Nodding and grunting, he started the engine. “She’s going to track down the owner, though, and get them back.”
Evie sunk down into the seat, quickly deflated, hoping Oskar had at least seen them before they sold. She wondered how much they’d gone for. Maybe she could sell enough of them to pay her own way to Saint Bart’s.
But then something occurred to her: if she went to Saint Bart’s, things would probably never be the same again. Based on the complete lack of contact she had with Loretta and Ben, she might not even have any friends when she went home. Nobody except Abuela, which was how it had been all along until junior year, anyway.
“Who’s the boy in the window?” Papá asked as he backed out of his parking space.
Evie looked up, toward the shop window in front, and saw him. A little gasp thumped her lungs. Oskar stared right at her. She cleared her throat and shrugged, trying to be cool about it, even though she couldn’t look away. A moment later, he was gone from the window. “He works there.”
It’s not like she’d ever be able to talk to him again after last night.
She marinated in a puddle of shame. Well, it was sweat, but it felt like shame. She reached up and bumped the knob on the car heater, turning it down slightly below fires of Hell. Last night came back to her in fuzzy blips. She cringed inwardly. She’d made a complete ass of herself.
“You friends with him?”
Evie scoffed. “He doesn’t even speak English, Papá.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be friends, mija. Boys and girls can talk with more than words. And his face said a whole lot while he watched you out the window.”
“You’re loco, Papá.” Evie tried to ignore the flood of excitement this observation unleashed. She stared down at the prayer candle in her lap that she’d picked up at the church gift shop after the service. She knew the moment she saw it that she had to have it.
Papá peeped at her out the corner of his eye as he drove. “Be careful with that. I’m not sure what the rules are for burning candles at the guesthouse.”
“Okay,” she said. But she had no intention of burning it. She’d gotten it for Abuela. She just had to figure out how to get it to her without telling Papá.
“Why Saint Anthony?”
“San Antonio is the patron saint of lost things, Papá. I’m pretty lost.”
He had nothing to say back to that.
They pulled into the guesthouse, and Evie wasted no time shutting herself in her room. It was the first day her papá didn’t have to go to work since they’d arrived, but she didn’t feel like hanging out with him now.
CHAPTER FORTY
Oskar’s Journal
Sweat drips into my eyes.
I drag the mattress up the last set of stairs,
roll it up like a burrito,
and shove it through the opening in the floor.
The floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows
drench me in gray light.
Being in the Elska lighthouse
feels different after seeing her painting.
All of our hopes were pinned in this building.
We could see everything so clearly
this high up.
But it never lasted.
We always had to come back down.
It had been their plan to live up here.
He promised he’d fix it up for her.
But he never got further than the plumbing.
I glance over at all of his old records stored on shelves,
covers all faded from the glare of sunlight.
The crank-style phonograph
he rigged up to play 33s
sits next to them
in protracted silence.
Pabbi found a way to listen to his music
even with no electricity.
I tamp down the loose bricks with my heel
on the floor of the lookout room
and drop the mattress on top of them.
It’s finally warm enough
to make this my bedroom
for the summer.
If I could hook the power up
this could be my bedroom year-round.
Maybe I’d finally be awake to witness
a magnetic midnight—
that time of night when the earth
is aligned perfectly
for the best possible viewing of the auroras.
It’s the clearest and brightest moment in the cosmos,
when the answers to everything are finally attainable.
Or so the story goes.
Pabbi was obsessed with that story,
used to tell it to us over and over, and get mad if we interrupted.
I collapse on the mattress and stare out to the point
where the North Atlantic horizon
nudges the gray clouds.
I remember when this room
felt like a place we could all live.
The dusty old loveseat pressed in the corner,
with its bleached out floral print,
used to be vivid as spring.
The cushions were so comfortable,
sitting on them was like getting a hug
from a piece of furniture.
I remember lounging there with Ivan
watching our parents dance
to haunting love songs
while white crests
broke silently in the distance.
But the day our electricity
got turned off
at the shop,
I remember him screaming at her.
Telling her it was all pípa draumur.12
Something that would never happen.
We couldn’t pay the bills we already had.
The trees were young and barely produced.
We’d never have enough to keep the shelves stocked.
We’d never make enough to see the dream realized.
Look around you, Maggie!
he screamed in her face.
Spittle flew from his lips.
I’d never seen him so helpless, so angry.
We have nothing!
But looking back now, I know he was wrong.
So tragically wrong.
We had everything.
______________
12: pípa dramur (pee-puh dra-mure): [Icelandic] pipe dream.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Evie
Embarrassment overruled Evie’s curiosity for the rest of the week.
As much as she wanted to see Oskar after what happened, she couldn’t bring herself to go to the store and find out how he’d react to her. Instead, she stayed in her room. By Friday, she set up her last canvas to paint.
Out of cherries but full of inspiration, she tried to recapture the scene by the fire. It hadn’t left her mind all week, even as she tried to drown it with books and music.
Fleshy hues on the tip of her paintbrush became a tattooed arm on the canvas. The honeyed glow of a fire illuminated long fingers strumming a ukulele against the gray fabric over his chest. Muscles in his forearm clenched tight as he pressed chords into the fret board.
She couldn’t sell this one. Stupid to waste her last canvas like this, especially when this subject wasn’t coming through for her nearly as crisp as the others had. Which made no sense, considering she was right there to witness it herself.
While cherries tell tales…
That mysterious poem again. Maybe she needed cherries to paint accurately. She could never be good enough on her own.
She kept vacillating between methods—show the brushstrokes? Or blend them in? This was the exact same problem she’d had with her self-portrait in class.
Maybe it was because her brain was fogged over in that moment by the fire in the same way her brain fogged over when she tried to visualize herself accurately. Or maybe she was losing touch with reality, holed up in her room like this. When her papá came home at night, she pretended to be asleep. She barely opened her laptop, for fear of her mo
ther pinging her on video call or messenger. If the conversation about school never took place again, she’d never have to go. Weak plan, but that’s all she had.
Papá had kept his promise and called to video chat with Abuela after Mass, but it took her nurse fifteen minutes to figure out how to set it up on her laptop, and the video kept cutting out once it was set up.
They’d given up and called her on Papá’s international work phone.
She was more coherent for the brief conversation, which eased Evie’s worries a little. The sleepy confusion from their previous chat had tugged at the back of her mind. What if Papá was right? What if Abuela really was incapable of being on her own?
Evie had taken her phone to the bedroom and quietly told her she was sending her something, to look out for it in the mail. But in order to send it, she’d need Agnes’s help. Which meant going back to the general store, and possibly facing Oskar—after getting stoned and trying to kiss him. She wasn’t looking forward to that, not one bit. But it had already been almost a week, and Abuela was expecting something from her.
The sooner she got that prayer candle to Abuela, the sooner Abuela could start praying for both of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Oskar’s Journal
The sofa at the back of the shop
molds a divot around me as I sit,
shifting the shrink-wrapped pack of canvases
between my hands like a Weeble wobble.
I can’t stop wondering
why she hasn’t come for them.
Or to collect her money.
What if she left Iceland?
Her father hasn’t been by again, either.
I made it weird between us that night.
Weirder than it already was.
An antsy uneasiness vibrates in my fingertips
as I seesaw the canvases back and forth.
The toe of my boot taps the floor
in a nervous thumping
that echoes through the quiet of the shop.
Oh for Christ’s sake, Oskar. Just go see her!
Agnes’s annoyed voice bellows,
and she tosses a spoon in the sink with a crash.
You’re making me nervous!
I lurch forward as her voice grates my already frayed nerves.
For once, Agnes has a good idea.
And the canvases are the perfect excuse to knock on her door.
Maybe it’s time to tell her the truth.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Evie
Evie rubbed her lips together, smoothing the sticky lip gloss.
The mascara weighed heavy in her eyelashes, out of place. Taking a breath, she pushed through the front door of the general store, hand over the stenciled GRIMMURSON’S on the glass.
Just act normal. Be cool. No big deal.
The scent of baked goods and cherries welcomed her in. It smelled so much like Abuela’s kitchen she had to stop and take a few deep breaths of the sweet warmth. Agnes looked up from behind the counter where she was breaking down cardboard boxes.
“Well, there you are! Did Oskar find ye?”
Evie stopped cold and clutched the Saint Anthony candle to her sweater.
“I didn’t know he was looking.”
Agnes frowned. “He was bringing ye your canvases.”
“To the guesthouse?” Evie tried to push the shock back down and put a lid on it. She couldn’t even imagine what she would’ve done if he’d knocked on her door. She shrugged, pretending not to care, but glanced down to make sure her heart wasn’t jumping inside her shirt like a frog. “I didn’t see him.”
“Aye, well. Must’ve changed his mind then. I guess ye’ll be wantin’ your payment for the paintings.” She wiped her dusty hands on her apron and thudded over to the cash register, pressing a few keys until it dinged open.
Evie stepped up to the counter and set the candle down. “So someone bought all three?”
Agnes seemed to hesitate before nodding. “American dollars, I presume?”
“Yes,” she said, eyes getting bigger as she watched Agnes count out five twenties, a five, and three ones.
“They sold for forty US dollars apiece. One-twenty for all three. Minus the ten percent, you get one hundred eight.”
Evie took the bills and shoved them into her pocket. “Thanks.” She did some quick math in her head, excited about the money, but aware she’d have to sell a lot more to make the eight thousand dollar tuition at Saint Bart’s for her senior year. Not to mention supporting herself as an emancipated minor.
“Your father seemed pretty set on gettin’ ’em back. Mind tellin’ me why you sold them?” Agnes had a maternal, authoritative presence. Evie didn’t really want to tell her, but not telling her didn’t feel like an option, either.
“I didn’t want him to have them.”
Agnes chuckled. “That much is obvious, dearie. But why?” She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms.
“He wants me to go to this school in New York City. Instead of finishing my senior year back home.” She shrugged, expecting Agnes to chime in and agree with her father. Adults always banded together like villains. “It’s this snobby magnet arts school.”
“Well, you’re certainly talented enough.”
There it was: the corroboration. Worse than a backhanded compliment. Suddenly, though, Agnes seemed to be much more interested in Evie. Her eyes widened, less sleepy. Her posture straightened, her frown lifted a touch.
“I don’t create well under pressure,” Evie defended. “It has to be on my own terms.”
“I see.” Agnes quirked a brow and pointed at the prayer candle. “What’s this?”
“Oh.” Evie hesitated. “I was, uh, hoping you could help me mail this to my grandmother in Florida. I’d like to buy a postcard and maybe send her something homemade. From here. Something that’ll keep in international mail.”
“Hmmm.” Agnes glanced down into the glass display case below the register, filled with pies and scones and breads. “How about the cherry walnut bread? Just baked it this morning.” She took the loaf from a pan below and set it on the counter between them. “I can wrap it up nice. It’ll keep for a week or so. Best to expedite the post, though.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Agnes grabbed a roll of foil and started wrapping it up for her. Evie glanced over her shoulder, up at the loft area. Wondering.
“He’s probably at the lighthouse again,” Agnes said, without looking up. She had pulled a flattened cardboard box from beside the counter and was folding it into shape. “Spends all of his time out there lately. Just like his father used to.”
“His father?” She stared at Agnes. “Does his father work here, too?”
Agnes glanced at her, then began sealing the bottom of a shipping box with packing tape. It screamed across the bottom flap, and Evie jumped. “Not exactly.” Agnes set the bread inside the box, and then rolled the prayer candle in bubble wrap. “Why Saint Anthony?”
Evie wanted to hear about Oskar’s father, but Agnes kept changing the subject. “Oh. She forgets things sometimes. She’s in an assisted living facility. Not a nursing home or anything. It’s like her own apartment, she’s just a little more supervised. Anyway, she’s a devout Catholic, but she has no access to prayer candles. They have church there at the community center. It’s a lot different than what she’s used to.”
“I see.”
“The act of burning a prayer candle means a lot to her faith, but nobody cares, apparently.”
“You mean nobody but you,” Agnes said.
Evie grinned. It made her feel good that someone else noticed, that Agnes was listening to her. “Are you Catholic?”
Agnes chuckled. “No, lass.”
Evie frowned and looked down, tracing the wood grain on the counter, unsure what Agnes’s laugh meant. People liked to judge the religious types. She wanted to establish herself as Different From Them. “I’m Catholic, technicall
y. I mean, I believe there’s a God. I just think everyone observes faith differently. I don’t really think God’s as concerned with making us jump through hoops and follow antiquated traditions as much as religion would have us believe.” She looked up at Agnes, who now studied her with slightly narrowed eyes. “What about you?”
Agnes went back to packing the box. “I believe in the earth, lass. The cycle of life through the universe.”
Oh. So maybe she was one of those Celtic women—or a druid, like in Outlander. She remembered the symbol on the rock beneath the tree, and on Oskar’s arm, and on the poem Agnes had stowed away beneath the cash register. And even on the wall in the shop. She glanced up at it. Oskar had said it was a rune—or rather, he’d pointed to the word rune in the translation dictionary.
Evie tried to imagine for a moment what those religious practices entailed, how different they were from the ones she observed.
“You know, maybe we’re both right,” she told Agnes. “Maybe every faith is just a piece of the puzzle.” Evie thought of those giant jigsaw floor puzzles she and Abuela used to put together when she was younger, before she started painting. It always interested her how every piece was beautiful in its own way, but never as lovely and complete as it was once it became part of the whole. “Maybe nobody has all of the answers, all of us just have part of them.”
Agnes pushed the box to the side and grinned. “I like the way you think, dearie. What else for you?”
Evie walked her fingers along the postcard carousel next to the register. Images of the northern lights, geysers, and volcanoes stared back at her. Puffins perched on a cliff by the sea. She settled on one of the orchard. In bold red letters, it read: GRIMMURSON’S ORCHARD, lone outdoor cherry orchard in all of Iceland
And why, she wondered, was this the only outdoor cherry orchard in Iceland? Could nobody compete with Agnes’s cherries?
“I’ll take this one,” she said, holding the postcard up. “Can I borrow a pen?”
Agnes slid one across the counter to her, and she scribbled a quick note.
The Language of Cherries Page 12