Forget Me Not (10 page)

To believe your own thought,

to believe that what is true for you in your private heart

is true for all men—that is genius.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m not sure how, but I want to help Aunt Ruthie. Spruce seems nice, but I don’t feel comfortable breaking the news to him that his fiancée may not want to get married!

Sam is in his study writing. When he sees me in the doorway, he slides the yellow tablet into his desk. I tell him about Ruthie crying. Sam says he isn’t quite sure what to do. “I wish my mother was still alive,” he says.

Rosie shrugs her shoulders when I tell her. “I think you need to leave her alone, Willa,” Rosie says, “give
her some space. Everyone gets emotional before weddings.”

Given how busy Mom is and given how she and Ruthie seem to despise each other, I approach my mother as a last resort. When I tell her what happened, she looks at me for a moment and then her eyes begin to glisten. She smiles and says, “Don’t worry, Willa. I’ll talk to her.”

What?
I’m amazed. “Thank you, Mom,” I say.

JFK calls to say he’s leaving today. A day early! He’s coming over at four to say good-bye.

I start crying as soon as I get off the phone. I don’t want him to go.

It’s good that I’m getting the tears out now, though. I don’t want our last time together to be sad.
Stupid baseball.
I glance at the cover of
Edward’s Eyes.
There’s a boy holding a baseball glove, looking so happy. I start reading. I’m finished in an hour. It’s a beautiful story. JFK would like it.

I make a quick trip to Cohen’s card shop and I’m waiting on the porch with a gift bag when JFK arrives. A cry catches in my throat, but I push it back down and smile a happy smile for him. He’s carrying a paper
bag with a shiny red holiday bow stuck on. “For you,” he says.

It’s a reusable water bottle just like his.

“You said you wanted green, right?”

“Yes,” I say, laughing. “Thank you.”

“I know it’s not the kind of present girls like,” he says.

“It’s perfect,” I say, “I’ll start using it today. And besides, you already gave me the perfect present.” I show him the silver locket I wear every day.

“Still got my picture in there?” he says.

“Maybe,” I say, then laugh. “And here, this is for you.” I hand him the bag.

He unwraps the pocket-size, black-lined journal—-Moleskine, it’s called. Hemingway loved these. “To catch your lyric ideas,” I say. The other gift is
Edward’s Eyes.
“It’s about baseball and something more.”

He smiles. I hug him.

We go to Bloomin’ Jean’s for ice cream. JFK promises to call. I tell him to have a great time in Florida. “See ya in August,” he says.

Be brave, Willa, be brave. It’s only for a month.

Mom says she had a good talk with Ruthie. She doesn’t tell me details, just that Ruthie is a “very strong-willed and independent woman,” used to only focusing on herself and her work, and she was getting last-minute cold feet about sharing her life with someone else. She loves Spruce very much. It’s just that she loves her work, too.

“I could relate,” Mom says.

I smile at my mother. “Nothing wrong with being strong-willed, independent, and happily married, too,” I say. “There’s a way to be queen and not kill the king.”

Mom bursts out laughing and hugs me. “Who raised you to be so smart?” she says.

“Seems to me you and Aunt Ruthie are kindred spirits after all.”

“Maybe,” Mom says, “but I’m not about to stop blow-drying my hair.”

We laugh. “Mom…about the dog.”

Her happy face hardens. “Please, Willa, stop. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this isn’t the time to bring home a dog.”

“When is the right time?”

“I don’t know, Willa. It’s something we would need to talk about and plan for. We just finished furnishing the inn and everything is just the way I like it.”

“But, Mom, I really, really want this dog. I love this dog.”

She sighs. “Willa, it’s a stray. It could be sick or—”

“He’s fine, Mother. I’ve been visiting him every day and he’s healthy and—”

“You’ve been visiting him every day? Oh, Willa. What am I going to do with you?”

“Let me adopt Salty?”

“
Salty
?” Mother starts to say something, then stops. “Willa, I’m sorry. I’ve got to meet with the bandleader for the Caldor reception. I’ll think about—”

“Oh, Mom, thank you,” I hug her tight.

“Wait, Willa. I’m not promising anything.”

“I know. I know. Just, thank you!”

I run to my room and call Mariel.

She laughs and I hear Sofia and Nico laughing in the background, too. “Why are you so surprised, Willa? I told you. That dog belongs to you.”

I’m so happy I could burst. Just a few more days and Salty’s coming home!

Later, Mom knocks on my door. “Willa, you wanted to come to the staff meeting, right?”

Mother has name tags and a marker so that we can
all learn one another’s names. I listen respectfully as Mother, and then Sam, discuss their lists of issues. When the time is right, I ask if I may make a suggestion.

“Certainly,” Mom says. Sam nods encouragingly.

“I think we should adopt a no-water-bottle policy here at the inn.” I share the statistics JFK gave me about throwaway plastic water bottles and the information I learned from the Internet and the heartbreaking story about polluted water that Dr. Swaminathan shared with me.

Sam shakes his head. “Good idea, Willa. There are a lot of other things we can do like that. I’ll purchase reusable grocery shopping bags the next time I go.”

Darryl says, “I’ve been wanting to suggest that we offer guests the option of reusing towels and bed linens, rather than washing all those towels and sheets every day. We waste so much water and energy.”

“I like that idea,” I say. “I could write up little cards for the room explaining that we’re trying to be more earth-friendly here at the Bramblebriar.”

A few other people make suggestions. Mother seems to be agreeable. This is good. We’re starting small, but who knows where this will lead. I think of Dr. Swammy’s bumper sticker, T
HINK GLOBAL.
S
TART
LOCAL
. I feel proud that the Bramblebriar is going greener.

Someone coughs and I turn around. Aunt Ruthie is standing in the doorway with her arms folded, nodding her head, smiling. I bet she thinks she inspired all of this. Well, that’s fine by me.

The reward of a thing well done, is to have done it.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Saturday morning dawns bright and beautiful. Rosie finishes the two wedding cakes and I carefully add the wishing well charms. Mother is bustling about in top form, barking orders at everyone about the Caldor reception before heading off to Bramble United Community for the ceremony. I wonder who the new minister will be tomorrow?

Sam is mowing the walkway in the Labyrinth. The puffy blue hydrangea, sweet-smelling red-and-pink dianthus, the roses, and all the wildflowers, too, are flaunting their petals like bridesmaid dresses swooshing back and forth on the dance floor.

I look up. Not a cloud in the sky. No need for a tent tonight.

Ruthie and Spruce’s guests arrive and I escort them to the Lodge. I talk with their friend, Michael, about the service. I explain to Ruthie and Spruce how the ceremony will go, the two of them, walking one, then the other, through the circle path of the Labyrinth to the stone bench in the center where their guests and Sam and Mom and I will be waiting. Ruthie and Spruce asked Sam and Mom to be best man and maid of honor.

I see that the tables are set up on the pavilion, twinkle lights strung around the borders. I pick daisies and brown-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace and arrange them in simple vases for centerpieces. I make a hydrangea bouquet for Ruthie and set it in water in a cool place in the kitchen. I double-check the menu with Rosie and leave notes for the staff members working tonight. I call the DJ. He’s all set.

Then I remember something. All those years when Mother wouldn’t let me help with the weddings, I had a little secret ritual. Mother was known for her signature Twelve Perfect Ingredients for a happy wedding day. I would sneak down to her studio the night
before the weddings and add a little ingredient of my own. I would sew a cherry pit into the hems of the wedding gowns. Just a symbol, really. A little seed of good luck and a reminder that the work of a happy marriage was just beginning. After the glow of the Cinderella ball, the perfect gown and food and music and flowers, from that day forward, it’s all about the love.

Quickly, I bike to Nana’s store. Good thing she has cherry cordials in the case. When I get home, I offer to press Aunt Ruthie’s wedding dress and she agrees. I take it to my room and carefully, very carefully, sew in the Willa Havisham Thirteenth Secret Ingredient. I close my eyes and make a wish for Aunt Ruthie and Spruce. “And PS, it would be nice to have some cousins.”

It’s going to be a beautiful wedding.

Oh, no, a
photographer.

I completely forgot! Who can I get on such short notice?

A car passing by catches my eye and I look across the yard to No Mutts About It. There are bunches of gold and silver helium balloons waving in the breeze and a large banner above the door,
GRAND OPENING TODAY
. I run over.

Ruby and Tina are serving punch in the lobby. There are two silver-tiered serving trays with dog-bone-shaped cookies, one marked “Poochies,” the other marked “Parents.”

“Willa,” Ruby says, “welcome.” She scoops me a ladle of punch.

“Guess what,” Tina says. “No, you tell her, Rube, it’s your story.”

“This place is haunted,” Ruby whispers, smiling sweetly at a lady with a tiny pinch-faced dog. “Hello, Mrs. Fieldstone. Hello, Fe-Fe. Such a pretty girl!”

“The workers couldn’t get the door open on one of the upstairs rooms,” Ruby says. “It was barricaded somehow from inside. Finally, they had to break the door down. And, guess what? Someone was living there!”

So that explains the movement at the window.

There’s a commotion behind us. “Darling!” Mrs. Sivler says, moving toward the doorway to hug a lady with two tall Dalmatian dogs. “Welcome to No Mutts About It.”

“Ruby,” I say. “I have a favor to ask you.”

“Sure, Willa, what?”

I tell her about the wedding and ask if she’d be willing to be our photographer. “I saw what a great job
you’re doing with the lifeguards. I’m sorry for the short notice, but it’s my first solo wedding and somehow I forgot about pictures.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Tina shouts. “It’s your wedding planning debut! Congratulations, Willa. I’m so proud of you. I want to come see. Can I come, too?”

“Sure,” I say, “that would be great.”

This day couldn’t be turning out better. I race to the shelter to see Salty.

Mr. Sweeney looks up when I come in the door. I can tell by his face, something’s wrong.

“I’m sorry, Willa,” he says. “The dog’s owner came early this morning. He had the paperwork and tags and everything.”

“No,” I say, slumping down in a chair, my heart rushing up to my throat like I’m choking. “Who are they? What took them so long? If they loved that dog, they would have claimed him before now.”

“I’m sorry, Willa. I really hoped it would work out for you. But the owner is a very nice boy, a few years older than you, I’d say. He’s not from around here. Sounded British to me. He was visiting friends on Martha’s Vineyard and rode his boat over. He had it
harbored out off the Spit and the dog jumped overboard.”

Mr. Sweeney talks some more, mentions other nice dogs and cats who would make “lovely pets,” but there is no substitute for Salty. I love that dog.

He was mine.

Heading back to the inn, I’m in no mood for a wedding. But this is Ruthie’s day and I’m her wedding planner, so I push my sad feelings down deep inside and lock them up tight till later.

The inn is packed when I get home. My mother is waiting for me. The Caldor ceremony went smoothly and now the reception is well under way. My mother looks gorgeous in a pale blue linen suit. “Willa,” she says, “I’ve been thinking. And talking with Sam. I’ve decided to let you adopt that dog.”

A sob slips out and I dash upstairs before I scare all the cheerful wedding guests.

Ruthie and Spruce’s wedding is perfect. The Labyrinth feels holy and magical. Mariel sings like an angel. The bride and groom hold hands and face each other and speak their vows eyes to eyes as if they are the only two people here. But we are here, to
witness their obvious, deep love for each other. Ruthie and Spruce cry. Mom and Sam cry. I look over and catch Tina’s eye. She puts her hands together as if she is clapping for me and then gives me a thumbs-up sign. I hold my composure. I am a professional, after all.

The dinner is delicious. The Wedding Man takes requests and because the party is small, everyone gets one of the wedding cake charms. Each corresponds to a letter in the name of our inn:

B…a book

R…a rose

A…an angel

M…a mirror

B…a beach dune

L…a labyrinth

E…an envelope

B…a butterfly

R…a ring

I…an inkwell

A…an anchor

R…a rainbow

I let all the guests go ahead of me. There is one ribbon left.

The inkwell. I hold the little charm in my hand and smile.

“What one did you get?” my mother asks.

I show her. “That’s right,” she says. “My daughter, the writer.”

My eyes fill up.

“I’m so sorry about the dog,” she says.

“I know, Mom. Let’s not talk about it right now.”

“Sure,” she says, “I understand.” A song pumps up, an oldie about girls just wanting to have fun. “Come on,” she says, “let’s dance.”

And for the first time ever, I dance with my mother.

She’s a decent dancer for a mother.