From Willa, With Love

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

“Yeah,” Will says, “I’m all finished. It’s yours now.”

  Mom, Sam, Will, and I have dinner together on the side porch. Everybody makes small talk. It’s pleasant, just like a family. We have mixed fresh greens with balsamic vinaigrette, grilled salmon, red-potato salad, corn on the cob, and strawberry shortcake. Sam has his camera. He asks our night desk manager, Darryl, to take a picture of the four of us.

  “Say cheese,” Darryl says, and we do. “Nice,” Darryl says. “Let me take another just to be sure.”

  After dinner, Will and I play a game of croquet. It’s one of my favorite summer games, that and bocce.

  “You’re good at this,” Will says after I beat him the first time and we start a second round.

  “Don’t act so surprised,” I say, whacking the blue wood ball across the freshly mowed grass, straight through a wicket. Nice. “I’m part English, too, don’t forget.”

  Our eyes meet. We’re both thinking about our birthfather, but we don’t say it.

  “Hey, you two,” Sam says. He’s got his camera again. “Smile!”

  “Say cheese,” Will whispers to me.

  “Cheese,” I say, so happy.

  When we come in from croquet, Mr. Halloran and Mrs. Noonan and some other guests ask Will if he’ll play the piano for them again, and Will quite gallantly acquiesces.

  Will suggests we have another piece of that strawberry shortcake, and you never need to invite me twice for shortcake.

  “Do you play chess?” Will says as we’re rinsing off our dishes.

  “Sure,” I say. “But prepare to lose at that as well.”

  “Not possible,” Will says. “I’m team captain at Bainbridge.”

  “Oh, yeah, well. You’re in Bramble now, brother.”

  We go into the game room and sit down at the chess table.

  I think of JFK and Lorna in the game room at his grandparents’ club in Florida.

  Will beats me royally at chess. I face defeat with dignity. “I guess you do have more experience with knights and castles,” I say as we walk upstairs to our rooms.

  “Mind if I see what my little sister’s room looks like? All my girlfriends back in London will want to know, especially the duke’s daughter.”

  I laugh. “Sure, come on in, but I’ll warn you. It’s really boring.”

  Will heads straight to my bookcase. “Think you’ve got enough?” he jokes.

  He notices the yellow-topped CHANGE FOR GOOD jug. “What’s that?” he asks.

  I explain.

  “Make me one,” Will says. “I’m bloody loaded with American coins I’ll have to toss when I head back home.”

  My heart clenches. I don’t want you to go. I have to stop myself from saying, “Wait, no, maybe you can stay here. Maybe Mom and Sam will adopt you,” because I know I shouldn’t plant false hopes. And I don’t even know if Will would want to stay on here in Cape Cod … trading a real castle for sand castles.

  When Will leaves, I check my cell phone and laptop. No messages from JFK. I could text him, but I don’t. He’s probably hanging out with the cookie girl.

  I look at the outfit I’ve laid out for tomorrow night.

  I look at JFK’s picture on my dresser.

  I’m just going out with my friends. It’s not a date or anything.

  I’m glad I thought to invite Will. Now I won’t have to show up alone.

  In bed I lift the book Everything on a Waffle from my nightstand. I read the back cover copy: “Primrose Squarp simply knows her parents did not perish at sea during a terrible storm, but try convincing the other residents of Coal Harbour …”

  My heart skips a beat. This makes me think of Will, of course. Of how desperately he needs to believe that our birthfather did not perish at sea, that he is somehow still alive and will come back to us. I turn to the first chapter entitled “My Parents Are Lost at Sea” and I dive in, soon hoping for this sweet protagonist Primrose, the same thing I wish for my brother, but it seems much too great a hope for both.

  CHAPTER 12

  From Cape Cod, With Love

  Books were my pass to personal freedom. I learned to read at age three, and soon discovered there was a whole world to conquer that went far beyond our farm in Mississippi.

  — Oprah Winfrey

  On Friday morning I call Salty and we head to the beach for a walk. I think about what an exciting weekend this is going to be.

  Tonight the concert with my friends.

  Tomorrow James Taylor is coming to Nana’s store.

  Sunday Mum is coming to BUC!

  Oh, and, of course, there’s the braviar Bennigan wedding tomorrow, so Mom will be in full-steam-ahead-super-turbo-Stella mode.

  There’s a mandatory staff meeting later. Stella will be barking out orders. Then when she’s done, almost as an afterthought as she’s standing up to leave, she’ll say, “Does anyone have anything to add?”

  Recently I suggested some ways the inn could “go green,” cutting down on how often we launder towels and linens and replacing all the throwaway plastic water bottles with refillable metal ones. To my mother’s credit, she was quite open to the suggestion.

  Today, I have a new suggestion. I think it would be nice to put blank journals in each of the rooms like that inn in Vermont Mom and Sam visited when they were researching successful New England inns in preparation for opening ours. The West Mountain Inn it’s called. I want to go there someday.

  Sam said they put a blank book and pen (and fresh apples and a take-home African violet plant, too, which I think is really, really sweet!) in all the rooms and if guests wish, they can write down what they enjoyed about their visit.

  I think it probably makes guests feel like a part of the inn family, a place they want to come back “home” to one day, or maybe even year after year.

  I’m not sure what my mom will think of the idea, but I know Sam will love it. I’m pretty certain Rosie and Darryl, Makita and the others will, too.

  The beach is empty this early in the morning. The waves lap in and out. I spot a bunch of little sucking black holes in the sand. Fiddler crabs. As I walk, breathing in and out, the Willa worries wash away and my mind is a fresh, clear slate.

  It’s in moments like this, when I least expect it, that some of my best ideas come.

  And so what can I do?

  I pick up my pace. I breathe in and out. I want to do something nice for the planet … something that involves books. I think about finding that book belonging to that girl from Atlanta. I noticed it wasn’t on the stairs today. I wonder who’s enjoying it now.

  I think of my books. How I told Dr. Swammy that I don’t lend them out because they are my favorite possessions and …

  Give them away, from Willa, with love.

  What?

  I stop walking. I feel a spark of excitement.

  Give them away, from Willa, with love.

  These are my words, my own voice inside me.

  My books? Give my books away? All of my beautiful, wonderful books? Many given as gifts from the people I love? Most with my thoughts scribbled throughout … a lasting record of how I felt at eight and nine and ten and eleven and twelve and thirteen and fourteen and …?

  Think of it as planting a garden, Willa.

  There it is again, my voice inside me. Ideas are spark-spark-sparking in my head.

  “Come on, Salty. Let’s run!”

  I need to get home to my desk where there’s paper so I can get all of this down.

  Back at the inn, I rush up to my room. I sit at my desk, sweating, heart pounding, pull out a yellow tablet, grab a pen. I notice the package of book plates Dr. Swammy said people use when they loan out books. I look at my bookcase, filled two books deep, top to bottom with all the great books I’ve read. And then I picture all the other books out in our library downstairs. They do look pretty sitting on the shelves. But books aren’t pretty objects to be looked at. Yes, the covers are lovely, but it’s the words inside that count. No book gets read sitting cl
osed on a shelf collecting dust. Books are living things; they call out for people to communicate with them—to read them —

  and question them and laugh with them and cry with them….

  I think about how moved I was reading that Three Cups of Tea book. I would send those children my books, but all of my books are in English and how would I …

  Think simple, Willa. Start small.

  I picture the bumper sticker I see on cars around town: THINK GLOBAL, ACT LOCAL.

  My local is Cape Cod. Every summer, people from all over the country, from all over the world, maybe, come to visit our little sandy wonderland.

  I think of the girl from Atlanta who left her book on the beach. Maybe she did so intentionally! Maybe she wanted to pass it on! I picture the young tourist girl who thought she saw the mermaid. How sad she must have been leaving Cape Cod, crossing back over that roller-coaster bridge to the mainland from her vacation. I imagine her sitting in the backseat of her parents’ minivan, taking one last look down at the waves of the Cape Cod Canal. But, then, what if she remembered that treasure she found … maybe on a bench on Main Street. She glances down at her lap, at the book she is holding. It’s The BFG, by Roald Dahl … my copy of The BFG. She opens the cover and reads aloud the book plate:

  Take me home, free, if you wish to read,

  Then, when you are finished, replant the seed.

  Leave me somewhere for a new friend to find.

  A book is a perennial thing,

  It blooms on and on and on.

  From Cape Cod, With Love

  Willa Havisham

  I stop writing. My hand is shaking. I start to laugh. I feel a sizzle of happiness. I love this idea. What can I do? I think I know now. I think this is it!

  But … first I should probably get another opinion. Who should I talk to?

  Mrs. Saperstone, of course.

  She’ll tell me what she thinks.

  CHAPTER 13

  Building Customer Loyalty

  One of the books I really loved, at the fairly advanced age of fourteen, was Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I was staying at my grandmother’s house, with a lot of cousins around, and I didn’t want anyone to know—so I kept it a secret…. I found it absolutely captivating.

  — Tracy Kidder

  Mrs. Saperstone is sitting on a bench beneath a tree in the readers’ garden behind the library, enjoying her lunch. When she sees me, her face brightens.

  “Willa!” she calls excitedly. “I wanted you to be the first to know, but I think maybe you already do. Ms. Toomajian said you —”

  “Did you say yes?” I ask, holding both hands, fingers crossed, above my head.

  “Of course,” she says, laughing. “I just wondered what took him so long.”

  “Whoo-hoo!” I shout, rushing to hug her. Her eyes fill with tears. Mine do, too. We do a little happy dance in front of the whale spoutin’ fountain.

  Mrs. Saperstone wipes her face and blows her nose. “After my husband, Gary, died, Willa, I thought for sure I would spend my life alone. Filled with my work and friends, and books, certainly, but …”

  “I know,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

  Mrs. Saperstone laughs. “You have such an old soul in that young body, Willa.”

  “I know,” I say. “Have you set a date?”

  “Not yet,” she says. “We wanted to wait and speak with Mum on Sunday and then we need to make an appointment with this very famous wedding planner we’ve been hearing about.”

  “My mother?” I say.

  “No, dear girl,” she says, with a smile. “You, of course!”

  My heart bubbles bright. “Well, I thought you’d never ask! I’d be honored.”

  “The only thing is, Willa,” Mrs. Saperstone says, “we want our wedding to be simple. We need it to be modest. On a teacher’s and librarian’s salaries —”

  “I understand,” I say. “I planned Nana and Gramp Tweed’s wedding and it was very economical. And just this summer, I planned my aunt Ruthie’s wedding at the inn and …”

  “Oh, no,” Mrs. Saperstone says. “I highly doubt we can afford the Bramblebriar. Just yesterday I overheard some patrons talking about the Bennigan affair your mother is planning….”

  “That’s my mother’s way of doing things,” I say. “I am the wedding planner’s daughter, and I have my own new style.”

  Mrs. Saperstone nods down at my sneakers. “Yes,” she says. “I noticed.”

  I tell Mrs. Saperstone about my idea for leaving my books in public places where people can take them for free and then pass them along when they are done. I tell her the little poem I thought up to write on the book plates inside. “What do you think?” I say.

  “I LOVE IT!” she says. “That’s what I think. It’s a perfectly marvelous idea. You’ll be like the Johnny Appleseed of books except instead of planting apple seeds —”

  “We’ll be planting books!” I finish.

  “But will you give them all away, Willa? Even your favorites? Little Women and Anne of Green Gables …”

  “Yes,” I say, “all of them.”

  “From Cape Cod, With Love,” Mrs. Saperstone says. “I love it. Have you told Dr. Swaminathan yet?”

  “No, you’re the first,” I say.

  “Well, then, I’m doubly delighted,” Mrs. S. says.

  A red bird lands on the whale spoutin’ fountain. I smile. Hi, Gramp.

  “I would have told my idea to Gramp Tweed first, of course,” I say, looking at the red bird. “He was the one who first got me started reading ‘the good ones,’ but now you and Dr. S. keep it going.”

  The red bird tilts its head my way and then flies off.

  I love you, Gramp.

  Love you, too, Willa.

  “Come inside for a second, Willa,” Mrs. Saperstone says, standing up and collecting her lunch things. “I’ve got some books for you.”

  “Now we’re talking,” I say, and she laughs.

  Inside the library, Mrs. Saperstone hands me Firegirl by Tony Abbott, Among the Hidden by Margaret Peterson Haddix, and Make Lemonade by Virginia Euwer Wolff.

  “I remembered how much you loved Wolff’s True Believer,” Mrs. Saperstone says. “And I’ve met those other two authors at librarian events. I think you’ll enjoy their work.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. S.,” I say, turning to leave.

  “Oh, Willa,” she calls to me.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t forget. Those are library books. Don’t go writing in those or giving them away.”

  I laugh and she laughs. “Of course not,” I say. “Don’t worry.”

  At the staff meeting, I make my suggestion about putting blank books in the guest room as another way of “building customer loyalty.” I add that last bit to appease my mother’s business sensibilities.

  “I like it,” Sam says nicely, but not too enthusiastically. He knows my mother won’t approve if she feels we are ganging up on her.

  Mother rolls her eyes. “How much will they cost?”

  “You can buy blank journals at the dollar store,” I say.

  “But are they cheap-looking?” Mother says, crinkling her eyebrows.

  There she goes. On one hand she’s worried about finances, but on the other hand she insists on only the fanciest, most expensive stuff.

  “Mom, I think we can do ‘top-shelf’ without ‘top dollar.’”

  Sam clears his throat. I catch a quick wink and he purses his lips not to smile.

  My mother does not look convinced.

  “I will choose journals with nice covers,” I say.

  “Besides, it’s what people will write inside that counts. Just think of all the nice things our guests will say about the inn and the service and the food and the grounds and the weddings, of course, especially the weddings.”

  Sam winks at me.

  My mother raises her chin. “I guess we can give it a try,” she concedes.

  “Great, Mom, thanks. Oh … and … one of
my friends from school was asking when we were going to have another dance party in the barn —”

  “It’s booked all summer,” Mother says, cutting me off before I can finish my thought, “with rehearsal dinners and private parties.”

  “Well, then, maybe in the fall,” Sam says, “when school starts up again. A Halloween party for sure. Don’t you think, Stella?”

  “We’ll see,” my mother says.

  I follow Sam out of the meeting. We walk to the vegetable garden where I help him pick lettuce and tomatoes for tonight’s dinner. I tell him about my new idea to leave my books in public places for others to find and enjoy.

  Sam wipes sweat from his forehead and smiles. “Now that’s what I call community rent,” he says. “Just think how far those books might go. Across the country, around the world. Just imagine all the different people you will be connecting.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I say. “But that’s nice.”

  Sam pats my cheek. His eyes meet mine. “I am so proud you’re my daughter.”

  The word daughter makes me feel good.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say. “I’m proud of you, too. You’re the one who taught me about ‘community rent.’ You and Mum, that is.”

  “And don’t forget your mother,” Sam says. “Think of all the charity races she sponsors and runs in. She personally raised five thousand dollars for that Race for the Cure she ran in last year. She just doesn’t make a big deal about it.”

  “Why is Mom so especially mean, I mean cranky, lately?” I say.

  “Stella’s the bottom-line, checks-and-balances part of our team,” Sam says.

  Team. I like that. That’s right. We’re a team.

  “She wants to make sure the Bramblebriar keeps thriving,” Sam says. “There are businesses closing all over the place. Stella’s determined to see us through.”

  We move over to the squash section and gather fat green zucchini for those spicy raisin-nut cookies we always have in the jar this time of year. You wouldn’t think this funny-looking vegetable … or is it a fruit? … would make such moist and yummy cookies, but they do! Yum, yum, yum.