Wish I Might Read online

  “He ran an advertising agency,” I say, remembering one of the few things Nana told me about my birthfather. My mother always refused to talk about him. “His company was called ‘What’s the Big Idea?’”

  Will nods. “Clever title.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I guess he had quite a way with words.”

  “Back to the story,” Will says. “My grandparents had my mum pegged to marry another bloke, Russell Denwood, of the Denwood furniture fortune. My mother was a weak bird and couldn’t defy her parents. She spent her whole life trying to please them and couldn’t change course then. She broke it off with Billy Havisham, broke his heart, she said, and he left London the following day. Shortly after, my mum realized she was carrying Billy’s baby.”

  “You?” I say.

  Will nods. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says.

  We’re silent for a minute. So it’s true. We had the same father. Will is my brother. I have a brother. Wow.

  A red bird flits by and perches on a headstone. A breeze cools my face.

  “So did your mother marry that Denwood guy?” I ask.

  “No,” Will says, shaking his head. “When the Denwoods discovered my mum was pregnant with another man’s child, they called the whole thing off. They threatened to disinherit their son, take away every penny, if he married ‘that tramp,’ as they called her. Denwood, the wormy bloke, wasn’t about to give up his inheritance. My mother slunk off to live with her aunt Clarissa who had a sheep farm out in Wiltshire. That’s where I was born.”

  My head is spinning, trying to take in this story as it unfolds, here in this old cemetery. The red bird is staring at me. “So do you still live on that farm?”

  “No.” Will shakes his head sadly. “My mum passed on when I was little. My grandparents galloped in and swooped me up from the sheep farm like the trophy at a foxhunt and brought me to their estate to live. They thought I’d be an interesting diversion, sort of like a puppy or—”

  “Oh, my gosh,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but that reminds me. Where’s Salty Dog?”

  “No worries,” Will says. “Your friend Ruby took Salty for—let’s see, what did she say—oh, right. A day of pampering at her poochie spa.”

  “Oh, great,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Never mind. Go on.”

  Will laughs. “Well, my grandparents are rich as royalty, thirteen servants, grand manor estate, land the size of London. You Americans would probably say it’s a castle. Not to me. To me it was a prison, Tower of London. I couldn’t wait till they shipped me to boarding school. Least now I’ve got people to talk to.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I say.

  “Thanks,” Will says. “She was a weak one, but she loved me.”

  “I’m curious,” I say. “Why didn’t you just write to me if you wanted to make a connection? Wasn’t it a bit extreme to boat over to the Cape and …”

  I stop talking when I see how Will is staring at me. There’s something more. Something he’s not telling me. “What?” I say. “Come on.”

  “No,” he says, “that’s all.” Will watches a squirrel climbing a headstone. He tosses the squirrel a cookie crumb. I look over. The red bird is still there.

  “No,” I say. “Tell me the rest.”

  “That’s enough for today,” Will says, standing up.

  “Tell me, Will. Now.”

  Will sips his iced coffee all the way down to the gurgle-slurp, his eyes never leaving mine. He sighs. “Okay,” he says, “here goes.”

  My heart is pounding like storm waves against the jetty.

  Will hesitates.

  “What? What?” I say. “Straight out with it. Now.”

  “I think our father is still alive, Willa. I think he’s somewhere on Cape Cod.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A Perfect Family

  The sun was shining on the sea,

  Shining with all his might:

  He did his very best to make

  The billows smooth and bright —

  And this was odd, because it was

  The middle of the night.

  — Lewis Carroll

  Good thing for the roar of the motor so I don’t have to talk as Will rides us back across Nantucket Sound to Popponesset Beach. The sky is clouding up now, the water choppy. A large sailboat zips past us, sails puffed full of wind. I think of my disastrous date with JFK last month when he surprised me with a ride on his little Sunfish sailboat. How silly I was to be scared.

  Suddenly all of my previous fears and worries seem minnow-fish foolish.

  What if Will’s theory is true? What if my father is still alive?

  It’s chilly. I shiver, wrapping my arms around my chest.

  Will notices and offers me a jacket.

  “Thanks,” I say. I take the jacket, zip it up. I zip my lips, too. I move to sit as far away from him as I can, eyes squeezed tight against the wind.

  My birthfather, Billy Havisham, might be alive? He might be somewhere here on Cape Cod? I’m barely over the shock that I have a brother I never knew I had, and now this mind-numbing possibility that I might have a father, too? And, oh, my gosh, how will Mother react?

  The theories Will shared with me just now in that Vineyard cemetery are filled with Swiss cheese holes. His evidence, if you could call it that, is flimsy slim, old newspaper photos and hunches. Either this is a very cruel joke or he is delusional. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

  No. No. No. I shake my head against the wind.

  Finally, my mother is happy. I am happy. For the first time in my life, I can call a place “home.” At last my mother has stopped making us move like nomads. We’ve set down roots. We have a nice house. Good friends. Nana and Sam. Wonderful Sam. The man who has been a real father to me. The man I now call “Dad.”

  It took my mother more than a decade to get over the pain of Billy Havisham’s death. She dove into her work with an all-consuming force, refusing to fall in love again, frozen like a statue in a cathedral. I tried for years to match her up with nice men, potential fathers for me—oh, how I wanted a father, a real father—but no, Mother refused to crack.

  Then along came Sam. A soft-spoken English teacher, a poet, a man who designed and built a spiritual circle, a labyrinth rimmed with flowers, a man who never has a harsh word to say about anyone, a man who fills bird feeders and plants butternut squash. Sam, wonderful Sam. With quiet patience and persistence he loved Stella with a love as powerful as the Crusades, and wouldn’t let my mother run away again.

  Finally, I have a perfect family. And now, after all these years, now there’s a chance that my birthfather is still alive? NO. It can’t possibly be true….

  “Willa,” Will shouts, snapping me out of my reverie. “See that over there?” He cuts the motor abruptly. The boat rocks in the wake. I quickly grip the side for support.

  “What are you doing?” I say, annoyed.

  “Look,” he shouts all excitedly. “There it is again!” He laughs. “I saw a tail flip up over —”

  “Stop,” I say, cutting him off before he starts any more baloney-talk about mermaids. “We’re out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. There are thousands of fish. They all have tails. Dolphins, seals, whales. So what if—”

  “I know what a whale’s tale looks like, Willa,” he says, sounding like I’ve truly hurt his feelings. “This was different.”

  “That’s enough, Will. I’m done. Take me back right now,” I say. “I’ve had enough of your stories for one day.”

  “But, Willa …”

  “But nothing. I don’t believe in mermaids. I’m not sure I believe in you. Take me home. Now.”

  When we get back to Popponesset Beach, there are only a few people still standing with the little girl on the bluff. The police cars and television station vans are gone.

  “I’m sorry for snapping,” I say to Will. “I need time to think.”

  “Sure, I understand,” he says. “I’ll be tied up with the Southends tomorr
ow for the holiday, anyway. Here’s my number.” He hands me a slip of paper. “Call me when you want to.”

  I stuff the paper in my pocket and hurry up the beach stairs.

  As I pass the little mermaid spotter, I hear her mother say, “I’m sorry, Natalie, but it’s time to go. We still have to pack up and clean the cottage.”

  Their vacation rental time must be up, another family moving in tomorrow.

  “No, Mommy, please,” the little girl begs. “She’ll come back. I know she will.”

  “I’m sorry, Nat, really, honey, but we can’t stay here any longer. Daddy will be worried. Our vacation’s almost over. Let’s not spoil it, okay? We’ll be back next summer. You’ll have another chance then.”

  The girl is crying. I feel sorry for her. She’ll have to wait a whole year to enjoy this place again. I remember looking forward to that week or two each summer when I would come to visit Nana. Now, I am so lucky to live here all year-round.

  Billy Havisham might still be alive? How will Mother react? What if she freaks out and says we have to move again? I want to tell her, but I am afraid. Should I tell Sam? No. That seems like such a betrayal to tell Sam before Mother. Billy Havisham was her husband. Oh, my gosh, I’m so confused.

  Home at the Bramblebriar, I hurry past guests relaxing on the porch. I’m not in the mood for happy chatter. I want to be alone. I notice a poster for the annual Sand Castle Competition at South Cape Beach this Saturday. I sneak past Mother, busy on the phone at the registration desk. If she sees me she’ll know something is wrong. She reads my face like a calculator, never missing a thing.

  I tell Makita, one of our workers, that I’ve got a headache and would she please tell my mother that I’m going to bed early. Upstairs, I check my cell phone. Still no JFK. Where are you? No “miss you, pretty girl” or “I hate Florida without you” or “wish you were here” or “I’m flying home early … baseball is a bore.” I plop on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  A few minutes later there’s a soft knock at the door.

  It’s Rosie with a tray of soup and some crackers.

  “I’m leaving for the day,” Rosie says. “Makita said you weren’t feeling well. Just thought I’d bring this in case you got an appetite.”

  “Thanks, Rosie,” I say, turning my face toward the wall.

  She comes over to my bed and strokes my hair. “Are you okay?”

  Her kind voice brings tears to my eyes. Maybe I can tell her…. No. She’s been working all day and I’m sure she’s tired and anxious to get home to Lilly. That would be selfish of me. I turn to her and feign a smile. “Just missing my boyfriend,” I say.

  “Oh, of course. I should have known,” Rosie says, laughing. “Hang in there, girl, it’s only a few weeks. He’ll be back before you know it.”

  When Rosie leaves, I open my journal and write so long and hard my hand cramps up. I eat the now-cold chicken soup, grateful I don’t have to face my mother downstairs. I try calling JFK. No answer. I leave him a text message. “It’s true. Will is my half brother. I need to talk to you. Please call. Willa.”

  Reading will take my mind off things.

  I leaf through the stack of skinny-punch books Dr. Swammy selected for me. The nice part about having a bookstore in the family is that I get my choice of paperbacks free of charge. That’s good because I like to read with a pen in my hand, marking up things that move me.

  I open Song of the Trees by Mildred D. Taylor. It’s only fifty-two pages long. The main character, Cassie, loves the big old trees in the forest by her house. She talks to them and they sing to her. Others try to tell her that trees can’t sing, it’s just the wind, but Cassie knows better than that.

  I think of the little mermaid spotter, back at her rented cottage packing to go home. I bet when she leaves the Cape tomorrow, as her family’s car is crossing over the Bourne Bridge to the mainland, she’ll be taking one good last look down at the water in the Cape Cod Canal, earnestly hoping for one final glimpse of that mermaid she knows for certain appeared to her, even if nobody else believes.

  There’s a knock on my door. I open my eyes and yawn, realizing I fell asleep. I look at the clock. The door opens. I close my eyes.

  “Willa,” I hear Mother whisper, “are you awake?”

  I don’t answer.

  My mother crosses the room. She tucks the thin summer comforter up under my chin. She kisses me gently on the forehead.

  “Good night, Willa,” she says.

  I almost open my eyes. I almost tell her.

  She turns off my night-light. I hear the door close.

  Good night, Mom.

  The worries flow back, the worries and the tears.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Orphans

  Alone, alone, all, all alone,

  Alone on a wide wide sea!

  — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop! The sound of firecrackers somewhere outside wakes me up the next morning.

  I open my eyes. It’s the Fourth of July. Happy Independence Day.

  I check my phone, still no messages. What?? I turn on my computer. There, yes.

  Three messages from JFK. He lost his cell phone, “sorry.” That explains it. He’s started his internship, mostly grunt work, fetching gear and fly balls, but it’s “all good.” His grandparents have neighbors with grandkids his age, and he’s already making some friends. Guy friends, I hope, but he doesn’t say.

  Someone’s knocking on my door. “Come on in,” I call.

  It’s Mother. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Better,” I say, not making eye contact. “Thanks.”

  “Want to go for a run with me?” she says.

  “Sure, Mom. Give me a minute and I’ll meet you downstairs.” I slip on shorts and a T-shirt, lace my sneakers, pull my hair back in a ponytail. I look at myself in the mirror. Tell her, Willa.

  Outside we stretch and walk to warm up.

  “Where’s Salty?” Mom says. She knows he’d be the first in line for a morning run with us.

  “I think he’s with Sam,” I say, feeling bad about lying, feeling worse about losing my dog.

  Ruby’s mother, Mrs. Sivler, is standing on the front step of No Mutts About It. She’s wearing red strappy sandals, blue shorts, and a tight white camisole top, the picture of patriotism. Hands on her hips, she is muttering something to herself, shaking her head disgustedly.

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Sivler?” I call over, then instantly wish I hadn’t. What if Ruby told her mother about Will? What if Mrs. Sivler tells my …

  “More orphans,” Mrs. Sivler says, throwing up her hands, exasperated.

  “What do you mean, Sherry?” my mother says, confused.

  That makes two of us.

  “Somebody left another basket of mangy mutts on our doorstep this morning. One of my workers called me to report it. Look at them.” She points to the basket. “Skinny, scurvy little rats. What am I supposed to do with them?”

  Rats? I walk over and look in the basket.

  Kittens. Three adorable, just-born-looking orange kittens all curled up in a clump. “Oh, how cute,” I say.

  “Cute!” Mrs. Sivler says. “Eeew! No papers, pedigree, nothing. Why would somebody leave them here?”

  “Well, this is a pet spa, Sherry,” my mother says matter-of-factly with a pleasant smile.

  I don’t feel so neighborly. “Did you ever consider that maybe the owner couldn’t afford to take care of them?” I snap.

  Mother touches my arm, discreetly warning me not to be disrespectful.

  “People are losing their jobs,” I say. “Some families can’t afford to feed their children, let alone their pets. Maybe —”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” Mrs. Sivler sputters. Her perfect little white poodle, Pookie, runs out from the spa. She scoops him up in her arms, pulling him in tight to her ample chest so he won’t have to bear the sight of those awful orphans in the basket. “Good morning, baby,” she say
s. “How’s Mommy’s pookie-wookie snukum-pumpkin today? Did you have a nice bubble bath?”

  “You could feed them,” I say.

  “Feed who?” Mrs. Sivler says.

  “The kittens,” I say. “I bet they’d like some milk or …”

  My mother clears her throat. I look at her. I swear she almost laughed.

  “Try calling the town, Sherry,” Mother suggests. “The Bramble Animal Shelter. They’ll come and get the kittens,” she says. “Willa got her dog from that place. Very nice man runs it.”

  Salty Dog. I thought you were mine.

  Mrs. Sivler snivels her upper lip up to meet her nostrils. “I suppose I could do that,” she says. “Although it’s certainly not my responsibility.” She reaches into her pocket. She offers Pookie a treat.

  One of the orphans makes a soft purring sound.

  I look down at the kittens and smile. You’ll be okay, don’t worry. They’ll take good care of you at the shelter.

  Mother and I wait until we’re a block away and then we burst out laughing.

  “Can you believe that woman?” Mother says.

  “The orphans,” I say. “Wait till I tell Mariel.” My throat clenches. Where are you, Mariel?

  “I almost told her to send the kittens over to us,” Mother says. “We’ve got a gang of barn cats they could join, but I wanted to see Sherry squirm a bit.”

  I laugh. My mother is surprising me. She actually has a sense of humor. Maybe this would be a good time to tell her about …

  “Ready?” Mom says, adjusting her Red Sox cap, all set to run.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “Let’s go!” she says, and we’re off.

  Mother sets the pace. I try to keep up. My mom is a serious runner. I’ve only just recently started. My mother does 5 and 10K races for charity on the Cape and in the Boston area. She’s even done some half marathons. She wants me to train and run the Falmouth Road Race with her next month. I doubt that I’ll be ready, but I’m glad to have this time with my mother. She’s usually so busy between running the inn and planning weddings that we don’t spend much time together.