Willa by Heart

by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

  I wait a few seconds, then I bike up the Kennellys’ driveway. What a nerve she has. Bringing a picnic or treats, probably homemade cookies or something, to my boyfriend. My boyfriend. I walk up the steps toward the basket. I know it’s wrong. I look behind me. No neighbors around. I have no right to snoop, but I can’t resist. I need to know my competition.

  There is some sort of silky green fabric in the basket, with a note on top.

  Dear Mrs. Kennelly,

  Thank you for letting me borrow the dress. I have never been to a dance before. That night I felt lite Cinderella. Thank you, also, for buying the ticket. I couldn’t have gone otherwise. You are a kind and thoughtful person, and I am forever grateful for your generosity.

  Love always,

  Mare

  PS—Nico and Sofia are still having fun with the green mask. Peekaboo!

  PSS—Happy Mother’s Day.

  A rush of conflicting emotions comes over me. Relief that the basket isn’t for JFK. Jealousy that Mariel and Mrs. Kennelly are close. Sadness for Mariel on this holiday. How badly she must miss her own mother….

  I refold the note and carefully lift the dress from the basket. It’s beautiful. Underneath there’s a pair of silver sandals and a matching pocketbook. I open the pocketbook. It’s empty. I feel bad. This is wrong. I try to refold the dress exactly like it was.

  “What are you doing?” someone calls. I swing around.

  Mariel is there on her bike, staring at me. “Get away from that,” she shouts, her face flushed with anger. “You sneak. You spy. Stay out of my business.”

  Then she pedals off fast, in a flurry, before I can even speak.

  CHAPTER 17

  Drawing in the Sand

  Just for a moment now we’re all together. Mama, just for a moment we’re happy. Let’s look at one another.

  —Our Town

  I need a walk on the beach.

  I bike to the ocean with a swirling head and heavy heart. The sun is bright, but I can’t feel its warmth. I choose the lion side of the Spit.

  Gusts of wind whip my hair, make my eyes water. I walk and walk and walk, and the wind, like an invisible eraser, wipes my worries away, away.

  Soon I start to feel better.

  At the tip of the Spit the wind picks up power. It roars at me with a force so strong that when I turn around, I can actually lean back against it. On a calm day I would surely fall, but today the wind supports me like a cub in its mother’s arms.

  When I round the corner onto the bay side, I see her.

  Mariel is sitting in our special spot. Mine and JFK’s.

  Jealousy stabs me. Have they been here together? Did he kiss her here too?

  I stand frozen stiff on the outside, a frenzy of feelings within.

  Mariel, on the other hand, is the picture of peacefulness. She sits there hugging her knees to her chest, staring out at the bay. After a while she gets up and moves to the water’s edge. She squats down, scoops up a handful, looks at it.

  For a long time she just looks at that little bit of sea in her hand. She touches her hand to her cheek, leaves her palm there for a moment. Then she stands, picks up a piece of driftwood, kneels in the sand, and starts to draw. Probably writing their initials. MS & JFK. In a heart with an arrow through it. My anger rises. I hate this girl. Why does she have to be so mysterious and different and beautiful?

  When Mariel’s done writing, she flings the stick onto the dune and walks off up the beach. I wait a moment and then go to see what she wrote.

  THANK YOU, MAMA.

  I LOVE YOU,

  MARE

  My heart clenches. I run to catch up with her. “Mariel …”

  At first she doesn’t hear me. “Mariel …”

  Finally she turns around. She stares at me with cold eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, nervous and loud. “I had no right to look in the basket you left at Joseph’s house.”

  “That’s right, you didn’t.”

  “I was wrong and—”

  “It’s over now,” Mariel says. “You worry too much, Willa Havisham.”

  How does she know I worry so much? We’ve just barely met….

  “I am sorry you did not get the part,” Mariel says. “But it was my dream.”

  My dream. That night at auditions, when the director asked what was on her sleeve, Mariel said, “My dream.”

  “That was brave of you,” I say. “To walk in there with ‘Emily’ on your sleeve.”

  “Not brave,” Mariel says, staring me straight in the eyes. “Smart.”

  “What?”

  “People should do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Wear their dreams on their sleeves.”

  When she says this, I get this flash of light in my head, like this is something important. “What do you mean?” I say.

  “People should wear their dreams on their sleeves. So they won’t forget them. And so the others can help.”

  “The others?” I look at her, confused but intrigued.

  Mariel laughs. “They are all around us. And we need them, Willa Havisham.”

  “Why?”

  Mariel laughs again. “To help make our dreams come true, of course.” Then she turns and walks off up the beach.

  “Wait,” I say.

  “No,” she calls back. “I am late.”

  I start to follow, but she picks up her pace, first a quick walk, then a run.

  I let her go. I sit down on the sand. I look out at the water.

  Mariel is fascinating. No wonder JFK is intrigued. No wonder he likes her. How can I compete with that? I picture JFK and Mariel together at the Valentine’s dance, walking together out on the Spit….

  I get back on my bike, take the route through town. I poke my head in the door at Sweet Bramble Books just in time to hear Nana laughing at a joke with her friend Dottie. Nana is holding her stomach, wiping tears from her eyes. “Oh, that’s a good one, Dot,” Nana says. “Come on in, Willa.”

  “No, Nana. I can’t. Just wanted to say hi.”

  Main Street is busy today. The tables outside of Bloomin’ Jean’s are full of smiling faces. There’s a nicely dressed family coming out of Lauren’s restaurant, a happy mother in the center, basking in the attention of her special holiday.

  Sulamina Mum and Riley are sitting on a bench outside of BUC. When they see me, they wave. Riley says something to Mum and then heads off down the street.

  “Willa,” Mum calls. She seems excited about something, so I put a smile on my face, decide not to talk about Mariel.

  “Walk with me a bit, will you,” Mum says.

  She unlatches the gate, and we enter the garden at the side of Bramble United Community. “The daffodils are done, but look at those hydrangeas,” Mum says, pointing. “Pretty soon they’ll be competing with your eyes for the prettiest blue in Bramble.” I laugh and Mum does too. “And then the daisies and dahlias will start dancing, and soon after the Susans and sunflowers….” Mum stops walking and looks at me. “Willa, honey, I have something to tell you.”

  My heart starts pounding. This can’t be good.

  “God knows this is hard to say, and you may feel really sad at first, but I hope you can find a way to be happy for me.”

  My ears close like daylilies at dusk. I don’t want to hear what I know is coming.

  “Riley and I are getting married and …” Mum’s voice breaks. “I am finally going home.”

  Mum looks so happy. Somehow I manage to smile. I hug her and tell her how glad I am for her and Riley. Then I say I’m late for dinner. I bike home in a daze.

  Mum can’t go. I need her. I love her.

  As soon as I reach the inn, I go to find my mother. She is lying out on the back terrace on a lounge chair. Her eyes are closed. With her silky black hair and rosy cheeks, she looks like Sleeping Beauty.

  I smile thinking about how she hated all that princess stuff when I was little. She’d roll her eyes at commercials for expensive dolls an
d makeup kits. She refused to let me help her with the weddings. She was afraid I would get all foggy-brained and lose focus on school. “I don’t want you to be one of those girls who sits around painting her nails, waiting for Prince Charming to rescue her,” she’d say. “You are smart and strong, Willa Havisham, and you can take care of yourself.”

  I don’t feel smart or strong at the moment.

  My mother opens her eyes and yawns.

  For a few seconds she just stares at me. Then she smiles and beckons. “Come here, baby.”

  And something about the way my mother says “baby” makes me start to bawl like one. I collapse into the wicker chair with her, thinking about JFK and Mariel and Mum.

  My mother strokes my hair and whispers, “It’s okay. Whatever it is. We’ll work it out.”

  And as awful as I feel, I pretend that she is right.

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, baby. Love you, too.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Three Favors for Mum

  I’m celebrating because I’ve got a friend who tells me all the things that ought to be told me.

  —Our Town

  The whole town of Bramble was very generous with books for our Community Service project. The gymnasium at Bramble Academy is over-flowing with boxes.

  The freshman class meets after school to sort the books into categories. I mark the four corners of the room. “Picture books that way. Early readers, like Dr. Seuss and the Frog and Toad books, that way. Middle readers, say fourth through eighth grades, in that corner. Teenage stuff over there. If you have any questions, ask me or Sam or Mrs. Saperstone.”

  A well-worn copy of Make Way for Ducklings catches my eye. I used to love that book. I think about the baby on the way. How much fun it will be reading to a little one.

  “Will the hours we put in count toward next year?” Ruby asks in a huff. “Because we’re already done for this year.”

  Sam looks at me and winks. I want to say, “Ruby, we’re never done,” but I just say, “I’ll check into that.”

  At dinner Mom says, “This weekend is Memorial Day Let’s kick off the summer with a barbecue. Willa, why don’t you invite Joseph and his family, too. I’d like to get to know the Kennellys better. And Tina, Ruby … whoever you want from school. Just tell everyone to bring a salad or dessert to share. We’ll handle the grill.”

  I remember another Memorial Day picnic. Sam had just moved into town, and I invited him over for a barbecue. At first my mother got mad, but then she agreed.

  “I’ll set up badminton,” Sam says, “and croquet, horseshoes, bocce.”

  “If it’s warm enough, we could even swim in the pond,” Mom says.

  “Might be a good time to test out the ganola boats,” I say, and we laugh. Mom and I have been working hard on Suzy-Jube’s wedding. The menu is set, the flowers, the music … an orchestra, a DJ, and Shirley Happyfeet—we’ve got tango to two-step covered … the Blazers’ family minister is handling the ceremony, and drumroll, please, the Bramblebriar signature wedding cake will make its grand debut. All I can tell you is that Rosie has created the most mouthwatering, wonderful wedding cake confection the world has ever known. Oh, and I’ll let you in on a surprise. I will be adding twelve secret ingredients to our signature cake.

  Bet you can’t guess what they are.

  When I call to invite Tina to the Memorial Day picnic, she asks if she can bring Jessie. “Sure,” I say, “the more the merrier.”

  My fingers fumble as I dial JFK’s phone number.

  When his mother answers, I have this sudden urge to hang up the receiver, but I don’t. “Hi, Mrs. Kennelly this is Willa Havisham. Is Joseph there?”

  Mrs. Kennelly laughs. “No need to use last names, Willa. I think I should know my son’s girlfriend’s name.”

  Girlfriend? Whoopee! I giggle. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Joseph’s at baseball practice right now, and then he’s got play practice, but I can have him call when he gets home.”

  Our Town. How could I forget?

  “Sure, thanks. Actually, I was calling to invite your family to a Memorial Day barbecue on Saturday. Here at the inn at three p.m.”

  “That sounds great, thanks. We’ll bring potato salad and brownies.”

  The next day after school I stop by Mum’s. She is watering a plant in a clay pot on the porch. “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A sorry little tomato plant,” Mum says, touching a yellowy green leave. “Oh … when Riley and I go home, I can’t wait to buy a little house of my own with flowers out front and vegetables out back. I’m tired of living in other people’s places. All my life I’ve wanted a piece of earth to call my own. Not much. Just a patch that was mine.”

  All this time I thought Mum owned this house. She works so hard, does such important work. It doesn’t seem right that she can’t afford her own house.

  “I have three favors to ask you, Willa. So sit a spell, if you can.”

  “Three favors?”

  “Yep. Sit there and I’ll get us some iced tea. Just brewed it fresh this morning.”

  Mum hands me a glass. I take a sip. “Mmmm. It’s so sweet and fruity. I’ve never tasted iced tea like this before.”

  “That’s ’cause you never spent a summer in the South,” Mum says. “One way or the other, we find a way to put peach into everything.” She laughs and I do too.

  “Okay,” Mum says. “Favor number one. Riley and I want to get married at Bramblebriar, and we’d like you to plan it.”

  “Oh, Mum, of course. I’d be honored.”

  “Good. And speaking of honors, that’s favor number two. I’d like you to be my maid of honor.”

  My heart quickens, my nose tickles, and tears well up in my eyes. “Oh, Mum.” I reach toward her. Hugging Mum is like hugging a pillow. A big, soft, lumpy pillow that smells like baby powder. “I would love to. Thank you for asking me. Have you and Riley set a date yet?”

  “Yes, we have. Sunday, June eleventh.”

  Oh, no. The day after Suzy-Jube’s wedding. “Is that date set in stone?”

  “Yes, honey, it is. I always say, when it’s time to move on, say your good-byes and go. No sense loading a bucket full of tears. Riley’s already ordered the U-Haul van. We’ll be leaving Bramble bright and early June twelfth, with my few sorry boxes of belongings and a whole big truck full of the books you collected.”

  “But Mum, why do you have to go so soon? Can’t you …” I scrunch my lips tight to keep from crying. I try to be brave.

  “Willa, honey.“ She touches my arm gently “Believe me, my heart’s breaking too. But I lost this man once before, and God knows, I ain’t going to lose him again.”

  I sip my peach tea and zip my lips. Grow up, Willa. You want Mum to be happy, don’t you? She would want you to be happy. “Hey, Mum, I almost forgot. We’re having a picnic on Saturday and we want you and Riley to come.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mum says.

  “Good,” I say, getting up to leave. “Mom said to bring a salad or dessert.”

  “Tell Stella I’ll bring peach pie.”

  “Sounds good, Mum. I’ll see you later. Oh, wait. You said three favors.”

  “That’s right. Okay. Now, this may be the hardest.” Mum locks her eyes with mine. “Remember when you were new in Bramble and you were having troubles with your mother and I knew you had a heart of gold and I tried to be your friend?”

  “Sure, Mum, I remember.”

  “Good. ’Cause there’s a new girl in town with a mighty good heart who is carrying a heavy sack of sorrow, and I think she could use a friend like you.”

  I don’t even need to hear the name. Mum’s talking about Mariel.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Lead

  Life’s awful funny!

  —Our Town

  I’m lying on my bed flipping through My Antonia, by Willa Cather. Willa. Just like me. When I was younger, my mother insisted on calling me Willafr
ed. That’s the name she got from combining my birth father’s first and middle names, William and Frederick. Thankfully everyone calls me Willa. Willa, like a willow tree. So much nicer than Willafred, don’t you think?

  I remember one rainy afternoon Gramp Tweed and I were sitting in the bookstore on the old couch with our feet propped up, drinking our signature lemon tea. He said, “You have a literary namesake, you know. Willa Cather. One of the bright lights.” He looked at me and winked. “And I suspect that one day students of American literature will be talking about ‘the two Willas.’” Gramp always said he thought I’d be a writer.

  I swallow back tears. I close my eyes. I love you, Gramp. I miss you.

  Then I remember what Nana said at the restaurant on Mother’s Day.

  So, what are you and God reading this week, Gramp? I laugh and feel better.

  I flip through chapter 1 of My Antonia to see what I marked the first time I read it. If I own a book—not borrowed from the library but it’s mine—I always read with a pen in my hand. That way I can circle the parts I like and write notes to myself in the margin, little stars and smiley faces, question marks, how something rings true for me.

  “That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.”

  I circled that line the first time. Now I make stars around it.

  “… dissolved into something complete and great.”

  That’s how I sometimes feel when I’m reading.

  That’s how I sometimes feel when I’m writing. Fingers flying across the page, words flowing fast as a waterfall. It’s like in that movie, Chariots of Fire, when the man says he feels God when he is running. I understand that. I feel God when I am writing.

  “That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.”

  I read somewhere that this quote is inscribed on Willa Cather’s gravestone in Jaffrey Center, New Hampshire. I’d like to visit there someday. Jaffrey Center, New Hampshire. Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire.

  Our Town.

  I should have gotten the part of Emily.

  “Willa.” Sam is knocking on my bedroom door. I open it. He has a strange look on his face. “There’s a woman downstairs who wants to speak with you. I asked her name, and all she said was ‘the director.’”