As they were placing the bowls down on the long tables that also held the three-tiered cake Joanie had stayed up until midnight to decorate, Allison looked toward the grill and Hal, who was flipping an enormous flank steak.
“If that tastes even half as good as it smells . . .”
“It does,” Joanie replied. “I wouldn’t let him hijack my menu until he auditioned the dishes first. It’s incredible. So is the salmon.”
“Really. Coming from the queen of all food snobs, that is high praise indeed. But what’s that purple thing he’s got on?” she asked, squinting in Hal’s direction.
“A grill apron that Joanie sewed,” Minerva answered. “And it’s not purple, it’s lavender. Joanie got a little carried away with the color scheme.”
“And he actually agreed to wear it,” Allison said, clearly impressed. “Man. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d do whatever it takes, was he? You know something, Joanie? Hal might be just weird enough to fit in with this family.”
The next day was the formal.
An hour before the dance was set to begin, Joanie, Meg, and Minerva were on their knees, pinning the hem of Trina’s new dress—at the last minute, Trina decided it needed to be shorter. Avery was looking on, making sure they were pinning it evenly. Asher was in the kitchen, rooting around Joanie’s refrigerator for wedding leftovers.
Hal, who had gone into the dining room to take a call, walked into the sewing room, looking slightly dazed, holding his phone in one hand, his arm limp at his side. Joanie took the pins out of her mouth.
“What?” she asked “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Hal replied, moving his head back and forth so slowly it almost looked like he was underwater. “Actually, something is really, really right. Or it might be. Depending on how Avery feels about it.”
“About what?”
“About being the star of my next movie.”
“What!”
Immediately, Hal was bombarded by questions from all three of the sisters, plus Trina and Minerva. The cacophony of female voices seemed to bring Hal back to himself.
“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning and holding up both his hands. “Calm down and let me talk, will you?
“Lynn just called. I figured she wasn’t speaking to me, but it turns out, she was working. She pulled together some of the footage that we shot of Avery, including the rescue last week, and put it together into a nine-minute sizzle reel.”
“What’s a sizzle reel?” Avery asked.
“A short video used to pitch an idea. Usually, they’re used to sell networks on possible TV shows. Lynn had an idea of doing a documentary centered just on Avery’s mermaid persona, titled, The Siren’s Song. She put together a sizzle reel. The very first potential investor who saw it loved it. He’s ready to fund the whole thing.
“But, Avery,” he said calmly, tempering his enthusiasm, “it’s really up to you. We’ve got a good start, but I’d have to shoot some more film and interviews to make this work. If you’re not up for that, it’s fine. I completely understand.”
“Are you kidding?” Avery laughed. “I’d love to do it! Who wouldn’t?”
“Well. If you’re sure,” Hal said, his smile returning, “it looks like Stunted Genius Productions is back in business.”
Avery squealed and threw her arms around Hal. Asher came into the room, carrying a platter of food, and asked what all the commotion was about. After they filled him in, he pumped Hal’s hand. “That’s great, buddy. Good for you.”
“And for me,” Avery said, preening and shaking her long locks. “I’m going to be a movie star.”
“I always knew it would happen someday,” Minerva said matter-of-factly. “You’re a born performer, Avery. An artist. It was just a matter of time until the world figured it out.”
“Oh. So now I’m a performer?” Avery asked with a teasing smirk. “And here all this time I thought you’d said I was a born writer.”
“Don’t be so literal,” Minerva said, flipping her hand. “Six of one, half dozen of the other. The point is, I always knew you had potential. And now you’re going to get a chance to fulfill it. Just like your sisters have.”
The sisters exchanged a look, their eyes saying that their mother hadn’t—and wouldn’t—change. Ever.
“It’s wonderful news,” Joanie said, walking toward Hal with an outstretched hand and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m so happy for you.”
Hal frowned, dipped his head lower, until he was practically nose-to-nose with Joanie.
“What’s with the face? Oh, wait,” he said, smiling again. “You think that being back in business means being back in business in LA.”
“Doesn’t it?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and handed it to her.
“What’s this?”
“The key to my new office. I took out a lease yesterday, two years. Can’t get out of it. Don’t want to. And before you ask, Lynn is moving to Seattle too.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “When are you going to get it through your head that I’m not going anywhere? You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Before Joanie could answer, the sound of elephant feet tromping on wood came from the stairway.
“Mom!” Walt bellowed. “Mom!”
Joanie rolled her eyes.
“We’re in here!”
Walt appeared, wearing his tuxedo and looking very unhappy.
“What?”
He turned around. Joanie gasped. The tuxedo jacket was torn from his shoulders to waist, Walt’s white shirt showing through the gaping hole.
“It’s too tight,” he said miserably, looking over his shoulder. “Everywhere. My arms are stuffed into the sleeves like sausages. When I reached up to fix my tie, the whole back popped open.”
“Oh no,” Joanie murmured, examining the burst seam.
“Can’t you fix it?” Trina asked anxiously.
Joanie shook her head. “It would only pop open again. The rental place must have sent the wrong size.”
“The guy at the shop said it was the biggest they had,” Walt replied.
Trina started to cry. Meg and the aunts tried to comfort her.
“What if Walt wore something else?” Asher suggested. “The clothes he wore to the wedding?”
Trina shook her head, sniffling. “It’s formal. The guys have to wear a jacket or they won’t let them in.”
“Hang on a second,” Walt said. “I’ve got an idea.”
Eight minutes later, Walt came back downstairs, dressed in his Union general uniform, complete with hat, gold-fringed shoulder boards, and a matching gold sash.
“What do you think?” he said, spreading his arms out wide and turning in a circle.
Trina looked at him doubtfully.
“Doesn’t get a lot more formal than that,” Meg offered, putting her arm over Avery’s shoulders.
Trina still wasn’t convinced. “Can you dance in that thing?”
“Of course.” Walt tipped his hat.
“Well . . . Just do me a favor and try to act like a normal person, would you?”
“My dear sister,” he said, bowing low, “would you do me the great honor of helping me lead the opening reel?”
A slow smile spread across Trina’s face, even as she was shaking her head.
“Never mind. It’s no use. And what’s so great about being normal anyway?”
“Nothing,” her mother and aunts replied, almost in unison.
Walt offered Trina his arm and she took it.
“Okay, General. Let’s go bust a move.”
* * *
On Tuesday, the entire clan, including Hal, who by unspoken but unanimous agreement was now considered, if not literally part of the family, certain to become so before long, piled into cars and drove to the pier to see Minerva off.
The men were dry-eyed and smiling, but the women, including Minerva, were teary, not from regret but from the knowledge that something very i
mportant and difficult and good had passed between them in the last few days and that from here on out their lives would be, not radically changed, but made better because of it.
Minerva hugged them all in turn, clinging to each of her daughters for a long time. When she finally let loose and said she’d better board, Walt presented her with a farewell gift, chosen by Trina—a portable, three-pound telescope.
“Thank you!” Minerva exclaimed, squashing her grandchildren in her arms one more time. “I love it! Remind me, which direction do I point it to see Cassiopeia?”
Finally, Minerva walked up the gangplank and disappeared inside the belly of the ship. For a time there was nothing much to see beyond dockhands hefting lines and returning crew members jogging up the plank with plastic bags in their hands, having taken advantage of a few hours ashore to do some shopping. Asher and Hal dropped back from the others a bit, chatted together, discussing the possibility of taking Walt on a camping and windsurfing trip down to Hood River, Oregon, sometime during the summer. They didn’t think of suggesting that they might as well leave, understanding that, until the ship pulled away from the pier, none of the women were going to budge.
Long minutes later, Minerva appeared on the deck and stood at the railing, leaning as far out as she could without tumbling over. A deep, bass-toned horn blasted from the bridge, signaling the imminent departure of the Wilderness Discoverer.
Minerva lifted her arm high over her head, waving her arm back and forth like a banner, calling out to each of her daughters in turn.
“I love you, Avery! I love you, Meg! I love you, Joanie! I love you all so, so much!”
And the Promise Girls, standing in a line on the dock with their arms about each other’s waists, looked up toward the bright blue sky and the face of their very difficult, sometimes toxic, never to be changed, and entirely devoted mother and called back as one, “We love you, too, Mom!”
Chapter 47
June is the month when Seattle finally makes good on its promises.
Should you come to visit then, see the pink and red rhododendrons blooming in an unabashed, almost giddy celebration of summer’s arrival, smell the hint of salt and brine and fish wafting from the waters as the seafood purveyors toss glittering, freshly caught salmon through the air at the Pike Place Market, feel the soft summer breeze caress your cheek and turn your face to catch its kiss, then bare your arms to let the warm sun work its way into your winter-weary muscles, the odds that you will start looking at flyers advertising homes for sale posted in the windows of realty offices and possibly end up buying one are better than half.
But if you already live in Seattle, June is the month when you forget about the gray, and the rain, and the times you got stuck in traffic, forgive everything and fall in love with your city all over again because you realize that it’s all worth it, a small price to pay for something so singular and so lovely.
On a late afternoon in early June, Meg and Avery and all the rest go for a picnic at Gas Works Park. But Joanie begs off and stays behind, saying she has work to do, which is not true.
After they are gone, she goes into the living room and opens the windows on the north and west sides of the house so the breeze can come through. She sits down at her piano, lifts the lid, and begins to play. The sound of the music floats through the windows and out onto the sidewalk until it reaches the ears of Mr. Teasdale, who is going out to get his mail without his walker for the first time since his stroke and, hearing it, smiles.
Joanie sits in her house, in her home, in this place and moment and city that is hers alone, and plays.
And it is enough. And more than enough. It is everything it should be, or could be, or is meant to be.
So is she.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for joining me on this armchair journey into the lives and world of Joanie, Meg, and Avery, the Promise Girls.
This book is incredibly special to me, one of the rare instances in my life as an author when I finished the final manuscript and felt entirely, completely, incandescently happy with my work. I hope that you’ve enjoyed the reading as much as I’ve enjoyed the writing. If so, please consider recommending The Promise Girls to a friend (or five). Word of mouth from passionate readers is still the very best form of advertising and the greatest compliment that any author can receive.
I do love hearing from readers. If you have a moment, drop me an e-mail at [email protected] or contact me by regular mail by writing to:
Marie Bostwick
P.O. Box 488
Thomaston, CT 06787
I read all of your e-mails and notes personally and every note gets a response. I look forward to hearing from you.
Social media makes it easier than ever for me to stay connected with readers. You can find me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/mariebostwick/, and on Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram by searching @mariebostwick.
Also, please take some time to visit my Web site: www.mariebostwick.com. While you’re there you can sign up for my monthly newsletter, read my blog, enter the monthly reader giveaway, and download free recipes and quilt patterns created exclusively for the personal use of my readers. To find them, go to the Quilt Central tab on my Web site and choose Patterns and Recipes from the pulldown menu. (Please note, these patterns and recipes are for your personal use only and may not be copied to share with others or published by any means, either print or electronic.)
The Promise Girls is the first book I’ve written in some time that doesn’t use quilting as part of the story, but fear not, quilt-loving readers! There will be a new, free, Promise Girls–inspired quilt pattern for you to download on or near publication day. I’m still working on some ideas for this project, but I feel pretty confident there will be some sort of mermaid connection.
For my food-loving readers (which is everybody, right?), I will have a couple of Joanie’s favorite family recipes for you to try. Lasagna, anyone? How about some banana bread?
Finally, whether this is the first of my books that you’ve read or the sixteenth, please know how much I appreciate the fact that you’ve chosen to spend this time with me and with my characters. In spite of the fact that words are my business, I cannot find any strong enough to express how much that means to me.
And so I simply say, with all my heart, thank you.
With Many Thanks to . . .
My friend and fellow writer Lauren Lipton, who, on a hot summer day that feels like a lifetime ago, listened patiently as I stammered my way through some disconnected thoughts for some characters I wanted to write about, without rolling her eyes when I said the words “mermaid” and “memory loss.” Thank you, Lauren, for asking questions, pushing back in the right sort of way, helping me talk through those jumbled thoughts and turn them into the beginnings of a plot, the most ambitious of my career. Had you responded in any other way, I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to go on with it.
Martin Biro, my editor, who is always so positive, professional, and “for” things. Thank you, Martin, for granting me space and freedom to test myself, for your willingness to take a chance on new ideas, for never letting me slip into the passive voice (or passive anything), for giving me confidence, and for taking perfect care of all of the important aspects of book creation so that I can rest easy and can focus my full attention on the writing. That is an enormous gift.
Liza Dawson, my agent, for that most precious of commodities—your time. How much of that valuable currency did you spend on this one, Liza? Adding up brainstorming, critiquing, counseling, cheerleading, read-throughs, line edits, notes, intermittent fielding of my panicked e-mails—how much? Being a writer, I can’t count that high. But I know that if not for that generous investment and your profound expertise, The Promise Girls would not have become what it is—a book we can both be so proud of. Thank you, Liza.
To the people at Kensington Publishing who have made the last dozen years of my career an adventure, a pleasure, and a possibility. With partic
ular thanks to Steven Zacharius, Lynn Cully, Adam Zacharius, Vida Engstrand, Alexandra Nicolajsen, and Paula Reedy. But also to every single member of the Kensington family—from the people who ship the books and answer the phones, to those who sell the stock and the sub-rights. Though I may never meet some of you in person, I am keenly aware of and grateful for the important role you play in helping good books get into the hands of eager readers.
Betty Walsh, my sister, and John Walsh, my brother-in-law, for another round of very speedy and insightful first-round copyediting. I am so grateful to you both for your willingness to drop everything and get the text into readable shape in short order. And, though they might not realize it without seeing the mess my manuscript was in when I sent it your way, my readers are grateful too.
Lisa Olsen, my Sparkly Assistant, for her copyediting help and input, as well as for her faithfulness, good humor, optimism, organizational skills, and all-around ability to make life more fun and interesting. You are a bright light in my world, Sparkly Lisa.
Adam Johnson, Artistic Director of the Northern Lights Symphony Orchestra, for helping me to gain a deeper insight into the mind-set of a young piano prodigy. Adam, I was only able to scratch the surface of the knowledge you so generously shared, but your input was crucial in helping turn Joanie into a richer, more authentic, and more vibrant character. Thank you.
To James Crook, for letting me borrow a bit of your prodigious IQ (not to mention your “Brown Dwarf” science fair idea) so that Trina had a chance to look as smart as you are. Or pretty close to it. Keep being cool, kid.
And, of course—first, last, and always—to the readers. Thank you for doing what you love to do so that I can continue to do what I love to do. You’ve made my dreams come true.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
THE PROMISE GIRLS
Marie Bostwick
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The Promise Girls Page 33