Dear Abuela,
Iceland is a beautiful, lonely place. I wish you were here. This cherry walnut bread is from a
maravillosa little Icelandic general store. And in case you forget how much I love you, here’s San
Antonio to help you remember.
Te Quiero, Evie
“Do you have matches?” Evie asked, looking up. It’d be silly to send her a candle with no way to light it.
Agnes pointed to a display at the front of the store. “What we have is over there.”
Evie grabbed a small matchbox with a lighthouse on the front and handed it over to Agnes to put in the box. She wrapped and sealed everything. As Agnes rang up her order, Evie took a few deep breaths, once again reveling in the delicious aroma of the shop. “It smells like her kitchen in here,” she said.
“Your grandmother’s?”
Evie nodded. “We always make cherry pastelitos together. Every summer. All the neighborhood kids smell them cooking three blocks away, so they show up in droves. By the time they’re ready, we have an eager line on the porch.”
“That popular, eh?” Agnes grinned. “I don’t suppose you’d like to share the recipe?”
Evie shrugged. “Nothing to them, really. Just a handful of ingredients.” She took a marker and wrote Abuela’s new address on the sealed box. After paying for her order and postage, she tucked her wallet back into her back pocket.
“Thanks for everything.” Evie turned to go, wishing for a little more time. Wishing Oskar would show up. She’d put on all of this goopy mascara for nothing.
“Wait, lass.”
She glanced back at Agnes.
“Which ingredients?” Agnes placed her hands on her hips, grin wedged between her rosy cheeks. “Maybe you could stay and show me.”
A smile spread over Evie like sunshine. “I could do that. But they’ll never be as good as hers.”
They only tasted like magic when Abuela’s soft, wrinkled hands made them.
Agnes motioned her around the counter. “Well, we could try. Come on over here. I could use a new recipe.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Oskar’s Journal
A hundred heartbeats
stand between me and her moss-green door.
I grip the canvases.
Maybe I’ll say…
“Hi.
Sorry I didn’t tell you until now, but
I understand everything you say.”
But there are so many difficult sounds,
and sorry is hard enough to say as it is,
for anyone.
I know it’ll never come out right.
Or at all.
But it has to be done.
I step to the door.
And knock.
The seconds unroll in my head
lengthening into minutes
that lengthen into regret.
She isn’t even here.
She’s a tourist.
Hardly any time
And she’ll be gone.
If she isn’t gone already.
This is an exercise in futility.
I get in my car and drive away.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Evie
Her loneliness was showing and she knew it.
She couldn’t help it, though. Agnes listened to her in a way that her mother never did. It didn’t even matter that Agnes was a little gruff around the edges. She told her about how she’d spent so many days in Iceland alone, and how it was only halfway over. Then it would be off to New York, if that’s where her parents forced her to go.
“So tell me, lass, what’s so bad about New York?” Agnes asked as they spooned cherry filling into pockets of the pastelito dough.
Evie shrugged. “My mother is there.”
Agnes’s eyebrows stretched skyward. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“She’s horrible.” Evie reached over and folded the pastelitos, showing Agnes how to seal the edges with the tines of a fork. “Just close them like this.”
“At least you have your mother,” Agnes said, picking up on her directions right away. “My mother died when Maggie and I were verra little. I don’t remember her, not even as well as Oskar remembers Maggie.”
Evie’s ears perked up. “Who’s Maggie?”
“My sister. Oskar’s mum.” Agnes grabbed a clump of confectioner’s sugar and rubbed her fingers together, sprinkling bits on the sealed pastelitos, just like Evie’d shown her.
Evie paused, hand suspended with a pinch of sugar. She pieced things together. “Wait, so Oskar’s your nephew? He’s Scottish?”
“Half. His father was Icelandic.”
“Was?”
“Aye. They both passed,” Agnes said, voice taking on a somber tone.
Evie stared at her, hands covered in dough. “That’s tragic.” Her mouth opened and closed several times. “What happened?”
Agnes hesitated for a few long moments before responding. “Car accident. It was a head-on collision. Took both of his parents, his little brother, and my husband. Oskar and I were the only survivors in the vehicle, probably because we were sitting in the very back, on the third-row seats.”
Evie tried to process this for a few minutes, eyes darting around the counter as she arranged and rearranged the pastelitos on the industrial pan. “I’m so sorry,” she finally said quietly. “I had no idea.”
“’Twas five years ago. I became his caretaker after it happened. Moved to Iceland and took over the orchard.”
Evie’s brows creased. “You didn’t already live here?”
“Nay. We were here for a visit when the accident happened. We were all headed to Reykjavik for a concert. Oskar was supposed to perform for school.” She concentrated on the pastelitos and sniffed loudly, maybe trying to suck the emotion back into her head. It was quiet for a few long minutes between them.
“Tell me about this recipe, lass. Is it one of those that’s been passed down over generations?”
“Oh,” Evie sighed, feeling both reluctance and relief at the subject change. “My grandmother learned to make these when she was a teenager. She came to the United States from Cuba on Operation Pedro Pan—the biggest movement of unaccompanied minors across American borders in history—and she lived in a Catholic orphanage with a bunch of nuns. She always made pastelitos with her own family in Cuba, but there, they’re made with figs. The cherries are a Catholic thing. On Saint Mark’s Day, the nuns brought in barrels of cherries. Instead of making pie, Abuela taught them how to make the pastelitos. They were a hit, so it stuck.”
Agnes smiled. “That’s lovely, dearie. And how about you? When did you learn?”
“I’ve been making them so long that I don’t even remember the first time. A lot of my childhood was spent in her kitchen. I still remember the way the treads on the step stool pressed against my bare feet.”
“You know, you and Oskar have quite a bit in common.” She grinned. “Pinned between two cultures the way ye are.”
Evie swallowed. She’d hit the jackpot of information about him today. “I heard him play the other night.”
“Oh, yes. The boy has taught himself to play every instrument he touches, out of sheer willpower. Music has always been his way of communicating with the world. And his voice—sweet heavens! It’s the most beautiful thing of all, if he’d just use it. He’s a true bard.”
Evie opened her mouth to ask what she meant, but the bell on the door clanged against the glass and Agnes startled, knocking the rolling pin into the floor. It sprinkled flour everywhere. Oskar walked in holding two bundles of canvases in his hands, stopping mid-stride when his gaze traveled to Evie.
Evie forgot what she was going to ask.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Oskar’s Journal
Well there ye are!
Agnes blurts.
She seems guilty.
I’m suddenly terrified
of the unknown words
spoken in my absence.
/>
Put the canvases on the counter
and unload those crates of milk in the cooler
she says to me in Icelandic,
recovering.
You missed the grocer’s delivery.
I know she’s not happy
to have to keep up my lie.
But I’m thankful that she does.
I tense my jaw and do as she asks.
So, Evelyn says, lowering her voice,
but not quite low enough,
Why doesn’t he speak English
if his mother was Scottish?
I glare at Agnes
through narrowed eyelids
and lean against the heaviness of that word.
Was.
How much has she already told her?
Agnes ignores me
as she shoves a pan of pastries in the oven.
He doesn’t care to learn.
The boy’s daft at times, love.
Stubborn as an old mule.
Her facial expression changes then,
as if she’s just had an epiphany.
She holds one finger up.
You know what, though?
He might want to learn, if you’re doin’ the teachin’.
Evelyn glances up at me
under shy lashes.
I turn and go back to unloading crates.
Oh, I’m probably not qualified.
She laughs.
Nervous.
Brushing away flour from her shirt.
I speak a lot of Spanglish.
Agnes calls out to me,
speaks in Icelandic.
Oskar, the girl here would like to teach you some English words.
She points at Evelyn, smirking.
H-h-hætta, I say through my teeth.
Stop.
Evelyn’s eyes widen as my voice fills the shop.
She turns to Agnes.
What did you say to him?
I told him you’re interested in teaching him some English words,
she declares with a victorious grin.
And he said he’d love that.
Evelyn’s big brown eyes
grow wide as the open oven,
face radiating a similar heat.
Oh. I guess I could do that.
I don’t miss the way she lights up
under all the makeup on her eyes.
Here. Agnes hands her the translation dictionary.
Why don’t you study this a little?
Evelyn laughs.
I’ll have to study it a lot.
But uh—she shifts nervously—I better get going.
Agnes leans down and whispers something to her,
probably just to get under my skin,
then hands her a bag of cherries from under the counter.
Here, lass. For helping me today.
Evelyn takes them
and her smile
and goes.
The moment she’s gone, I turn to Agnes.
You sssaid you weren’t muh-muh-muh-meddling.
She smirks at me, unapologetic as I’ve ever seen.
I’m not meddling, lad. I’m helping you keep up your lie.
Which, might I remind you, I could change me mind about any time!
She’s bluffing, I’m sure.
I wave her off.
Let’s just settle this right now, she says,
stomping toward the door Evelyn just exited.
I step in her path.
Yell:
I d-d-don’t like being ta-talked about like I’m not even here!
You’re not here, she tells me. You’re a ghost.
Incapable of appreciating things or being happy in the moment.
Just like your father.
Agnes returns to her post.
She dusts flour piles off the counter
onto the floor
for me to sweep.
She’s taken with ye.
Said she heard you play.
So that’s what this is about.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want her around.
But she’s not one of those attainable girls.
She’s one you write shitty poetry for
and deliver it in an imaginary heart-shaped box.
She’s one you work to try and deserve
but never actually get there
because you’re too damaged.
Maybe if I’d handled it differently,
from the beginning,
I’d have a chance.
But I didn’t.
It doesn’t matter
how fixated I am on her.
We live on different spheres.
I clean up the shop and leave.
On my way out, I tell Agnes,
I’m n-n-not like him.
Don’t ever sssay tha-tha-that to me again.
Then, instead of going to the lighthouse,
I go to Bjorn’s.
And find Sana.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Evie
The morning mist in the orchard gave Evie the strangest sensation.
Aside from the distant, gentle lapping of water and the slurp of her shoes on the damp ground, a dreamlike quiet settled around her on the hillside. Sunlight scorched the edge of the low-lying clouds as she waded through them. She squinted, trying to see the barn.
Excitement had kept her from sleeping most of the night. She’d tossed and turned, curiosity running wild, wondering what Agnes had planned. Come back tomorrow morning around nine, she’d whispered. I have a surprise for you.
Maybe she was going to teach her some Icelandic recipe in exchange for the pastelitos. Maybe she just needed some help around the store. Or maybe—and this was what had her the most nervous—she wanted her to sit down with Oskar and teach him some English words. Agnes’s invitation came right after Oskar said he’d like to learn.
Somewhere around 2 a.m., she’d downloaded a copy of Icelandic for Dummies and read until she fell asleep.
As she approached the barn, the quiet rumble of two voices filled the air—one female, one male. Agnes and Oskar. She followed the sound around the barn and into the parking lot, where the two of them were loading crates into the back of Oskar’s car. They both stopped talking and looked up.
“Well, good morning, lass!” Agnes beamed. “We’re going on a little trip today. Would you like to come with us?” She placed the last crate into the space left for it. Oskar narrowed his eyes at Agnes. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie and retreated to the driver’s side of the car, not looking at all excited about the prospect of Evie going anywhere with them.
“Oh.” Evie hesitated, glancing at Oskar as he climbed in and shut his door. “Where are you going?” She couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t happy about her being there.
“Kolaportid, dear. It’s Reykjavik’s big flea market. We go one Sunday a month to sell product and invite people out to the orchard. We’ve met a lot of customers that way.” Agnes brushed her hands off and shut the back hatch.
Though she’d left her papá a note that she’d be with Agnes, she didn’t mention going anywhere. Not that he’d particularly care or notice that she was gone since he’d probably be working until late. And it’s not like she had anything more interesting planned. “As long as I’m not in the way,” Evie said finally.
Agnes laughed. “Of course you won’t be in the way. We could use the extra hands unloading! And you said you haven’t been far from your guesthouse—I thought this might be a way to get you out of your rut.” She opened the back door and motioned her in. “Come on, lass.”
A prickle of anticipation tingled through Evie’s arms and legs. She’d spent the last couple of weeks avoiding sightseeing of any kind because she didn’t want to do it alone. Now she didn’t have to. She climbed into the backseat behind Oskar. Looking at the back of his head was a lot less intimidating than sitting next to him. She set her purse on the floor at he
r feet and fastened her seat belt, the cold metal of the buckle nipping at her shaky fingertips.
“Foggy morning,” Agnes commented as they pulled out onto the road.
“So pretty,” Evie sighed. Oskar looked up then, caught her eye in the rearview. She glued her gaze to the window and pretended not to notice. The sheer absence of other people struck her the most as they traveled. Once they passed the guesthouses and the small supermarket where she’d gone with her papá to buy groceries, the landscape opened up into a sprawling, beautiful emptiness. Other than the tarry black road carved through the rise and fall of the mossy hills, and the occasional car passing in the opposite direction, there was no evidence of civilization.
As the road navigated away from the coast, large, volcano-shaped rock outcroppings jutted up and reached for the sky, bathing in the fog as they went.
“What are those things?” Evie asked when they’d passed the third one.
“Elf houses,” Agnes answered, grinning over her shoulder.
Evie raised an eyebrow.
“The Icelanders love their elves. Road workers are careful never to disturb them, else they come back the next day and find all their previous work undone.”
Evie caught Oskar looking at her in the rearview again. “Does Oskar believe in elves?”
Agnes giggled. “Not since he was little, lass. But his father believed. He even built a little house for them out of loose rocks on the far edge of the orchard’s property, in hopes they’d bestow their powers on the trees and help them grow.”
“Seems like it worked. You have the lone outdoor cherry orchard in all of Iceland,” she said with air-quotes as she recited the postcard she’d sent Abuela.
Agnes shrugged. “You can grow anything if you know how to converse with nature.”
Evie watched Oskar in the mirror as they rounded a bend, working his jaw and concentrating fiercely on the road. Suddenly she lurched forward. The seatbelt locked and kept her from smashing into the back of his seat as the car came to a halt.
“Och! Close one,” Agnes said, a trace of panic in her voice. She gripped the dash. Outside the car, five or six ponies crowded the valley of a hill. One errant pony, roan colored and fuzzy as a pair of fleece socks, had wandered into the road.
The Language of Cherries Page 13