Wish I Might

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

American Hospitality

  Little drops of water,

  Little drops of sand,

  Make the mighty ocean

  And the pleasant land.

  — Julia Fletcher Carney

  I didn’t sleep well at all last night, but I wake to the aroma of something delicious baking downstairs. Rosie is making the breakfast sweet treats—scones and breads and muffins—and that puts a smile on my face.

  I check the clock. Five A.M. I might still catch the sunrise.

  I throw on some clothes, head downstairs, lift my bike from the rack, and I’m off. This morning, I head to Sandy Beach. That way I can walk up to Popponesset, a good mile or so beach walk, and end out on the Spit, where Will’s boat should be. It’s way too early for Tina and Ruby to be nosing about. They don’t get up until noon. They need their beauty sleep.

  It’s cool this morning, refreshing. I take a good, deep breath in. The sky is a gorgeous salmon color with ribbons of pink and purple.

  When I reach the beach stairs, I scan the horizon and lucky me, thank you, just this very moment the sun is rising out of the blue. A brand-new day. That small fireball is rising at a fast clip, as if some netherworld creature gave it a good toss-up this morning.

  Netherworld creature? I laugh. Oh, Willa, you are so dramatic. Where did that come from? Too much thinking about mermaids, that’s where.

  “Mermaids,” I say aloud. “Give me a break.”

  Giggling. Someone is giggling.

  I turn and look around me, up and down the beach.

  I’m alone. No one in sight.

  I walk faster. Silly Willa, your mind’s playing tricks on you.

  Giggling.

  There it is again. I stop and swirl around. I could swear I hear giggling. Maybe it’s that little tourist girl, the mermaid spotter, hiding so I won’t see her.

  Splat, swoosh, splash. Sounds out in the water now. I turn and look. Nothing.

  Giggling. I swing back to the beach.

  Splash. I look to the sea. A few droplets of water spray across my face.

  I shiver. This is crazy. I set off at a run.

  After a bit, I see there are people up ahead of me on the beach. As I get closer and realize who they are, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  My possible brother Will is sitting cross-legged in the center of the pretty pink poshy quilt I recognize from Tina’s princess bedroom. Salty Dog is sitting next to the king, chowing down on something tasty, probably a designer dog treat from Ruby’s No Mutts About It. Furry traitor.

  Tina is sitting on one side of Will. She takes something out of a beach pack, unwraps it, and hands it to Will. A fried-egg sandwich, it looks like.

  Ruby is sitting on Will’s other side. She lifts what looks like a muffin out of a magazine-perfect old-fashioned wicker picnic basket, and when Will’s done chewing a bite of his sandwich, she offers him some.

  Will is smiling like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland—no, better yet, that comic-strip Garfield cat, happiest when he’s eating.

  Salty Dog looks up and sees me. He lowers his big brown eyes shamefully and turns back to his treat. My heart sinks.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand, looking at Tina and then at Ruby.

  “Oh, hi, Willa,” Tina says. “Gosh, you scared me, sneaking up on us like a ghost. I made breakfast for your brother.”

  “Me, too,” Ruby says. “I baked.”

  I sneer at Ruby like she’s that slimy black stuff you devein from a shrimp. “Since when do you bake, Ruby?”

  “Since this morning,” Ruby says, smiling, all rosy-cheeked apple-pie innocent. “Somebody needs to show this sweet British boy some American hospitality. You ran off and left him all alone last night.”

  I stand there sputtering like a fish caught on a line. There’s so much I want to say but I’m afraid I’ll scream or cry or pull someone’s mermaid hair out. “I’ll talk to you later,” I say to Will.

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ll be here.”

  Salty Dog whimpers, but stays.

  “Traitor,” I mumble under my breath, and turn to leave.

  “Willa, wait,” Tina says, standing, her former-best-friend guilt finally surfacing. “Want some breakfast?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got to go to work.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Ruby says, feigning sincerity. Her family’s so rich; she’ll never have to work. “It’s such a nice day.”

  “Shut up, Ruby,” I snap.

  “Uh-oh,” Will says. He laughs, eyebrows raised, surprised at me.

  “You, too,” I say to him, and storm off.

  I hate when people laugh at me.

  CHAPTER 10

  Off to the Vineyard

  The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

  The furrow followed free;

  We were the first that ever burst

  Into that silent sea.

  — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Rosie is on kitchen duty when I get back to the inn. Rosie is in her early twenties. Thin, pretty, a single mom. An unbelievably talented baker. I keep telling her she should write cookbooks and have her own television show. My mother gets mad when I say these things because she doesn’t want to lose Rosie as an employee.

  “Good morning, Willa,” Rosie shouts over the bustle of the busy kitchen.

  “Morning, Rosie,” I say without much enthusiasm.

  “Rough night?” Rosie asks, coming over next to me, drying her hands on a towel.

  “Yeah, sort of,” I say.

  “Here, sit and have breakfast,” she says. “You’ll feel better.”

  Rosie puts a gigantic muffin, steam rising, still warm from the oven, on a plate. She pours me a glass of orange juice. “And I’ll make you some tea. You’ve got time.”

  “You don’t have to wait on me, Rosie. You’ve got plenty to do.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Rosie says. “I’m happy to.”

  The muffin smells divine. My mouth waters as I spread a bit of butter across the top. Rosie is so talented with breads and pies and cookies, pretty much anything you make in an oven, but her pièce de résistance is cake.

  Our friend, Chickles Blazer, Suzanna’s mother, was so impressed with the cake Rosie baked for her daughter Suzanna’s wedding that she said she was going to “make her famous.” I noticed Rosie got a letter with a return address from Mrs. Blazer last month. Rosie hasn’t mentioned anything. I wonder what’s up.

  I take a bite. Pop-pop-pop … sweet and tart berry flavors explode like fireworks in my mouth. “Oh, my gosh, Rosie, this is delicious. How many different berries are in here?” I swallow and take another bite, have a sip of juice. What a lucky duck I am to have food like this every day.

  “Let’s see,” Rosie says, “raspberries, blueberries, strawberries. Vanilla almond cake batter. I thought it would make a nice red, white, and blue theme for the holiday.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July.”

  “You don’t seem excited,” Rosie says.

  I think about JFK, how we would have watched the fireworks somewhere together. Why hasn’t he called me? “I’m sure I’ll do something with my friends,” I say. Tina said that Ruby and the other Bramble Burner cheerleaders are planning a bonfire on the beach. A bunch of girls from school — Caroline, Lauren, Emily, Shefali, and Chandler—are bringing food. Our friends Luke and Jessie might get their band, The Buoy Boys, to play. At the very least there will be boom boxes, and everyone will end up dancing; budding bestselling authors Tina and Ruby will dance with college lifeguards if they get their holiday wish.

  I picture Tina and Ruby serving Will breakfast on the beach. They’re probably inviting him to the bonfire right this moment. Once that happens, everyone from school will know. I’m going to have to tell Mother about Will. My stomach clenches. I put the muffin down. I need to talk to Mariel. Or JFK. Oh, I wish he were here.

  “What about you and Liliana?”
I say. That’s Rosie’s little daughter. “What are you doing for the holiday?”

  “My friend Tara invited us over for a barbecue, then we’ll go somewhere to watch the fireworks, I’m sure. Last year, Lilly was a baby. All that noise scared her. But this year, I think she’ll have a blast.”

  I pick up the Bramble Record and scan the headlines. There’s an article about the town closing down three motels known for housing guests for more than the legally permitted thirty days at a time. The Oceanview was one of the places they closed. A man in the story is quoted saying the town ought to figure out where these people are going to stay. “Renting a motel room was all they could afford,” he said. “Now where are they going to live?”

  Exactly. My heart pounds. I can’t wait to talk with Sam after work.

  “Thanks for breakfast, Rosie!” I wash my hands, put on an apron, grab a decanter of fresh-brewed coffee in one hand, decaf in the other, and make my way to the sunporch.

  I circulate among the tables, offering refills to our guests, making pleasant inquiries as to their plans for the day or where they went last night. The anniversary couple, Mr. and Mrs. Baker, are heading out on a whale watch. Mr. Pradia enjoyed a Cape Cod league baseball game last night. The Hyannis Mets won. A group of friends, four really fun ladies from New York, here celebrating the one named Ellen’s fortieth birthday, the “Ya-Ya’s” they call themselves, are still laughing about the great time they had out at the Beachcomber in Wellfleet last night.

  “I haven’t danced like that since high school,” Ellen says, laughing.

  “I never danced like that,” another one says. “That band was great!”

  Later, I clear the tables, load the dishwasher, and then head out to the vegetable garden to look for Sam.

  Sam doesn’t know much more about the situation at the Oceanview than was reported in the paper, except for one very interesting fact. Last night, he and my mother ran into Ruby Sivler’s parents at the movies in Mashpee Commons. It seems Mr. Sivler, a real estate developer, has plans for a new upscale condominium complex on the outskirts of town.

  “He said he’d be interested in buying the Oceanview property if it ever became available.” Sam purses his lips and rubs his chin. “This eviction would certainly speed up the process for him if the place goes on the market.”

  “I bet Mr. Sivler’s the one who blew the whistle,” I say. “That crook probably caused the eviction. He’s such a slimy fish.”

  “Now, Willa,” Sam says, always the fair-minded, innocent-until-proven-otherwise sort. “You don’t know that to be true. Let’s not—”

  “I know, Dad. I know. But what about Mariel’s family? What are they going to do? Where do you think they’ve gone?”

  “I’m not sure, Willa, but my guess would be relatives or —”

  “They don’t have family around here.”

  “A homeless shelter?” Sam suggests.

  “But the nearest one is in Hyannis,” I say.

  “Or possibly the Red Cross or a church they were affiliated with.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad. I just remembered. JFK’s mother, Mrs. Kennelly, knows the Sanchez family. She was the one who encouraged them to come to Bramble in the first place. Maybe she has some information.”

  When I get to the Kennellys’, no one is home. I wish I had paper and a pen to leave a note. I’ll try back later. I head to Popponesset Beach.

  It’s a beautiful day. I see the mermaid spotter with her mother, back on the watch again, this time with a smaller fan club. The beach is packed with picnickers, sunbathers, colorful striped beach umbrellas. Out on the water there are sailboats, kayaks, floats of every shape and size.

  A bronzed and buff college lifeguard surveys his kingdom from his wind-weathered wooden throne. My gaze rests on a mother and two little girls decorating a very fancy sand castle, shaped like a wedding cake, three tiers high with shells and loopy strands of seaweed frosting.

  “Willa!”

  That’s Will’s voice. I search the crowd for his face and then I see him waving to me. Thankfully, no Tina or Ruby. I go to him.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Your friends have powerful powers of persuasion. Talk about flirts. And I thought British girls were bad.” He laughs. “Forgive me?”

  “Nothing to forgive,” I say. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” he says. “I owe you an explanation. Take a ride on my boat with me, will you? My chum from boarding school’s family has a house over on the Vineyard. It’s a short ride. I’ll have you back in a few hours.”

  The island of Martha’s Vineyard. It’s about a twenty-minute ride, I think. I look at his motorboat. It seems safe and sturdy enough. Thankfully, it’s not a sailboat. I don’t do well with little boats on the ocean, but that’s a different story.

  I look at Will’s face. He smiles reassuringly. He’s awfully charming. JFK doesn’t trust him. Do I?

  A seagull squawks, the lifeguard blows his whistle, a breeze sends ripples of foam across the waves. I close my eyes for a second to focus inward and take a Willa-reading of my feelings.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Will’s Story

  A man may stand there [Cape Cod]

  and put all America behind him.

  — Henry David Thoreau

  With the roar of the motor making conversation nearly impossible, Will and I ride out to the Vineyard in silence.

  When we approach the harbor, which is bustling with tourists, Will cuts the engine.

  “Gosh, you drive fast,” I say, my hair a windblown bird’s nest.

  “You should see me in my car back home,” he says with a laugh.

  I wonder about Will’s home “across the pond.” I’ve always wanted to visit England, birthplace of Shakespeare and Dickens and so many literary heroes.

  Will maneuvers the boat skillfully, past one of the large ferries from Hyannis and numerous smaller yachts and motorboats, into an open spot.

  “There you are,” a dockhand says to Will. “The Southends have been asking about you.” “The Southends?” I ask.

  “Chauncey Southends,” Will says as he ties up the boat. “My chum from Bainbridge’s family. I’m staying with them for a while.”

  “Bainbridge is your boarding school?”

  Will nods. “Come on. I know a place where we can talk.”

  We head into town, past the busy shops and restaurants and out onto a quaint, quieter street lined with stately historic homes. When we turn a corner, Will stops in front of a bakery. “Let’s get a sweet,” he says.

  Will pays for two oatmeal raisin cookies and iced coffees to go. “Come on this way,” he says. I follow him up a path and through a wooded area. Eventually we come out into a clearing. We are facing an old cemetery.

  “Wait till you see this place,” Will says.

  The graveyard looks like it’s been here since the Pilgrims landed; probably some are even buried here. The etched names and dates on the headstones are faded with age and weather. Many of the markers are crumbling, most are moss covered. The place could feel dreary except for the flowers. There are colorful wild-flowers everywhere. Queen Anne’s lace and daisies, thistles and brown-eyed Susans. I smile. It’s pretty here, tranquil. Sam would like this place.

  I find myself saying the names on the gravestones in my head as we pass. Smith. Barnes. Rockwell. Spaulding. Morrow. Fletcher. Hunt. Some simply say MOTHER or FATHER. What were their names? I wonder.

  Will sits on a marble bench. I join him. I munch on the cookie, take a sip of coffee, steal a side-glance at his face.

  He looks nervous. Why should he be nervous? It’s me who should be nervous. My whole life may be about to change.

  “Just blurt it out,” I say.

  Will laughs, a big, long, satisfying laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I say.

  “You,” he says. “You’re a plucky one. I knew you�
��d be. From all those stories about your famous mum on the Internet, I had a feeling she was a tad too tightly strung, a bit too full of herself. But you? Nah. When I read that newspaper story about how you saved that old library, I thought—”

  “You read about that?” I say. “All the way over in England?”

  Will bursts out laughing again. “Welcome to the World Wide Web, sister.”

  My heart skips at the word sister.

  “Haven’t you ever done a search of your name online?” Will says.

  “No,” I say. “It never occurred to me.”

  “Well, try it when you get home,” he says. “You’re making quite a name for yourself, taking on causes like Princess Diana or Mother Teresa, standing up on your little soapbox spouting your opinions and dashing off letters to the editor like you’re the prime minister himself. You’d love Speaker’s Corner in London.”

  “What’s wrong with having opinions?” I say, standing up.

  “Not a pitty thing,” Will says. “I think it’s adorable.”

  Ugh. I hate that word, adorable.

  “All right,” I say. “Enough about my life. Tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”

  “Straight out, then,” Will says. “I like that.”

  My heart is pounding. Careful what you ask for, Willa.

  “Sit down,” Will says. I do.

  He stands up. “Okay, then.” He clears his throat. “How much do you know about your father, Billy Havisham?”

  “Not much,” I say. “Just that he died in a hot-air balloon crash the day after he and my mother were married. It turned out I was a wedding-night baby. He never even knew I existed.”

  “That’s funny,” Will says. “He never knew about me, either.”

  “Tell me,” I say.

  “Okay, well, about three years or so before your mother married Billy Havisham, he had been in love with another woman, my mum, Annie Bolton. She was the only daughter of the Kensington Boltons, maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re one of the richest families in the UK, bigwigs, banks and Thoroughbred horses mostly. Her parents, my grandparents—hopefully you’ll never have to meet them—they’re a wicked cold lot, those two, they hated Billy Havisham. They thought he was an irresponsible, reckless, foolish American, not good enough for Bolton blood. Any man trying to make a living writing little advertising ditties and jingles couldn’t possibly be good enough for their daughter.”