Willa by Heart (12 page)

“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 and 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.”

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.

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 Willafred. 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.