the bar and see Carlos leaning over the counter, a dish towel forgotten in his hand. He’s watching Trish with what could almost be categorized as a dreamy stare.
I reach across the table and nudge Ari, then point. When she sees Carlos, she claps her hands over her heart, swooning.
Always eager to see love, no matter where or when, or who. Even if Carlos has been her older-man crush for months, I can tell she’d be thrilled to see him find someone.
That’s one thing I adore about Ari. She finds so much happiness in the joys of others.
Trish finishes the song to enthusiastic applause from the audience. She does do a good job of warming up the crowd, I have to give her that.
Next up is a guy who sings a hip-hop song I’m not familiar with, followed by a man and woman who perform a saucy duet. They’re all pretty good. Not great, but not bad. The songs have been fun and they’ve all done their best to work the crowd.
Then Trish calls Ari to the stage, and suddenly, I’m nervous for her. Ari’s voice might be beautiful, but her stage presence is … less impressive.
I hold my breath, silently rooting for her as she takes hold of the microphone.
The music opens with a melancholy guitar riff.
And Ari starts to sing.
The song is, indeed, haunting and lyrical, and Ari’s voice is captivating. My heart swells with pride, to see her, to hear her. I can’t wait until the day that it’s her songs people are belting out through that microphone.
“She’s really good,” whispers Quint.
“I know,” I say, wondering if the tiny twist in my stomach is envy. Except, thinking it only brings back Quint’s earlier words … that I’m cute. Grinning, I lean closer to him. “Some would call her fetching.”
He meets my eye. A shared smile. A shared joke.
I don’t want to look away, but Ari’s voice comes and goes in sweet but powerful eddies as she moves from the verse into a chorus. I devote my attention to her, and a strange contentment comes over me. An overwhelming sense of belonging, in this moment, in this place. To be here with my brother and my best friend, with Quint’s elbow pressed lightly against mine, to have this unfamiliar yet beautiful song speaking to my soul.
And I guess I can understand why Ari longs to create music. It does have this uncanny way of bringing a moment into focus. Of making the world seem suddenly brilliant and magical and right.
I don’t know if I’m the only one feeling it. But I do know that when Ari is finished, we all applaud our freaking hearts out.
THIRTY-FIVE
There was a time when I was a regular visitor to the pawnshop on Seventh, though I was never on a first-name basis with the owner, Clark, like the beachcomber is. The shop is the sort of place that regularly takes in music memorabilia, so my parents used to stop in every few months, dragging us kids along, to see if they’d gotten new Beatles posters or merchandise, or if there were vinyl records they could get for cheap and sell at a higher price back at the store. Years ago my mom found a set of plastic Beatles picnic plates that we still use to this day.
The store is also a go-to stop for instruments. This is where we got Jude’s guitar and Penny’s violin, and even my keyboard.
But it’s been years since I’ve been inside. So I’m surprised when I open the door and am immediately greeted with a slew of familiar smells—musk and lemon wood polish and cigar smoke. I’m even more surprised when the man behind the counter grins widely when he sees me. “Is that Prudence Barnett? Holy hell, you’ve gone off and turned into a teenager. Look at you!”
I freeze a couple steps into the doorway and smile awkwardly. “Um. Yep. Hi.”
“Come in, come in.” He waves his arms, like he’s trying to drag me forward with the force of his gestures. He’s a big guy. Like, Hagrid big. I’d remembered this, but thought that my young mind must have been exaggerating, because now that I think of it, I was a little afraid of him when I was a kid, even though he was always really nice to me and my siblings. But there’s just something unsettling about being greeted by a guy well over six feet tall, who probably weighs twice as much as my dad. He has an unruly gray-peppered beard and is wearing a tweed newsboy hat. This, too, I remember from childhood.
“I expected your mom or dad to stop in any day now. Didn’t think they’d be sending you in, but it sure is good to see you. All grown-up. I can’t hardly believe it.” He clicks his tongue, then lifts a finger, indicating I should wait. “I’ll go get your money. Be right back.”
I blink. Money?
But before I can say anything, he’s slipped into a back room, a tiny office with a window covered in yellowed blinds. I approach the main counter, where he keeps the jewelry. There are so many little velvet boxes holding little diamond rings that it’s dizzying. I move to the next case. Necklaces, watches, bracelets—earrings.
I inspect them all, but none of them is Maya’s. He probably wouldn’t keep a solitary earring with these sets anyway, I reason.
Maybe he has a missing-parts jewelry section?
I make a quick pass around the room. More glass cases hold antique cigar boxes, porcelain figurines, hand-painted teacups, pocketknives, collectible coins, baseball cards. One entire case is dedicated to used cell phones. The walls are covered in paintings. The shelves display everything from clarinets to laptops, bowling balls to table lamps.
There is a display of costume jewelry on one counter. I spend a minute digging through it, but there’s nothing that resembles the earring, and if Clark really did pay more than a grand for it, I doubt it would be sitting out here unattended.
“Here we go,” says Clark, emerging from the office with a white envelope. He lays down a handwritten receipt, then opens the envelope and takes out a handful of money. He starts to count it out, placing each bill down so I can double-check his math, but my attention is on the slip of yellow paper.
Guitar amp: $140.00
Tennis bracelet (diamond 1 ct): $375.00
Cordless drill: $20.00
DVD player: $22.00
Electronic keyboard w/stand: $80.00
At the bottom is my dad’s signature and phone number.
My eyes linger on the last item. A keyboard. The keyboard, I’m sure, that I’d told Ari I would give to her, before I re
alized we didn’t have it anymore.
Before my parents told me they sold it.
“Six hundred and thirty-seven.” Clark finishes counting, then stacks up the bills again and slides them back into the envelope. He hands it to me, along with the receipt. My hand instinctively closes around it, feeling the heft of the money inside. “We’ve had some interest on that cutlery set, but no takers yet. Your pop mentioned he might be bringing in a guitar? Acoustic, I think? Those have been selling like hotcakes lately, if you want to let him know.”
Cutlery? Guitar?
“Um. Okay. I’ll mention it to him.” I swallow. “Which cutlery set, exactly?”
“Ah, you know. This vintage one.” He walks around the counter and ushers me toward another case, where he pulls out an old wooden box. When he opens it, I’m greeted with a set of silverware—lightly tarnished spoons and forks and a row of steak knives strapped to the bottom of the lid. There are some serving pieces, too—a ladle and one of those huge forks used for carving meat. I reach out and run my finger along the handle of one of the spoons, engraved with a motif of grapes.
I know this silverware.
“You okay?”
I snap my attention up to Clark. “Yeah. Yes. I just … didn’t realize my parents were selling this off. This was my great-grandma’s. We put it out every Thanksgiving.”
I can’t tell if his frown means he’s worried for me, or that my sentimentality could keep him from making a sale. “You’d be surprised how many people are off-loading this sort of thing,” he says, and I think he’s trying to ease my mind. “Silverware like this? It’s almost more valuable being melted down for the silver. Not a big market. It’s pretty, but kind of a pain compared with stainless steel. People just don’t know how to care for these things like they used to or they don’t have the time or just don’t feel like it. Can’t hardly blame them.”
I nod, but I’m barely listening.
My parents are selling off their stuff.
I know money has been tight. I know they’ve been worried about paying their rent at the record store. But I had no idea it had come to this—pawning their possessions to make ends meet.
Why didn’t they tell us?
“Anything else I can do for you?” Clark asks.
I look down at the envelope in my hand. I consider giving it back to him. I really don’t want to be walking around with hundreds of dollars in my bag all day. But I don’t want Clark to know that my parents have been keeping this from me. I’m embarrassed to think how clueless I am about my own family’s situation.
So instead, I smile graciously and tuck the envelope away. My bag feels fifty pounds heavier.
“There actually is one other thing,” I say, clearing my throat. “I met a woman the other day. I don’t know her name, but she spends a lot of time metal detecting out on the beach.”
“Oh, you must mean Lila.” Clark nods. “I’m amazed at the things she digs up out there. Once brought in an old sheriff pin—not a real one—but like they would have put in a cereal box, maybe from the thirties or forties? It was so neat. You just never know what’s out there, waiting to be found. So what have you got to do with old Lila?”
“Well, she found something on the beach, and it turns out that it belongs to a friend of mine. A diamond earring? I asked her about it and she said she sold it here.”
Recognition flashes over Clark’s features, and is immediately followed by regret. “Aw, man. It belonged to a friend of yours?”
I nod. “Her grandmother gave the earrings to her before she passed away. She—my friend—still has one, but she lost the other on the beach at the start of summer.”
Clark heaves a sigh and rubs the back of his neck. “That’s tough, Prudence. I know exactly the earring you’re talking about, and yeah, Lila did sell it to me, but … it already sold. I didn’t have it in the case for more than a couple of hours before it was snatched up.”
Disappointment sinks in.
“I was surprised, too—being just half the pair, you know? But the woman who bought it said she was gonna use it for a necklace pendant, I think. And it was a nice piece. Vintage. Quality diamond.”
“Could you tell me who bought it?”
He frowns and strokes his beard. “I don’t know her name. She comes in here every once in a while, but I’ve never had much of a conversation with her. I could maybe check back through our records, but … no, you know what? I remember now, she paid with cash, so I wouldn’t have her name anyway.”
“Cash? But it was pretty expensive, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t cheap. But our customers, you know, it’s not that strange for someone to pay with cash. Either way, I’m really sorry. If she comes in again, I can see about getting her name and some contact info. Maybe your friend could work something out.”
I’m tempted to tell him that, legally, she’d be obligated to give the earring back, but … that doesn’t really matter right now. I may never find the woman. I may never find the earring.
I feel like I’ve failed Maya, and despite how much I’ve tried to justify what happened, I can’t help but feel partially to blame for the loss in the first place. This feels like cosmic injustice, the exact opposite of what I wanted. Jude may not have deserved Maya’s saying mean things behind his back, but Maya didn’t deserve losing her beloved heirloom forever, either.
At least, that’s how I feel.
And if the universe feels differently, well, I’m beginning to wonder whose side it’s on.
THIRTY-SIX
“Success!” Quint hollers, charging toward me, a sheet of paper in his waving hand.
We’ve been buzzing around downtown Fortuna Beach all afternoon, since Quint finished up with his morning shift at the center. I’m waiting for him on a bench just off the boardwalk, checking businesses I’ve spoken to off my list. It’s been a busy day, going door to door along Main Street, telling people about the rescue center and the gala and asking for donations and sponsorships. Or—if nothing else—asking if they’ll let us put up an advertising poster in their window once we get them printed.
For the most part, business owners have been eager to join our cause. Sure, there were some who were quick to declare that they couldn’t afford to give any handouts, and some were downright rude about it, too, but by and large, the local businesses have been happy to help. People want to be involved, especially given the publicity the beach cleanup and seal release garnered. I’m convinced that, money conundrums aside, this is the perfect time to be hosting the gala and capitalizing on the progress we’ve already made.
This has been just the distraction I needed after my trip to the pawnshop. Every time I find myself with a quiet, idle moment, my mind goes straight back to the envelope of money in my bag, and the family silverware that will never again be placed on our Thanksgiving table.
I’ve always known we aren’t rich. I know there have been financial concerns with the store since Jude and I were kids. But this feels like a desperate act. After all, what happens when they run out of things to sell? They’ll still have bills to pay, and a record store that isn’t making enough money. This is only a Band-Aid solution. They must see that.
But then … what’s the real solution?
I can’t think of it right now. I have the center and the gala to worry about, and that’s plenty to keep my mind occupied.
Quint reaches me and, to my surprise, starts dancing. An over-the-top victory dance, right there on the boardwalk, that paper flashing in and out of the sun. He might have just scored a winning touchdown for all his enthusiasm. “Blue’s Burgers is donating not one, not two, but three gift baskets for the silent auction, including gift cards, branded T-shirts, and travel mugs. Plus they will be supplying coupons for the goody bags, and—wait for it…”
He stops dancing and holds the paper out so I can see, even though it’s the same sponsorship contract we’ve been using for all the businesses. He taps his finger against a line at the bottom, where he
’s handwritten an extra note.
I shrug. “I can’t read your handwriting.”
He whips the paper out of view. “They’ve agreed to cater the meal! Cheeseburger sliders, baby! BOOM.” He starts to dance again, then to my surprise, he grabs my hand and pulls me off the bench. I yelp as he spins me once beneath his arm. “We are so good at this!”
Laughing, I allow myself to be spun around a couple of times before dropping my hands on Quint’s shoulders and forcing him to hold still. “Okay, calm down. That’s excellent work, but there’s still a lot to do.”
His face is positively glowing. His hands, I realize suddenly, are on my waist.
Something passes between us. An electric current. A snagged breath.
I quickly pull away and turn my back on him. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I turn back to the bench and gather up my notes, pretending like that moment, whatever it was, didn’t happen.
I’m sure it was mostly in my imagination, anyway.
Quint hops up onto the bench in one graceful bound—gah, he makes that look easy—and sits down on the backrest, his elbows settled on his knees. “Okay. What’s my next mission? I’m on a roll.”
It’s a beautiful sunny day, with a salty breeze coming in off the ocean and fluffy clouds speckled along the horizon. Weather reports have been saying we’re in for a big storm this week, but there’s no sign of it now—just sunbathers on the beach and roller skaters on the boardwalk, ice cream sundaes and the cry of seagulls and everything that makes Fortuna Beach a paradise this time of year.
I scan the list of businesses and put a smiley face next to Blue’s Burgers. “That was a really generous offer from them. They’re not charging us anything?”
“Not a dime. I think they’ve been hit hard lately with all that animal-cruelty stuff that’s going around, and they think this could help them start to recover their reputation.”
“You mean those rumors that they were getting their meat from some factory farm?” I step up onto the bench and sit beside him, the notebook on my lap.
Instant Karma Page 31
