Forget Me Not (7 page)

Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

I storm into the inn to look for Sam. He’s out in the vegetable garden.

His eyes smile when he sees me. Sam is always happy to see me.

I burst into tears and tell him what’s going on.

“Well,” Sam says, taking off his gloves, “first let’s see this dog.”

We walk out front to the big oak tree. The dog is sound asleep. Sam kneels on the grass beside him and gently pets the dog. The dog opens his eyes. He looks at Sam and then he looks at me.

I pet him and he licks my hand.

“What a gorgeous golden,” Sam says.

“So he’s a golden retriever?”

“Yep. I had one, growing up.”

“What was your dog’s name, Dad?”

“Henry.”

I laugh. “Where did you get the name Henry?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, laughing, “but I’m sure it made perfect sense at the time.” Sam rubs his hands through fur. The dog rolls on his back and lifts up his paw like he wants to shake Sam’s hand. Sam shakes his paw and laughs, “Good dog.”

“What happened to Henry?” I ask.

“He died of old age when I was in college. He lived a good, long life, though, old Henry did. Ruthie and I…we loved that dog.”

“Speaking of Aunt Ruthie,” I say, “I think I’ve got everything planned for the wedding.” I tell Sam my idea to hold the ceremony in the Labyrinth. It seems only fitting that Sam’s sister should say “I do” there. The Labyrinth is Sam’s creation. It’s a circular garden path. You enter between two shrubs and follow the narrow walkway, looping in toward the center, out toward the border, circling around and around until you reach the stone bench in the middle. Sam says walking the Labyrinth is a spiritual thing for him. Sam has planted perennial flowers and berried bushes all along the borders so that there’s always something beautiful blooming as you walk. It’s funny, though, when I walk the Labyrinth, I don’t focus on the flowers
at all. I walk and breathe and wait to hear whatever comes up inside me.

My mother comes down the steps to join us. “Have you reported this yet?”

Sam turns and looks at my mother. She folds her arms across her chest.

“I was just about to do that, Stella,” Sam says, turning back to the dog and scratching behind his ears. “Such a beautiful dog.”

“Shake my hand, boy,” I say, and sure enough he does.

“What a smart dog!” I say. I look at my mother. She isn’t melting a bit.

“Oh, and watch this, Mom,” I say. “He
smiles.
” I smile a great big jack-o’-lantern toothy smile at the dog. “Come on, buddy, smile. Smile.”

The dog looks at my mother and barks.

“Well, if you aren’t going to call someone, I will,” Mom says. “This dog could have fleas or ticks or rabies or who knows what.” She walks up the stairs and into the inn.

Sam leaves. “Be right back.”

I stay with my dog from the sea. I have the strange sense again that someone is watching me. I look up quickly at that second-floor window next door. But, no, nothing. I shake it off.

Sam returns with some leftovers from last night’s dinner. The dog sniffs the roast beef and turns away.

“I think he prefers seafood,” I say.

Sam goes in and comes back with a bowl of dry cereal. This is more to the dog’s liking. The Millers are walking up the driveway. They come over to see the dog. Mike the mailman comes and I go to get our mail. Two postcards for me! One from Mum and Riley from Disney World. One from Suzanna Jubilee and Simon on their honeymoon in Italy. “Venice is spectacular,” Suzie writes. “We ride the gondolas every day. And you should see the boys here, Willa. Bellissimo, Bellissimo. We’re coming to visit you in August! I’ll bring pictures. Ciao, bella bebe, hugs and kisses, Suzie Jube.”

Mum writes, “We met Mickey and Minnie, took a ride in Cindy’s pumpkin, and had breakfast with Pooh. The fireworks show was spectacular, but couldn’t hold a sparkler to Cape fireworks on the Fourth of July. I miss Bramble. Hope you like the new minister. Give my love to everyone. And please tell Stella and Sam to plan a visit. Riley and I would love to show you some Southern hospitality. Love, Mum.”

There’s a letter addressed to the Bramblebriar Inn, “Attention Rosie.” I note the return address. It’s from Mrs. Chickles Blazer at the Blazers’ California zip
code. They own at least three mansions in this country and a château in Paris, too.

Hmmmm.
I wonder why Mama B is writing to Rosie? It must be about the wedding cake. At Suzie Jube’s wedding Mama B nearly split a seam raving about that wedding cake. She said it was the best she’d ever eaten. “Give me your phone number, honey. Papa B and I are going to make you famous!”

The animal control truck pulls up. A man in a gray uniform gets out, says his name is Mark Sweeney. He asks me where I found the dog. I tell him as much as I can recall. Mr. Sweeney approaches the dog slowly and gently puts a harness around him.

“Where are you taking him?” I ask, feeling like I’m going to cry.

“Bramble Animal Shelter.”

“Where’s that?”

“On Mill Road, across from the waste treatment plant,” he says, then laughs. “Not much of a location, but we just planted some flowers out front.”

I know where the waste treatment plant is. It’s on the way to Mariel’s.

“What are you going to do with him?” I ask in a very stern voice, like,
You better treat him well.

Sam comes over next to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. My mother goes in the house.

“We’ll scan him for a chip,” Mr. Sweeney says. He explains that many pet owners now have a microchip implanted in their dogs and cats for easy identification if they get lost.

“We’ll check him for fleas, give him a bath. This one’s a smelly guy, huh, boy?”

“He’s just salty from the sea,” I say, defending my dog.

“We’ll give him a rabies shot. Check him over. Be sure he’s not injured. If he is, we’ll bring him to the vet; otherwise, we’ll just kennel him and hold him for five days.”

“How do you try to find the owner?” Sam asks.

“We’ll post a photo on our Web site and hope for a call.”

“What happens after five days?” I say, all worried. What if they put him to sleep?

“It’s Bramble town policy, after the fifth day, if the owner doesn’t show, we get the animal ready for adoption. We’ll make sure he’s neutered, flea-free, run him through a behavioral test, and then put him up for adoption.”

“
Adoption?
” I say. I look at Sam. He nods and smiles reassuringly.

I feel hope rising inside me like a balloon. “You mean if no one comes in a week, we could adopt him?”

“Sure,” Mr. Sweeney says. “And I hope you will. You’d have to pay a fee, of course, and we’d have to come do a home inspection, a background check…”

“A background check?” Sam says.

“Well, basically, we’d talk with your neighbors and make sure there’s no history of animal cruelty.”

“We love animals,” I say, already auditioning for the role of “Mom.” “And there’s a pet spa opening right next door, so you can be sure he would be pampered.”

“Well, that sounds fine,” Mr. Sweeney says, “but for now, I’ve got to take this guy in. See if his owners show up.”

My eyes fill with tears.
Don’t show up, don’t show up. This is my dog now.
I hug Salty Dog and whisper, “Don’t worry, boy, you’ll be okay. I’ll come visit you tomorrow.”

Up in my room, I take out my journal and pour out fast what’s happening.

I might adopt a dog! He’s already mine. In my heart, I know he is. Mare’s right. He came to me. From the mermaids, straight out of the sea.

I think about that boat anchored in the bay.

Could Salty—that’s what I’d name him—have fallen overboard? No. That would have been a very long way to swim. Dogs don’t like to swim that far, right? I have no idea. I don’t know much about dogs at all. Except that I love this one. Sam and I have a whole week to work on Mother. Maybe when she sees how much we both want…

When I finish writing, I take out my bag of saltwater taffy. I’m in the mood for peppermint. I open a smooth white-and-red striped candy and pop it in my mouth. That reminds me. The messages for Nana’s “taffy tags.” I like this idea. I should get a patent on it or something—I bet that’s what Tina would tell me to do.

I wonder how Tina and Ruby’s book is coming along.

I grab a notebook and pen. Let’s see…taffy, taffy…

Eat Taffy. Be Happy.

A taffy a day keeps the troubles away.

One taffy’s good; two is better.

Don’t Worry. Be Taffy.

Sandy sneakers, taffy teeth—Welcome to Cape Cod.

I laugh and put the notebook aside. Nana’s going to love these. Nana would be so happy for me if I could adopt Salty. Why does Stella have to be so mean?

I look at my short stack of skinny-punch books, scanning the titles. Which to choose next?
The Hundred Dresses
by Eleanor Estes,
The Whipping Boy
by Sid Fleischman. My eyes land on
Love that Dog
by Sharon Creech. I know that author. She won the Newbery Medal for
Walk Two Moons.
I open
Dog
and start reading.

When I get to the line about the “yellow dog,” I smile.

I’m going to have a yellow dog, too.

Soon, I just know I will.

The only way to have a friend is to be one.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Mariel comes at six for dinner. With her deep brown eyes, glistening skin, and long black ringlety hair, she’s stunning in a simple jean skirt and tank top. She has on the beach-glass necklace, with the blue-green-white-brown, blue-green-white-brown pattern she was wearing the day I discovered that she and Joseph were friends. We all ran into one another outside of Nana’s store. It was awkward. I was jealous when she got the role of Emily in
Our Town
and JFK got the male lead and they kissed in the play, but JFK insisted that he and Mare were just friends.

“Am I too early?” Mare says.

“No, you’re right on time. Come on in. My mom’s out shopping and my dad’s running the kitchen tonight, so it’ll just be us.”

I worked out the menu with Sam ahead of time. Barbecued chicken, potato salad, sliced tomatoes, and green beans.

“Hello, Mariel,” Sam says, draining a pot at the sink and then moving back to the sizzling pan on the burner. “Welcome. How’s your summer going?”

“Great, Mr. Gracemore, thanks.”

“Can we expect to see you in any more productions this summer?” Sam asks.

“I want to audition for Maid Marian in
Robin Hood
,” Mare says, “but the Wellfleet playhouse is out of biking distance, so we’ll see.”

That must be the audition she was talking to JFK about at the baseball field. I sure hope he’s not auditioning. Aren’t Robin Hood and Maid Marian in love? I’m certain there would be kissing.

Something steams up on the stove and Sam turns. “I’m sorry…back to work. Why don’t you girls fill your plates and sit out at the picnic table by the pond? It’s a perfect evening for alfresco dining. And I’ve got the wickets set up for croquet.”

“That sounds nice,” Mare says. “Thanks for having me over, Mr. Gracemore.”

We fill our plates and head outside. I tell Mare to duck when we pass by the dining room window. “If
the Red Hats spot us, they’ll want to talk all night, or worse yet, join us.”

Mare laughs. “I like them. I plan on being a Red Hat when I’m older. Red hat, red shoes, red everything. I want to live life
big
and have some fun. Don’t you, Willa?”

“Absolutely.”

We talk about the plover thing. We talk about books. Mare says she’s reading
Esperanza Rising
by Pam Muñoz Ryan, and highly recommends it. I ask her how long it is. I tell her I’ll try it when I’m off my diet. Mare laughs when I tell her about the skinny-punch books. She says she wants to try that, too.

“I’ll give you my Willa’s Pix list,” I say.

“Where did you get that idea from?” she asks.

I tell her how I went to Saratoga, New York, with Tina and her family on a summer vacation and we visited the famous racetrack there. Local kids do a daily “Kid’s Pix” listing their favorite horses in each of the races for that day. That seems like so long ago now. Something tells me that if Tina had to pick a friend to go with her this summer, she would pick Ruby.

I look at Mare. She’s looking out at the pond, enjoying her food, enjoying being here. Such a different place from the ugly, cramped motel she lives in.

I’m glad Mare’s here. I like her, a lot. I can tell we’re going to be good friends, but right now I’m hoping she won’t stay too long. I want to see JFK tonight.

“I can only hang out until seven,” I say. “I hope that’s okay.”
She’s your friend, Willa, just tell her the truth. No…what if she wants to come, too?

“Oh, sure,” Mare says. “I need to leave soon anyway. I promised Papa I’d pick up some things at the market.”

“How is your father? And Nico and Sofia?”

Mariel’s father is in a wheelchair. JFK said he was injured in a work-related accident. I’m not sure how. Nico and Sofia are twins, three years old, I think. I don’t ask Mare about her mother. I want to, but it feels too personal. I’m hoping she’ll talk about her someday, though. JFK said Mrs. Sanchez is an actress off pursuing her “big break,” with Mariel’s blessing, if you can believe it. Mare told JFK her mother was like a bird who would die if her wings were clipped. Well, that might be so, but it seems to me a mother bird shouldn’t fly off and leave her babies, no matter how talented she is.

We bring our dishes into the kitchen. Sam gives Mare a container of fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies to bring home to her family. When Mare
leaves, I go upstairs and fix my hair, brush my teeth, and put on some lip gloss and perfume. I put some cookies in a bag, stick it in the basket of my bike, and head toward JFK’s, taking a different route so I won’t run into Mariel passing by the market.

As I pass the gray clapboard Bramble Beach Association building, the parking lot is full. A sign reads:
IMPORTANT MEETING TONIGHT
. 7
PM
.

That’s funny, I don’t remember Mom and Sam talking about a meeting tonight. We belong to the BBA. All the people who own homes in this area do, a couple hundred families I think it is. We pay yearly dues for beach maintenance and landscaping and other stuff. In the summer, there are softball games, craft classes, and movies for kids, and card games and things for adults. Nana likes the Thursday night square dances. The big event is the Fourth of July Field Day, coming up next week.

I wonder what the meeting’s about? I wheel my bike into the rack and go inside.

Ruby Sivler’s father is at the front of the room. There’s Tina’s father, Mr. Belle. There’s the lady who owns the huge white house with the swimming pool right at the entrance to Sandy Beach. Several people I recognize as Ruby and Tina’s neighbors. The “boat crowd” as Sam would say.

“It’s high time we took back our beach,” Mr. Sivler is saying. “First we’ve got intruders trespassing on our beach, more and more each summer, and now the best part of the Spit is roped off for
birds.
I don’t know about you, but I work hard all week. I want to enjoy my beach on the weekends. There’s something wrong with this picture, people.”

There’s lots of clapping.

“We need to protect our investment,” Tina’s father, Mr. Belle, says. “And we need to take action, quickly. The sand on the Spit is slipping away like the proverbial hourglass. First it’s a few beach towels and a boat anchored here and there, next thing you know, they’ll be pitching tents and acting like they live here.”

There’s a commotion throughout the room.

“As president of the BBA,” Mr. Sivler says, “I’ve taken the liberty of developing a system for preserving our rights and policing what we’re entitled to.”

Mr. Sivler explains that every Bramble family who has “legal deeded rights” to the beach will be given a small white flag with a number on it. He holds one up and waves it to show how simple the idea is. “Each certified BBA member family whose annual dues are paid will be assigned a flag with a number. “When you’re at the beach, just post your flag in the sand next
to you. Then we’ll all know who belongs here and who doesn’t.”

“How we gonna enforce that?” someone shouts out.

“Good question,” Mr. Sivler says. “We’ve hired three retired police officers to patrol the beach and guard the entrances to the parking lot. They will approach unfamiliar people and ask to see their flag. If the party cannot produce a flag, they will be escorted off the beach.”

There’s a rumble of
good
s and
that’s right
s and lots of heads nodding.

I feel uneasy inside. Something’s not right here.

“But this system will only work if we all participate,” Mr. Sivler says. “We must be vigilant. If you are on the beach and see a party you don’t recognize, ask them to produce their flag. Or, if you are uncomfortable approaching strangers, which is perfectly understandable in the world we live in today, just talk to one of the patrol officers and they’ll take care of the situation.”

“The bottom line is this,” the lady who hires the lifeguards says, “you either belong on this beach or you don’t. We’re just protecting what’s ours.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.
They sound like a bunch of toddlers crying, “Stay away from my sandbox or I’m going to tell my mommy!” Maybe that’s
why Tina was asking Mariel who she was with on the beach, implying that she didn’t belong there. Mariel bikes miles from her crummy motel-room home to swim at this beach. She’s not harming anything. I think the flag thing is a stupid idea and I have half a mind to speak my piece about the beach, but it will be dark soon and I’ve got my priorities in order. Boyfriend? Beach? Boyfriend? Beach? That’s easy.

When I get to Joseph’s house, there he is, sitting on the steps talking to Mariel.
What is she doing here?
I drop my bike on the lawn and walk toward them.

“Hey, Willa,” Mariel says, standing up to go. “Well, I better go—I have to pick up milk. See ya later, Joe. Sorry you can’t do
Robin Hood
, but I’m happy for you. Have fun. Send me a postcard, okay? See you guys later.”

I don’t say anything to Mariel as she leaves. I’m not sure whether to be suspicious or jealous or what. I walk up the stairs.

JFK smiles and says, “Hi.”

“Where have you been?” I say. “Why haven’t you called? I’ve left you tons of messages.”

“I know, Willa. I’m sorry. Stuff came up…”

“What stuff?” I’m angry.
What stuff could be more important than your girlfriend?

“Baseball.”

Of course.

“Guess what,” he says, all excited. “My dad’s friend, the sports editor down at the paper, got me a gig working at the Marlins training camp!”

“In
Florida
?”

“Yes! Isn’t that cool? I can stay with my grandparents and…”

“When?” I say, my heart sinking into my stomach.

“I’m leaving Friday, I think. As soon as Dad gets my ticket and Mom finishes packing me up.” His face is glowing.

“For how long?”

“The whole month.”

“Wow,” I say, “that’s great.”

“I know,” JFK says. “Can you believe it!”

“No,” I say, looking away.

“Listen…Willa,” JFK says. “I’m sorry I got down on you for not telling me you were scared the other day. I just think we should trust each other enough to tell the truth.”

I have very good taste in boyfriends.
I smile. “Were you really considering another play with Mariel?” There, I got it out.

“Maybe.” JFK smiles. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous? Come on.” He hugs me.

We talk for a while, about small stuff. He’s so happy, I don’t tell him how I truly feel. First, I spoiled his joy about the sailboat. I’m not going to rain on his baseball parade, too.
It’s only a month. Deal with it, Willa. But it’s summer vacation and he’s my boyfriend. Right, but he’s your friend, too. See how happy he is? Be happy for him. He’d be happy for you. Stupid baseball. Soccer is a much better sport.

“It’s dark,” Joseph says, “I’ll bike you home.”

When we get to the inn, all the lights are lit up and someone’s playing the piano. Next door, the soon-to-be pet spa is all lit up, too, except that one upstairs window. Several workers are inside, hanging curtains, opening boxes, filling shelves. There’s a sign out front:
GRAND OPENING JULY 1ST
. That’s this Saturday. My first solo wedding day. And I wanted JFK to come. I try not to be upset.

We sit up on the old stone fence. JFK inches in closer to me. Crickets are chirping, a firefly flits past, the sky is brimming with stars.
Stop showing off, Nature.

Joseph takes my hand, twines his fingers through mine. “Hey,” he says in a sweet, soft voice. “Why so quiet?”

“No reason.”

He touches my chin, turns it toward him, and then he kisses me. He smells faintly of sunscreen; he was probably sailing today. We kiss until I hear the Red Hats laughing and hollering and hooting it up as they walk up the street from town. Those ladies are having way too much fun just coming from the library. Their laughter is contagious. It makes us laugh, too.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” JFK says. He jumps down from the fence and then reaches his hands around my waist to help me down. We kiss again. So what if the Red Hats see!

I’m too wired to write in my journal. My mind is spinning. I can’t sleep. I go up on the widow’s walk. Long ago, Cape Cod wives would pace back and forth on these rooftop perches, staring out to sea, hoping to spot their husband’s boat sailing safely home to harbor. Unfortunately, the whaling life was a treacherous one, and many men died at sea. Thus the name “widow’s walk.” I check out the sky, spot the North Star and the Dippers, let the air
whoosh
against my face, then go back to my room, still restless.

I reach for
Locomotion
by Jacqueline Woodson. There are three books by her in my summer stack. I pull out my taffy and start reading:

This whole book’s a poem ‘cause every time I try to tell the whole story my mind goes
Be quiet!…

The taffy wrappers pile up. I finish the book in an hour. Wow, can this lady write. I love “the voice.” English teacher Sam says you can teach people a lot of things about writing—plotting, pacing, characterization—but voice, that’s something of a mystery. Sam says a writer either has it or she doesn’t. Jacqueline Woodson has it.

When I snuggle under the covers, I close my eyes and the movie starts in my mind. JFK and I kissing on the old stone fence. At least we have four more days before he leaves. At least he’s not heading out to sea for who knows how long on a whale hunt. Stupid baseball. Then I picture Salty Dog smiling at me and wonder how he’s doing.