Sacred (38 page)

The five of us—an awkward party—made our way downtown to dinner. The evening air was moist but not as cold as it had been on the island. I wondered if this was because we were on the mainland or because spring was upon us.

The restaurant our parents chose was loud and crowded. There was a half-hour wait before we’d get a table, but after conferring briefly, our parents decided that every restaurant would have the same crowd this time of night.

So we waited; knee to knee, we were packed like sardines on the wooden bench at the front of the restaurant. Will and I were flanked by Martin and my mom and dad, and they attempted small talk across us.

My parents asked Martin how he liked island life—very
much, thank you—and what kind of research he’d been involved with back at Yale—Kabbalah studies, he answered, and though I knew for a fact my parents had no idea what that meant, they did not ask for details.

At last the waitress led us to our table—a booth. Once more we slid into position, re-creating the seating arrangement we’d formed on the bench.

I ordered pea soup and a salad. Will had the same. The food took forever to arrive, and when it finally came, it wasn’t very good. Still, we managed to work our way through the meal.

Finally, the check arrived and Martin reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. “Ah,” he said. “I almost forgot. This came for you today.”

He extracted a thick envelope and laid it on the table in front of Will.

Mr. Will Cohen
, read the envelope.
38 Olive Lane
.

The return address was Yale’s.

I watched Will open the letter, and though the restaurant was still crowded and loud, I could clearly hear the sound of the envelope tearing.

Dear Mr. Cohen
, read the letter.
We are pleased to inform you …

That was enough. I knew what the rest would say. The words blurred and I tried to disguise my reaction with a chirpy tone that sounded transparent to my ears. “That’s great, Will!”

Will looked at me. My parents echoed my congratulations, sounding more sincere than I had been able to. Martin thumped his son on the back.

From the restaurant, it was a short walk to the hotel where we’d be staying the night.

My parents checked the three of us into one room with two queen-sized beds. Martin and Will were on the first floor, several floors below us. I took the bag my mom had packed for me into the bathroom and showered, washing the smell of smoke out of my hair, forcing myself to concentrate on my hands massaging my neck, the warm rain of water on my skin. I refused to think about anything else—the fire, Will’s letter. After I dried off, I searched through the bag Mom had packed. There were yoga pants and a tank for sleeping in, and a fresh pair of jeans and a thermal for the next day. I didn’t hesitate to pull on the jeans and thermal.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I found my parents tucked into bed together watching television. They raised their eyebrows at my clothes, but neither really looked surprised.

“Going somewhere?” my dad asked.

“I won’t be long,” I said, but I wasn’t asking for permission.

“Take a key,” my mother called after me.

The elevator descended smoothly. I found Will and Martin’s room—137—and rapped sharply at the door.

Will answered. He’d changed his clothes too, and his hair was wet from the shower. He smiled and called back into the room, “I’ll be back, Dad.”

We took the elevator to the top of the hotel. On its roof was a Japanese garden, probably the inspiration for
the hotel’s name—Bonsai—and the plants and grass were woven through with pebbled paths and curved benches. The paths were lit with softly glowing lanterns that swung just a bit in the night air.

We settled on a bench that gave us a view of the lights below. So much life down in the city—so many stories, so many possibilities. You could get lost down there. You could lose someone.

“Scarlett,” Will began, “about Yale—”

I shook my head. “Let’s not talk about it,” I said. “Not right now.”

“Scarlett, I—”

Will might have said anything next. Maybe he would have said that he
had
to go to Yale—such an opportunity! Or maybe he had been about to say that he’d stay with me on the island, if I wanted him to, if I asked him to. That being together was more important than anything else.

But I stopped him again. “Look at all the lights,” I said. They twinkled below us in a mosaic of oranges and yellows and whites. “One thing I’m coming to learn,” I said, “is that it’s better to be happy than not.”

“You’re just learning that?”

“Maybe I’m not explaining myself clearly,” I said. “What I mean is, here we are.” I gestured at the garden, at the lights, at the star-bright sky. “We might as well enjoy it. After all, who knows where we’ll be tomorrow, or what we’ll be doing. We have this, right now. And it’s beautiful.”

Will understood what I was saying. I could extract a promise from him, if I wanted to. He would most likely offer
one to me willingly. But I didn’t want a promise. I didn’t want assurances. I wanted this moment. It was all any of us could hope for.

We kissed then, the electric current of our connection looping through us, weaving us together. I closed my eyes and disappeared into the kiss, and I thought,
We have six months. Or six weeks. Or six minutes. We have this moment
.

That night, I had the dream again. Once more, I lay on the warm sand, and the crust of it split, and I sank down into it—my legs, my hips, my stomach, arms, and head—but I did not struggle. I didn’t fight. Instead, as I sank deeper and deeper through the sand, I focused all my energy on lifting just one hand—slowly, by inches, through the pressing weight atop me.

And when the warm, strong fingers found my hand, I wrapped my fingers around them in turn, and I surfaced, slowly, gradually, without thrashing or panicking. My eyes were closed to keep out the sand, but when I broke through to the surface at last, when I brushed the sand from my eyes and looked up to smile at my savior, I knew exactly who I would see.

There she was—tall, strong, her long hair loose behind her. Her smile was wide and healthy. Her eyes were blue and clear. She was beautiful.

She was me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many wonderful women helped make
Sacred
a reality, and I want to thank them all. First, my sisters—Mischa Kuczynski Erickson, who helped me brainstorm the initial outline poolside with pretzels and cheese sauce, and Sasha Kuczynski, my tireless first editor, who was there when I wrote the last words. Paige Davis Arrington, thank you for helping me learn how to finish a project and how to feel like a writer. Laura Jane, thank you for watching the kiddos while I wrote. Amy Antoine, you gave me the idea in the first place. Thank you.

Rubin Pfeffer, who pulled my manuscript out of the slush pile and wrote to me the very next day—not to mention came up with the title—you are the agent of my dreams. Deborah Warren, how lucky am I that you and Rubin are a package deal? Thank you for your support and enthusiasm. And deep gratitude to the people at Delacorte Press who had a hand in bringing
Sacred
to fruition—first of all my editor, Françoise Bui. Thank you for loving my story, and for your eagle-eyed line edits. Thanks too to Kenny Holcomb, who designed
Sacred
’s beautiful cover. I love it so much. And I’m
grateful to Jody Revenson, copy editor, who taught me what “roller-coastering” is and why not to do it.

I am thankful as well to my family of origin, who supported my dual fascinations with horses and books. See, it paid off after all!

And inexpressible thanks and love to my husband, Keith, who loves me, and my children, Max and Davis, who gave me a reason to prove it can be done.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ELANA K. ARNOLD
thinks everyone has a story to tell. It took her a long time to find hers. She grew up in Southern California, where she was lucky enough to have her own horse, a gorgeous mare named Rainbow, and a family who let her read as many books as she wanted. She lives in Long Beach, California, with her husband, two kids, and a menagerie of pets, including her chicken, Ruby.
Sacred
is her debut novel. Visit Elana at
elanakarnold.com
.

THE SEQUEL TO
Sacred

COMING FALL 2013
!

And read on for a peek
at ELANA K. ARNOLD’S NEXT NOVEL,
BURNING
,
AVAILABLE JUNE 2013!

BURNING
Small-town boy. Gypsy girl. Desert summer
.

Ben:
Having just graduated from high school, Ben is set to leave Gypsum, Nevada. It’s good timing, since the gypsum mine that is the lifeblood of the area is closing, shutting the whole town down with it. Ben is lucky; he’s headed to San Diego, where he’s got a track scholarship at the University of California. His best friends, Pete and Hog Boy, aren’t as fortunate; they don’t have college to look forward to. So to make his friends happy during their last days in town, Ben goes with them to check out the hot chick parked on the side of Highway 447.

Lala:
She and her Gypsy family make money the way her people have been earning it for centuries—by telling fortunes. Some customers choose Tarot cards; others have their palms read. The thousands of people attending the nearby Burning Man festival spend lots of cash—especially as Lala
gives uncanny readings. But lately Lala’s been questioning whether there might be more to life than her upcoming arranged marriage. And the day she reads Ben’s cards is the day everything changes for her … and for him.

Told from alternating points of view,
Burning
brims with the passion of two young people, both at crossroads in their lives, and both forever altered by a moment in time.