The Summer of Lost Wishes

by Jessa Gabrielle

  “I say let’s go find this Crane Pavilion and see what it’s like,” Rooks says.

  He swipes the screen on his phone and opens a Google browser. He types in “Crane Pavilion” but the only things that pop up are suggestions that he’s entered the wrong name and links to a place in California. He readjusts his search to add ‘Coral Sands’ to the search bar. Nothing shows up of any use.

  “Maybe that’s not its real name,” I say. “Or they renamed it. This was fifty years ago. It may be torn down by now.”

  Rooks shrugs. “There are a few pavilions along the beach. Want to check them out?”

  We park in a parking lot on the outskirts of Moonlight Harbor. According to the local tourist pamphlets, there are multiple pavilions, gazebos, and picnic areas along the beach. Seeing as these are the most popular ones in Coral Sands, I’m not sure if we’re on to something or not. I can’t imagine Seth and his girl leaving letters in a place where people vacationed, but then again, the Shark Island tragedy is one of the reasons people visit. The seafood businesses weren’t booming back then either. A lot has changed in fifty years. This town isn’t the same, from the buildings to the people and everything in between.

  Rooks unfolds the tourism brochure from his pocket. The first one on the map is just ahead of us – Gulf Breeze Gazebo. We stroll past an ongoing volleyball game, and for a second, my mind drifts to my father. I wonder if he married eventually and had a family, if maybe he has a son who loves volleyball the way he did as a teenager. I could have siblings out there who I don’t know exist. I could have family right here in Coral Sands who never had a chance to meet me. My own background could be as twisted of a mystery as Seth and Hanna’s deaths.

  “Right there,” Rooks says, bringing me back to the present moment.

  A large deck stretches out on the hill above us. It’s painted dark green with high ceilings. There’s a staircase leading up to the main floor, but it’s definitely not a place where you’d go to leave letters.

  “I don’t think this is it,” I say.

  Rooks agrees. We stroll along the beach for a while, talking about what renovations are left on my house, before we stop at a drink stand. Rooks orders two bottled waters and then asks the lady working the stand if she knows where Crane Pavilion is. She shrugs and shakes her head, stating that she’s never heard of it and she’s lived here for twenty years.

  The next few locations are the same as before – decks attached to restaurants, sitting areas for families, and small spots for photo opportunities on the beach. We’ve walked the length of the beach at Moonlight Harbor, almost into downtown territory. The seafood docks from our first downtown trip are up ahead.

  And then we see it – a worn out, weather-beaten large gazebo with wrap-around benches. The paint is peeling, and there’s no visible sign with a name.

  “What do you think?” Rooks asks.

  I shrug. “It’s definitely not a place I picture Seth hanging out near,” I admit.

  Rooks nods in agreement. “Regardless of what it is, I say let’s sit for a few minutes before trying to walk back through that sand,” he says, winded.

  I’ll never understand those fitness gurus who can run miles along the beach like it’s no big deal. I’ve never been so grateful for an ocean breeze as I am in this moment. The sand is killing me. I drop my small excuse of a purse onto the step next to me. Then I reach for my cell phone.

  “Smile,” I say, holding the phone out for a selfie.

  Rooks uses the screen as a mirror to fix his hair first. Then he wraps an arm around me and leans in. I snap the picture.

  “Another one,” he says.

  As soon as I go to hit the button, he kisses me on the cheek, catching me off guard so I look like an excited little kid in the photo.

  “Facebook it,” he says, fishing into his pocket for his own phone. “Tag me, and caption it ‘Beach day with the boy.’ Don’t say bae. I hate that word.”

  “The boy?” I ask. I look up from my phone.

  Rooks pushes himself off of the steps and walks out onto the sand, avoiding eye contact.

  “Well, if you’re not cool with that label then you can say ‘beach day with the hot guy next door who kisses me sometimes’ or something like that,” he suggests instead. Then he spins around and shoots me this sneaky smile.

  “We’ll stick with ‘the boy,’” I say, typing the caption into the text box.

  “Piper,” he says.

  I glance up but realize he’s not studying me. He stares above the pavilion at something in the sky. I look up but the roofing blocks my view. I set my phone aside and join in him the sand. But he’s not looking at the clouds. He’s looking at the roof.

  “You see it, right?” he asks, pointing to the statue of the crane poking from the center of the roof.

  It reminds me of a church’s steeple, at a point, but instead of a pane of stained glass in a pretty little window, it’s the bird.

  “Crane,” I say, shaking my head. “This is really it. This is the actual Crane Pavilion.”

  I rush back up the steps and glance around for any place they may have stashed their letters. It had to be out of the elements so the rain couldn’t ruin them and the wind wouldn’t sweep them away. Aside from the benches, though, there’s nowhere visible to the naked eye. Maybe they had a secret hiding spot out here.

  “Whoa,” Rooks says from the ground. He stands behind the pavilion. “Come down here.”

  I don’t think my legs can move fast enough. I leave my flip-flops on the steps and rush around the structure to where he stands. There’s a carved plaque affixed to the pavilion.

  Lancaster Pavilion, in memory of Warren Lancaster

  I run my fingers over the bronze letters. Lancaster Pavilion, est. 1941, is the longest-standing gazebo in Coral Sands. Originally nicknamed Crane Pavilion by locals due to the birds that inhabited this area seasonally, Lancaster Pavilion was never properly named until purchased by the Lancaster family in 1973. It was named in memory of their son and brother, Warren, who lost his life in the Shark Island tragedy of 1965.

  My breath is shaky when I exhale. What are the odds? Crane Pavilion must have been a popular spot back then if the Lancasters actually purchased it in memory of their son. I wonder how many family picnics they had out here, how often they watched the cranes and discussed the lobster business. Warren probably sat with his dad, eating sandwiches and talking about boats, while Frank played in the sand oblivious to what would happen to his family.

  “I think I’m officially creeped out now,” I say aloud.

  Then I feel weird for saying it out in the open where the spirits of Shark Island may hear me and dash across the harbor to snatch me away and prove that I don’t know what real fear is yet.

  Rooks wraps his arm around me. “You’re right. This is getting creepy,” he admits. “It’s like a never-ending web. Where one story ends, another begins. And they’re all connected.”

  “But what’s at the heart of that web?” I ask. “That’s the real question.”

  “The girl,” Rooks says. “She’s the only one who is tied to this yet not related at all.”

  And wherever she is, I hope the people of Coral Sands never find her.

  “I think I’m in love with the twinkle lights,” I say, looking up from the corner booth at Casa Garcia. “You should install some of these in my bedroom.”

  Rooks smiles across the table. “If it’d make you happy, I’m sure my dad and I could rig something for you,” he says.

  It’s like a carnival in here with the lights, the colors, and the music. A never-ending festival of celebration. I don’t care if the pirate ship pays more. If I were Hector, I’d have to join the family business.

  Woven baskets in bright, bold colors line the wall next to our table. Colorful glass bottles sit in the windows, capturing the sunlight in different hues. The smell of spices and fresh tortilla chips lingers in the air.

  “I’m sorry if I made things awkward today,” R
ooks says, drawing my eyes back to him and away from the waiter who just walked by with salsa for someone else.

  “When?” I ask.

  “At the pavilion, about the Facebook picture. You know, with ‘the boy.’” He uses air quotes around the words. “I’ll be honest. I don’t have a clue in hell what I’m doing. This whole world of dating is new to me, and I could be reading into everything the wrong way. I just kind of thought you might like me too, and I never bothered to ask if you did.”

  Oh, thank the ocean and the sands and everything in this little beach town for the huge gust of relief that just flooded over me. Then I crack up thinking about Rooks overanalyzing every word I’ve said, every text I’ve sent, every motion of body language. I’m not alone in my craziness after all.

  “You’re good,” I say. Our waiter arrives with a giant plate of tortilla chips and salsa before I can say anything else. I wait for him to leave before I speak again. Rooks pops a chip into his mouth.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” I assure him.

  “That’s good news,” Rooks says. “I don’t have anyone to have to live up to now. No matter how much I suck, you’ll never know otherwise.”

  The smirk on his face makes me want to melt like the hot salsa on our table. I don’t think he has any clue how cute he is. He’s probably known as a bad boy back home, a reputation that doesn’t really fit him, in my opinion. The girls most likely lust after him but don’t dare think of dating him because he’s one of those dangerous heartbreaking types.

  “But you’re leaving,” I remind him, completely crushing the moment.

  “Maybe not,” he says. “I’ll find a way not to. If my dad talks to my mom and tells her how much ‘progress’ I’ve made, maybe she’ll let me stay with him.”

  I reach for a chip and dunk it in the salsa. “Don’t get my hopes up, Carter,” I say.

  The last thing I need is lost wishes of my own.

  We stand next to the front counter, waiting for the host to swipe Rooks’ debit card on the register. The guy motions to us that it’ll be just a moment, and then he turns his back to us to finish jotting down the order that’s being called in over the phone.

  “Mr. Carter?” a lady asks, walking around the counter. “Hector didn’t even tell me you were back. Are you here all summer?”

  She hasn’t introduced herself, but she has to be Hector’s grandmother. She wears a flowing skirt with a swirly pattern and a black shirt that has the Casa Garcia logo in place of a pocket. She takes our receipt and swipes Rooks’ card.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’m staying with my dad. I’m sort of hoping I can make it a permanent arrangement.”

  He glances at me and smiles. “This is Ms. Rosa, Hector’s grandmother, or his Abuela as you’ll hear him say.”

  Then he turns back to the counter. “This is Piper, by the way,” he says, introducing me. “She just moved in next door to my dad.”

  The lady nods in acknowledgment and says it’s nice to meet me, but that daunting feeling that she’s judging me for living in the Calloway Cottage sneaks up into my chest like it does every other time I meet someone here.

  “Do you have your rewards card?” Ms. Rosa asks, eyeing Rooks.

  He opens his wallet and glances through the few things he has and then sheepishly shakes his head in response. The lady tsks and shakes a finger at him before she laughs.

  “Because it’s you, I’ll get you another,” she says, reaching under the counter for what looks like a business card. “You remember how this works. You get five stamps, you get free salsa. And I know you want free salsa.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rooks says.

  She grabs a pen from a cup, pops the lid off, and dips it onto an inkpad. That’s when I realize it’s a stamp and not a pen.

  “One down, four to go,” she says, handing the card to Rooks.

  “Thank you,” he says, handing the card over to me. “I’m going to let Piper keep up with it. She’s better with these things than I am.”

  I take it as she tells him to come back very soon, but my heart drops again. This time, there’s no splatter because it’s dead before it hits the tile flooring. I don’t move, even after Ms. Rosa walks away and after Rooks asks if I’m okay. I just hold up the card so he can see for himself.

  The stamp is a symbol I’ve seen a few times already. It’s the rose.

  Seth’s Letter

  I would run away with you. I would go in a heartbeat. The rest of it doesn’t matter. If I knew that you would leave with me, I’d make the plans right now. I truly believe these kinds of things don’t happen but once in your lifetime. I have never felt as strongly as I do when I’m with you.

  We could leave after graduation. We could toss our caps and everything else into the air and let it fall without any laid out structure. No plans. No carved out futures. No one else making our decisions for us.

  We could hop a train or drive until we found a place to stay. Then we could leave again. We could travel until we found the place where we truly belong, where we could be together.

  I’ll do it. I’ll end this relationship with Hanna. I won’t marry her. I’m not worried about my family’s reaction. It’s my future. It’s my life. I deserve to be happy, and they should want that for me. I know doing this is what will make my life worth living. I’ll face whatever lies ahead. It’s a risk I’ll take to always feel the way you make me feel.

  Rosa’s Reply

  I hate the thought of doing that to my family, to just leave them after all they’ve given up for me. They’ve fought to get where they are. They’ve worked so hard to give me a better life. Running away with nothing more than a goodbye letter in my bedroom would be so hard on them.

  But I know your repercussions are worse. You will be walking away from a perfect life. I never thought I’d meet anyone who would be willing to do this for me. It’s like the falling stars are sparkling around me – finally – and all of those lost wishes have been recovered from the well and given a second breath of life.

  Do you remember that night, sitting in the parking lot at the beach? The night it was raining so we stayed in your car? You were talking about our future, and you always said, “When.” Never “if.” That’s when I was certain this was real. That’s when it felt like it was more than a dream. I’ve always known this would end after graduation, after you married Hanna. I know what we’ve been doing is wrong, but when I’m with you, when we’re talking and laughing, I know that everything is so right.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I never thought we’d find her,” I say for the five-hundredth time in the last two days. I hand the hammer to Rooks, who doesn’t look down from the stepladder.

  He beats another nail into the wall. Mom wasn’t happy about the deer heads going up before her big open house, but she was pleased that I compromised on letting her use blues in the color scheme for my bedroom. I even let her paint the accent wall with Iceberg Blue, and that was a huge compromise. The deer heads stay.

  “It makes sense, though,” Rooks says, handing the hammer back to me. “She said they couldn’t be together because the world wouldn’t let them. This was fifty years ago. It’s not like modern times. No one says anything about Hector and Natalie, but fifty years ago, there was no way the mayor’s child would’ve been dating someone of another race. Rosa knew that.”

  I lean back against the wall and watch as Rooks positions Delilah in place, carefully posing her above where my bed will be as of this afternoon. Mom is having the new kitchen cabinets put in today, and our furniture is being delivered late this afternoon. As of tomorrow, I won’t be sleeping on that air mattress any longer.

  “Alright,” Rooks says, looking down to me. “Where’s Oliver?”

  It makes me laugh. Weeks ago, when he first saw Delilah and Oliver, he seemed appalled at their awkward country weirdness, but Rooks is pretty good about embracing the awkward country weirdness that accompanies me.

  I retrieve Oliver
from the box where I’ve left him for safekeeping and hand him over to Rooks. He places the flannel-covered deer head about seven or eight inches over from Delilah. They look chic and majestic. I still don’t understand how my mom can detest them so much.

  “You know, I kind of like them,” Rooks says after he steps back onto the floor and admires his handiwork. “I mean, honestly, how many girls in Florida have fabric-covered deer heads on their bedroom wall? It may have been trendy in Tennessee, but this is totally unique here.”

  “Maybe I should use that line on my mom,” I tell him.

  For the first time since we’ve moved into the Calloway Cottage, it feels like it’s really ours. Having my closet fully finished doesn’t hurt, either, though. I don’t want renovations to end because that means summer is nearing its end, but I am also more than ready to just have a normal house with finished rooms and furniture.

  “Speaking of your mom,” Rooks says, turning away from the deer and toward me. “What does she have on the agenda for you today? Wait – let me guess. Analyzing which plates look best with her placemats?”

  I shoot him an evil eye because he knows I’m beyond over Mom’s design insanity. She received a phone call last night from the mayor of Chesterfield, and they accepted her bid. She dashed out the door early this morning to raid Hobby Lobby’s beach crafts. I’m not sure if this job is technically an interior design job, since it’s more party décor, but it’ll give her photos for her portfolio.

  “Actually, I need to go downtown today, and I’m sort of hoping you’ll give me a ride,” I tell him.

  Before Mom’s divorce, I was driving my then-stepdad’s extra car. It was older and he kept it for insurance purposes and as a backup vehicle, but when they split, the car stayed with him. I don’t know if Mom will even debate buying a second car once she’s done paying for renovations. Every bit of her inheritance from Grandma has gone into this house.