“Are you kidding me? I think my mother invented Prohibition. Which is precisely why I choose to ignore it.” She paused and then went on. “I used to be worse. I had a really bad job awhile back, and I needed the alcohol to help me get through the night.”
Rain pounded down on the boat over our heads in a loud rhythm. I looked at her with searching eyes, wanting and not wanting her to go on. She shook her head, choosing not to elaborate. She changed the subject instead.
“What happened back there, Garnet? Why didn’t you want to cut out those birds?”
I took a moment to think about it. Why was it, exactly? How could I make Isabella understand, when I didn’t even really understand? The silence stretched out while I thought about how to answer her.
“I guess I couldn’t see them for themselves—all I could see was that they were a mated pair, feeding and nesting together, raising babies and sending them off into the world. I don’t think birds feel happiness exactly, at least not like we do, but they seemed happy to me anyway. Settled and content. So watching them made me think about Father and about the fact that my family isn’t really like that family of birds at all. And they made me think about Teddy, and wonder if I could have a happy family with him . . . or not.”
I looked over at Isabella—those perfect lips, that short hair starting to dry with little tufts sticking up at funny angles, those boyish clothes all rumpled and soaked. I wanted to tell her secrets I hadn’t even told myself yet.
“There’s so much waiting for me at home, Isabella. Eventually this summer will end and I’ll have to go back. August twenty-sixth is branded in my memory like judgment day. There are decisions to be made, big decisions. See, the thing is I . . . I can’t end up like my mother,” I said, surprising myself with the sudden clarity of my desires. “I can’t marry Teddy and have children and call that a life. The woodpeckers are happy with that, but I don’t think I could be. I want to learn. And work. And see things, and do things, and be somebody.”
“I know, Garnet.” The patter of rain filled the small silence between us. She pressed her small hand onto my knee, and underneath the wet and nearly transparent fabric of my skirt, my clammy skin warmed instantly at her touch.
“Can I tell you a secret, and you won’t tell anyone?” Isabella said.
“Of course.”
“My name’s not Isabella.”
I laughed. “It’s not? What is it?”
“Mary Elizabeth.”
I laughed until my stomach was sore, and she joined me. Laughter filled the tiny space under the boat until we were wrapped in the sound, safe in our own little world.
Then our eyes caught, and held, and her lips came closer. And closer. Until they were on mine and she was kissing me and I was kissing her back.
I was a hawk on the wind.
After a split-second eternity, her laugh made me pull away.
But it wasn’t coming from her. No, the source of the sound was outside our boat cave. It was the birdsong I’d been trying for so long to place, the soft, single-toned, whistle-like whi-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi. I had to know. I peeked out under the rim and peered through the rain. There, climbing head down around a tree trunk just beyond the clearing, was a simple little gray-and-white bird. It pecked at the bark of the tree, sheltered from the rain by foliage, and there was no mistaking it.
“A nuthatch?” I said when my tingling lips remembered how to speak. “I never would have thought . . . not an exotic species at all! Just a plain, common . . .”
“What?”
I looked at her—really looked—and all at once the nuthatch made sense. This girl next to me was only part Isabella, the stunning scarlet tanager. She was also part Mary Elizabeth, the simple nuthatch. So what was I, then? Part Garnet, the boring American robin, or the ordinary ring-billed gull, or the drab little chipping sparrow—but maybe part something else.
“Mary Elizabeth,” I whispered.
“Seriously, Garnet,” she said, clearing her throat. “Will you still call me Isabella? I was never very good at being a Mary Elizabeth.”
Her face was close again. So close. The air hung thick and humid around us, in our under-the-boat world.
“I’ll call you Isabella. Whenever I’m not calling you beautiful. Or amazing. Or—”
She kissed me again and my words were lost. I was drowning, and I’d never been more grateful in my whole life.
“I have another secret,” she said, pulling away. I waited, anxious to take back her lips again. “I wrote to my brother. I sent him mail-order boxing gloves. I told him to follow his dream.” My heart swelled up and I kissed her again and again and again.
The rain let up some after awhile, and I reluctantly asked Isabella if we could head back. It was getting late and I was worried I’d be missed at the hotel.
“I don’t know . . . I suppose the rain isn’t all that dangerous. There hasn’t been any lightning, I don’t think. We’d get soaked again, but I think we’d make it back all right.”
“Let’s go then. It’s getting late and I really don’t want to get caught.”
I helped her flip the boat and carry it into the water. I tossed my shoes in and swung myself up into the dinghy. She climbed halfway in and pushed us off with one leg. Once she was settled, we were off. The boat wobbled in the choppy water and Isabella struggled with the oars, but luckily the wind blew at our backs, so despite the rough water we slowly moved toward the mainland.
When we were well away from the island but still far from the docks, thunder cracked through the air like a horseman’s whip. Lightning followed, streaking from sky to land not a mile away.
Isabella’s eyes stared in panic. “Come sit beside me,” she called, her voice distorted by wind and fear. I scrambled over to her bench. She spoke straight into my ear so the wind wouldn’t whisk her words away. Her voice stayed calm, but with her side touching mine I could feel her trembling. “Take this oar and pull. We have to get to land, fast.”
“Is this—dangerous?”
“Metal boat, flat lake,” she said. “Yes, it’s dangerous.”
The image flashed unbidden into my mind—a newspaper clipping with a photo of my body, washed up on the shore, limbs tangled around the half-dressed corpse of the beautiful dancehall girl and a headline reading “Family Shamed by Young Woman’s Fatal Act of Indiscretion.” As if capsizing and drowning weren’t enough to fear, I was suddenly paralyzed by the risk of getting caught. My parents accepted Aunt Rachel, but she was a grown woman and not their daughter. What would they think if they knew about the things I’d done with Isabella?
“Garnet, help!” Isabella shouted.
I pulled my oar with both hands, splinters digging into my soft palms. Thunder rumbled all around me and lightning split through the clouds and down to earth. The oar whooshed through the waves; the hinge creaked as I hauled the oar out of the water and back toward the front of the boat; the oar splashed back into the white caps.
Isabella’s rowing was much smoother, and although she matched her pace to mine, her strokes were more powerful and the boat listed. We were pointed far off course now, and I thought about giving up and hiding in the bottom of the boat while Isabella fought the waves alone. She’d be better off without me. When she looked over at me, I thought she’d tell me to go back to the other bench and let her do it.
“Switch sides with me,” she said instead. “I’ll get us back on course.”
I slid down the bench as she got up and resettled on my other side. I labored with that oar for a while. The thunder crashed louder and the lightning flashed closer and closer, but the dock inched closer too. The bottom of the boat disappeared in ankle-deep water—rainwater, and lake water that was splashing up as waves threw themselves into the sides of the boat.
We switched sides three more times, sloshing into our new positions, and by then my arms burned from the strain. My fingers, white and wrinkled from the water, cramped up from gripping the oars and ached with chill. Goosebumps co
vered my arms and I blinked away the water that ran down my face and into my eyes. Gradually, we crawled nearer to the land.
At last, we pulled up alongside the dock and scrambled out of the boat. Isabella hastily wound the rope around the post and we bolted for shore.
“We made it!” she cried as we finally felt solid ground beneath our feet.
“I have to get back, but thank you for today. Thank you.”
She squeezed my hand. Hard. I could feel her meaning. “Good luck,” she said, turning and running for the picnic pavilion.
I knew I’d need it.
When I crept up to the hotel, a group of people was gathered on the north end of the veranda. Mrs. Harrington’s unmistakable shape was among them. They stood looking out at the huge maple tree—one large limb had been severed by lightning and lay on the grass just a few feet from the building. It must’ve been a close call. I couldn’t sneak around to the back door with them looking out like that, so while they gawked I slipped past them through the front doors. My heart fluttered with the knowledge that if just one of them turned I would be caught.
Avery saw me and started to say something—I must’ve been frightful looking—but I put my finger to my lips to shush him. He nodded and opened the door for me in silence, and then shut it quickly behind me. I raced for the stairs. I needed fresh clothes, a hairbrush, and a good lie, fast. Today, I was up to the challenge.
Unfortunately, so was Hannah.
“My, my, don’t you look a mess,” she said, looking up from the settee in the sitting room as I entered the suite.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
“No need to invent something. I know exactly what you’ve been up to.”
European Starling
(Sturnus vulgaris)
“I sent Charlotte to fetch you at the library when we heard on the radio that a nasty storm was blowing in. She said you weren’t there—the woman at the desk told Charlotte she hadn’t seen you today.”
“Hannah, I—”
“I saw you with her, Garnet. That harlot from the dance hall. I looked out and saw you in that boat with her out on the bay.”
I’d been so worried about getting to shore safely that I hadn’t even realized how visible we were out there—in the only boat on the water during the storm. So she knew where I’d been and whom I’d been with. Not good.
But then there was the deeper fear: had I done anything, anything at all, that would make Hannah guess what had happened between me and Isabella? I thought back. No. I hadn’t kissed her or held her on the dock. She’d just held my hand. The good-bye had been harmless enough. We’d been under the boat on the island, hidden from the world, when the rest had happened. My heart fluttered, remembering, and heat rose into my cheeks.
“She’s my friend, Hannah. I met her at the hat shop a few weeks ago, and we’ve spent some time together since then. Her name is Isabella. She’s a wonderful person and she’s become quite a good friend to me. Please don’t tell?”
“I don’t know . . . I can’t imagine what Mother would think if she knew you were spending time with that, that wild girl. The job is one thing, but you really shouldn’t be socializing with such a common, low-class”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“slut.”
The words stung. I could hardly believe the cruelty in them. How could she be so harsh, so unfeeling? “Oh, Hannah, please? Isn’t there anything I can do for you in return for some discretion on your part?”
The girl’s pointed face lost all its malice then, and I was taken aback by how quickly she could shift her look from mean-spirited sharpness to simple seriousness. Clearly she wanted to negotiate—this was her aim from the beginning. But what could she want from me?
“Yes. There is something you could do.” She looked up, and she allowed her face to soften further, into what almost looked like pleading. “I need help, Garnet. With schoolwork.”
I sat down next to her, stunned. I didn’t even know Hannah had schoolwork to do. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t . . . read well. And my math and science are atrocious too, but that doesn’t worry me so much. It’s the reading, see.” Tears came into her eyes then, and she blotted at them with the corner of a perfectly embroidered handkerchief. She looked sincere, and yet she was clearly watching my reactions and tailoring her performance to get what she wanted from me.
“Go on,” I said, kindly, eager to take the bait. “Tell me.”
“Mother doesn’t think it’s all that important. I’m good at the music and painting and needlework and all those things, and she thinks that’s enough to make a good match, but I’m afraid that no one will want to marry a . . . a . . . simpleton.” All cunning went out of her at that word. She burst into genuine tears and buried her face in the hanky.
“Oh, Hannah,” I said, reaching out to pat her back and trying to hide my bewildered expression. “I’m sure it will all work out fine.”
“That’s not all,” she said after blowing her nose. She looked at me with honest-to-God fear shading her face. “We’re not actually very rich. Not anymore.”
I blinked, no longer able to hide my astonishment. I’d guessed that they were living beyond their means, but Hannah’s expression told me the situation was more dire than that.
“It’s all credit. All of it. We still own the estate, but Mother refuses to live on what the land actually brings in, for fear of looking poor. So we’re dreadfully in debt. She’s expecting what little we still have invested to keep growing, and she’s got a plan to develop some land in Florida, but mostly she’s just hoping that I’ll marry well and save us all from ruin.”
Hannah’s shoulders hunched under this burden as she spoke of it. Mine seemed so light in comparison—I was expected to marry Teddy, and the match would bring joy and comfort to my family, but the decision ultimately changed little other than my own future. After a moment Hannah went on. “What Mother doesn’t realize is that men today want more than just a pretty doily maker. I can’t rely on my flute or my paintbrush to win a husband. I need to be smart. Interesting. I need to be able to read. My tutors have given up, and Mother told them not to bother about it.”
“I’ll help in any way I can, Hannah. I promise. We can start today if you want. All I’ve got are bird books, but they’d be as good as anything I suppose.”
“Yes. Okay, thank you. And I won’t tell about the dancing girl if you don’t tell Mother that I’ve said all this. She won’t mind that you’re trying to teach me—even though she’ll think it’s silly, she won’t stop us—but she would mind tremendously if she knew I’d blabbed about the money trouble.”
“Deal.”
She looked nervous but grateful.
“Let me clean up first, and then we’ll begin.”
In my room, I sat on the bed a moment and tried to figure out what had just happened. Who was this girl, Hannah Harrington? I didn’t know her at all. I’d dismissed her as an irritating mama’s girl, when really she was both a conniving manipulator and a fearful child with very real troubles. I still did not like her. In fact, her wicked insults to Isabella and the revelation of the true depths of her cunning made me dislike her even more than before. But at least now there was an interesting complexity to her character and her situation. And now, like it or not, we were allies of a sort.
Then the exciting truth dawned on me: with Hannah in on the secret, I could see Isabella as often as I wished. I penned a note to her immediately: “Off from work tomorrow—can I meet you first thing in the morning? I will come to your place if you tell me where to find you. It’s safer now. Love, Garnet.”
Then I picked up the bird book with the most illustrations and rejoined my cousin in the sitting room. The book fell open to the European starling, a common little blackbird known for the way its plumage changes from black with white spots to an oily rainbow of green and purple during breeding season. I laughed. Do we all change when we try to attract a lover? Do we all try to be more beautiful, or more bold, or
more intelligent, or just more brilliantly ourselves?
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing, nothing. Okay, show me how much you can read on your own.”
I had no idea how to teach reading, but I was more than willing to give it a go, both for Hannah’s sake, and for my own.
Northern Oriole
(Icterus galbula)
“Pick one,” Isabella said. “Anything you want. My treat.”
But there were so many choices, too many choices.
The rolls and sweet buns and cookies stood like soldiers, lined up in the case in neat rows. The air in the shop was warm from the ovens and hung thick with cinnamon. I stood with Isabella in the middle of the bright, clean bakery, gaping like a child at the loaves of fresh bread heaped in baskets along the sidewall and the gleaming pastry cases filled with treats.
A man in an apron dusted with flour crashed through the swinging door with a tray of fresh croissants balanced on one hand. The buttery little crescent moons shone golden beneath their snow of powdered sugar. My choice was made. I turned my pleading eyes to Isabella and she nodded. “Done,” she said.
“She’d like one of those please,” she called to the man, who had begun to arrange them on a platter on the counter. He looked up at her, his eyes softening with recognition as they landed on her pretty face. Then he looked to me.
“A croissant for the young lady,” he said kindly, choosing one with a thick coating of sugar and tucking it into a paper bag.
“No, make that two,” she said, winking at me. “Two.”
Isabella paid with coins from her beaded purse, and we settled on a bench outside the bakery to eat. We watched people going about their morning business while we savored the flaky rolls that made our fingers greasy and left crumbs on our laps. Some of the townspeople nodded to Isabella as they walked past us, and some saw her and looked away quickly, hurrying past, not bothering to hide their disapproval. Everyone, friendly or unfriendly, seemed to know her. And yet not one of them approached her as a friend.
Silhouette of a Sparrow Page 8
