Fiona hooked her arm through mine. “Do you plan on telling me what’s going on? Why the mad dash?”
It started to rain, but the drops were more of a nuisance than anything. Besides, her apartment was only a couple of blocks from Harvard Square. We walked down a side street on a bricked sidewalk encased on one side by an ivy-covered brick wall leading south toward the Charles River. A lone cab passed us on the narrow street.
“Maya wants to go to Concord with me this Saturday for our research project.”
“Research?” She tugged on my arm, teasing.
“Yes, for our history project.” I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see.
“I see. And you want to impress the hell out of the coffee-goddess.” The steady trickle of rain transformed into water daggers stabbing our skin, and she clutched my arm. “Come on!”
We dashed across Mt. Auburn Street and broke into a full sprint, laughing all the way to her building.
Moments later, Fiona was dressed in a robe with a towel wrapped around her head. She put a teakettle on as I sat at the table in her spacious kitchen, towel-drying my curls, which boinged more than usual. I wore a pair of Fee’s crimson sweats and a gray Harvard T-shirt.
She cracked the window by the table, leaving the curtains drawn. A breeze made them billow, letting in sprinkles of rain. Fee lit a cigarette with her Zippo, which displayed an image of Ulysses S. Grant in his Civil War uniform. I pulled a face at the cigarette, not Grant, even though his presidency was riddled with scandals.
She ignored me and flipped through one of the books. “Hey, listen to this. Henry James referred to Concord as ‘the biggest little place in America.’” Blowing the smoke over her shoulder, she said, “I didn’t know that, or I forgot. Throw a pebble in this state and you’re bound to hit at least one historical marker.” She stared at the red tip of the cigarette between her fingers.
I pulled a small leather notebook out and jotted down the quote.
“Emerson, Hawthorne, Alcott, Thoreau… all these minds in one tiny place. This is jolly good stuff. How did I forget all this?”
“Too busy studying presidents.” I shrugged.
The teakettle whistled. With the cigarette dangling from her bottom lip, Fiona poured two cups of tea, all while still reading one of the guides. She only stopped to grab an Irish whiskey bottle from the cabinet above, proof that her on-again, off-again boyfriend was back in the picture.
“No thanks,” I mumbled, engrossed in reading about Concord on my tablet. “Hey, did you know Doris Kearns Goodwin lives there?”
Fiona ripped the iPad out of my hand and greedily read the words. The towel around her head loosened, and she set it aside. Wet, strawberry blonde locks dangled around her face as she said, “I seem to remember a professor saying something about her living there.” She gave the tablet back and blew into her tea. “Maybe I’ll tag along with you two in the hope we can bump into her.”
“You will not!”
“I can act as your personal historian.” She lifted the cup to her lips. “Now that would impress the coffee-goddess.”
“No presidents are from there. That’s your specialty.”
Fiona smacked her lips and flipped the pages of another travel guide. “I can cram it all in. I don’t have any classes tomorrow.”
I briefly considered the proposition. “No. But can you help me cram it into my head?”
Feigning hurt, Fiona said, “Of course, darling. Wouldn’t it be grand if you popped your cherry at Walden Pond? What would Thoreau’s ghost say about that?”
“Such a one-track mind.” I groaned. “I can’t risk an affair. Remember the failed presidential runs of Gary Hart and John Edwards?”
“News flash! You have to be in a relationship in order to have an affair. And you’re a college freshman. No one expects you not to date. Why don’t you just admit the truth?” She crossed her arms, grinning.
Oh God, did she know I was falling for Maya?
“Which is?”
“You’re girl-shy after Cassidy.”
I plugged both ears with my fingers. “Don’t mention that name. She’s dead to me.”
Fee yanked my hands away from my head. “You can’t live in a protective, presidential bubble all your life. That’s not living, dear cousin. Stop being afraid.”
Chapter Six
Maya was standing outside when I pulled up. Her long-sleeved, pale purple-gray shirt and loose fit boyfriend-cut jeans surprised me. I’d only seen her in a crisp black T-shirt and dark jeans, but I started to wonder whether she only wore that on the days she worked, which was every day I’d seen her. When did she find time to study? I liked seeing the laidback Maya.
“I picked up some bagels.” She hoisted a brown lunch sack and gently wiggled it. “And I made coffee.” Maya whipped out a steel thermos that looked older than both of us put together. “Enough to get us through the entire day.”
She must have noticed me eye it, because she added, “Used to belong to my granddad. Is it okay if I pour you a cup in here?” She motioned to my car, which was spotless and still had a new-car smell. “I promise not to spill.”
“Sure. I’m dying for your special brew.” I watched her meticulously pour the drink into a travel cup, not wasting a drop. Nearly finished, she licked her lips, and I had to fight the impulse to kiss her.
I needed to nip my sexual urges in the bud. I was the sexless Ice Princess, after all. Remember John Edwards, and the trouble he got into.
Maya handed me the mug.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. “Oh my God! You have to share your trick.”
She sank into the eco-friendly cloth seat, gripping her coffee with both hands, her eyes on the road ahead. “What do you mean?”
“You make the best coffee. Even Fiona thinks so, and she’s the biggest coffee snob you’ll ever meet.”
A satisfied nod conveyed my compliment pleased her.
“Sorry, can’t tell ya. Industry secret.” Her voice was softer today, more relaxed. “Is Fiona a snob about everything?”
Technically, the answer was yes, but Fiona didn’t realize she was, and she didn’t do it to act superior. She was a perfectionist who demanded everyone and everything else should be perfect as well.
“A snob? No, I wouldn’t say that. I would say she wants things her way, and she’s not afraid to voice her opinion when disappointed. But I wouldn’t classify her as a snob. She’s just Fiona.” I tapped the steering wheel, cursing myself for rambling.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What? Am I a snob?” I peeked at her, and she nodded. “No!” I slapped her leg playfully, surprised I had dared to touch her and equally shocked she hadn’t attempted to jump out of the car. Her protective shield was still up, but not as strong. White-knuckling the leather-wrapped gearshift in order to control my desire to stroke her leg, I slipped the car into third and eased into the left lane. Traffic was light. Maya had insisted we get an early start. I hadn’t slept much the night before, thanks to preparing for today, and then good old-fashioned nerves had kicked in as soon as my head hit the pillow.
The GPS voice instructed me to take a slight right onto US-3. I did. Maya remained quiet, shifting in her seat.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just looking.” She said it so innocently that it dawned on me she might not leave the city much.
The GPS voice chimed, “At the next roundabout, take the first exit onto MA-2 west.”
“Did you leave your car back home? Parking in the city can be a bitch.”
She shook her head. “Never had a car.”
What was that like? I was on my second new car after receiving a Ford Focus Electric for my high school graduation. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yep.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Wyoming.”
“Oh. I’ve never been. Is it nice there?”
“It’s brown.” She motioned to the scenery. “It
still shocks me how green it gets here.”
It was mid-September, and the leaves hadn’t yet started to turn. We had until the first week of December to finish our project.
“Did you move for school?” I hoped I wasn’t coming across like I was fishing.
“Nah. My mom and I moved here when I was in the third grade.”
She wasn’t overly specific, but I didn’t want to pry. I hated people prying into my life.
“I’ve always lived in Boston. My mother is—”
“A senator.” She threw it out there as if it was an everyday thing. Too many people sucked up to me in the hope of gaining access to Mother. Besides the Cassidy incident, it was another reason I had never dated in high school—the posers who wanted to use me. Some wanted internships or recommendations. One girl even asked whether my mother could get rid of her cousin’s parking violations. “Hey, babe, want to catch a movie? And can your mom fix Vinny’s parking tickets?”
Fiona experienced the same, which was one of the reasons we stuck together. But Maya didn’t come across as a manipulator.
“Is your father still in Wyoming?”
She hitched up a shoulder in the universal “don’t know” gesture.
Without thinking, I’d crashed into a sensitive subject and I needed to do damage control. “Are you close with your mom?”
Maya nodded. “Thick as thieves.” She faced the front. “We were always more like sisters, really. What about you? Are you close with your mom?”
“Um, sure. It’s hard sometimes with her job. She’s always traveling.” I stared at the road, unsure whether to continue. “My dad died before I was born.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft and full of understanding.
I hardly ever mentioned my dad to people outside of the family, and on the rare occasions I did, it was usually a conversation killer.
She tapped a finger on the lid of her travel mug. “Do you think it’ll rain?”
I sensed Maya understood my pain of not having a father figure. “Probably.” I ducked my head to get a better view of the clouds that hugged the horizon. “Hopefully just sprinkles, though.” Afraid we would drift into silence, I blurted, “Do you have any siblings?”
“Nope. You?”
“A brother and a sister.” I didn’t bring up my dead brother, Craig. There was enough sadness hanging over our heads. And no one ever brought up Uncle Liam, who’d been missing since 2002.
“Has your family always lived in Boston?” she asked.
“Yep. We go way back. Have you ever heard of the Battle of Dunbar?” I glanced at her.
“Can’t say I have? Was it during the Revolutionary War?” She looked at me, interested.
“Nah. It was in Scotland, way back in the 1600s. One of my ancestors was captured by the English and got sent to the colonies as an indentured servant.”
Maya turned her upper body to face me, clearly interested. “Really? So you come from slaves?”
“Kinda.” I almost asked her whether she did as well, but stopped myself.
“My mom’s Puerto Rican. For a school project, I researched our family tree and found out that ancestors on her father’s side were African slaves. We think so, anyway. Records are hard to track down, obviously.” She added the last bit as if she’d sensed my train of thought.
I racked my brain for facts on Puerto Rico, not coming up with much. “English and Spanish are the official languages, right?”
She nodded.
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“Si. I’m not fluent, though. Mom is fluent. When she’s mad, Spanish flies out of her mouth like projectile vomit.”
I laughed. “Can you teach me some key words? I know a bit of French after living there one summer a couple of years ago.”
“I wondered about that. You said the crepe was as good as the ones in Paris.” She refreshed my cup of coffee. “Spanish should come easily for you. I’d be more than happy to be your personal Spanish tutor.” She grinned and patted my thigh, implying “and then some.”
I smiled back, unsure how to respond.
Another silence descended, and I turned up the volume on the radio. I bobbed my head to Taylor Swift’s song, “Wildest Dreams.” Maya didn’t react. Something told me she wasn’t a Swiftie.
“Bang Bang” came on next. I almost laughed. Maya raked a hand through her spiky hair, obviously disliking the song, and when Ed Sheeran’s “Don’t” started, I switched radio stations.
Her head bobbed slightly to Florence + The Machine’s “Dog Days are Over”—one of my absolute favorite songs—and when I started to sing along, she arched one eyebrow, impressed. Maya the Gray got into the song, swaying in her seat. Her shoulders relaxed. Those wonderful gray eyes beamed. By the end of the song, both of us were belting out the lyrics, drowning out Florence. I didn’t want the magical experience to end.
“I didn’t know you were a Florence fan,” I said. I suspected she’d reply with a nod, so I hit the button on the steering wheel to stream, “Shake it Out.” Maya knew all the words. I only knew the chorus, but when it was time, I sang my heart out. Maya laughed. She actually laughed. If it weren’t uber-creepy, I’d have silenced the music to listen to her melodious laugh. Usually, she was controlled, but not when she laughed.
We listened to Florence’s ghostly vocals in the next song “What the Water Gave Me” in quiet contemplation. I hadn’t planned the song, but given it was about the loss of loved ones and overwhelming struggles in life, it fit the mood.
***
Walden Pond was the first stop of the day. Maya led the way on the dirt path that skirted the water’s edge.
She glanced back over her shoulder at me, right as I tripped over a tree branch and toppled into the brush headfirst.
“You okay?” She helped me to my feet.
“Totally fine, unless you count my ego.” I brushed off my jeans.
“Tell you what, I won’t tell anyone.” She removed a sprig from my hair.
“How much will your silence cost?” I joked.
She shook her head, amused. “Free this time. But if you keep it up, I may have to start charging you. Whitlock ain’t cheap.” She winked, and I sensed a frisson of excitement. Was I the cause? Maya turned to the water. “This pond is a wonderful example of a kettle hole. Do you know what that is?”
I shook my head.
“Thousands of years ago, when the glaciers were retreating, meltwater drained here.” She formed her hands into a cone shape. “It’s fifty to sixty feet deep.”
Maya glanced back at me, and we shared another moment before she motioned for us to continue down the path.
On the far side of the pond, away from the parking lot and road, we stumbled upon the site of Thoreau’s cabin. Not much remained. A reconstruction stood near the visitor center, but the demarcation of the real thing had a bigger impact on Maya. She stood reverently, soaking in the quiet, her eyes scanning the trees. Slowly, she turned and studied the water. Across the way, a lone man paddled a canoe. Reflections of the foliage rippled along the water’s surface, compounding the sensation of green all around us.
“Can you imagine?” she asked.
“What?” I whispered, fearful I’d ruin the serenity or the growing connection between us.
“Living here, away from it all. No Google, no advertisements, no tourists…” She sat on a log.
I glanced at my watch. “It’s not even nine. I imagine busloads of tourists will be arriving soon.”
She grinned at me like I was a child who missed the big picture. “I know. I was trying to envision it during his time.”
My cheeks prickled with warmth. “Of course. I for one wouldn’t miss the likes of Susie Q.”
She laughed. “You really don’t like her.”
“She makes my life hell.”
Maya straddled the log and placed a hand on each of her knees. “How?”
“Do you know what it’s like to have everything you do
splashed for all the world to see?”
Maya shook her head. “I stick to myself, mostly.”
“You’re lucky. I feel like a zoo creature ninety percent of the time.” I sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if Susie Q stuck to the facts, but—”
“I saw the bit about the… fart.” She stared at an ant crawling along the log.
“You read her blog?” I placed a hand on my heart.
“Only that one article. I was curious after you mentioned her last time.” She hitched up an apologetic shoulder.
“I didn’t fart.” I tore a leaf in half.
“I know. It was the chair.”
“The rest of that day, wherever I went, I swore people were staring at me or laughing. I know it sounds silly, but you have no idea what it’s like being famous because your mother is the senior senator of Massachusetts. I’ve seen people in classes, coffee shops, or wherever, googling me. One person asked me to sign his iPad. Some assume they know me because they’ve read my Wikipedia page.” I sucked in some air. “Susie made high school hell.” I locked eyes on Maya. “Please, don’t ever read or watch her reports from high school. I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”
“If I were to read your Wiki page, what would I find?” She leaned back, gripping the log.
“You haven’t googled me?” I was dumbfounded.
She shook her head, amused. “Why would I? You’re right here.”
“Just the Carmichael highlights. We’ve had a member in the Senate and House since the founding of the US. Two governors of Massachusetts. Three mayors of Boston.” I ticked each one off on a finger.
“Any mention of your father?” She lowered her eyes.
“It briefly mentions his death and how my mother was elected to his senate seat.”
“Anything about you?”
I scrunched my face. “Not much. Just the schools I attended, my charity work, and I think it’s been updated to say I’m currently enrolled in Whitlock.”
The Chosen One Page 5