“Annabel.” He strode to our booth, squared his shoulders, and clicked his heels together, offering a giant hand to Mom. “You must be Vicky. I believe we met years ago.”
Mom’s mouth hung open, her tongue darting back and forth inside. I wanted to reach across the table and slap it shut.
“Mom,” I prompted. “This is California’s grandfather.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She smoothed her hair and sat a little taller before holding out her hand. “So nice to see you again.”
“We’ve enjoyed Annabel’s company very much this summer,” he said.
Heat rose up my neck. It was too soon after Mom found out about California. I didn’t know how she would react. Or if she would say something stupid about Mr. McMurtry’s cancer, or Piper not coming to the farm, or anything else that could embarrass me to the end of the earth and make that poor man feel worse than he already must feel.
“—so Catherine didn’t have just her old grandfather for company.” Mr. McMurty’s eyes twinkled.
Mom laughed. Softly. Politely. “It’s been good for Annie, too,” she said. Almost like she meant it.
The girl came back and stood behind the counter, shaking a bag. “Sir? Your order is ready.”
Mr. McMurtry tapped his heels and nodded. “Well, nice to see you both,” he said, and turned away.
Mom took a sip of her coffee. Mr. McMurtry paid for his beans. The bell jingled again, and he stepped out into the rain. I gripped my hands together under the table to try to stop them from shaking. I’d been struck dumb. The thing I’d worried about all summer had just happened, and the earth hadn’t stopped rotating. Not yet, anyway.
“I just wish—” Mom started to say. Then a light went on in her eyes. “Oh, that’s it!”
She shot up from the booth and ran out the coffee shop door.
The girl behind the counter smirked. “Go figure. Some people.” Then she shuffled to the back of the shop.
My stomach swirled. What was she going to say to Mr. McMurtry? What wretched timing. I grabbed her raincoat, the umbrella, my book, and the map, and waited at the cash register for the girl to come back so I could pay for our drinks. All I could see out the window was rain. No sign of Mom or Mr. McMurtry.
The girl didn’t appear. I tapped the bell on the counter. Bing-bing-bing-bing-bing! Still nothing. Forget it—that nasty girl could pay for our drinks herself. Some people for real. The door flung open and banged against the wall, spiraling the bell to the floor, where it rolled under the counter. Mom burst into the shop like she’d gone mad—which, at that moment, I believed to be true. Rainwater drizzled down her face. Mascara smeared a long, thin line down the side of her nose. Her pink blouse was soaked, her khaki pants splattered in mud, and her beige shoes coated in black. I slammed to a stop.
“Well, there you go,” she trumpeted so loud I’m sure they heard her all the way at the library.
“There you go, what?”
The salesgirl hurried through the curtain, stopped halfway to the register, and snorted. Mom looked down at herself and laughed in this totally bizarre way, like she couldn’t figure out how she’d got so wet. She laughed like we were in cahoots together. Reaching up with both hands, she gathered her hair and leaned to the side. With one swipe, she wrung a mop full of water onto the floor. The salesgirl backed away. I didn’t blame her. Mom looked positively insane.
“I tried to catch up to him.” She was straining her face muscles, trying not to laugh.
I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oh, no, what did you do?”
“I ran right through a puddle—”
Acid shot from my stomach to my throat. “You—”
“—and I called his name, Jody. His name is Jody, and—”
“Please tell me you weren’t rude.”
“Well, he stopped, and right then the Murphys’ teenage son drove his brand-new Lexus between us, and we both got soaked.” She flung her arms in the air.
“If you were rude—”
“Imagine buying your teenager a Lexus.”
I took a step toward her. “Mom, what did you say to him?”
There was a pause, like she was confused and trying to figure out what just happened. She shook herself, laughed softly, and snatched her raincoat from me.
“Oh, hush, Annabel,” she scolded, but not in her usual disapproving way. More in a silly-little-girl-that-I-love way. She smoothed her hair and put the raincoat on over her shoulders. “I wasn’t rude. I was trying to think of something nice to do for him. I invited California to dinner.”
“You what?”
“She left on a trip with her mother today and won’t be back until Tuesday, so she’s coming next Wednesday. Do you think she’ll like leg of lamb?”
THIRTY-TWO
With California gone through the weekend, I was restless and cranky. On Friday I went to the farm to check on Field, but Mr. McMurtry was in the backyard with him. I left without saying hello. The beach held no appeal. I didn’t want to sail, and was still avoiding Tommy and everyone else who had been here the night Mom found out about California. Dad was getting fidgety himself, still laid up. It would be weeks before he could play tennis again. I tried to write about Scout and Liberty, but nothing good came out. Page after page went into the trash.
Where had California and Piper gone? Maybe that last letter had been too much after all. Would she go back to Oregon without saying good-bye?
Saturday broke the record for heat and humidity. Mom moved the fan into the living room, where Dad and I were playing chess. “Anyone for iced tea?”
I pulled up my braids and circled them on top of my head, waving my hand along the back of my neck to cool off. “Me, please. Checkmate, Dad. I won again. Stop letting me win—it’s no fun.”
Mom came back with a glass of ice, sliced lemons, and a pitcher of fresh tea. “You know, Annie, shorter hair will keep you cooler.”
Every summer Mom tried to get me to cut off my braids. “It will be so current,” she’d say. Like I cared. Current-schmurrent. I always refused, then walked away holding one fifteen-inch braid in each hand, the lifeline to my identity. But this time I didn’t say no. I had an idea.
“At the library there’s a poster for Locks of Love. You know what that is?”
Mom perked up. “Isn’t that where you donate your hair to be made into wigs for cancer patients?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about doing it, in honor of California’s grandfather.”
“Pumpkin, that’s a really nice idea.”
“That’s lovely,” Mom said. She was already reaching for the phone. “I’ll call the salon—”
“Hold up, Vicky. She didn’t say yet whether she was ready.”
Mom stopped and clasped her hands in front of her. “Oh, right, of course.”
The two of them watched me, waiting. I already knew I was going to do it, but the power of making them wait was too perfect to give up, so I dragged it out, looked quizzical, played with my braids, and tucked my face so they couldn’t see me smiling. I let it go on for a good two minutes before finally saying, “Okay, yeah, I decided. I’ll do it.”
On Tuesday, after the longest weekend of all weekends, Mom and I drove to town to discard the last visual reminder of My Life Before This Summer: two braids I’d worn almost every day since kindergarten. Mom almost choked when I told her she couldn’t come in with me.
“What? Why not? This is a big moment in your life.”
“Because I really want to do this on my own, Mom.” She stared at me like, if she did it long enough, I might change my mind. “You’ll be the first to see it when I come out, though.”
She slunk down in the seat and held out the credit card. “All right.”
An hour later I walked out of the salon with two braids inside a lime-green plastic bag, instructions on how to donate them, and my hair cut thick and bouncy so it barely brushed against my shoulders. I’d even let them cut soft side bangs to puff out of my eyes if I wanted. Mom di
dn’t say a word, just smiled and hummed all the way to the post office to send my hair away.
As we passed the farm on the way from town, I caught sight of two legs and feet hanging from an apple tree. California must be back. Why hadn’t she called me?
The phone was ringing when we got home. Mom grabbed it. “Hello? . . . Oh, yes, Jody, it was good to see you, too. We’re looking forward to California coming to dinner.”
Mom looked at me.
“She’s not here. Let me ask Annie if she knows.” She held her hand over the phone. “Mr. McMurtry can’t find California. Do you know where she is?”
I knew exactly whose legs and feet were hanging from that tree we’d driven past.
I shook my head no.
“I’m sorry, Jody. We’ve been in town today, and Annie doesn’t know, either. . . . Yes, of course, we’ll call you right away. I’ve got your number on caller ID. . . . Yes, good-bye.”
Twenty minutes later I was in the orchard. The legs and feet were gone. I ran as fast as I could to the river, excited to tell California what I’d discovered. She was slumped beside the old pine bough shelter we’d made when we first got Field.
“Hey,” I said. “Your grandfather called our house for you.”
“He can call anyone he wants,” she grumbled. “I’m done with him.” She made a heart shape in the dirt with a stick and stabbed it in the center so the twig broke in two. “You cut your hair.”
I brushed my fingers up from the nape of my neck. “I donated it to Locks of Love in your grandfather’s name.”
“Puh.”
She didn’t look like she cared much what I did with my hair or her grandfather, but it would have taken a whole lot of something wonderful to set me right in the head if that last letter had been written about me.
“How was Piper?”
“Spectacular.” She wiped sweat from her face with the hem of her T-shirt, leaving a tawny stain on the fabric and dark circles under her eyes. “Super-duper, like everything else in my life.”
Waiting for California’s mood to change could take hours, or it could happen in the blink of an eye. The news I had for her was about to burst right out of me.
“Well, guess what really is super-duper?”
She barely glanced up. “Hmmm?”
“I think I know where that place is in the picture. My dad used to camp there when he was a kid. I got a map at the library so we can figure out how to get to it.”
I pulled the map from the pocket of my new size-five shorts, a whole size larger than the ones that kept falling off at the beginning of summer.
“Where is it?”
“At the south end of the lake, where the lily pads grow,” I said, pointing to the spots I’d marked with a red Sharpie at the library. “It should be right there, and here’s the farm, over on this side.”
California studied the map, her face crinkled but her eyes glued to the paper. “Can I keep this?”
“Sure. When you come to dinner, we’ll figure out how to get there.”
“I’m coming to dinner? Since when?”
“Oh, Mom and I saw your grandfather at the coffee shop last week. She invited you for tomorrow night. Didn’t he say anything?”
“Puh. No, but we’re not speaking,” she said, pulling her gray T-shirt away from her body. She was shrinking. The trips to the city were wearing her down. And that awful letter.
“Will you come?”
“Sure. Do you know how far it is from the farm to this spot?”
“Once we get to the edge of the lake, it’s probably two miles. Getting through the woods to the water will be the hardest part, but we can do it. I know we can.”
“Okay, good.”
She bit her bottom lip and pushed herself up from the dirt. That was it. That’s all she said. I’d waited six days to tell her the news, and she said, “Okay, good,” then walked away with one hand pressed into her lower back. I wasn’t sure if she’d hurt it, but something told me to leave it alone. Don’t ask about her back. Don’t ask about her mother. And for sure don’t bring up her grandfather’s name again.
At the house, Mr. McMurtry silently held open the screen door to let her in. There wasn’t anything wrong with her except that last letter. It had drained the heart out of her. That was all. That had to be all.
THIRTY-THREE
The next evening Dad and I drove over to get her. I was surprisingly calm. Not a hint of throat tightening, no sign of a looming panic attack. I’d been worried about California coming for dinner, worried Mom might say something if she stabbed at her food like she was killing a beast. Mom had changed napkins twice, made Dad and me test the lamb gravy, rearranged the flowers on the table, and kept saying how glad she was we already had the sofa back. If she’d seen Mr. McMurtry’s kitchen, she wouldn’t have cared one lick about a sofa.
California was waiting by the mailbox. Her hair was tied with a hot-pink, chiffon scarf trailing down her back and—thank God—she had on normal, khaki, Mom-approved shorts, and shoes. She was wearing shoes. Dad got out and opened the door for her.
“Hello, Mr. Stockton,” she said. “Grandfather said to say hi.” Her voice sounded raspy, like Dad’s after he watched the Red Sox lose on TV.
“Nice to meet you, California.”
“You can call me Catherine if you prefer. That’s what Grandfather calls me.”
“I’ll call you whatever you want, but I kind of like California—as in the state, right?” Dad winked, and California blushed. “I’m going to be sure your grandfather has our number. Be right back. Don’t tell Annie’s mom I ‘forgot’ my crutches.”
She scooted into the backseat, grinning.
“Hey,” I said. “You feel better?”
“Sort of. Sorry I was such a loser yesterday. Wasn’t feeling well. But I might have a plan.”
“What? Tell me!”
“In a bit, I’m still sorting it out in my head.”
She watched out the window for Dad to return. It sure took him a long time. When he finally rounded the corner, his head was down. He stopped and turned, staring toward the woods, then ruffled Field’s neck and lumbered on to the car. When he slid into his seat, he reached over and squeezed my shoulder. The three of us were silent the whole way home.
Mom had her apron off and was waiting at the door. She held out her hand before California got to the top step and glanced sheepishly at me. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.”
California pumped Mom’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Stockton.”
We stood awkwardly in the entryway, watching Dad limp his way up the steps. Mom couldn’t help clucking. “You forgot your crutches. Were you okay driving?” She turned to California and explained, “This was his first time since he sprained his ankle.”
“He did great, Mrs. Stockton. I’d never have guessed he was injured.” California winked at Dad, and I almost lost it.
Inside, he tread gingerly to the bar and got out two glasses. “How about something to drink, girls. What would you like? California?”
Mom cringed. Visibly.
“You can call me Catherine if you prefer.”
Mom fluttered her hands around her face. “Oh, no, I don’t mind. I’ll call you whatever you want—”
“Call her California,” I said.
That settled Mom, and she went back to the kitchen. Dad poured us each a birch beer, and we sat side by side on the newly covered sofa. My foot tapped the floor. Dad startled me when he spoke.
“How is your mother?”
I splashed soda on my lap. Mom rushed in from the kitchen.
“Yes, how is your mother?”
Oh, no, here it comes—
California took a sip and placed her glass on a coaster. “She’s fine, thank you. She took the summer off from work, so she could be nearby.”
“Nearby?” Mom asked.
The Interrogation was coming, the one about the person Grandmother Stockton hadn’t approved of, and we all knew what that m
eant.
I jumped up. “Hey, want to see my room?” I signaled for her to follow me. “We’ll be right back.”
Upstairs, California walked around and stopped at my dresser, picking up the family photo from when I was five. “Do you still have that picture of Piper and the ponies?”
I slipped it out of the Story Notebook and handed it to her. She sat in the rocker and traced the outline of Piper’s image with her finger and started to hum the Peaches-and-Cream song. Soft at first, then louder, and suddenly the lyrics came flooding back to me.
“Sing the words,” I said.
“Peaches and Cream and fields of green, memories from long ago, I weep for you with broken heart, under the willow, under the willow—”
I pointed to the corner of the photo. “A weeping willow, right there. Just like in her song.”
Turns out I didn’t need to worry about California’s table manners. They were surprisingly perfect. She sat tall and talked with Mom all through dinner, complimenting the lamb and the flowers. Afterward, she stood to help me clear the table.
“You’re the guest, California. Sit,” Mom gushed.
“Oh, no, Grandfather would be embarrassed if I didn’t help.”
“Well, isn’t that nice, thank you.” She glanced at Dad and smiled, then got restless and went to the kitchen, reappearing with a tower of meringue, perfectly browned, on top of her famous lemon pie.
California’s eyes widened. “Oh, yummy.”
“It’s lemon meringue,” Mom said, setting the pie on a ceramic hot plate in the center of the table. I had a moment of panic, thinking of the broken pie dish still hidden upstairs in my closet, and prayed California wouldn’t even glance my way, let alone say anything about it.
“Ooooo, I’ve tried to make that myself, but it never comes out right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. Grandfather eats every bite, but there is something about the lemon part that I can’t get. And your crust! I’ve never been very good at crust, but yours looks like a picture from a pastry book.”
California sat back in her chair and smiled brightly at each of us, one at a time, like she was full of yellow lollipops and had nothing better to do than dole out little lemon circles. I didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or reach across the table and shake her. The teakettle made a ssssssssssssss noise in the kitchen. No one moved.
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