“You know what? I’ve got Henry to help me, and we don’t need you for the reenactment,” Rosie blurted out.
As soon as Rosie said the words, she wanted to take them back. She did need Cam, same as always. But Cam was already stepping backward off the steps, looking relieved.
“If you feel that way, I guess I will go to Leila’s, then,” Cam said.
Rosie wanted to tell Cam she didn’t mean it. She wanted to beg Cam to stay, but that would only make her sound more pathetic. She went into the house and closed the door before Cam saw her watery eyes.
Rosie leaned against the window, her chest hitching up and down. Cam would rather hang out with Leila than work on her babyish film project. It made sense. Cam was getting invited to parties with boys, and Rosie was still stuck watching movies with Mama and riding her bike to a homemade film set.
“Rosie, what’s wrong?” Mama asked from the doorway of the family room.
Rosie swiped at her eyes. “That was Cam. She can’t help with the reenactment. She has to go to a party.”
Mama crossed the foyer and put her arms around Rosie. “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry.”
Rosie leaned into Mama, trying not to cry. “She doesn’t even like me anymore.”
“Of course she likes you,” Mama said, patting Rosie’s back and pulling her closer.
“She’s embarrassed by me. I can tell she thinks the documentary is stupid,” Rosie said, sniffling.
“It’s not stupid,” Mama said. “And you’re not embarrassing.”
“You have to say that because you’re my mother.”
“Not true. I would definitely admit if you embarrassed me,” Mama said, pulling back and smiling down at Rosie. Her deep brown eyes shone bright, as if she too were holding back tears. “Cam loves you. I can tell. You’ll work through this.”
Rosie exhaled and looked up at Mama. “You mean it?”
“I do.”
The tension left Rosie’s shoulders. “Thanks, Mama.”
“Plus, there’s nothing embarrassing about doing the things you’re passionate about, especially when you’re an incredibly talented filmmaker who also happens to be thoughtful and loyal and a good person,” Mama added.
Rosie lowered her eyes. A sour taste flooded her mouth. Mama was wrong about a few things—Rosie wasn’t thoughtful and loyal and good. She was lying to Mama every time she didn’t tell her the real reason for the documentary and about the e-mail. Her secret plan to bring Michael to Glimmer Creek weighed her down like a rusted anchor at the bottom of the river.
Michael still hadn’t e-mailed her back, and Rosie was starting to wonder if he ever would. She’d even tried to contact the film set but couldn’t find a phone number and had left messages with the production company instead, all of which went unreturned. What if all of this—the lying, the documentary, the reenactments—was for nothing? A pit cratered Rosie’s stomach, and she turned away, biting the inside of her cheek. All she wanted to do was tell Mama the truth about everything.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At four o’clock, the beach in front of the Bolling house was half-washed away by high tide. The dock tilted to one side like a tired old man leaning on his cane. In the distance, the top of at least ten snorkels poked out of the water. Rosie had heard people were diving in the smaller creeks in search of the train treasure. Not that anyone was having any luck.
“When can I jump in?” Perry asked for the tenth time, pacing the dock in his bright red bathing suit and seemingly unaffected by the fact that it was only fifty degrees out. “Mama said I have to wait until you say so, but I’ve been waiting for hours.”
“It’s been five minutes,” Rosie said.
“My, he has a lot of energy,” Mrs. Bolling said. White whorls of hair framed her pink cheeks. “My grandson, Tom, was just like him.”
“I wish I could interview Tom for the documentary,” Rosie said wistfully.
“It’s too bad he’s away at college on a swimming scholarship. Ever since his Miracle, that child can hold his breath underwater for fifteen minutes.” Mrs. Bolling gazed out at the water, not saying anything for a long moment. “You know I was at the town meeting.”
Rosie’s head shot up. “You don’t have to worry, ma’am. I’m making the documentary very tasteful.”
Mrs. Bolling chuckled. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. Though I did get to thinking. Do you know Bob Thornquist moved here after his cousin Bill told him about our Miracles? He thought he might get one of his own if he lived in Glimmer Creek. Bob left after a few months. Never did fit in. We’ve had a few people try that over the years, mostly folks from Gloster. They never do manage to get a Miracle either.”
“I already promised not to put the documentary online,” Rosie reassured Mrs. Bolling. “So I don’t think a bunch of people are going to see it and move here if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I don’t understand how that all works,” Mrs. Bolling said, lifting one shoulder. “I do know there’s a heap of good things about this here town. Things we can’t explain, but that we don’t want to change.”
Rosie drew her eyebrows together, unable to think of anything else to say. She thought Glimmer Creek was a great place to live too. Besides the Miracles, it had the water nearby, an awesome bookstore, and the best crab cakes in Eastern Virginia. Rosie’s documentary wasn’t going to change any of those things, so she wasn’t sure why Mrs. Bolling was acting so concerned.
Rosie sagged with relief when she spotted Henry and Miss Betty waving from the top of the driveway. “Oh look, there’s Henry. Now we can get started.”
Henry and Miss Betty made their way down the slope, past a large weeping willow tree in the center of the yard and a bed of violets huddled in a curve of the concrete.
“Mama wanted to see the set today,” Henry said.
Miss Betty patted her emerald-green turban and peered down at the water splashing against the beach in gentle waves. “Henry George Thompson, you are not getting in this water. It’s obviously freezing, and you are prone to chills.”
“Mama, I already told you I’m not getting in the water.” Henry sighed.
“I am,” Perry yelled from the dock.
Miss Betty’s hand fluttered up to her chest.
“His mama knows all about it,” Rosie said quickly. “She said the cold would be good for him.”
“I’m sure Clara knows what she’s doing, though I guess she’s never heard of hypothermia,” Miss Betty said.
“The water is warmer than the air,” Henry said. “It’s because bodies of water are slower to cool than the land.” Miss Betty shot him a bullet-fast look, and Henry hastily continued. “Not that I’m going to find out.”
Mrs. Bolling’s lips tipped up in a soft smile. “It was a day a lot like this when Tom fell in the water. That fool boy was never supposed to be out here in the first place, but he was trying to catch a rockfish for his daddy’s supper. You see, he’d been deployed overseas and was due back that night. Rockfish is his favorite.” Mrs. Bolling shook her head. “If that Miracle hadn’t happened, we would have lost our Tom. I like to think his granddaddy was watching over him that day. Tom was wearing his granddaddy’s army dog tags when he fell in. Richard wore those all through World War II and came home safe. They’re a lucky charm.”
Rosie perked up. A lucky charm. Maybe that was the secret of the Miracles. You had to have a lucky charm. Although—Rosie slumped back down—no one else had mentioned a lucky charm in their interview.
“Well, lucky charm or not, the Miracle is what really saved your Tom. This town is blessed,” Miss Betty said, nodding her head and sending her turban bobbing. “Now, y’all have fun here. I’m going home to lie down for a while.”
Henry stepped closer to Miss Betty, turning his body toward her as if to block the breeze. A fissure split through Rosie. It wasn’t fair Miss Betty had gotten sick and Henry had to worry about losing his mama.
Rosie had always thought the Miracles were wonder
ful, but no magic had come to help Miss Betty yet. She had to go through months of awful treatments, and she still wasn’t well. Maybe the Miracles weren’t as perfect as Rosie had always believed.
“Your treatments are going well?” Mrs. Bolling asked.
“Only one more left,” Miss Betty said.
“She’s doing great,” Henry said in a firm voice.
“That’s wonderful news,” Mrs. Bolling said. “If anyone can beat cancer, it’s you. Your maiden name is Gooch, and Gooches are born determined.”
“That’s a fact,” Miss Betty said, nodding seriously. “When my granddaddy was the First Baptist Church pastor, he’d send around the offering plate three times if he didn’t get a good collection.”
Miss Betty started up the hill with Mrs. Bolling, moving slowly, as if the effort to put one foot in front of the other cost her. Henry watched, his body tense until she reached the top. Rosie tried to imagine how she would feel if Mama had gotten sick like Miss Betty. Her stomach turned over. She couldn’t even stand to have such a thought prowling around inside her head.
“Hi, Henry,” Perry said, hopping over a broken board and onto the beach in front of them. Seaweed and sticks littered the white sand. “I trapped a stinkbug yesterday like the ones I helped you catch for your science project last year. Do you want it?”
Henry shook his head, placing one foot gingerly on the dock now that Miss Betty was gone. “No, thanks. I’m not entering the science fair this year.”
Rosie looked up from the camcorder. “You’re not?”
“Not this year.” Henry took another step on the dock and wobbled to one side.
“But you enter the science fair every year,” Rosie said. “And you win the science fair every year. Well, except for that year Robert Kim talked about black holes.”
“I just don’t want to do it, okay?” Henry didn’t turn around.
“Th-that doesn’t make any sense,” Rosie said, sputtering. “The science fair is like your Academy Awards.”
“I’ve got a lot of other stuff going on right now,” Henry said.
“Like what?” Rosie asked.
Henry went still. “I’m researching the train treasure,” he finally mumbled.
“Instead of the science fair?” Rosie gaped at him.
Henry turned to look at her. “I know the treasure seems ridiculous, but sometimes you have to go with your gut. That’s what I’m doing. It’s like you with the Miracles and your father.”
Except Rosie’s gut was all jumbled up when she thought about the Miracles and her father. Neither was turning out the way she wanted. She stared down at the blades of grass poking her shins. A breeze wafted between them, smelling of wet earth and smoke, as the water lapped against the riprap with a soft splashing sound.
“Are we still waiting on Cam?” Henry asked.
“She’s not coming. She went to a slumber party at Leila’s.” Rosie bent down and fiddled with the camera lens. “I told her it was okay.”
“Is it okay?” Henry asked.
“It’s fine.” Rosie had thought about what Mama said earlier concerning Cam and believed it, mostly, but Cam’s decision still smarted. It was one more ingredient in the mixed-up mess inside of her. “I don’t mind if she wants to hang out with Leila and stop helping me with my films.”
“Cam doesn’t want to stop helping you,” Henry protested.
“She seems to have other things to do these days,” Rosie said, straightening and staring ahead.
“Didn’t she help with filming Mrs. Grant this week?” Henry asked.
“Sort of.”
“And with some of the interviews the week before that?”
“I guess.”
“So because she couldn’t come to this one scene, now you decided she doesn’t want to help? Come on, that’s crazy. Cam always helps. She’s our best friend.”
Well.
When Henry put it like that, Cam’s absence didn’t seem so awful. The last bit of doubt about Cam fluttered away like the brown and green leaves drifting down around them. Rosie tipped her face up to feel the sunshine, the warmth settling onto her face.
Henry and Mama were both right. Of course Cam would help Rosie with the documentary, and once it was done … Rosie imagined a high-angle shot looking down on a crowd of everyone in Glimmer Creek: the closing credits rolled and applause rose. People exclaimed over how she, Rosie Flynn, had solved the mystery of the Miracles. She could see Mama telling everyone her daughter was all grown up now. There was Henry clapping her on the shoulder and Cam bragging about her to Leila Sellers. One after another, the people of Glimmer Creek came forward to congratulate her. And there, right in the front, was her father clapping as if he would never stop. Rosie’s hands tightened on her shirttail. He would e-mail back. She couldn’t think otherwise.
Rosie bustled around the camera. “You know, just because you get straight As every year doesn’t mean you’re right about everything.”
Henry’s eyed widened. “Shoot, Rosie, I know that.”
“I’m kidding,” Rosie said, bumping him with her shoulder. “I’ll call Cam tomorrow and let her know about the next interview.”
Henry grabbed the yellow inflatable and headed down the dock. “I’m going to get in position.”
“Is it time for me to jump in now?” Perry asked from the end of the dock.
“Almost.” Rosie adjusted the camera lens. She was starting with a wide-angle shot to capture the vast expanse of water, the dock, and Perry. Once he fell in, she would zoom in on him splashing around and calling for help. The problem was she had only one chance to get it right. It wasn’t as though she could dry Perry off and start over again, so she’d tried to give him all the direction he needed in advance. Victor Fleming, the director of The Wizard of Oz, had treated young actors like adults, and Rosie believed in the same philosophy.
“Okay, Perry, on my cue, pretend to fall in like we talked about. And … action!” Rosie yelled, pointing to Perry.
Perry teetered on the edge of the dock before plunging into the water with a terrific splash. Rosie smiled. He had nailed it. She tightened the frame to a close shot of Perry’s head and shoulders. Water was splashing everywhere as he flailed his arms around and yelled—“Help! Help!” This kid deserved an Oscar.
“Hey, hey there! Someone help him!”
Rosie whipped her head up when she heard the yelling from two docks over. Two men dropped the crab pots they were fussing with and dove into the water. Oh no! They thought Perry was really drowning.
Instead of stopping everything, Rosie sped up. All she needed to do was get her final shot before the men reached Perry. She was so close.
“Henry, drop the raft,” Rosie shouted.
Henry gestured to the two men swimming toward them. “But—”
“Just do it!” Rosie said.
Henry dropped the raft into the water, nowhere close to Perry.
“For goodness’ sake, push it closer to him,” Rosie yelled in an exasperated voice.
Henry got down on his hands and knees, reaching for the yellow float. Rosie panned the camera over the water, keeping Henry out of the frame. She needed to capture the raft gliding toward Perry as if by magic. Henry kept reaching, his hands outstretched. Rosie held her breath. Almost there.
Splash! Henry toppled face-first into the water. Rosie banged her forehead against the camera lens. The raft looked the opposite of magical now that it was holding up a screaming Henry.
The men reached Perry and lifted him onto the dock as he struggled against them and tried to explain he was the freestyle champion of his age group. The docks on either side had filled with people pointing in their direction. After a couple of tries, Henry clambered onto the dock and lay flat on his back. Miss Betty was going to kill him for getting wet, right after she killed Rosie.
With a heavy sigh, Rosie cut off the recording, collapsing on the edge of the bulkhead. Her legs dangled over the side. Pressing her fingers into her temple, she r
ubbed them in circles. She’d be lucky if there was one second of usable footage.
By the time Rosie finished apologizing to the men who’d jumped into the water to save Perry and apologizing to Mrs. Bolling for causing a disturbance, her throat was raw, as if fire ants had stung it in a hundred places.
Rosie trudged home and went straight into the study. Sinking into the desk chair, she booted up Mama’s computer and waited. She should e-mail the footage from today to Cam. That would really make her glad she’d missed the reenactment.
As she clicked on her e-mail icon, Rosie’s breath caught in her throat. She had a new e-mail and had to read the name on the sender line three times before it sank in. It was from Michael Weatherton. The hum of the furnace, the banging of Mama’s pots, and the murmur of television voices from the family room faded away.
Dear Ms. Flynn,
Michael Weatherton received your e-mail. Though extremely busy with his filming schedule and publicity obligations, he looks forward to attending your documentary screening on October 21st. He asked me to convey his gratitude for the invitation.
Sincerely,
Lawrence A. Walker
Executive Assistant to Michael Weatherton
Rosie didn’t move. Tingles rushed up her arms and legs. Her plan had actually worked. Her father was coming! Her father was coming in six days … to see a documentary that didn’t exist.
Yet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was impossible to eat at a time like this. Rosie ignored the waffles Mama had left out on Monday morning. She still couldn’t believe her father was coming to Glimmer Creek. It was less than a week before she finally met the person she’d wanted to meet her entire life, and she couldn’t wait.
Although … Rosie wasn’t sure why Michael hadn’t e-mailed her himself. This was the very first time she’d contacted him, after all. He could have taken a few minutes to e-mail back. Still, he was coming to her premiere; that was the important thing. The bigger problem was figuring out a way to tell Mama. She imagined Mama’s face in extreme close-up when she saw Michael and Rosie together at the festival. Would her forehead furrow with worry, would her mouth fall open with betrayal and shock, or would her eyes look sad? Rosie shivered and shook the images from her mind. Right now she needed to concentrate on finishing the documentary. She would figure Mama out later.
Forever Glimmer Creek Page 10