Season of Salt and Honey (16 page)

“Dinner was nice,” I say politely.

“Merriem's a great cook.”

I recall the sleepy dark head against Jack's shoulder last night. “How was Huia this morning?”

“Bit tired. I just dropped her at school.” He frowns. “She wasn't too keen. Complaining about having to go to Jellybeans this afternoon.”

“She mentioned ballet classes last night.”

“Did she?” He seems surprised. “Yeah, she wants to go. I just . . .” His voice drifts off.

We both sip our espresso.

“Bella and I did ballet classes,” I say. “Our aunty made us go.”

Jack looks at me. His skin is the same color as Cousin Vinnie's, though I'm convinced Vinnie uses a tanning bed. Jack's eyes are exactly the same as Huia's: as dark as a bird's, perfectly round, set in bright, clear whites.

“Our mother died when we were little,” I explain, a little out of step with the conversation. I tend not to talk about Mama.

“Oh, I wondered . . .”

“She had bad asthma. She was ill quite a lot.” I don't add that it's a miracle Bella and I don't have it, though it is. Aunty Connie says it's because of Mama's prayers.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Jack says.

“It happened a very long time ago.”

“Still.”

“Yes, still.”

I have so few memories of Mama, and the ones I do have are warped and worn from recalling them, like old photos. Among them: her pitch-perfect but wispy singing, the way she frowned when she was peeling mushrooms, playing with our hair as she read us stories, ironing Papa's shirts with great puffs of heavy steam, laughing at Papa, holding his hand on the couch, and gossiping on the phone to her friends, to my aunty Lisa.

“We went once, to the dance school,” Jack says. “It was an open day. They lent Huia a leotard and did her makeup. I mean, they did all the girls' makeup—I guess it was part of the
promotion.” He draws a breath. “I don't know. She just looked . . . so different, not like my Huia.”

I remember the makeup we had to wear for dance recitals and how much I hated it. It was thick and greasy, like paint, like a disguise. Bella had loved it—the dressing up, the preening, the pretending. She and Aunty Rosa had giggled and oohed and ahhed in the mirror. Aunty Connie hadn't approved of the makeup; she'd whispered to Aunty Rosa that we looked like
buttane
, whores, and Aunty Rosa had slapped the top of her hand and hissed, “You can't say that,
soru
. Think of Marcella; they're her girls. She'd turn in her grave!”

“I hated that makeup,” I say.

“Yeah? Huia liked it. I couldn't stand the stuff. She looked too grown-up. Like . . . well, a bit like her mother, I guess.”

At the mention of Huia's mother, Jack frowns.

“Is she . . .?” I ask softly.

He glances at me. “Dead? Oh, no.” He gives a wry laugh. “No, she's not dead. Not that I know of at least.” He balks. “I'm sorry, that's a dreadful thing to say. She lives in New Zealand. Or Australia. Last I heard she was on the Gold Coast.”

“She isn't in contact with Huia?”

“Nah.” Jack shakes his head and sniffs. He looks towards a puddle of sunlight on a grove of sword ferns, their shoots like green fingers reaching up out of the earth. “Maybe I should just let her go to dance classes,” he murmurs.

“She's a great kid,” I say after a moment's silence.

“She really is.”

We both turn to watch a white car creeping along the
driveway. Daniel Gardner, behind the wheel, raises his palm to us. Jack straightens and I wave back. He parks the car and steps out.

“Hi, Frankie.”

Alex's voice in another body. It makes me shiver.

“Hi, Daniel.”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. I notice his hair is growing out of its neat cut, it's getting a little ragged. He's wearing black jeans and a loose T-shirt.

“You must be Jack?” Daniel says.

Jack shakes his hand and glances at me.

“Daniel Gardner,” I explain.

“Oh, of course,” Jack says. “I should probably get going.”

“Sorry, no, don't let me interrupt,” Daniel says.

“No, you're all right. I'm . . . I've got . . . rounds to do.” Jack nods to me. “I'll swing by another time. Thanks for the coffee.”

“
Uncinnè problema
,” I say, No problem, then start to explain, “I mean . . .” But he's already headed towards his truck.

Daniel remains standing. I gesture to the seat beside me.

“Isn't this . . . fraternizing with the enemy, or whatever they call it?” I tease gently, thinking of the eviction letter.

He gives me a pained look. “Mom . . . she's having a rough time.”

I nod. As is Daniel, clearly, his face too pallid for his age.

“How are you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I should have come back sooner. I was going to and then . . .”

He looks so terrible I reach out to pat the back of his hand. “Hey, it's good to see you now.”

I think about how it must be at his house—the silence and
grief between him, his mom, and his dad. The Gardners don't process emotion like the Caputos. Tears are private. Stoic is practically part of the family motto. At least my aunties wailed with me at the news of Alex's death. At least Papa never hid his tears when Mama died or told us to buck up.

I change the subject. “When are you back at college?”

He frowns. “Soon. A few more weeks. I had an internship at a local law firm, just doing basic stuff, filing, admin.”

“That sounds good.”

“I quit.”

“Oh.”

“I wasn't . . . handling it very well.” He clears his throat. “There's always summer, and I'm happy to have some time off, to be honest. Last semester was hard work.”

“No one will think badly of you for taking a break.”

He gives me a grateful look. “Thanks. I think I just need some time. Mom and Dad don't agree, of course, but . . .” He shrugs. Then he retrieves a black iPod from his pocket. “I brought you this. I didn't know if you had any music.”

“No, I don't. Thanks, Daniel.”

Daniel plays the guitar. Alex used to tease him about never seeing the sunlight, he spent so much time in his room practicing.

“It's mainly local stuff. It might not be your scene, but, well, I couldn't live without music, so . . .” He shrugs again.

“That's really kind of you.”

“Oh, well, no . . .” Suddenly he looks guilty.

I look down at my sneakers. “Did your mom send you?” I ask in a whisper.

He doesn't reply.

“Daniel?”

“I think they might sell . . .” His voice is thin, unanchored.

“That can't be true.”

My voice comes out harsher than I expected. Daniel looks alarmed.

“Alex loved this place!”

“I know,” Daniel says sadly.

“Your mom never liked me.”

“Oh, no, she just—”

“C'mon, Daniel.”

I'd had this argument with Alex too, many times. “Mom likes you,” he'd say, “she's just not good with women. She's used to being the only woman in the house; she has no daughters. She probably worries that you don't like her.” I always let him win because I wanted him to be right. But it was bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

Ahead of us are two Douglas firs, standing like twins. They remind me of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner posed at their front door, as though they're pillars holding the house up. Mrs. Gardner in a long skirt; Mr. Gardner in a Ralph Lauren shirt. Like the first time I met them. Indelibly pressed into my memory.

*  *  *

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Francesca,” Mrs. Gardner said. “Alexander has told us all about you.”

“Come on in,” Mr. Gardner said, opening the door.

“Coats and bags go there.” Mrs. Gardner gestured towards a replica antique hatstand near the front door.

As we walked to the sitting room, Alex squeezed my hand before letting go. Daniel was perched on the couch, wearing a pressed shirt like Alex, his hair brushed neat. He seemed to be trying to make himself as small as possible, barely speaking as we discussed the summer heat and Mr. Gardner's recent election to the board of the local Rotary club. I glanced over at Alex, wishing I was sitting on his lap and watching a movie, his arm wrapped around my waist.

“Frankie?” Alex urged.

“Sorry?”

Mrs. Gardner was blinking at me. “What do your parents do? Your father, I mean. . . . Alex told us about . . .” She stuttered to a halt, glancing at Mr. Gardner.

“He works at my uncle's shop,” I said. “Mario's.”

Mrs. Gardner looked to her husband.

“She means he's a mechanic. I know the place,” said Mr. Gardner. He smiled and I returned the smile gratefully.

“Oh, right, a mechanic,” Mrs. Gardner replied slowly.

“Drink?” Mr. Gardner asked, standing. “Gin and tonic?”

Mrs. Gardner nodded. “Thank you, dear.”

“You kids?” He looked at Alex and me.

“We'll have Cokes,” Alex answered for us both.

“Alex,” Mrs. Gardner murmured.

“Please,” he added.

The conversation turned to school and the subjects I enjoyed. I told them that I worked at the school library a few lunchtimes a week and that my favorite teacher was Ms. Gordon, who taught art history. Mrs. Gardner murmured something under her breath that only Alex and Mr. Gardner seemed to hear.

Mr. Gardner said firmly, “The public school is fine.”

“Just,” I heard her whisper, clearly disagreeing with her husband.

Alex shot me an apologetic look.

“Why don't I give Francesca the tour?” Mrs. Gardner said, standing, drink in hand. “You boys can get the barbecue going.”

“Ah . . .” Alex stood too, but I gave him a little nod and said, “Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Gardner.”

I smoothed down the skirt of my dress and picked up my glass. Mrs. Gardner led me out into the yard, pointing out the kitchen and guest bedroom and bathroom on the way. The yard was beautiful—soft lawn edged with rosebushes and rosemary. There was an outdoor setting of white wrought iron, as if we were in Paris or one of those Hamptons homes you see in television shows. Mrs. Gardner started telling me about the roses but I wasn't paying much attention. I was wondering whether my dress was too short and if I should have tied up my hair.

“Alex says your family is European?” Mrs. Gardner asked.

“Yes. Well, Italian.”

“Italian.” She seemed to consider it and then gave a tight smile. “Yes, you remind me of someone actually, but she was French. Which part of Italy?”

“Sicily.”

“Ah.”

I immediately wished I had said Calabria. Calabria sounded more glamorous than Sicily. Some mainland Italians called us Sicilians “
Terroni
.” But only Mama was from Calabria and Papa's side, the Sicilian Caputos, easily overpowered Mama's family and
their influence. I watched Mrs. Gardner's gaze drop to my shoes and then dart back up to my dark hair. She gave another of those smiles, the ones that didn't reach her eyes.

“We're very proud of Alex,” she said.

I nodded, and felt a drip of condensation from my glass of Coke hit the top of my foot.

“He's a very smart boy.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Gardner looked at her feet. “He's always made very sensible . . . choices.”

I didn't say anything.

She lifted her head and smiled at me. “He's never been a child to worry about. A source of pride for Marshall and I. He thinks things through and makes the right choices. We expect he'll become a lawyer, like his father, or go to business school.”

I didn't tell her he was talking about studying biology.

“It'll mean he'll have to go away to college, I'm afraid.”

I nodded. Alex and I had talked about that. He didn't want to leave Washington State. I'd wanted it to be about missing me but something told me it was probably the ocean he couldn't part with.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Alex and his father standing by the barbecue. His father was wearing a striped apron. Daniel was there too, carrying a plate of steaks.

Mrs. Gardner leaned towards me. “Never mind, Francesca. Enjoy being young. It's a fun time, isn't it? Not
real
, you know, but fun.”

I stared at her, but she'd been diverted by Mr. Gardner calling for the tongs.

“I'd better help them out,” she told me, already stepping away across the lawn. I watched her go, her mauve silk skirt moving around her calves.

Alex had waved to me, his smile sweet, his eyes concerned. I'd forced a smile to reassure him and he had winked at me before turning back to his father.

*  *  *

“Daniel?” It's Bella's voice, puffing a little, coming out from the trees.

“Bella? Bella Caputo?” Daniel stands up quickly.

Bella's cheeks are red and she's smiling. “Daniel Gardner.”

Daniel blinks. “You look . . . different.”

Bella laughs. “I've been for a run. Well, jog.”

“No, I mean different like . . .”

He's still standing.

“Not sixteen?”

“The hair . . . and . . .”

“Oh, yeah, the hair. You look just the same.” She has her hands on her hips, getting her breath back.

Daniel glances at her car, then tips his head at the cabin. “Are you staying here too?”

Bella looks at me and then back at him. “Yeah.”

“I didn't know—” he starts.

“She's not really staying,” I say.

“I am,” she retorts.

“No, she's not. She's sleeping in her car.”

“There's only one bed in there. You need another bed,” Bella tells Daniel. Like it's a hotel.