Later, when my homework is finished, I check through my book of famous quotations and head down to change the Bramble Board. There was once a young American president who loved Cape Cod. His family had a home here in Hyannis, and he walked the Cape beaches for inspiration. He was a big believer in community service. In one of his most famous speeches he called on every American to join in and do their part:
ASK NOT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY CAN DO FOR YOU, ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY.
I stand back and read President Kennedy’s words on the Bramble Board. Two new guests, the Carlsons from Connecticut, are coming up the driveway. They stop and read the quote. They smile and nod at me.
Back up in my room, I finish practicing act 3 of Our Town. “‘I can choose a birthday at least, can’t I?—I choose my twelfth birthday…. Oh, I want the whole day.’”
I look out my window, up at the sky The North Star, the Big and Little Dippers … I wish I could see a shooting star. In all the years I’ve searched the sky, I have never seen one. I imagine it must be beautiful and lucky.
After I write in my journal, I prop up my pillows, open my bag of taffy, wrap my quilt around me like a cape, and set out onto the foggy, whimsical, windswept moors of Wuthering Heights.
Heathcliff is so romantic.
CHAPTER 10
Beach Date
Try and remember what it was like to have been very young.
And particularly the days when you were first in love; when you were like a person sleepwalking, and you didn’t quite see the street you were in, and didn’t quite hear everything that was said to you.
—Our Town
Saturday is warm and sunny, perfect for my beach date with JFK.
I find my favorite shorts from last summer. Good thing, they still fit perfectly Unfortunately, so does my favorite yellow T-shirt. When am I ever going to get a chest? I change into a white tank top with a blue chambray shirt over it, knotted in the front, slide on my red sneakers, comb the straight side of my hair and puff up the curly side, and put on sunblock, mascara, my cherry-flavored lip gloss, and then my locket.
I open the heart and look at the upside-down faces. Our school photos. Me on one side, JFK on the other. I close the heart and polish it shiny. Hopefully I can convince Joseph to try out for Our Town. How romantic would that be? Me in a wedding dress, him in a tux waiting for me at the altar.
Rosie is leaving for the day, but she stays to help me with the picnic.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask.
“Not at all,” Rosie says. “I hear your boy is quite a catch. I’d like to meet—”
“Oh, sure, Rosie, but not today, okay? This is our first official just-the-two-of-us date. Before, we’ve just met at Zoe’s or something with Tina and Jessie. Today will be the parents interrogation day, and I don’t want him to get too embarrassed.”
“No problem, Willa,” Rosie says. “Next time.”
We wrap up thick pieces of barbecue baked chicken, a container of pasta salad, Cape Cod potato chips, peaches, rolls, soda, plates, forks, and knives. A wicker basket would be more romantic, but an insulated beach pack is more practical. “Get some sugar cookies,” Rosie says. “I just stocked the jar. They’re probably still warm.”
Every afternoon from two to four is teatime at Bramblebriar. We keep a big blue jar filled with cookies for our guests to enjoy with hot or cold tea and coffee. Every day is a fresh new batch—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, Heath bar crunch….
There are several guests hovering around the table. I make small talk and budge to the front as tactfully as I can. I do live here, after all.
Rosie hands me some pink cloth napkins. “Fancier than paper,” she says.
“Thanks so much, Rosie.”
“You’re welcome, Willa. Have fun!”
The doorbell rings right at two o’clock. Mom and Sam are waiting in the vestibule.
“Mom,” I say, nervous, catching a quick look in the hallway mirror. “Please just say hello and let us go, okay?”
She opens the door. “Hi, Joseph, come in.”
JFK looks like he should be on the cover of Cape Cod Life magazine. Cut-off jean shorts hung low on his hips, white pocket T-shirt, sandy brown hair tucked behind his ear, a Frisbee under his arm. He looks tanned, like he’s been out sailing all day.
An alarm bell wakes the towns of butterflies in my stomach, and they all start batting their wings at once. He is so beautiful.
“Hi, Willa.” JFK cocks his head, shy. He turns the Frisbee around in his hand like he’s steering it for support.
“Hi, Joseph.” I set down the picnic bag. “I think you know my mother.”
JFK shakes her hand. “Mrs. Gracemore, it’s a pleasure.”
“Nice to formally meet you, Joseph.”
“And I know you know my stepfather, Sam Gracemore.”
“Mr. Gracemore.” JFK shakes Sam’s hand. “I started Oz last night. It’s good.”
“Glad you like it, Joe,” Sam says, smiling.
I pick up the picnic. “All set?”
“What time will you be home?” Mom asks.
“Is nine okay?” JFK says.
“That’s fine,” Mom says.
And then, thank all the angels in heaven, we’re off.
JFK hooks the picnic bag onto the handlebars of his bike. I put a beach blanket and the Frisbee in the basket on mine. “Ready?” he says.
“Ready.” And off we go to Sandy Beach.
The bike lane is narrow. JFK goes ahead of me. I follow along behind him, the sun on my face, wind whistling in my ears. I feel so happy and pretty and lucky. I picture us holding hands walking out on the Spit, eating dinner, kissing…. Then before I know it, we are pulling into the parking lot, setting our bikes in the rack. I don’t remember one street we passed. It’s like I dreamed myself here.
There are several people on the beach. It’s warm. We walk down the steps and kick off our sneaks.
“Where should we put this?” JFK says, holding up the bag.
“Let’s walk out a bit,” I say. I’d like to walk all the way out to that secluded little scallop of beach, our special spot, where you kissed me on the cheek in seventh grade….
“Good, let’s go,” he says, slinging the picnic sack on his shoulder.
I walk next to him. He lets me have the level ground by the water. The ocean is calm, there’s a light, feathery breeze. The sky is the color I used to pick from the crayon box to paint the picture perfect when I was little.
We arc around a young boy and his mother building a sand castle. It’s quite an elaborate affair, moat and everything. The boy unloads a cement-mixer pail of sand, complete with sound effects. His trusty assistant packs it smooth. Past them are some little girls. They hunker together and giggle as we go by. Farther out, a couple about Mom’s and Sam’s age are nestled in beach chairs, reading under a striped umbrella.
The woman looks up from her book and smiles at us.
Suddenly it strikes me. JFK and I aren’t talking. We’re just walking together, enjoying each other’s company. And it doesn’t seem strange at all.
“My father said you wrote a great letter about some organization trying to build houses for poor people,” JFK says.
“Come Home Cape Cod,” I say.
“My dad’s giving it prime placement on Sunday’s editorial page, setting it off in its own special box so it will really stand out.”
“Tell him I said thank you. I hope it does some good.”
We walk farther and farther along the Spit.
There’s a man in a red kayak, two Sunfish sailboats, a fishing rig far offshore.
“I’m sorry nobody was up for another big service project,” JFK says. “Maybe next year.”
“That’s okay. I understand.”
“But the book drive is a good idea. You’ve probably got enough books of your own to stock three or four school libraries.” He smiles at me and we laugh.
“You too,” I say. “Did
n’t you write on Tina’s matchmaking survey that you couldn’t pick just one favorite book.”
As soon as I bring up that stupid survey, I regret it. I picture Mariel Sanchez. And what was she doing at the dance, anyway? And where did she get the gown and—
“Willa?”
“What?”
“Where are you?” JFK is staring at me.
“Oh, sorry.” I laugh, and he laughs too.
We walk all the way out to the tip of the Spit. The wind picks up and whips my hair back. We turn the corner and there it is.
Our spot. Like our own private island. No one else is around. Good.
“Do you want to eat now?” JFK says, setting the pack down. “I’m hungry.”
“Sure.” I lay out the blanket, smooth down the corners. I take out the food, set out our plates. JFK opens cans of soda.
He bites into the chicken and chews. “This is great. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, but I can’t take credit for it. Rosie made it. Tuna fish is about the extent of my culinary talents.”
“Tuna fish is good,” JFK says, “nothing wrong with tuna fish.”
A seagull lands a few feet away and hurry-stops-hurry-stops toward us, trying to figure out if we’re going to share. “Get out of here,” JFK says, laughing. He throws a piece of roll down the beach to shoo the bird away I stare at his long, tanned arm, the yellow band on his wrist, LIVE STRONG.
“Have you written any new lyrics?” I ask. JFK writes rap music. He shared some of his rhymes with me. They’re good. He says rap is “like poetry except it’s music.”
“Not really.” He takes more chicken. “I’m pretty tied up with baseball.”
“Have you ever done any acting?” I ask. “You know, a theater production?”
JFK laughs. “Where did that come from?” He wipes barbecue sauce off of his chin. “All right, listen. Don’t tell Jessie and Luke, or anybody, but when we lived in Minnesota, I did Romeo and Juliet.”
“Really? That’s great. What part did you play?”
“Believe it or not, Romeo.”
Believe it? Of course I can believe it. Oh, how I would have loved to be Juliet.
“Why?” he asks.
“I have a motive.”
JFK smiles. “What’s that?”
“Do you know the play Our Town?”
He doesn’t, so I tell him all about it, especially about George Gibbs and Emily Webb. “It’s supposed to be the greatest American play of all time. Auditions are next week, and I’m trying out, and I was hoping maybe you would too.”
“Sure.”
“Really?” That was easy.
“Sure, why not? And it will get my mom off my back. She’s disappointed that I gave up piano lessons. Since I was little, she’s always made me do something in the arts to balance out all of the sports, and I guess this counts for culture, right?”
“Oh, absolutely. Definitely culture. And Nana’s got copies of the play in the store.”
“Great, I’ll buy one tomorrow,” he says.
My heart is pounding. This is perfect.
“Willa?”
“What?”
He looks over his shoulders, up and down the beach. “So if I get the part of George and you’re Emily and we get married, do we kiss at the wedding?”
“That’s what the script says.”
“Good, we better practice.”
Then he kisses me, and I’m so happy I fly away with the butterflies.
It’s getting dark when we pack up the picnic stuff and start heading back.
“There’s the first star,” I say, pointing.
“Make a wish,” he says.
So romantic.
CHAPTER 11
“Mare”
A star’s mighty good company.
—Our Town
I dream about a glistening wedding cake. The miniature bride and groom figurines on top are swirling around and around, dancing, dancing. They turn and I see their faces. Me and JFK.
I wake up smiling and reach for my journal to read what I wrote last night. I want to be sure I captured all the magic. Dinner on our own private island, the wind on our faces, how we laughed, talked … kissed. Then the “first star I see tonight” twinkling above. “Make a wish,” he said. So romantic.
I can’t wait to tell Suzanna Jubilee. She and Chickles, her mother—Mama B., as she tells us to call her—are coming this afternoon to talk about wedding plans.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Mom and Sam are having their morning coffee. Mom is drinking decaf now that she’s pregnant. She’s not showing yet. It’s still too early.
“We need a signature cake,” I say.
“What?” Sam says, setting down his cup. He smiles at me.
“The Bramblebriar Inn needs its own special signature wedding cake.”
“Excellent idea,” Mom says. “One more way to brand ourselves …”
“What?” Sam says.
“To differentiate ourselves,” Mom explains, “like the things we do to set the Bramblebriar apart from all the dime-a-dozen antiques and blue hydrangea bed-and-breakfast places around here.”
Sam looks at me and rolls his eyes. I smile.
“You know,” Mom continues. “Like our fresh cookies and tea at two, and the hors d’oeuvres and drinks at six, and the labyrinth and the Bramble Board …”
“Well, that’s not why I started the Bramble Board, but … I love my business-minded wife,” Sam says, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
“But what about the cake?” I say.
“It’s a spectacular idea,” Mom says.
“Good. I’ll ask Rosie to start working on a recipe. Sweets are her specialty.”
When we get home from Sunday service at BUC, I finish my homework, then begin thinking about our new Community Service project. Sulamina Mum has a teacher friend in Louisiana. Her school lost their whole library in the flood. I find a box to begin loading up. Riley offered to transport all of our boxes down South in a rental truck.
I stare at all of the books on my shelf, reading the titles, remembering. Finding books I can donate is harder than I imagined. The books in my bedroom library are my favorite, special Willa’s Pix books. I can’t part with any of these. It would be like giving away friends, Tina or Mum. Well, not that hard, but close.
I carry the box down to the inn library and start looking. I go from shelf to shelf, pulling out duplicates and dog-eared paperbacks and titles our guests will probably never read. When I finish, the box is full, but something isn’t right.
I feel like I’m getting rid of leftovers, not giving a good Thanksgiving dinner. I want to send those kids good books, the best books.
Sweet Bramble Books.
“Oh good, Willa,” Nana says when I enter the store. “I’ve got new flavors for you to try.”
The store is nearly empty. In a few weeks it will be packed with vacationing tourists looking for beach reads and kids shoveling Swedish fish and malted milk balls out of the plastic bins. Some Bramble locals have no patience for the tourists. They can be loud and demanding. But I don’t mind. I used to be a tourist myself. I remember how it feels to know you have only a week to cram in a summer of fun before you have to head back over that roller-coaster bridge. It can make you crazy trying to cram in all that fun.
Now I’m a wash-ashore. That’s what they call people who weren’t born on Cape but move here to live. I like being a wash-ashore. It has such a romantic ring, doesn’t it? Except, of course, when Nana starts ranting about some new “big-money wash-ashore” building another “McMansion” and destroying another patch of Cape Cod.
“Here,” Nana says, handing me a piece of saltwater taffy.
I undo the wrapper, pop it in, and chew. The smooth, sweet candy slides across my tongue, sticks to my molars. “Mmmmm, nice, Nana. Tastes like chocolate and strawberry.”
“Exactly” she says. “Chocolate-covered strawberries. Is it a keeper?”
“It’s a keeper, Nana. It�
�s a winner.”
“Good.” She kisses me on the cheek, all excited.
Nana has a long-running friendly battle with Gheffi’s Candy Store for the title of Best Sweets on the Upper Cape in Cape Cod Life magazine. She took the title away from them, and they want it back. Gheffi’s sends scouts over to see what new taffy flavors and fudge combinations Nana is dreaming up, and every few months I sneak in to Gheffi’s to do some subtle sleuthing for our side.
When I tell Nana about our book project, she throws her hands up in the air like she’s cheering at a Red Sox game. “Wonderful,” she says. “I was waiting for the perfect time. And this is it. Come on, it’s quiet. I’ve got something to show you.”
She locks the register and motions for me to follow her to the basement.
I don’t remember being down here before. So many doors. Nana opens one, turns on a light. “Look.”
Books. A closet filled with books, shelves and shelves of books.
“Wow,” I say.
“And that’s not all,” Nana says, opening another door.
This closet too is filled with books.
She opens another and then another.
“And they are all children’s books,” Nana says, all excited. “Good ones. Gramp was …” Her voice catches. “Gramp was waiting for just the right opportunity to start a library somewhere. In fact, when we were in New York City just before he died, he was talking with a friend of ours about sending the books to a village in Kenya….”
My throat tightens. “I miss him so much.”
“I know, honey,” Nana whispers in my ear. “Me too. Give me a hug, shmug.”
We hear the bells jingle on the door upstairs. “A customer,” Nana says. She takes my face in her hands and stares into my eyes. “You take the books, Willa, and you carry on Gramp’s dream. Okay? He’d be so proud of you. I am so proud of you.”
I wipe my eyes and follow Nana upstairs.
My heart leaps.
It’s JFK.
“Hi, Willa. Hello, Mrs. Tweed. I came to get Our Town.”
Willa by Heart Page 5
