Wish I Might (3 page)

There’s a photographer across the street from the Bramblebriar Inn. Mother said she was having new shots taken for the advertisements we run in the bride and travel magazines. The gardens are in full bloom. It’s a great day for pictures.

I smile at the words on our Bramble Board:

It’s my job to post inspirational messages on the board. I keep a collection of quotes in a blank book my stepfather, Sam, passed on to me. Sam started the
tradition of the Bramble Board. It’s one of the things that makes our inn special.

The Bramblebriar is a beauty if I do say so myself. The main house is three stories high; white with green shutters; four chimneys; thirty rooms; large, wide front and side porches wrapped around; all framed with pretty trees and flowers—deep blue hydrangeas, Cape Cod’s signature flowering bush, cascading pink roses, and happy Shasta daisies dancing in the breeze.

There are seven other smaller guest lodges on the property; a big, old converted barn where we host receptions and dances and other events; acres of groomed grass for croquet and badminton and boccie; Sam’s amazing labyrinth walking circle; fields of wild-flowers; a swing set, sliding board, and seesaw in the children’s area; a pond for summer swimming and winter ice-skating; hammocks and benches; and wicker chairs and chaise lounges set casually about in relaxing spots. Birdbaths and bird feeders are everywhere. You couldn’t ask for a prettier home.

The Gracemore estate was willed to Sam by his grandmother. Sam never could have afforded such a magnificent property on his schoolteacher’s salary, but in her will his grandmother said that of everyone in the family Sam was the one who truly loved Cape Cod
the most and therefore the estate should be his. I like that kind of reasoning.

When my mother and Sam got married, she took over the renovation of the estate. My mother, Stella, has exquisite taste in color, paints, and fabrics. She used to be one of the country’s most famous wedding planners. Now her main job is running the inn, where she still gets to weave her wedding-planner magic, since the Bramblebriar is one of Cape Cod’s most popular wedding venues. We hosted the wedding of Susanna Jubilee Blazer, of the millionaire Blazer Buick USA family, and the wedding of debutante Katie Caldor of the Caldor Creek chain of women’s clothing stores.

When I was younger, much to my dismay, my mother wouldn’t let me get involved in her wedding planning business. She didn’t want my brain to get all loopy, dreaming of gowns and Prince Charmings and fairy-tale fluff. But now that I’ve proven myself a straight-A student with my sights set on college, the overly strict Stella has lightened up on the rules a bit.

First, Mother let me help her with two weddings, Suzie Jube Blazer’s and then the wedding of our dear family friend, the former Bramble town minister, Sulamina Mum. I got to be the maid of honor in both of them! Mum and her husband, Riley, have moved to South Carolina. I miss her so much. I think it will
be a long while before I see Mum, but Suzie Jube and her husband, Simon, have promised to come visit in August. Whoopee!

When Mother saw that a bit of wedding work didn’t drain my brain cells, she let me handle a wedding all by myself, just last weekend.

Sam’s sister, Ruthie, contacted us out of the blue to say she wanted to get married at the inn, with less than a month’s warning. My mother was already booked handling the Caldor wedding, so I offered to plan Ruthie’s wedding myself. And I must say, without meaning to brag, my wedding-planner debut was a success — not a glitch, hitch, or sloppy wedding gown stitch. (I sew a little secret something into the hem of each Bramblebriar bride’s gown for luck.)

I set Ruthie and Spruce’s simple but elegant ceremony out in Sam’s backyard labyrinth and planned a delicious vegetarian dinner per the culinary preference of the bridal couple. The flowers were freshly plucked from the Bramblebriar gardens. Our assistant head chef and chief baker, Rosie, made her famous wedding cake, filled with my signature wedding charms, and my friend, Mariel Sanchez, nearly stole the bride’s spotlight with her exquisite singing.

Mariel just moved here to Bramble this past year, but she and I are quickly becoming close friends. Tina
Belle has been my best friend since I moved to Cape Cod, but lately she and Ruby Sivler seem to have way more in common. Boys and being beautiful, boys and being beautiful, boys and being beautiful. Little time for anything else.

Mariel has a challenging life. She lives with her father and two younger siblings, three-year-old twins Nico and Sofia, in a crowded room at a scummy rundown motel called the Oceanview, on the outskirts of town. Mariel’s mother is off pursuing a career in acting. Mr. Sanchez was injured in an accident and moves about with difficulty in a wheelchair. A town van comes to take him to work each day.

Mariel and I have very different family circumstances, but we have important things in common. We share a great love of reading and the ocean, and we are finding that we also share similar values, like we think people ought to care more about providing safe drinking water for human beings than serving designer water to pets. That was Ruby Sivler’s big dilemma last month—which designer water to serve at her parents’ new No Mutts About It pet spa that just opened next door to the inn. They offer filet mignon dinners, deep fur massages, and “paw-dicures” to overnight poochie guests. Mariel and I
love pets, but we rolled our eyes at the “paw-dicures.”
Oh, please.

Wait until I tell Mariel about the mermaid. I’ve no doubt she’ll believe.

Mariel once told me the sweetest story about how when she was a little girl, her mother used to say that at the end of a beach day, when the tide sweeps all the pretty sand castles out to sea, not to be sad because the mermaids are waiting for them. The mermaids sing a song and turn the castles into cakes.

Mermaid wedding cakes.

I don’t believe in mermaids, but that’s such a pretty thought.

Mariel also says that if you find a treasure on the beach when no one else is around, that it is a gift sent especially to you from the mermaids.

When I found Salty Dog walking alone on the beach, Mariel insisted he was for me. A gift from the mermaids, she said. I had noticed a boat harbored just offshore that day and briefly wondered if the dog belonged to the owner of the boat. I know now that it was Will Havisham’s boat.

I smile, remembering the spring morning I first saw Mariel. I was on the beach early. The fog was blanket thick. I spotted something swimming out past the jetty.
It was such a chilly day I doubted it was a person, until, sure enough, Mariel popped her head out of the water and called to me.

Later, when I described the encounter to Tina, about the strange girl with the dark eyes and long ringlety hair swimming in that cold, cold water, Tina said, “Maybe she’s a mermaid,” and we giggled.

Inside the inn, my mother is at the registration desk checking in new guests, an attractive and well-dressed couple, locked arm in arm, in love.

“I’ve put you in the Walden suite,” Mother says. “It’s one of our nicest. I think you’ll be pleased. Breakfast is on the sunporch from eight to ten. Fresh cookies and iced or hot tea from two to four. Complimentary appetizers at six, just a few minutes from now, and dinner is served from seven to nine. We’ll keep you well fed at the Bramblebriar.” She laughs. “I’ve taken the liberty of making you an eight o’clock reservation, assuming you might like some time to rest. I do hope you have a wonderful anniversary stay with us. Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your time with us more enjoyable.”

My mother should write a book about customer service. In addition to her talents as a wedding planner
and innkeeper, she has her MBA. This lady knows how to run a business. She graduated top of her class, and shortly after that met Billy Havisham in a swirl of cherry blossoms in a park in Washington, D.C., and got married.
Will Havisham — is he Billy’s son?
Mother looks up sharply, as if she’s read my mind.

“There you are, Willa,” she says disapprovingly, glancing at the clock. “Hurry and change. You’re serving.”

I zip up the stairs to my room. I wash my face and put on a jean skirt, pink top, and leather sandals. Running a brush through my hair, I pause to look at the blue-eyed man in the photo on my dresser. I slather on some lotion, a little mascara, blush, lip gloss, and then a squirt of perfume … done. Tina says she’s never met a girl who gets ready faster than me. She says I do a disservice to the female species. If word gets out, all the other Bramble boyfriends will complain. Tina takes a good two hours to primp and pamper, although that girl is so gorgeous she could fall out of bed in the morning and win any beauty pageant on the planet. Tina’s so pretty she glitters. I feel a pang of sadness. Are we really not best friends anymore?

Down in the kitchen, Sam hands me a tray of mini crab cakes topped with dollops of fresh salsa and tartar sauce. “How was your day, Willa?” he asks with a
smile, setting some lemon wedges around the border of the tray. As hectic and hot as the kitchen is this time of day, Sam is cool as a cucumber, peaceful.

I take a deep breath and let it out. When I’m around Sam, I feel calmer. I want to tell Sam about the British boy and the mermaid and JFK leaving, but there isn’t time. “Good,” I say. “Thanks, Dad. How was yours?”

It stills feels awkward to say “Dad” — it’s only been since Father’s Day, but Sam truly feels like the father I never had, and so I wanted to give him that honor, calling him “Dad.” Sam said it was the nicest gift anyone ever gave him.

“Perfect,” Sam says. “Got some gardening in, planted some more butternut squash and pumpkins, scoped out plans for a new trail down by the lake. Had a nice lunch with your mother. Perfect day.”

“That’s nice, Dad. I’m glad.” I reach for a handful of flowered cocktail napkins and head to the porch with the platter of crab cakes.

Mother is pouring a guest a glass of wine at the bar. She’s wearing a striking orange dress. I’m sure there’s a fancier name than
orange
for that color—
tangerine
or
sunset
or
desert sands
or something. Tina and Ruby, the fashion experts, would know. With her sleek, jetblack hair swept up in a twist and a simple strand of
pearls, my mother is stunning, the prettiest woman in sight.

The guest says something to her, and my mother laughs as if this is the most delightful story she’s heard all day.

“Crab cake?” I say to Mr. Pradia, a rich banker from Texas and a friend of the Blazers who is smiling across the porch at Mother. He can’t seem to peel his eyes from her.

“Yes, please, princess. Thank you.” Mr. Pradia takes two cakes without looking at me. Pops one into his mouth. “Hmm, hmm, hmm.”

I smile.
Princess.
He calls every woman “princess,” young or old, it doesn’t matter. Rosie says, “That man’s a royal flirt.” I laugh. He seems harmless enough. And I don’t have to worry about men flirting with my mother. She and Sam are crazy in love. I wonder … was Mother just as crazy in love with Billy Havisham? I shrug it off and move along with the tray. Sam’s crab cakes are a hit.

When my shift is over, I make a quick tuna sandwich for dinner, change into shorts and sneakers, and bike back out to the beach.

It’s just about seven. Time to hear Will Havisham’s story.

A sprawling crowd is gathered on the bluff now, two police cars complete with searchlights, television cameras, and newspaper photographers. Two boys in Red Sox caps have set up a lemonade stand, smart Cape Cod entrepreneurs.

I look out at the water, nothing but waves, a black duck, some seagulls, the usual. I scan the faces in the crowd. There’s JFK’s mother, Mrs. Kennelly. I walk over to join her.

“Oh, hi, Willa. Good to see you,” she says. “Joseph told me about the mermaid fuss on the beach, and I thought I’d come check it out.”

“Did his plane take off okay?” I ask.

“Yes. He just texted me. He’s already safe and sound in Florida. He says it’s stifling hot.” She laughs. “But I’m sure he’ll have a wonderful time.”

“I’m sure he will,” I say. I feel a pang of jealousy. Why didn’t JFK text me? I look down at the ink-blue water.

The waves are calmer now, the tide is out, all the sand castles, beach chairs, and umbrellas gone, the curtain closing on another summer day. Where’s Will Havisham? Where’s my dog? Will’s boat is gone. I look up and down the beach. Nothing. My stomach feels queasy. Maybe JFK was right. Something’s fishy. I told Will to meet me here at seven o’clock. It will be starting to get dark soon.

“Are you okay, Willa?” Mrs. Kennelly asks. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine,” I say, “thanks.” I look over at the little mermaid spotter, her face all animated, loving the limelight. It’s strange, but I think I’m sort of jealous of this child. She seems so certain about that mermaid.

“Has anyone else seen what the little girl’s talking about?” I ask.

“I don’t think so, Willa, no,” Mrs. Kennelly replies, eyes on the water.

“You mean all these people are here based on that one little girl’s story?”

“Yep,” Mrs. Kennelly says, shaking her head with an embarrassed-sounding laugh. “It’s far-fetched, but fun. Sort of fascinating, don’t you think?”

The roar of a motor cuts though the air. I turn to look.

Will Havisham’s boat is coming around the corner from the bay side of the Spit. Will is in the center at the wheel with first mate Salty Dog on his lap,
furry traitor.
My friends Tina and Ruby are flanking Will on either side, each with an arm locked through his like they’ve known him forever.

Tina laughs and shake-tosses her long blond mermaid hair. Ruby laughs and shake-tosses her long red mermaid hair. The prettiest girls in Bramble. A guy on the bluff whistles. He probably thinks Tina and Ruby are movie stars.

Another whistle. Somebody cheers.

Tina and Ruby wave, clearly loving the attention. They are wearing pink polka-dot Hotties bikinis— bright white teeth glistening, heads thrown back
laughing. They do look like cover girls, like movie stars.

Tina spots me and waves. “Hey, Willa,” she shouts, all excited and happy. “Guess who we found!”

No
. How could this be happening? I haven’t even had the chance to talk with Will myself, and already Tina and Ruby are involved? Ordinary people collect shells and rocks for beach treasures. Tina and Ruby collect my quite possible long-lost brother. A banner beach day for them.

A jumble of emotions, angry, embarrassed, I turn and run for my bike.