Fifteenth Summer (23 page)

“So you think he made a mistake?” I choked out. I didn’t know why this filled me with such hope. I guessed it was because Mr. Thayer was old. And a man. So he knew more about this honor and manhood thing than I did.

“If he did,” Mr. Thayer said, “I don’t think Josh will be too proud to admit it. He’s a good boy. And I am thirsty. Can I have one of those Arnold Palmers, young lady?”

He pointed at my almost-empty glass. I hopped off my stool, nodding hard and flicking the moisture from beneath my eyes at the same time.

Soon after, a summer swim team came in, celebrating a win and wanting massive amounts of food. After that there was the dinner rush. So, just as I’d hoped, I didn’t have time to think.

Which wasn’t to say I forgot about Josh. He was always there in the back of my mind.

The fact was, he’d been in that spot, hovering in my consciousness, ever since I’d met him. First he lodged in my head as a curiosity, then as a delight. Now he was a wound, a fresh paper cut that wouldn’t stop stinging.

When my shift was almost over, and my section was down to one table—a couple nursing cold drinks—I slumped against the counter and breathed a long, tired sigh.

But I followed it up with a little smile. I’d been right to come in today. I put my elbows on the counter and propped my chin on my fists.

“Do you know what, Melissa?” I said to Mel as she did her nightly receipt tally. “I’ve made a decision. When I go back to LA, I’m not taking any more babysitting jobs. I’m going to wait tables.”

“Put me down as a reference, sweetie,” Melissa muttered without looking up from her receipts. But a moment later she stopped herself and looked at me.

“You know, I almost forgot you were from LA!” she said. “You seem so . . . Bluepointe. And you never talk about your life back home.”

I bit my lip and glanced at the Dog Ear wall. I hadn’t been thinking about my life back home either. I glanced at the little calico cat calendar that Melissa kept tacked up next to the cash register. I quickly added up the days we had left in Bluepointe.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-one days that Josh and I could have been spending together. It wasn’t much. On the other hand, you could cram a whole lot of fun—and a whole lot of love—into twenty-one days if you wanted to.

“Too bad he doesn’t want to,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head.

But then I frowned and replayed (for, oh, about the fortieth time) the things that Josh had said to me the previous night.

“This isn’t what I want; it’s what I have to do.”

I bowed my head, scrunching my fingers into my hair.
How
could Josh think that this was right? He meant well, but if his mom
knew
what he’d done—

I lifted my head abruptly.

Of
course
, Stella didn’t know. That was the whole point. Josh’s mom was sweet, but kind of clueless. I would have bet she had no idea how much Josh was doing—and sacrificing—for Dog Ear.

I hopped off the stool and untied my apron at the same time. As I hurried toward the kitchen to hang up my stuff, I called to Andrea.

“Can you do me a favor and check out my last table? Please?”

Andrea looked at me in confusion.

“There’s something I’ve gotta do,” I said. “Now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Andrea glanced over her shoulder at the Dog Ear wall, then looked back at me and nodded excitedly.

“Only if you promise to come back after and tell me everything that happened,” she said.

“I hope there’s something to tell,” I said with a nervous grin. “Thanks, Andie.”

I darted into the bathroom and dabbed at my shiny face with a damp paper towel. I rubbed at the circles under my eyes, until
I remembered that I wasn’t wearing mascara and those circles weren’t going anywhere. I took out my hair elastic and cringed as my curls—which looked even brighter after two months in the sun—sprang out in a Medusa-like puff. I pulled the front bits back and let the rest of my hair coil around my shoulders.

Then I gave myself a last, hard look in the mirror, stalked out of Mel & Mel’s, and went next door.

Every other time that I’d walked into Dog Ear, I’d felt elation swell up inside me. It wasn’t just about Josh, either, though that had been the biggest part of it. I just loved the place, with its pretty yellow walls and goofy rainbow review cards, the picket fence and Josh’s broody posters. I loved that there was always some kid running around with a book in one hand and a yo-yo in the other, and of course I loved the couch and the snacks.

Maybe that’s why my eyes teared up the moment I walked in. Because I was afraid of losing Dog Ear in addition to Josh.

As the door jingled closed behind me, E.B. ambled over. He pushed his big, blocky head beneath my hand for an ear scratch. I whispered hello to him and nervously scanned the store for Josh.

I didn’t see him, but I was sure he was there. Somehow I could feel him there, the same way I knew it was him whenever he called me.

Isobel was at the cash register. I gave her a little wave and walked toward the stacks. E.B. shuffled along behind me until he realized that I wasn’t heading toward the lounge—where there was a basket of Triscuits and a can of spray cheese on the
coffee table. He gave a little snort and trotted away.

I couldn’t quite believe where I finally found Josh. He was sitting on the floor in the children’s aisle, the exact same spot where we’d had our first kiss.

For some reason this gave me hope. Maybe we could somehow go back in time, to the improbable perfection of that kiss and . . .

I stopped there, because even if time travel were possible, I wasn’t sure how it would fix things.

Josh looked up at me, his eyes wide and startled. They weren’t nearly as cold as his voice had been on the phone the night before. They also had gray shadows that exactly matched the ones under my eyes.

But once Josh got over the shock of seeing me, he clenched his jaw and frowned.

“Chelsea, I—”

I shook my head and gave him a stern
Let me talk
look. Then I knelt before him, glad that I was wearing pants today instead of one of the poofy skirts that could make a quick exit difficult.

“Have you ever told them?” I asked Josh. He went a little pale and cringed. Once upon a time I might have been offended. But now that I knew Josh, I knew what that expression meant. He didn’t want to get rid of me. He wanted me to stay—and keep talking.

“What do you mean?” Josh asked me.

“Your parents,” I said impatiently. “Do they even know how you feel? Do they know that you grind your teeth every time you have to change the receipt tape or update the store’s website?
That
they’re
living this owning-a-bookstore dream because
you’re
the one with your feet on the ground?”

“Of course they know,” Josh said. Now he sounded impatient with me. “How could they not?”

“You’re a good son,” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they just assume this is your dream too.”

“That’s the thing,” Josh said. He grabbed a book off the shelf and held it up. “This isn’t a dream. This is a store. A business. It’s like this . . .
beast
that needs to be fed. And if we don’t keep up with the feedings, the store goes under, my parents lose piles of money, and where does that leave them?”

“And you?” I added. “You know, you’re allowed to put yourself into that equation too.”

I pulled the picture book gently from Josh’s hands and laid it on the floor. I knew not to shelve it out of order and create more work for him.

“I think if your mom is anything like mine,” I said, “she would prefer that you did think of yourself, at least a little bit.”

“What do you mean?” Josh said.

“I mean, you should talk to your parents,” I said, getting to my feet. “Tell them what’s been going on with you, Josh. Tell them—”

I looked down sharply, trying to contain the tears that had suddenly welled up in my eyes.

“Tell them everything,” I said. “And tell them what
you
want, for once. I think they might surprise you.”

Then I turned to leave. I wanted to take a last, lingering look at Josh’s face, but I knew if I did, I would burst into tears. I didn’t
want that, and not just because it would have been mortifying. I also didn’t want to manipulate Josh into coming back to me. I wanted him to do it because being with me made him happy. I wanted it for him as much as for myself.

I guess if I wanted a confirmation that I really did love Josh, then that was it—even if it was too late.

I
went straight to bed after I got home. Despite my head’s best efforts to keep me awake with a looping tally of anxieties, my exhausted body dragged me into sleep.

And when I woke up, it wasn’t quite as hard to get myself out of bed. There was a tiny kernel of hope that maybe I’d gotten through to Josh. And maybe I’d hear from him.

Even if I didn’t, at least I’d tried. I’d done
something
. I’d gotten my say. It wasn’t exactly cheering, but it made me feel a little better about this whole breakup thing.

I had to water again. The sun was as searing as ever, even at nine thirty in the morning. I had breakfast with my sisters first. They were quietly watchful but didn’t crowd me with a
How’re you doing?
inquisition. I showered and threw on a blue sundress. It was the one dress I had that happened to have pockets, which meant I could keep my phone on me at all times. You know, just in case. Then I headed into the backyard.

As soon as I stepped off the laundry room steps, I knew something was wrong.

My mom was standing in front of the garden with one hand covering her mouth. She saw me and took a halting step toward me.

“I just got back from a walk,” she said. “I thought I’d check to see if there were any tomatoes ripe enough for lunch, and . . . Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”

I shook my head in confusion as I walked toward her, but as soon as I got a look at the garden, I knew what she was talking about.

It had been decimated.

The ground beneath the tomato plant was littered with half-gnawed fruit, including lots of green tomatoes. The lettuce leaves were riddled with rodenty bite marks, and two of the cucumber vines had been torn out of the ground altogether. As for the radishes, it was like they’d never even been there.

I slapped both hands on top of my head.

“Yesterday,” I croaked, “when I watered, I forgot the cayenne pepper!”

I couldn’t believe how quickly my garden had been destroyed. It was like the animals were getting back at me for my spicy repellant.

“I’m sure it was deer,” my mom said. “They can tear a garden to pieces just like that.”

I thought of Granly, sitting at the kitchen table, watching beautiful forest animals sample her veggies, loving how delicately the deer tiptoed through the plants.

I dropped to my knees at the edge of the garden, not caring if I got dirt on my pale blue dress. I began yanking the stringy remains of my lettuce plants out of the earth. I tossed them into a messy pile at my side.

And it was only when my mom crouched down to put her arms around me that I realized I was sobbing.

“I wanted it to be different!” I said through angry tears.

“Different? What do you mean?” Mom asked.

“From Granly’s garden,” I cried. “Hers got all eaten up, but mine was supposed to be different. It was almost there!”

“Wait, look!” my mom pointed at the one cucumber plant that was left intact. Then she stepped into the garden and said, “And there’s a lot of squash still here, and I found three lettuce plants that they missed.”

“Okay,” I said quietly, wondering why I wasn’t comforted at all.

Mom picked her way back through the messy thatch of plants. She handed me a big, unscathed squash, its yellow skin waxy and perfect.

“Thanks,” I muttered, swiping away my tears. Only when she sat next to me did I realize she was crying too.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea,” she sighed. “About . . . everything.”

I nodded sadly. Then we sat there in silence but for the occasional sniffle and, of course, the hot-day hum of the cicadas.

“Why do you think it was so important to you,” Mom wondered, “that your garden turn out differently from Granly’s?”

I shrugged.

“I guess,” I said, feeling guilt wash over me, “I kind of wanted to . . . move on? To not always be stuck in this place where it feels like we have to do all these things that she did, but without her. I guess I just want to get to that place where she’s not here but life goes on and . . . and it’s bearable.”

It felt kind of terrible to utter all these things out loud, especially to my mom. But it also felt kind of wonderful to say them, like something that had been clamped down on me had suddenly released its grip.

Mom sighed.

“It
has
become more bearable, hasn’t it?” she said. “I think being here has made it so.”

I blinked. It was true. Living in the cottage with Granly’s furniture and her photo albums, and even her egg cups, had gotten a little easier.

“But not to the point where you can go through Granly’s stuff,” I pointed out.

“It’s funny. I was just pondering that on my walk,” Mom said. “I was thinking that maybe I
am
ready, and I think it’s because I’m getting to the end of my quilt.”

“It’s going to be really pretty,” I said. “The quilt.”

Mom nodded absentmindedly.

“You know,” she said, “I was doing some pattern research online, and I found this article about mourning quilts.”

“Morning quilts?” I said. “Like for cold mornings?”

“No, the other kind of mourning,” my mom said. “An Appalachian woman, when she suffered a loss, would make a quilt. All that piecing and batting and hand-stitching—it’s so absorbing. It doesn’t make your pain go away, but it gets you through it. Making the quilt both distracts you and makes you focus on the person you lost. The work carries you through the days. It is true, you know, that cliché about time. It does heal all wounds.

“The funny thing about the mourning quilt is, once it was finished, it was just another quilt to throw on the bed,” Mom went on. “It wasn’t made into a shrine to hang on the wall or put in a chest. They didn’t have that luxury. And besides, the mourning quilt was about the process, not the product.”