Willa by Heart (8 page)

He doesn't, so I tell him all about it, especially about George Gibbs and Emily Webb. “It's supposed to be the greatest American play of all time. Auditions are next week, and I'm trying out, and I was hoping maybe you would too.”

“Sure.”

“Really?” That was easy.

“Sure, why not? And it will get my mom off my back. She's disappointed that I gave up piano lessons. Since I was little, she's always made me do something in the arts to balance out all of the sports, and I guess this counts for culture, right?”

“Oh, absolutely. Definitely culture. And Nana's
got copies of the play in the store.”

“Great, I'll buy one tomorrow,” he says.

My heart is pounding.
This is perfect.

“Willa?”

“What?”

He looks over his shoulders, up and down the beach. “So if I get the part of George and you're Emily and we get married, do we kiss at the wedding?”

“That's what the script says.”

“Good, we better practice.”

Then he kisses me, and I'm so happy I fly away with the butterflies.

It's getting dark when we pack up the picnic stuff and start heading back.

“There's the first star,” I say, pointing.

“Make a wish,” he says.

So romantic.

A star's mighty good company.

—
Our Town

I dream about a glistening wedding cake. The miniature bride and groom figurines on top are swirling around and around, dancing, dancing. They turn and I see their faces. Me and JFK.

I wake up smiling and reach for my journal to read what I wrote last night. I want to be sure I captured all the magic. Dinner on our own private island, the wind on our faces, how we laughed, talked … kissed. Then the “first star I see tonight” twinkling above. “Make a wish,” he said.
So romantic.

I can't wait to tell Suzanna Jubilee. She and Chickles, her mother—Mama B., as she tells us to call her—are coming this afternoon to talk about wedding plans.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mom and Sam are having their morning coffee. Mom is drinking decaf now that she's pregnant. She's not showing yet. It's still too early.

“We need a signature cake,” I say.

“What?” Sam says, setting down his cup. He smiles at me.

“The Bramblebriar Inn needs its own special signature wedding cake.”

“Excellent idea,” Mom says. “One more way to brand ourselves …”

“What?” Sam says.

“To differentiate ourselves,” Mom explains, “like the things we do to set the Bramblebriar apart from all the dime-a-dozen antiques and blue hydrangea bed-and-breakfast places around here.”

Sam looks at me and rolls his eyes. I smile.

“You know,” Mom continues. “Like our fresh cookies and tea at two, and the hors d'oeuvres and drinks at six, and the labyrinth and the Bramble Board …”

“Well, that's not why I started the Bramble Board, but … I love my business-minded wife,” Sam says, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“But what about the cake?” I say.

“It's a spectacular idea,” Mom says.

“Good. I'll ask Rosie to start working on a recipe. Sweets are her specialty.”

When we get home from Sunday service at BUC, I finish my homework, then begin thinking about our new Community Service project. Sulamina Mum has a teacher friend in Louisiana. Her school lost their whole library in the flood. I find a box to begin loading up. Riley offered to transport all of our boxes down South in a rental truck.

I stare at all of the books on my shelf, reading the titles, remembering. Finding books I can donate is harder than I imagined. The books in my bedroom library are my favorite, special Willa's Pix books. I can't part with any of these. It would be like giving away friends, Tina or Mum. Well, not that hard, but close.

I carry the box down to the inn library and start looking. I go from shelf to shelf, pulling out duplicates and dog-eared paperbacks and titles our guests will probably never read. When I finish, the box is full, but something isn't right.

I feel like I'm getting rid of leftovers, not giving a good Thanksgiving dinner. I want to send
those kids good books, the best books.

Sweet Bramble Books.

“Oh good, Willa,” Nana says when I enter the store. “I've got new flavors for you to try.”

The store is nearly empty. In a few weeks it will be packed with vacationing tourists looking for beach reads and kids shoveling Swedish fish and malted milk balls out of the plastic bins. Some Bramble locals have no patience for the tourists. They can be loud and demanding. But I don't mind. I used to be a tourist myself. I remember how it feels to know you have only a week to cram in a summer of fun before you have to head back over that roller-coaster bridge. It can make you crazy trying to cram in all that fun.

Now I'm a wash-ashore. That's what they call people who weren't born on Cape but move here to live. I like being a wash-ashore. It has such a romantic ring, doesn't it? Except, of course, when Nana starts ranting about some new “big-money wash-ashore” building another “McMansion” and destroying another patch of Cape Cod.

“Here,” Nana says, handing me a piece of saltwater taffy.

I undo the wrapper, pop it in, and chew. The smooth, sweet candy slides across my tongue, sticks to my molars. “Mmmmm, nice, Nana. Tastes like chocolate and strawberry.”

“Exactly” she says. “Chocolate-covered strawberries. Is it a keeper?”

“It's a keeper, Nana. It's a winner.”

“Good.” She kisses me on the cheek, all excited.

Nana has a long-running friendly battle with Gheffi's Candy Store for the title of Best Sweets on the Upper Cape in
Cape Cod Life
magazine. She took the title away from them, and they want it back. Gheffi's sends scouts over to see what new taffy flavors and fudge combinations Nana is dreaming up, and every few months I sneak in to Gheffi's to do some subtle sleuthing for our side.

When I tell Nana about our book project, she throws her hands up in the air like she's cheering at a Red Sox game. “Wonderful,” she says. “I was waiting for the perfect time. And this is it. Come on, it's quiet. I've got something to show you.”

She locks the register and motions for me to follow her to the basement.

I don't remember being down here before. So
many doors. Nana opens one, turns on a light. “Look.”

Books. A closet filled with books, shelves and shelves of books.

“Wow,” I say.

“And that's not all,” Nana says, opening another door.

This closet too is filled with books.

She opens another and then another.

“And they are all children's books,” Nana says, all excited.
“Good ones.
Gramp was …” Her voice catches. “Gramp was waiting for just the right opportunity to start a library somewhere. In fact, when we were in New York City just before he died, he was talking with a friend of ours about sending the books to a village in Kenya….”

My throat tightens. “I miss him so much.”

“I know, honey,” Nana whispers in my ear. “Me too. Give me a hug, shmug.”

We hear the bells jingle on the door upstairs. “A customer,” Nana says. She takes my face in her hands and stares into my eyes. “You take the books, Willa, and you carry on Gramp's dream. Okay? He'd be so proud of you.
I
am so proud of you.”

I wipe my eyes and follow Nana upstairs.

My heart leaps.

It's JFK.

“Hi, Willa. Hello, Mrs. Tweed. I came to get
Our Town.”

After JFK buys the book and Nana gives him a complimentary quarter pound of chocolate pecan fudge, still warm from the pan, and a bag of sour gummy worms for his little brother, Brendan, JFK says hell walk me home.

I tell him about the basement full of books and how the Blazers are coming later today to plan Suzanna's wedding, and then we turn the corner and nearly bump into Mariel Sanchez.

Her long black ringlets frame her beautiful, heart-shaped face. She's wearing a jean skirt, a low-cut white tank top, and a necklace made of beach glass—brown, blue, and green. She looks exotic, tropical.

“Joe,” she shouts. Then she hugs my boyfriend, chest to chest, tight.

JFK coughs and pulls away. “Hi, Mare.”

Mare? He calls her by a nickname?

“How are Nico and Sofia?” JFK asks awkwardly.

The two little kids, maybe? How does he know them?

“Fine,” she says. She looks at me. “I'm Mariel Sanchez.”

“Yes. We met on the beach last week.” I reach for the locket, framing the heart with my thumb and pointer finger to be sure she sees it. “I was the one calling to you. I thought you had drowned or something.” I look at JFK. I twist the heart back and forth, hoping the silver catches the sun, wanting to be certain she notices.

If she does, she doesn't let on at all. “Drowned?” Mariel laughs, a lilting sound like a chickadee. “What would make you think that? I was swimming.” She reaches toward JFK. Takes the book from his hand.
“Our Town,”
she says with a sweet-sad smile. “I didn't know you—”

“What time is it?” JFK says, taking the book back, looking at his watch. “Oh, wow, I've got to go. Baseball practice. If I'm late, Coach'll make me do laps.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, turning to watch him leave. “Call me.”

When I turn back around, Mariel is gone.

It seems to me that once in your life … you ought to see a country where they don't talk in English and don't even want to.

—Our Town

“I was swimming.”
Mariel's words scratch like a sand flea in my head as I hurry home. The nerve of her to laugh at me. And the way she smiled at JFK, my boyfriend.
My boyfriend.
And how do they know each other? I need to talk to Tina.

But that will have to wait. The Blazing Buick limousine is in our driveway.
Beep, beep, beep.

The back door of the limo flies open before the chauffeur can do his job, nearly knocking the poor guy out cold.

“Willa, honey!” Suzanna Jubilee shrieks, running toward me in a hot pink minidress. I brace
myself for the tackle. We jump up and down, hugging, laughing.

“Congratulations, Suzy. I'm so happy for you!”

“My turn! My turn! Come here, baby,” Mama Blazer says, swooping me up off my feet. “Gosh, we've missed you,” she says, planting a big, slurpy kiss on my cheek.

She sets me down and swooshes back one of her signature feather boas, this one fire-engine red. “Let me look at you.” She shakes her head side to side. “Cute as a button, pretty as a picture.”

There's that c-word again.

“Willa, I have something to ask you,” Suzy-Jube says. “Something important.”

“Sure, anything.”

Suzy looks at her mother. Her mother smiles and winks. Suzy looks at my mother. My mother smiles and winks.

“Willa,” Suzy says, then pauses.” Will you be my maid of honor?”

“Me?”

“You.” Suzanna clasps her hands together, fingertips touching her lips, eyes squinting like,
I hope you'll say yes.

I swallow hard. My eyes fill up. I've never been
in a wedding before. And the maid of honor … that's very special. “Are you sure?”

“Sure as sugar,” Suzy says. “On Saturday, June tenth, Bramble, Cape Cod, United States of
A-mer-i-ca,
is going to have a wedding like it's never had before. I'm going to have sixteen bridesmaids. That's mine and Simon's lucky number. We met on September sixteenth and we counted sixteen stars on the night we first kissed, and well, I just couldn't leave any of my best, sweet pageant peeps, my chicklets, out of the wedding party, but then I couldn't pick one favorite to be my maid of honor, the rest would get all jealous, and so I thought about who I most wanted to have up there next to me on the stage on the most important day of my life, and your cute-as-a-button sweet little face popped right into my mind.”