I check out the covers: Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse; Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine; Kira-Kira by Cynthia Kadohata; and Everything on a Waffle by Polly Horvath. I notice they all have a gold or silver Newbery medallion on the cover; these are the highest honors awarded to authors of books for young readers.
“Thanks, Dr.,” I say. “What do I owe you?”
“Now, you know better than that, Willa. Your grandmother would never hear of it. She is delighted you are such a voracious reader, and as you know, I am as well. I predict we’ll be stocking books written by you in this very store one day.”
“Do you really think so, Dr. Swammy?”
I remember my gramp used to always tell me that. He said to read the best books while I was young and then one day I would write some. He gave me my first journal and I’ve been writing ever since, chronicling the best and worst from the life of Willa Havisham.
Soon after my beloved gramp died, I saw this startling red cardinal. We had a connection, me and that bird. Now, whenever I spot a cardinal, I think of Gramp up in heaven, watching over me, making sure God reads “the good ones.”
“You might want to think about putting book plates in the books in your collection,” Dr. Swammy says, handing me a packet of square stick-on labels that read FROM THE LIBRARY of: … “Then, when you loan your books out, they’ll be sure to make their way back to you.”
“But I don’t like to loan my books,” I say, not that any of my friends ever ask to borrow them, except occasionally Mariel.
“Really?” Dr. Swammy says. “That’s surprising. Why?”
“My books are my most important possessions. I write in them as I’m reading them—scribbled notes in the margins, smiley faces, ‘me, too’s! Someday, I’ll look back and remember how I was feeling then, what I was thinking then….”
“Excuse me,” says a customer behind me. She’s looking at Dr. Swaminathan. “My nine-year-old grandson is coming to visit this week. I know he says he likes series, but I can’t remember the names. Can you recommend some books?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Swammy says. “Right this way.” He leads the lady to the middle-grade series section. “The Chet Gecko books are popular with that age group,” Dr. Swammy says, “and the Hank Zipzer books are funny. If he’s into sports, he’ll like the Matt Christopher books, or if he’s into fantasy, he might enjoy the Percy Jackson….” And then they are out of earshot, and I rush to sneak a peek at that red book Dr. Swammy was writing in.
It’s a book of love poems. I open the cover.
MY DEAREST LESLIE,
THERE ARE NO WORDS TO EXPRESS MY
LOVE FOR YOU.
ONLY POETRY APPROACHES.
PLEASE SAY YOU WILL DO ME THE HONOR
OF TAKING MY HAND IN
And then it’s cut off. Dr. Swammy stopped writing when he saw me. Oh, my gosh, how sweet! The last word was obviously going to be marriage. Please say you will do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage. He’s finally going to ask Mrs. Saperstone to marry him! Oh, how wonderful. Two of my favorite people tying the knot. Oh, they must have their ceremony at BUC. It will be the first wedding Mum will officiate upon her return. And they absolutely must have their reception at the Bramblebriar. I will plan it, of course, out by the Labyrinth, under white tents, with twinkle lights strung from the trees and —
“Willa,” Dr. Swaminathan says, returning to the counter. His eyes rest on the book in my hand. His face reddens. He adjusts his turban. He coughs.
“I’m sorry,” I say, mortified. I had no right to invade his privacy. I close the red book and put it back under the counter. “Please forgive me, Dr. Swammy. My curiosity got the better of me.”
“You are forgiven,” he says in his quiet, distinguished voice. “May I please ask you, though, to keep this matter …”
“Oh, absolutely, Dr. Swammy. Your secret is safe with me. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Oh, no. I would never do that!”
“I like your sneakers,” says the lady Dr. Swammy was helping. “That color pink with the white laces.” She’s holding several books. Dr. Swammy did a good job. Some nine-year-old boy is going to be so lucky when his family crosses that roller-coaster Bourne Bridge to his grandmother’s house and he finds a stack of great books waiting for him.
Dr. Swammy looks down at my new pink sneaks. “Yes, they are quite striking,” he says. “Colorful.”
“Thanks for the books, Dr. Swammy. And the labels. I won’t use them for my personal collection, but I’ll put them in the books in our inn library. Thank you.”
I pop back over to the candy side of the store to get a bag of saltwater taffy, thinking how I’ll lie on my bed on this cloudy afternoon and read and chew until dinnertime. I wanted to stop in and see Mrs. Saperstone at the library, but I can’t risk my face giving the surprise away. They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but you can always judge me by my face. I find it impossible to mask my feelings.
I am so excited for them! Wedding bells are in the air!
Riding back home I nearly collide a few times looking down at my new pink sneakers. My beautiful new hot-pink sneakers.
CHAPTER 8
Will’s Wild Goose Chase
There is nothing on earth more exquisite than a bonny book, with well-placed columns of rich black writing in beautiful borders, and illuminated pictures cunningly inset.
— George Bernard Shaw
Salty Dog looks up from his nap when I bound up the front porch steps to the inn. Right away I know something is wrong. Walking over to pet him, I see he’s wearing a bright green bow around his neck, his golden fur looks newly brushed and shinier, and lo and behold, he doesn’t smell like fish.
“Oh, no, she didn’t, did she, Salty?” My mother took him to the Sivlers’ spa, No Mutts About It.
Salty looks at me and puts his head down, ashamed. I put my arms around his thick neck and hug him. He smells like fancy soap or spices or something. He doesn’t smell like Salty Dog. He doesn’t smile at me.
“Was it really awful?” I ask him, thinking about all of those foo-fooey silly hot dog–size dogs I see coming in and out of that place, their owners cooing over them. I look over at the spa where just now, Mrs. Sivler is walking out the front door. She’s holding her looks-like-a-toy white poodle, Pookie. She’s wearing a short-short red sundress, scooped low in the front, way too young a look for a lady her age, and she has tied a matching red bow around Pookie’s neck. Puke, puke.
Salty makes a whimpy-whiny sound, probably remembering the horrors.
“Did they make you feel like you were a mutt because you’d never been to a spa before?” I say, untying the green bow from Salty’s neck. At least they thought to give him a green bow, green and gold being our signature colors here at the inn. “Did they give you a massage and plunk you in a bubble bath and make you eat steak and drink fancy bottled water and …”
Salty looks in my eyes. I smile, but he doesn’t smile back. He groans again, plunking his head down on his paws. I look at Salty’s nails. They’re polished. “Oh, no, they didn’t. They gave you a paw-dicure? Oh, buddy, I’m sorry, that just isn’t right.”
“How do you like our new man?” Will says, coming up next to me. “He’s top dog now, huh, a real gov’nor.”
I turn around to look at my half brother standing there with that big teasing grin on his face. “Oh, stop with the Dickens’ ‘gov’nor’ stuff,” I say. “You agreed to this? Why didn’t you stop my mother —”
Will laughs. “He’s a dog, Willa. He’ll get over it.”
I hug Salty again. He licks my face, but without his usual enthusiasm. I put my hands on either side of his mouth and try to pull a smile. “Come on, Salty, smile.”
He doesn’t. They’ve taken his happy away. I smile at him, trying to cheer him up. “Come on, Salty Dog, give me a grin.”
“He doesn’t grin,” Will says, laughing.
“Stop laughing at me. He does, too.”
“Does n
ot,” Will says.
“Well, maybe not for you, but he smiles at me.”
Our guest, Mrs. Noonan, is passing by us. She leans in and whispers, “You tell him, honey.”
“Okay, I’ll bug off,” Will says contritely. “I’m sorry, sis.” He looks down at my hot-pink sneakers. “Cool shoes.”
“Thanks. How was fishing?”
“Listen … Willa.” Will looks around to be sure no one is listening. He cracks his knuckles, swipes his hand through his sandy-brown hair, sets those sea blue eyes on mine.
“What?” I say.
“I saw him.”
“Who?”
“Our father.”
A chill runs through my body. “No, Will. You couldn’t have. I told you. He’s dead. Billy Havisham drowned.”
“No, Willa, you’re wrong. I saw him out on the Vineyard, in Edgartown, at the docks. I swear I did. I’m sure it was him. He had a fake leg. He was getting in a boat and before I could reach him, he was gone.”
“Will … it can’t be. He crashed into the Atlantic Ocean way down by Washington, DC. Mother showed me the letter from the US Coast Guard. It said, ‘We regret to inform you …’ They searched and dredged the waters for hundreds of miles all up and down the coast. They found some of his clothing, his wallet, and then —”
“I know, I know,” Will says. “Part of his leg washed up on a beach.”
I grimace at the thought.
“Which proves my point exactly!” Will says, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “They never found his body, did they? People get attacked by sharks and lose arms and legs and survive. I told you, Willa, I saw him yesterday and he had a prosthetic leg. I could tell by the way he was limping across the dock onto his boat.”
My head starts to swirl and my stomach does a tailspin. Oh, my gosh. What if it’s true? Yes, a leg washed up onshore. But what if somehow my father survived…. Or maybe that wasn’t his leg at all…. What if …
“Oh, good, Willa, there you are,” my mother says, snapping me back to the moment. “Makita called in sick. I need you to serve appetizers later.”
“Could I help, too, Ms. Havisham?” Will offers.
Mother smiles. She thinks about it for a few seconds. “You’ll need to change,” she says. “Do you have a dress shirt and …”
“Certainly, Ms. Havisham,” he says.
“Stella,” she says. “Please call me Stella.”
“Very well then, Stella. Don’t worry. This Brit bloke cleans up well.”
My mother laughs. “All right then, Brit bloke. Cocktails are four to six on the side porch. Willa can fill you in.” She looks down, noticing my sneakers. “Where’d you get those?”
“In town, at Lammers’.”
“You went shopping?” she says incredulously, like I said I went parasailing or skydiving or something.
I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t planning to. They just caught my eye.”
When my mother leaves, Will turns to me. “Come out to the Vineyard with me tomorrow.”
“No, Will.”
“Please, Willa. We have to find out.”
“No, Will. You’ve got to stop!” I say this so loudly Salty stands up and barks. He looks at Will, he looks at me. He senses something is wrong.
“Please, Will, you’ve got to let this rest. You’re only going to get hurt again.”
“It can’t hurt more than his being dead,” Will says.
I look out at the front yard, the statue of the girl on her stomach reading a book that Mom and Sam brought me back from their honeymoon trip to Nantucket and then at the cherry tree we planted when Mom and I first moved into the inn. When life throws you a pit, plant a cherry tree. I am so lucky. I have a mother, a wonderful stepfather. Will only has two gargoyle-cold grandparents who don’t even want him around….
“Never mind,” Will says. “I’ll go myself.”
I feel bad, so sorry for him. “No, Will … wait. I’ll come, too.”
Our guests, particularly the ladies, are quite taken with my brother, Will, during cocktail hour. The Brit bloke looks quite dashing in his tan pants, white collared shirt, and navy blue blazer with his boarding school emblem emblazoned in gold. He pours soda next to my mother, who is opening a bottle of wine. I circulate around with a platter of fresh tomato and pesto bruschetta and grilled shrimp and melon kabobs. I changed into a sundress but am still wearing my hot-pink sneakers, much to my mother’s dismay. She’d prefer strappy sandals. At least I’m wearing a dress.
The lowering sun is casting a honey glow over all of us. Mr. Halloran, a lawyer from Syracuse, sits down at the piano just inside the door. He plays “Old Cape Cod” and several of the guests sing along. When Mr. Halloran finishes, Will goes in to the piano. He sits down on the bench, stretches his fingers, cracks his knuckles, and begins to play.
Who knew? Will plays songs from The Phantom of the Opera and Les Misérables and several other famous musicals, from memory. So my half brother is not only handsome, smart, and rich; he is talented, too. Oh, would Tina and Ruby love to be here right now! Their “boydar” (boy-radar) must be on the blink.
Later, after dinner, up in my room, I text JFK. I tell him how Rosie is leaving and how Mum is coming home. How James Taylor is signing books at Nana’s store on Saturday. “You know,” I write, “the guy who sings ‘You’ve Got a Friend.’” I tell him about my styling new hot-pink sneakers. I don’t tell him about Jess Farrelly’s invitation or that Will is on a wild goose chase for our birthfather and that I’ve agreed to go along.
I go online. I check out the Buoy Boys’ home page. Jess, the drummer. Luke LeGraw on guitar and vocals. They’re doing an “All Beatles” night at Poppy Marketplace Friday night from seven to nine P.M. All proceeds will benefit the victims of the earthquake in Haiti. That’s really nice of them. I stare at Jess’s picture. Sooo cute. Maybe he was just inviting me to support the cause. How could it hurt to go? No, Willa, no. I sign off.
Passing my desk, I pick up the package of book plates Dr. Swammy gave me this afternoon. On impulse I glue one onto the inside front cover of Kira-Kira and below the words FROM THE LIBRARY OF, I write Willa Havisham, Cape Cod, Massachusetts.
I get into bed, unwrap a taffy, lemon-lime, smiling at the message “Be Happy, Eat Taffy,” and begin reading Kira-Kira.
I read straight through to the end. I cry when the little sister says how her big sister wanted to live in a house by the sea “because she loved the sea, even though she never saw it.”
On the blank page in the front of the book, the one that just has the title Kira-Kira on it, I think it’s called the half title page, I put today’s date and write my review: “Gorgeous, I loved it. What will I remember most? The love.”
Speaking of love, I wonder if Dr. Swammy popped the question yet? Oh, I do hope Mrs. Saperstone will say yes. But … she has been a widow for so long now. What if she gets cold feet and says no? Oh, no, she must say yes! They are simply perfect for each other.
And I will help them plan a simply perfect Cape Cod wedding.
CHAPTER 9
A Sea Storm of Emotions
To encounter a fine book and have time to read it is a wonderful thing.
— Natalie Goldberg
The next day, Wednesday, it’s raining. The water is too choppy for Will to take us on his boat out to the Vineyard. Thank goodness. I didn’t want to go.
“Tomorrow, for sure,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, sending up a silent prayer for more rain. I don’t want to see my brother hurt again.
After breakfast duty, I curl up with Ella Enchanted. It’s about a girl who is given a gift from a fairy that turns out to be a curse: Ella must obey any order she is given. Later, on the title page, I write, “I love the main character’s spirit!”
I close the book. My mind starts to wander. What is JFK doing today? Is it raining in Florida, too? I picture Jess, how he looked at me when he asked me to come to his concert. I think he likes me. How do I feel about him? He�
��s just a good friend, that’s all. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go hear him play Friday night. Just as a friend. Just to support the cause. Now, what am I going to wear?
In the afternoon, when the streets have dried, I bike into town. I go back to Lammers’, where I found my cool pink sneakers. I buy a jean skirt with pink thread swirls sewn on the back pockets and a pink tank top.
After, I head to the Bramble Library.
Mrs. Saperstone is off today.
“Did she say where she was going?” I ask the other librarian, Ms. Toomajian.
“No, she didn’t, Willa, sorry.”
“Did she seem particularly happy by any chance?”
“Particularly happy?” Ms. Toomajian laughs. “No more so than usual. Why?”
“Oh … no reason.” I turn to leave. I bet Dr. Swammy swept Mrs. Saperstone off on a romantic getaway with a picnic basket and champagne, somewhere perfect to present her with that little red book of poems and pop the big question. Maybe he’s asking her right now this very second. Oh, say yes, Mrs. S. Say yes!
Two friends from school, Chandler and Caroline, are walking toward me on the street, eating ice cream cones. We stop to chat.
“Everybody’s going to Poppy Marketplace Friday night to hear Jess and Luke play,” says Chandler.
“You should come with us,” Caroline says. “They want everybody from Bramble Academy to come, little kids through high school. It’s a fund-raiser for the earthquake victims.”
“Who’s going?” I say casually, as if this is the first time I’m hearing about it.
“Shefali’s coming, Emily, Trish, Kelsie, Greta and Carli, for sure, Lauren, MacKenzie, Allison … everybody,” Chandler says. “We’re going to play mini-golf, then get some pizza and sit at the picnic tables in the courtyard to hear the concert.”
From Willa, With Love Page 4
