A Summer of Sundays

by Lindsay Eland

  Thunderstorms—great gray clouds hanging in the sky, the rumbles and clapping of thunder and the sudden brightness of lightning—that truly terrified her. And no amount of wishing or thinking of other things could overcome her fear.

  On a stormy afternoon when she was twelve years old Lilly finally smiled at the thunder and lightning. Well, perhaps not smiled. It was a grim determination that made her stand tall with fists clenched to face that storm.

  Mark had tapped on her windowpane. She had been clutching a pillow when she looked over and saw him. He smiled and waved. What was he doing?

  Mark fascinated Lilly. He seemed to fear only crowds of people. Even then, he walked through with a grace that always fooled everyone.

  He tapped again, and Lilly rushed to the window. The smell of rain already saturated the air.

  “Come on in, quick,” she said, and slammed the window shut just as he pulled himself the rest of the way inside.

  Mark’s glasses fogged over and he took them off, rubbing them with his shirt. “My mom says it’s going to be a big storm.”

  Lilly didn’t answer. She turned her back on the dark afternoon and clutched the pillow tighter. “What do you want?” she asked, knowing she sounded harsh the moment the words left her lips.

  Mark didn’t notice. “I know you don’t like storms, so I came over to keep you company.”

  Lilly hated when Mark knew things about her that she had never told him. “I never said that. I don’t mind them … but they aren’t my favorite.”

  He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes never leaving her face. “It’s okay to be afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid!” she said.

  A flash cut across the sky followed by a rumble of thunder. Lilly jumped, her knuckles whitening around the pillow.

  Mark stood up and held out his hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to go outside and dance in the rain.”

  “It’s not just raining. It’s like a tornado out there.”

  A loud clap echoed from the outside.

  “Then we’ll sit on the porch and watch it come in. And then we’ll dance in the rain.”

  I stopped reading. “Dancing in the rain.”

  Jude looked up at me. “Huh?”

  “Isn’t dancing in the rain in one of the letters?”

  “Yeah. I just read that one. Here.” He pulled out one of the yellowed letters and read aloud. “ ‘Dear Librarian, today I took a walk in the park. To tell you the truth, I had not been to the park in a long while. I’ve hardly stepped outside, it has been so wet. I know you would remind me of how you made me dance in the rain with you when we were kids. Yes, though I blame you for the cold I got afterward.’ Blah, blah, blah, ‘Daisies and hearts, Me.’ ”

  I was inching toward a discovery. “Listen to this.” I read him the scene in the story.

  “That could be something.”

  I grinned and clutched the manuscript to my chest. “I think it’s definitely something.”

  JUDE and I headed toward town and passed a yard with those same crazy zigzags as the library grass.

  “I guess it’s the same guy that mows the lawn at the library.”

  Jude laughed. “You know it’s Papa Gil who drives the mower, right?”

  “No way!” I tried to imagine Papa Gil switching gears and zooming across the thick, green grass.

  “Yeah. He used to work in a pit crew for some famous car racer a long time ago. Now he just races around the library and the cemetery.”

  “The cemetery?”

  Jude nodded. “Yeah, it’s right over there.” He pointed to a wrought-iron archway leading to rows of gravestones dotted with flowers. “It sounds like he’s there right now.”

  “Maybe we should ask him if he knows of anyone in town who writes,” I suggested. “And I bet he would know if Muzzy had anything to do with the manuscript.”

  “Really, Sunday? Even after you read her article, you still think she could’ve written the story?”

  I sighed. “I know it’s not very likely, but we still need to find out definitely.”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “Okay.”

  The only cemetery I had ever been to had been my grandpa’s. I remembered visiting his grave with my family. We had all placed something by the stone and then stood in awkward, sad silence. I’d left his favorite, a peanut butter cookie, wrapped in cellophane despite the fact that May told me I shouldn’t because a bird would eat it. I remember thinking that it shouldn’t matter since Grandpa wasn’t going to eat it, either, but it made me upset to think that I didn’t put something better down.

  “It’s very sweet, Sunday,” Dad had said when he saw me reach down for the cookie. “It’s the remembering that counts, and that comes in more ways than one.”

  As we walked through the gates, Jude pulled out two small pieces of wrapped chocolate from his pocket and held one worn piece out to me. I shook my head. Gross. He popped one into his mouth and looked to where the lawn mower flew across the ground. “There he is.”

  I shuddered as we crunched down the gravel path toward him, walking by the first row of names. Papa Gil spied us, turned off the mower, and stepped down.

  “Hello, you two!” he said, hitching up his pants. “What brings you to the cemetery today?”

  I decided to ask him about Muzzy first. “We read Muzzy’s article in the newspaper the other day.”

  He rubbed his hand over his thinning gray hair. “She didn’t put in anything about your family that you didn’t like, did she?”

  “No, not at all,” I said. “Jude and I were just surprised when we saw that she wrote for the paper.”

  “Yes, the editor lets my Muzzy write an article each week. I admit she isn’t the best writer out there, but she does love it, and her eyes shine and sparkle every Friday when the paper gets tossed on our doorstep.”

  “That’s great,” I said, then knocked Jude with my elbow. “Isn’t it, Jude?”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “So did she just start writing, then?”

  “Well, let’s see.” He looked off in the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun, which was now peeking out through little holes in the clouds. “She’s probably been writing for the paper for the past six months or so.”

  “Has she ever written anything longer?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, just asking.”

  “The only person in Alma that I know of who wrote anything longer than an article was Lee Wren. The Life and Death of Birds. Now, that was a brilliant book.”

  Papa Gil was the second person to describe Lee Wren as brilliant. “I’m actually reading it right now.”

  He grinned. “Is that so? Do you want to know where her grave is?” He started off down one of the gravel paths before we could answer.

  I hadn’t even considered that she might be buried in Alma. Weaving in and out among the tombstones, I glanced briefly at the bouquets of flowers, their ribbons droopy from the morning dew. A few flags hung limply, sad but no less proud looking.

  Papa Gil stopped and pointed at a simple gray gravestone. “That’s it, right there.”

  The first thing I noticed was the daisy lying right in front of the stone, the bright white and yellow stark against the deep green of the grass. “The daisy is pretty,” I said. I’d always thought of daisies as sort of plain flowers. But delicate against the grass, it looked perfect.

  “One of her fans probably left it for her,” Jude said.

  Papa Gil shook his head and rubbed his chin. “Truth is, for as long as I’ve been helping take care of the grounds, every time I come, and I usually come pretty early, there’s a single daisy lying in front of the stone. Even in the winter. Of course, sometimes it’s a different flower.”

  “Really? Every morning?”

  Papa Gil nodded. “Well, I’m not here every morning. But I come a few times a week and there’s always a daisy. Curious thing,
but I figure that if someone wants privacy, well then, I should give it to him.” Papa Gil smiled, bent down, and wiped the misty dew from one of the petals. “And I like seeing the flowers.”

  “Thanks for showing us, Papa Gil,” I said.

  He nodded and smiled. “You’re welcome. Now, I better finish the rest of my mowing before Joanne comes looking for me. Make sure you two stop by and see us soon. We restocked all our treats last night.”

  “More candy?” Jude asked as if maybe Papa Gil had a cupcake wrapped in cellophane stuffed in his pocket.

  “Yep, all kinds.”

  “Thanks, we’ll stop by soon,” I said. We both watched Papa Gil walk back to his mower, start it up, and zoom off down the grassy straightaway. I turned back to the grave.

  “ ‘Lee Amelia Wren,’ ” I read aloud.

  Jude was busy unwrapping the other chocolate. I rolled my eyes and continued.

  “ ‘Born 1944—Died 1995. Beloved author to the world and treasured friend to one.’ ” The next words stopped my heart in my chest. “ ‘Daisies and hearts.’ ”

  Jude’s head snapped up as I read the words aloud. “Where have I heard that?”

  “ ‘Daisies and hearts,’ ” I repeated, unable to keep myself from jumping up and down on my toes. “From the letters, remember? To the Librarian. They always ended with the words daisies and hearts. Do you—”

  Jude stared at the gravestone, the chocolate square a lump in his cheek. “You don’t think? I mean … letters … written by Lee Wren. The Lee Wren? Sunday, that would be … that would be huge.”

  “I know, I know.”

  A new vision filled my head. It wasn’t just a headline in the Alma Gazette. It was me, sitting on the comfy red couch on the Morning Show, telling the hostess, Janey Price, about what I’d found and how I’d found it. My parents and brothers and sisters would be waiting backstage in the dressing room while the world memorized my face. SUNDAY ANNIKA FOWLER, THE GIRL WHO FOUND PRIVATE LETTERS FROM THE FAMOUS AUTHOR LEE WREN. With these letters I didn’t even need the manuscript.

  “Of course, we have to find more proof that the letters are hers,” I said. “Maybe the person who leaves a daisy by the grave every day knows for sure.”

  Jude gave a small laugh and looked around. “So what are we supposed to do to catch this person? You heard Papa Gil, he’s never even seen who does it, and he’s been working here since forever.”

  I bent down and felt the soft grass beneath me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It won’t be like a mattress, but it’ll do.”

  Jude bent down next to me. “Do for what, Sunday?”

  “I think that’ll work. The person won’t be able to get around us without being seen. We’ll bring flashlights and drink lots of soda so we can stay up—”

  “No, you don’t mean we’re going to …” Jude stopped.

  I looked at him and smiled. “It’s perfect, Jude.”

  “But we’ll be sleeping in a cemetery!” he yelled.

  I started walking away from the grave. “Come on, we have a lot to get ready.”

  TO KEEP CJ from following us to the cemetery that night, I had to bribe him with ice cream.

  “I’ll try a different flavor every day,” he said, pacing back and forth across my bedroom floor. “Double scoop, sugar cone. Sprinkles. The double scoop is nonnegotiable.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He eyed me warily, then stuck out his hand. “First ice cream cone tomorrow. Shake on it.”

  I took his hand and shook hard. It would cost all my money. But getting credit for discovering Lee Wren’s letters would be worth it.

  The cemetery was blacker than black when we walked through the archway that night. The moon was covered by a thick layer of clouds, and I said a quick prayer that we wouldn’t get rained on. Persuading Jude had been hard. If it rained, there was no way he’d stay.

  Jude walked beside me in a rain jacket, hat, gloves, rain boots, and a backpack with seams pulled taut by all the stuff he’d packed. I had a flashlight, a disposable camera (for taking pictures of the secret person), a sleeping bag, a notebook and pen, The Life and Death of Birds, snacks, and a rain jacket. I had almost brought the letters, but I needed them in pristine condition if I was going to show them to newspapers and TV crews.

  We moved as silently as we could across the gravel paths, to the grave.

  “This is so creepy,” Jude whispered. The orange-yellow beam of his flashlight bounced off the headstones and gave an eerie glow to the foggy night around us.

  “Turn it off and then we won’t think about the graves.”

  He gave a snort. “How could we not think about the graves when we’re sleeping in a graveyard?”

  “You know what I mean. Just turn it off.”

  He clicked the flashlight off, and the night thickened. I tried to ignore the creepiness and unzipped my backpack, pulling out my sleeping bag and laying it behind the stone so we couldn’t be seen. Jude did the same.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “We wait.”

  The trees rustled. A car drove by on the road below. A bird cawed loudly from somewhere in the black. I shivered and hugged my knees to my chest. I tried to remember why I had thought this was a good idea.

  Jude broke the silence. “We have to do something, Sunday, or we’ll go crazy.”

  “You’re right. But I don’t know—”

  “I have snacks,” he said. “I packed a bunch.” I heard him unzip his backpack and then the loud crinkle of a bag. He threw something into my lap. “Here’s some chips.”

  “Does your mom know about these?”

  He crunched down on one. “She usually buys veggie chips. I bought these with my leftover birthday money.”

  “Ah, I see.” I opened the crinkly bag and crunched down on a single salty chip.

  We sat and talked. Jude told me about how long it had been since he’d heard from his dad.

  “It was my fifth birthday.” Jude’s voice trembled and I was glad I couldn’t see his face. “Dad sent me a card and told me that he was going to take me to California to see the surfers, and then we were going to go to Legoland. He said that we’d stay up late every night and swim in the ocean as much as I wanted.” There was the rustle of his chip bag and a hearty crunch-crunch-crunch-crunch.

  “Then what?”

  “It never happened. No California, or Legoland, or surfers. He never even wrote back after that. No calls. No visits. Nothing.” He sighed and faked a yawn. “But I don’t care. Whatever.”

  “How long has Wally been around?” I asked.

  “About three years, I guess.”

  “And you still haven’t given him a chance?”

  “Why should I?”

  I chose not to answer that one. “Has he asked your mom to marry him?”

  “Nope. And he won’t unless I say it’s okay. That’s what he told me.”

  “And he’s still around? Jude, Wally adores you and your mom. Think about it. If he didn’t, he would’ve been long gone by now.”

  There was silence, and I hoped that I hadn’t made him mad. I didn’t want him to leave me alone out here. “Jude?”

  “You really think he might?” His voice was small, and the words were delicate as a spiderweb, like he was afraid the possibility of it being true could blow away at any moment.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  He sniffled, but I ignored it and made a bunch of noise with my now-empty bag.

  “So, what about you, Sunday? To me, it doesn’t seem like you’re invisible to your family.”

  I laughed. “Are you kidding me? Sure, sometimes my parents get my name right the first time. But you’ve heard them. And then there’s the whole gas station thing.”

  “Gas station thing? What’s that?”

  So I told him what had happened at the gas station when we were coming to Alma. “They never even realized I was gone. They still don’t know.”

  “Oh,” he said. “That�
�s a bummer.”

  “Yeah, just a little.” Sarcasm dripped off my words.

  “And you haven’t told them?”

  “No, why should I? They should’ve realized and apologized.” I sighed. I wanted to tell my parents, but then again … I didn’t. “I don’t want them to pay attention to me just because they feel bad, or just to try and make it all better. That’s why I need to do something that will make sure getting left behind never happens again.”

  “Don’t you think it was just a mistake? A bad one, sure, but still just a mistake.”

  I crinkled up the chip bag and stuffed it into my backpack. “Of course it was a mistake. I know that. It’s just that it wouldn’t’ve happened with CJ, or Bo, or Henry, or my sisters. CJ is always so funny and loud that he’d never be forgotten. Bo’s the sweetest of all of us, Henry is the youngest and cutest, and Emma and May are both pretty and talented. Me? I’m just easy to look over and forget.”

  “Oh, come on, Sunday. I get what you’re saying about the boys because they’re still pretty little. But I bet it could’ve happened to one of your sisters.”

  I shook my head hard. “No way. Never. But forget about it. It doesn’t matter. I’m the one that got left behind and now I’ve got to make myself be recognized.”

  “But—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I do, okay?” I yelled. “No one ever sees me.”

  “I see you.” His words were gentle and quiet.

  My heart stuttered. I didn’t know what to say.

  “And I’m sure your parents do, too,” he continued. “They just don’t show it enough.” He sighed. “But either way, we’re here and we’ll stay awake and find out who is leaving the flowers for Lee Wren and we’ll get all the other evidence you need to prove that the letters are hers.”

  I felt my cheeks flush despite the cool air. “You know, Jude, you didn’t have to start helping me … but thanks. Really, I—”

  “Of course,” he cut in. “Do you want a Twizzler?”

  I clicked on my flashlight and took one from the bag he held out. “Thanks.”

  As we kept talking—about movies, school, and friends—I felt like something was different with us now.