“Does he arrange things for you?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Do you do them?”
Summer shakes her head, then laughs as if in spite of herself. “Yes, I do.” She shrugs. “He told me I had to come here—to Edison, I mean—so I came. Now I’m not sure if I’ll go back to school.”
“What are you studying?”
“Science. Marine biology. I’ll never get a job in it. I just wanted to be in the sea so that’s what I chose.”
Alex felt that way too, I think, always wanting to be in the sea. Though he’d never have been brave enough to study something he couldn’t get a job doing. His parents would consider that frivolous.
I turn back to the saucepan and stir. The risotto is close to being cooked. Summer chops the last few stalks of parsley.
Alex started surfing in high school, and became more and more enamored of it over the years. I thought it would go the other way, that he’d become less interested, but as soon as he moved out of his parents’ place—as soon as we moved in together—he seemed to go surfing more and more often. I made jokes that once we were finally together properly, in our very own place, he wanted to be away from me. As though the ocean was his mistress. He kept his surfing friends separate from his regular friends, for the most part; both surfing and his surfing friends were a kind of secret, something just for him. I’d tried to understand it; I’d even tried to learn.
“He tried teaching me once,” I tell Summer.
She rinses her hands and leans back against the counter. “To surf?”
I nod. “It was terrible.”
“The first time is—”
“I know. I mean, that’s what he said too.”
I stir the risotto one more time, then turn off the gas element.
It had been an overcast day. We went out alone. Alex kept asking me if I was sure, as though he was hoping I might change my mind.
“I thought it was going to be easy,” I say. “Get on the board, stand up . . .”
“Oh, well . . .” Summer’s tone is empathetic, supportive.
“It’s okay, I know. It takes practice.”
Alex had said that too. “Babe, no one manages it the first time.” Trying to be encouraging, but sounding annoyed. He was impatient, and I was stubborn and petulant.
“Try again,” he’d urged, so I had. Again and again, growing more and more frustrated, getting clumsier.
“You’re not concentrating. You’re getting mad,” he complained.
I argued that I wasn’t, but of course I was. Mad as hell. I was also freezing cold and feeling stupid.
He tried to show me the basics, but he made it look too simple. Surfing was in his muscle memory, in his blood, in his thoughts. It was like his shadow, simply part of him. Watching his effortlessness made me even more angry, more belligerent.
We got out of the water and Alex showed me with the board on the sand. “Like this,” crouching and holding, “to this,” standing and balancing. I pushed at the sand with my foot, my arms crossed in front of me, my lips numb. “Are you even watching?” he’d asked, and sighed.
We got back into the water one more time, and the sea tugged me under and tossed me around beneath a wave, like a plaything, like it was laughing at me. I came up ready to go home, mouth full of salt, hair full of sand.
“It’s not for everyone, right?” I say to Summer.
She gives me that sad, hopeful look that says it can be for everyone, should be for everyone. That surfing is the best thing in the world. Her strange, blue-gray eyes fix on me, like she wants to explain. I imagine her in the sea, like a fish, moving as though made for the water. She would know where to put her feet, how to balance, how to fall without hurting herself, without drowning. She’s probably one of those girls who rides the waves as though she’s dancing with the whole of the ocean; her and the water taking different roles, moving in different ways. The ocean leads and she simply responds.
Merriem comes into the kitchen. She pushes the risotto with the spoon I’ve left resting on the edge of the pan. “All done. Good. Give me a hand, you two.”
* * *
Merriem carries the enormous saucepan, a cloud of steam rising from it, into the dining room. “Spring risotto,” she calls it. It’s got snipped garlic scapes, tons of parsley, and just-wilted pea greens piled on top.
Summer carries a big glazed terra-cotta saucer full of tiny new potatoes with butter and freshly torn mint, and I bring the asparagus, which Merriem calls “speary-grass,” served with simple seasoning.
Summer helps serve up, while Merriem tops up wineglasses. I take my seat.
Papa compliments Merriem on her risotto, while Huia gleefully pops a potato barely bigger than a coin into her mouth. Jack asks her to please use her cutlery, but Merriem reassures her that she likes using her fingers too.
I bring a spoonful of risotto to my mouth and blow. I glance at Bella who is quietly staring at her plate. Her expression reminds me of her as a young girl. I see her lying in her bed, curls pulled into uneven pigtails. Next to her bed, a window frames the neighbors’ side wall and offers a peek into their kitchen. Sometimes, if Bella left the window open at night, she would wake in the morning smelling of the ginger and oil and onion they used in their evening stir-fries.
Once the food is cool enough, I eat as though I’m starving. The potatoes’ skins squeak when I bite into them; the risotto tastes of soft, pungent scapes; the freshly cut asparagus is so crisp and sweet you could almost mistake it for fruit. Merriem smiles at me. We are all holding our stomachs by the time Merriem clears the table and brings out dessert, a bright pink and sticky rhubarb tart dotted with edible flowers. She doles out big scoops of homemade vanilla ice cream with a silver spoon she affectionately refers to as “the shovel,” then adds a chunk of honeycomb to each of our bowls alongside wedges of the tart. Papa’s eyes are wide. It’s a feast worthy of Caputos. Merriem laughs at our expressions and implores us to leave what we can’t eat, but of course it’s so delicious we find corners and crevices in our bulging stomachs. Halfway through dessert I notice Jack adjusting the waistband of his pants, and when he catches my eye we smile at each other.
When dinner is finished, and Papa has helped Merriem serve espresso coffees, Jack pulls Huia’s chair closer to his and wraps his arm around her. She lays her head against him and stifles a yawn.
Merriem glances at the book on the table. “Huia brought you some reading material?”
“Only to borrow,” I say, using Huia’s words. “She’s teaching me about the forest.”
“You didn’t stay out here often? With . . .”
I shake my head, my gaze falling to the engagement ring on my finger. “A couple times, but not often. Alex did love it out here though. I mean, the cabin was special to him.”
At the mention of Alex’s name, Summer rises and starts clearing a few empty glasses. Her eyes look darker blue in this light, and I realize her pale eyelashes are coated with mascara.
“I got out some books for you to take too,” Merriem says, graciously changing the topic. She points to a little pile on a side table. “Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring; Jackie Collins’s Lady Boss.” She winks. “A girl needs a little sizzle.”
“Thank you.” Aunty Rosa is a voracious Jackie Collins reader.
“I’ve got honey for you too,” Merriem tells Bella, drawing her into the conversation.
“Are they your hives in the yard?” Bella asks.
I hadn’t guessed the wooden boxes I’d seen earlier might be beehives.
“You are a beekeeper?” Papa asks.
“Sure am.” Merriem grins. “And a potter. Mainly I’m a potter. But gardening and beekeeping come close runners-up. Hang on, I’ll get your honey now.” She goes to the kitchen and comes back with a container that she holds out to me. “See what you think of it.”
I lift the lid and prepare to stick my finger in. “Just like this?”
She nods.
I press
my finger into the container, puncturing the wax of the comb and coating it in honey. I pass the container to Papa, who does the same.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, and passes it to Bella.
“Good?” Merriem asks.
“Good,” we say in unison.
She laughs. “Okay, now I know for sure you’re father and daughter.”
Papa looks at me warmly and nods. I notice Bella sucking on her finger too, but she doesn’t comment.
Papa asks earnestly, “You sell this honey?”
Merriem nods. “But I can give you some, it’s no—”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t accept it,” Papa says. “Not after tonight’s meal you have made for us. I will buy some.”
“Okay,” Merriem replies, smiling.
Jack clears his throat and I notice Huia’s eyes blink open quickly. “Sorry, everyone,” he says. “I think we’re going to have to make our exit.”
“No, Dad,” Huia protests, her voice groggy.
“You’re exhausted,” he says with a laugh.
“I’m not,” she says, yawning. The rest of us join in laughing. “Ohhhh,” she grumbles.
“Thank you for the book,” I say to her. “I’ll do my homework.”
“It was lovely to meet you,” Jack says as Papa shakes his hand.
Jack points to his back. “Hop on, kid.” She loops her arms around his neck.
Merriem gives him a kiss on the cheek. “See you soon.”
He looks at me. “I’ll swing by, see how you’re doing . . . but there’s no rush. . . .” He looks awkward again. We both know he’s talking about the eviction notice from the Gardners.
“Thanks,” I reply.
Summer comes out from the kitchen and I realize she’s been in there for a while. As though she’s been hiding.
“Are you going?” she asks. Jack nods. “I’ll walk out with you. I’m tired,” she says softly.
“You can stay here the night if you like,” Merriem offers.
Summer shakes her head. “I’m looking after Rocky’s boys tomorrow. I should go.”
“Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine. Just tired,” Summer replies quickly. Then adds, “Thank you so much. Dinner was really lovely.”
“Well, you pretty much made most of it,” Merriem says, smiling.
“That’s not true,” Summer says. “Frankie did too.”
“I stirred, that’s all,” I say bluntly, without thinking. Then regret it when Summer looks uncomfortable.
“It was really nice to meet you all,” she tells Bella, Papa, and me. “You’re a very nice family.”
“Aw, that’s a sweet thing to say.” Bella reaches over to give her a hug, but Summer is awkward and it becomes clumsy and lopsided.
She turns and blinks at me.
“Good to see you again,” I say. “Come by the cabin if you’re over this way. Anytime.”
Bella glances at me, surprised. I ignore her.
Summer looks between the two of us. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
Jack smiles and tips his head. “Right. Say bye to everyone, Huia,” he encourages.
“Bye to everyone,” Huia chirps sleepily.
“We can see our own way out,” Jack tells Merriem, who nods and doesn’t stand. The three of them move slowly down the hallway.
Bella has her finger in the honey container again. “It’s really yummy,” she says.
It annoys me that she’s still using her finger; I want to slap her hand away.
“How many containers would you like, Giuseppe?” Merriem asks. “I can sell it to you for five dollars a square if you like.” She holds up her fingers to make an imaginary frame, to give him an indication of size.
“Two. No, three,” he says. “I’ll give some to Rosaria and Concetta. But I won’t take them unless I pay full price.”
“Full price is ten dollars. I’ll give them to you for seven a pop because you’re buying three. Deal?”
Papa nods happily. “I work at Mario’s Cars and Repairs . . . the mechanics,” he explains, sounding a little stiff. “I mean, if you ever need some work done. The prices are very good but we give discounts for friends and family. Of course.”
Merriem laughs. “Mainly I ride a bicycle.”
“Ah. The one with the basket, outside,” he says, joining in her laughter.
I hadn’t noticed a bicycle.
“Betty,” Merriem says, lowering her voice as if she’s telling us a secret. “After Elizabeth Cady Stanton.”
“Ah,” says Papa again, and nods as though he understands completely.
“Have you tried it with baked ricotta?” Bella asks, referring to the honey.
Papa nods enthusiastically. “That would be very tasty.”
“Baked ricotta? No, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten baked ricotta,” Merriem says. “Is it good?”
“Very good. We’ll have to bring you some, won’t we, Papa?” Bella says.
Merriem beams. “I knew giving a discount would bring me blessings.”
I glance between Papa and Bella and Merriem. It suddenly feels too strange—to be here, without Alex, to have Bella at the table.
“I think we’d better get going too,” I say. “It’s been a lovely dinner, Merriem.”
“You don’t want another cup of coffee?” Merriem asks.
“Thank you but no, it’s getting late. We should go.” I stand from the table.
“Can’t we help you with the dishes?” Bella asks.
“Oh, no. I find it kind of meditative. Darwin will keep me company. He’ll be home from his roaming soon. He’s a big brute of a cat but a little afraid of the dark, I think. Don’t tell him I told you that.”
Papa gives Merriem a kiss on each cheek, and we make our way down the hallway.
“Thank you,” Bella says again. “The food was divine. We’ll have to repay the favor.”
“My pleasure, Bella. You all take care walking home. Do you want to take a flashlight?”
“We’re fine,” I say, eager to get back to the cabin.
I’m uncomfortable being with Bella, uncomfortable with her chirpiness. The conversation with Summer is weighing on me too, and my memory of that day at the beach when Alex tried to teach me to surf.
Merriem stands by the door and watches us go. Darwin slinks out of the yard and weaves around her legs. She picks him up and waves to us as we head down the road.
Bella sighs. “That was nice.”
“She is a very good hostess,” Papa agrees.
The solidity of the road softens to pine needles atop worn dirt as we turn into the forest. I walk on ahead and try to ignore the sound of Bella and Papa chatting. If I were to get in the car and leave now, I think, I would drive through Edison and back through North Seattle. Past the Gardners’ house on the hill, see the hedge and the little gate, the white-trimmed windows if I look closely in the disappearing light. I would keep going past our old school, around the back of the main street, because you never know how the traffic will be and the backstreets are quicker anyhow. I’d pass the children’s playgrounds and gas stations, and feel my heart thumping harder and faster in my chest. I’d pass a supermarket or fruit and vegetable store, and then, eventually, the neighborhoods that all look the same—garage, fence, mailbox, garage, fence, mailbox. Soon enough I would be back at our apartment. A cement-block building with only three floors and rows of little balconies. Square and solid and vanilla-colored. Our kitchen window the one with the crystal hanging in it, a birthday gift from a workmate. Instead, my feet tramp along the forest path that is becoming so familiar. I feel strange and tense and displaced. My heart pounds like I’m running.
Bella’s voice knifes through my thoughts. “Frankie? Didn’t you think that was nice?”
“I think Merriem is nice,” I reply harshly.
“What’s that supposed to—”
Papa interrupts. “Nonno was a beekeeper. Back in Sicily.”
“He was?” Bella asks.
Papa nods. “Sì, he used to sell honey just like that, from his house. It was the best in the village.”
If you believe Papa and the aunties, everything my family did was “the best in the village.”
“And Huia, is that how you say it? She is a very sweet girl, isn’t she?” Papa says.
“Very,” Bella agrees. “Frankie?”
I turn and face my sister, glaring. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?”
“Trying to pull me into the conversation. I just want to go home.”
“Home?” Papa asks hopefully.
“The cabin, I mean. I just want to go to bed. I’m tired.”
“I was just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” I snap. “You’re trying to have a normal little chat as though nothing’s happened. Like the normal . . . ridiculous dinner, which you bullied me into, as though . . . as if . . . Alex . . . isn’t . . .”
“Frankie, darling.” Papa reaches for me.
“I’m fine!” I lie loudly, turning away.
Bella scrambles to catch up with me. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I know Alex is . . . it’s awful . . . I just thought—”
“How many times do I need to ask you to leave me alone?”
“You need—”
“You don’t know the first thing about what I need, Bella. What I need is for you to leave me alone.”
“Frankie,” Papa pleads.
I think of Papa and Bella at the dinner table, and outside the cabin window, laughing. As though the missing years have been forgotten, as though they didn’t happen. As though Bella didn’t cause us any trouble, any pain.
“You might be able to move on and act like she wasn’t a total delinquent,” I say. “You’re a better person than me, Papa.”
Papa cringes. “Oh, darling, I’m—”
“But I can’t,” I say firmly.
“Won’t,” Bella mumbles.
“Bella . . .” Papa pleads with her now.
“Right. Won’t,” I say. “Can’t and won’t.”
Bella gives a little cough. Papa looks at her with alarm.
“Oh, please!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t go sad on me now.”
She doesn’t reply.
Season of Salt and Honey Page 11