Forget Me Not (6 page)

’
Twas one of the charmed days…

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

The dog is licking my cheeks, my nose, my eyebrows. It tickles. I’m laughing. “Whoa, whoa! Wait a minute. Stop. Who are you? What’s your name?” I reach my hands around his neck. There just might be a collar in there somewhere. No, just handfuls of soft, smelly fur, so thick my hands could get lost in there. He’s a big stinky polar bear.

“Come on, boy, let me up.” I push the bear-dog away and stand up, wiping saliva off my face and brushing the sand off my back as best I can.

The dog is staring at me. He barks, “
Rrrr, rrrr, rrrr, rrrr
,” and wags his tail, “
rrrr, rrrr, rrrr, rrrr
,” like he’s trying to tell me something.

Which most likely he is, if only I knew his language.

“Good dog, good dog,” I say, rubbing my hands
down his coat. His fur is a rich golden color with a reddish tint. His eyes are big chocolate circles. His nose is wet. He opens his mouth wide, like he’s showing me his teeth, and I worry, because isn’t that a threatening gesture, but no, wait, he’s smiling at me.
This dog is smiling at me.
My heart melts like an ice cream cone in the Cape Cod sun.

“Where’s your owner, buddy?” I look all around, up and down the Spit.

There’s a boat anchored a bit offshore, but I don’t see anyone on it.

“Who do you belong to, huh?” I walk up over the dune.

The dog follows me. No one on the bay side, either.

I cross back over to the ocean side. The sun breaks through the clouds. Maybe it will be a nice day after all. The dog trots toward the cages where the plover nests are.

“No, buddy,” I say in a loud, stern voice, “come here.”

I whistle and slap my hand against my thigh like I’ve seen dog owners do. “Come here, boy.” At least I think he’s a boy, but I’m certainly not going to investigate.

The dog raises his head up above the sea grass and runs back to me.

“Good dog.”

I start back down the beach. Maybe the owner is up in the beach parking lot. At first the dog doesn’t move, but then he barks and comes running toward me. I rub his head as a reward. “Good dog, good dog.”

He follows behind me for a few steps, and then comes up next to me so we’re walking side by side. His fur brushes against my leg and I smile. What a nice dog.

Up ahead, I see Mariel bounding down the stairs with a beach towel, ready for a swim.

“Hi, Willa! Who’s that? Did you get a
dog
?”

“No. I found him out on the Spit. He came swimming right out of the water. I didn’t see an owner. He doesn’t have a collar, either.”

“Then he’s for
you
!” Mare says.

I laugh. “No, I’m sure he belongs to someone. He’s such a beautiful dog.”

“Was there anyone else on the beach?” Mare asks.

“No, just me.”

“Then the sea carried him to you,” Mare says with great certainty. “My mother once told me that if you find a treasure on the beach first thing in the morning and you are the only human being in sight, then it is a gift to you from the mermaids.”

I think about how Mare found the snorkel and goggles and how she thought it was a gift, but I don’t say anything. I know how much Mare misses her mother. There’s no sense debating the silliness of the mermaid idea. Dogs don’t just wash up onshore like beach glass or jingle shells or snorkeling gear.

“I’m headed to my grandmother’s store,” I say. “Have a good swim.”

“Thanks,” Mare says. “Hey, Willa, maybe we can hang together later?”

“Sure,” I say. “Why don’t you come for dinner, say around six?”

“Sounds good.” Mare takes off.

The dog sits at my feet, looking up at me, panting, like, “So, where are we off to now?”

I pat his head, lean down, and stroke his coat. “You stay here, buddy, okay? I’ve got to go. I’m sure your owner will be back soon.”

It’s strange, but I almost want to hug this dog. I think for a second,
I wish I could keep him
, but no way would my mother ever agree to that.

I get on my bike and pedal off quickly.

I hear the dog barking behind me, but I’m too sad to look back.

One man’s justice is another’s injustice;
one man’s beauty another’s ugliness;
one man’s wisdom another’s folly.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I bike into town, feeling bad about the dog. I look back a few times, but he’s not following me.
Good.
I hope that means his owner found him. When I pass the ivy-covered Bramble Library, a breeze blows and the little green hands wave
hello, Willa, hello.
I love that old library.

I actually helped save it from closing down. My class hosted fund-raising dances in the barn at the inn. The dances were mine and Tina’s idea. Our friends, Jessie and Luke, and their band performed. It was fun. The dances didn’t raise much money at all, but two of our guests, the Blazers, had a ball at the Thanksgiving dance, which we named the “Turkey Tango,” and when they got wind of the library situation and how much it
meant to me, lo and behold, at our next dance, they became the library’s very generous Valentine’s donor. That was the night JFK and I danced in the barn by firelight and he gave me the heart-shaped locket.

I need to talk with him. Where has he been?

I pass the movie theater, the two-for-one tourist T-shirt shop, Fancy’s Fish Market, and Wickstrom’s Jewelers, where JFK bought the locket. If he doesn’t call me back today, I’m biking over to his house tonight.

My hairdresser, Jo, is in the window of her salon, Hairs to You. There are tall silver buckets of pink-and-white stargazer lilies out in front of Delilah’s Florist. I can’t resist. I stop and breathe them in.
Hmmm, beautiful.

When I get to Sweet Bramble Books, the bells above the door jangle a greeting, and the smell of chocolate, mint, and taffy swirl up to my nose,
hello.
Nana is at the counter weighing individual cellophane bags of penny candy for a family with several children. The father is watching the numbers on the scale and the mother is searching for something in her pocket-book. One of the kids, he looks about three years old, backs over to the gummy fish bin, checking to make sure his parents are still distracted, and then, with this big grin on his face, is just about to stick his hand in
the fish when Nana calls out, without even looking, “Use the scoop, young man. Thank you.”

The kid jumps, nearly pees his pants scared, like,
How did she see me?
I giggle quietly. Nana’s got X-ray vision when it comes to kids messing with her gummy fish bin. Nana looks over at me and waves. Her dog, Scamp, comes to greet me. I bend down and scratch him around his ears like he likes, but instead of rolling on his back, so I can rub his belly, Scamp barks and sniffs my fingers. He probably smells the dog from the beach. I hope the dog found his owner by now.

Over on the book side of the store, Dr. Swaminathan, my English teacher at Bramble Academy, is just finishing with a customer. He’s going to be working here part-time this summer. Nana said she’s sure glad to have someone so highly knowledgeable about books. Nana is the candy expert. Gramp was the book lover in the family. He owned the town bookstore and then when he and Nana married, they combined their businesses into Sweet Bramble Books, my notion of the perfect store. Give me books and candy and I’m a happy camper.

“If you enjoy the book, there’s a sequel due out in January,” Dr. Swammy says to the customer. “Let me know what you think, Mrs. Goodale. I’ll be interested to hear.”

The lady thanks him and leaves.

It feels strange to see another man standing there behind the counter in my grandfather’s spot, in the bookstore Gramp loved so much. I can feel Gramp’s spirit here. I hope I always will. And I know Gramp would approve of Dr. Swaminathan. Dr. Swammy loves books the way Gramp loved books. Nana and I joke that Gramp’s probably up in heaven right now, starting book clubs and making sure God reads the “good ones.”

“Hello, Willa,” Dr. Swammy says. “How’s your summer going?”

“Great,” I say. “Welcome back. How was India?”

“I enjoyed spending time with my family,” he says, “but I was saddened by the spread of the water crisis.”

“The water crisis?”

Dr. Swaminathan shakes his head. “Very, very dirty water.”

I lean on the counter and Dr. Swammy explains how waterborne diseases are threatening the lives of thousands, maybe millions of people.

“The Ganges is poisoned,” he says, “and yet people still drink from it. They scoop it up in their hands like you and I turn on a faucet in our kitchen. And the problem doesn’t end there. The polluted water is also
used for crops and so it affects the food supply as well. All across India,” he says sadly. “Wells are closed, pumps are locked. People are dying of thirst.”

People are dying because they don’t have water. In this day and age? How can that be? I remember Sulamina Mum’s words. “What can I do?” I say, ready to help.

Dr. Swammy smiles. He tells me about an organization he’s affiliated with that raises money to bring in water treatment equipment and dig for new wells. As he talks, I think maybe I’ve found my new service project for the summer. I think about the fancy water bottles we have at the inn and the designer water at the pet spa. Something’s very wrong with this picture. I decide to investigate this issue further online later.

Dr. Swaminathan asks what I’m reading.

“I haven’t started our required class list yet,” I say, “but don’t worry, I’ll get to it in August.”

Dr. Swammy laughs. “I wasn’t worried at all.”

I tell Dr. Swammy about the skinny-punch books and some of the titles Mrs. Saperstone suggested for me.

“Very nice selections,” Dr. Swaminathan says. He stares at me for a second. “Willa, do you know…is Mrs. Saperstone staying in Bramble for the summer?”

There’s an unfamiliar sweetness in the tone of Dr. Swammy’s voice. I look at him and he looks away, as if embarrassed.

“I want to consult with her about a writing contest I’m thinking of starting,” he says, not looking at me while he’s talking.

Beep-beep-beep.
My Cape-cupid radar goes off in my brain. Dr. Swammy likes Mrs. Saperstone! Of course. I’ve seen them sitting together at BUC. They’d be perfect for each other. They’re both single, about the same age, and they both love books.
Perfect.

If I may brag for a moment, I do have a stellar reputation for matchmaking. First, I hooked up my mother and Sam. I should have won a gold medal for that one. Even though Stella Havisham had a booming business planning other people’s weddings, my mother had written off love for herself. She had been so brokenhearted over my father’s death. It took a long time, but it was worth the wait.

Next, I played cupid for Nana and Gramp Tweed. He ran a bookstore; she ran Clancy’s Candies. Books and candy, my two favorite things. Nana and Mr. Tweed, my two favorite people. It was a no-brainer, truly. I invited them to a picnic at my house and
boing
, it was love at first bite (of the picnic food, I mean, no vampires in Bramble that I know of).

My most recent match was Sulamina Mum and Riley Truth. All I did was coax Mum into writing a letter to her long-lost high school sweetheart—it was no easy task, she fought me on it—but, finally, Mum took a leapfrog leap of faith and wrote Riley a letter and
boing
, that letter hit home better than that bare-butt baby’s bow and arrow. I’m now a firm believer in being a “leaper.” Sometimes you’ve just got to close your eyes and leap right over the scary part, to get to the thing you want.

“You should go to the Bramble Library tonight,” I say. “Mrs. Saperstone is doing a program on good ‘beach reads.’ The Red Hat ladies were talking about it this—”

“The Red Hat whos?”

“This cool group of ladies who are staying at the inn. But, enough about them. Back to Mrs. Saperstone. It starts at seven. There’ll be iced tea and refreshments. I know she’d love to see you.”

“Really?” Dr. Swaminathan says.

I can’t tell for sure, but he looks like he’s blushing.

“Absolutely.” I nod my head definitively. “Oh, and, maybe you’d like to bring her some candy? I know Mrs. Saperstone loves those chocolate-covered cranberries Nana makes.”

Back over on the candy side of Sweet Bramble Books, Nana comes toward me with her arms wide open. “Give me a hug, shmug.”

I tell Nana what I found out about the new saltwater taffy section at Ghelfi’s. “You can’t compete with their variety,” I say, “so we need a different strategy.”

“Okay, good,” Nana says, looking around the store for spies, rubbing her hands together, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Hit me with it.”

“I was thinking…you know how you get those little messages inside fortune cookies and how much fun that can be?”

Nana nods her head yes.

“Well, what if we tied happy thoughts around the taffies, like they do around Hershey’s Kisses. Sort of add to the value of the purchase? Create a new candy buzz?”

Nana claps her hands, all excited. “I like it!”

“I can write the messages,” I say, “no problem. All you’d need to do is print them out and cut and—”

“Brilliant!” Nana says, hugging me. “I tell you, Willa Havisham Gracemore, you’ve got good candy
genes. Good book sense and candy smarts. Sweet Bramble Books will be yours someday.”

Outside, I get on my bike, feeling proud that I can help Nana. I’ll start writing those taffy tags today. It’ll be fun.

Passing the town green, I spot the dog from the beach. He looks up at me and barks and runs toward me like he’s been waiting for me. I keep biking.

He’s following me.

I turn the corner toward home and sure enough, the dog follows me up the driveway to the Bramblebriar Inn. I can hear him panting behind me.

Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away.

“Willa! Come say hello,” my mother calls to me. She’s sitting on the front porch with Katie Caldor, Mrs. Caldor, and four pretty girls, probably Katie’s bridesmaids, most likely going over last-minute wedding details.

Mrs. Caldor is wearing a stunning pale blue sundress with a matching hat. The Caldors are known for exquisite taste in fashion. They own the chain of Caldor Creek clothing stores that started right here on Cape Cod.

I start up the steps. I hear the dog following me.

Go. Go away.

“What a cute dog!” Katie Caldor says, and as if on cue, the dog bounds up to the wicker table, knocking over the pitcher of lemonade right onto Mrs. Caldor’s lap.

She jumps up, horrified.

“Oh, Vivian, I’m so sorry,” my mother says, peeling a lemon rind off of Mrs. Caldor’s beautiful dress. “Willa, run and get a towel and some club soda.”

After the Caldors leave, I bring the dog a dish of water. He laps it up gratefully and then sprawls out under a shady tree, big brown eyes looking up sheepishly.

“That’s the dog that defecated on the beach yesterday, isn’t it?” Stella says.

“Mom, give him a break. He’s just a dog.” And then, I know she’ll say no but I always say you’ve got to be a leaper and so I take a leap: “Mom, do you think he could stay here for a while until we find the owner? I’ll make up signs and post them around town…”

“Absolutely not,” she says. “In fact, please go ask
Sam to call animal control or town hall or whomever one calls about these things.”

“Mom, that’s not fair.”

My mother lowers her voice as some guests walk by. “You heard me, Willa.”

“But, Mom…”

“No buts about it, Willa. I don’t want a dog traipsing through my inn.”

My temper flares. “Well, it’s my home, too, and you better get ready for no
mutts
about it, because the Sivlers are opening up a pampered pet spa next door and
dogs
are going to be our new neighbors.”