Patrick wraps his fingers around mine and sighs into the sky, neither of us saying anything for a long while. We watch the clouds gathering steam at the other end of the lake as the seagulls circle and cry above us, and I can’t stop the replay in my head. I’m no closer to answers than I was the moment in the Foo nasty parking lot when Rachel first told me about shopping for school stuff with her sisters, and as much as I want to do like Mom says and move on, let go, stop digging… I can’t quiet the endless thoughts, fast and strung together in a long line of impossible question marks.
“Look,” Patrick says, pressing a smooth, flat stone into my hand, perfect for skipping.
I hold it to my face for closer examination, turning it over in my fingers. There’s something etched into the surface, blocky and deep.
PR + DH
“Amazing, right?” he asks. “I found it just like that. It’s a sign from the universe. Ask Rachel. She’ll totally back me up.” His lips are just a breath away from mine, his hair flopping over his forehead. His honey eyes look at me like I’m the water that keeps him from dying of thirst.
“Delilah?” He’s even closer now, whispers falling on my skin like feathers as his fingers trace my eyebrows. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
When he kisses me, I’m lost. The sun is fading as the clouds roll closer and I know I should feel the chill, but lying here in just my swimsuit, the bare skin of my stomach and legs is warm under the weight of Patrick’s body. The taste of orange soda on his lips mingles with the grapes on mine, and I don’t want to leave this beach, ever. I pull him closer to me, wrapping my arms around him as he kisses my neck. Nothing else in the whole entire world should matter, but when I open my eyes and see the stone lying next to me, the carved initials remind me only of those scratched into the wood floor under the bed.
SH + CC
“We should probably head back,” I say, turning away from him. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“It’s okay. Come on.” He brushes the hair from my face and kisses my forehead, standing so we can shake the sand from our towels.
We pack up the bags and push off quickly from the shore, silt scratching the bottoms of our boats as we follow the same path back through the water—tense, relax. Tense, relax. Tense, relax. As we cross the center point of the lake, my shoulders and arms burn with the effort of rowing. The clouds shift to blot out the remaining sun, and I know before the first drop hits my face that the rain is coming, anxious to wash away the remnants of the day. But when it finally arrives, it doesn’t wash away anything. It just falls sideways and heavy, chilling my skin as we quicken our retreat across the water in silence.
Chapter twenty-three
The weekend of the first estate sale arrives with grand, annoying fanfare, Rachel standing over me at six in the morning in her Everyone Loves Cowgirls T-shirt with a price gun in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and a look in her eyes that in my morning delirium can only be described as… crazed.
“Look what Megan borrowed for us from the store,” she says, stickering my forehead. “They don’t even use these things anymore.”
I sit up in bed, taking the coffee from her outstretched hand and peeling the price tag from my skin.
I’m priced to move at $1.00.
“This coffee better be strong, Rachel. Because as soon as I get up, I’m going to harm you.”
Rachel stickers me again. “I don’t think so, Del. Your card today is the Eight of Pentacles.”
“So?”
“It’s the apprentice card. Attention to detail. Working hard. Applying yourself under the guidance of a mentor. Guess who?” Click click, says the price gun.
“Is there a kill card?” I ask. “Just curious when that might turn up in the spread.”
“Very funny. Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.” She blows on the end of the price gun and jams it into her waistband. “Time to make five tons of one woman’s useless junk another woman’s undiscovered treasure.”
Patrick and Em are supposed to stop by later, but for now, it’s just the two at us, stickering and setting out such historical Hannaford pieces as twelve porcelain kittens from the kitten-of-the-month club of 1983, an all-season collection of elastic-waist polyester pants, fourteen leaf-shaped muffin tins, and eight slightly chewed dog food bowls from the renowned “Ollie” collection. Claire Hannaford Speaking, of course, has a “make or break” conference call with her vice president of sales and some big-deal retail client.
“She’s going to be locked up in there most of the day,” Rachel tells me as she props a huge OPEN sign on an easel at the end of the driveway. “I guess this call is pretty important.”
“Important.” I look over the folding tables that hold all of my grandmother’s possessions and think about the diary. The cemetery. The pills and the secrets and all the lost years. “They’re all important, right?”
Rachel sighs. “Del, I know things are still tense between you and your mom, but we’re all hurting here. Getting angry and bitter isn’t going to help. You need to find a more positive way to deal with this.”
“Maybe I should start drinking with you and Megan every night, since you’re so awesome at dealing with things.”
The gentle smile on my aunt’s face falls. She digs into her pocket for her frankincense and orange oil, silver bangles tinkling down her arm, and my stomach bubbles with guilt.
“Rachel, I didn’t mean—”
“You’ve got a customer.” She spritzes the air around me with a few pumps and leaves me to tend to an old woman with dyed red hair, outfitted in a T-shirt appliquéd with fuzzy dogs.
“Did you find the sweater?” the woman asks.
I point to a rack across the lawn. “We don’t have all the clothes out yet, but I think there are a few sweaters over there.”
“No, not those.” She looks around to confirm no one is listening before lowering her voice to a whisper. “The sweater. Ollie’s sweater.”
“They make sweaters for Saint Bernards?”
“Not for them. From them. You save the hair from their brush, and you can have it made into sweaters or scarves or whatever. It’s softer than wool, and just as warm.”
“You’re… kidding?”
“Certainly not. I made it myself.” She says it in a high, proud tone as though I’m just not getting it. Which, admittedly, I’m not.
“I didn’t know people could do that.” I try not to make a face at the idea of getting rained on in a dog hair sweater. “Well, if it’s not on the rack, it’s probably in the house. We’re still getting organized.”
“Do keep your eye out for it, would you? You’ll know by the little label inside. It says ‘Handmade by Alice’ and there’s a heart on each side. Don’t you want to write that down? Actually, I’ll give you my card.”
Alice, weaver of dog hair, sifts through a bag that I originally thought was a cool faux but is more likely a shih tzu–poodle blend.
“Do you have any pets?” she asks, handing me a worn card with “Alice’s Creature Creations” scripted on the front. I run my thumb over the raised foil hearts surrounding her name.
“No pets,” I say. “But thanks for the card. We’ll definitely let you know when we find it.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. By the way, when is the service for Liz? I understand you’re planning something at the lake?”
“It’s next month—the seventeenth. The time isn’t set yet, but we’re having it at Point Grace.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you then, unless I hear from you about the sweater first.”
I slide her card into the cash box under the tens.
“Man, people will buy anything,” Patrick says, slipping a few fives into the box after his sudden arrival. “I’ve been here thirty seconds and some guy handed me fifteen bucks for a bag of old cassettes. Do they even make tape players anymore?”
“They make anything,” I say. “Just ask Alice.” I nod
toward the redhead at the aptly labeled “Random Treasures” table now haggling with Aunt Rachel over a set of wooden cutting boards shaped like barn animals.
“Ah yes, Alice Bradley, CEO of Creature Creations. She moved here last year from Boulder. Big hit with the animal rights people. Lucky for you, I haven’t started my Christmas shopping yet. Are you a Labrador or German shepherd kind of girl?” Patrick rests his hand on my shoulder and leans in close, whispering in my ear.
“Miss me?” he asks, his breath warm on my skin.
“It’s only been a day.” I mean, yes.
“Only a day? Ah, seems like years since I heard you complain about painting those fence posts.”
“The fence was yesterday, and I wasn’t complaining. I was just saying that painting is hard work.” I try to swat his hand, but he grabs mine and holds on. From her table on the other side of the lawn, Rachel flashes me her “I saw this in your tarot spread ages ago” smirk and I smile back, melting the earlier tension between us.
The long hours of the morning pass like seconds, a steady flow of customers ambling down the driveway to rummage through Nana’s old staff. Most of them offer sympathies, and many have long, elaborate stories about the objects on the tables—the fall wedding they attended together when they all got those crocheted maple leaf potholders. The bolts of leopard print fabric divvied up after the community theater’s production of Cats. The skeleton door knockers the neighborhood kids sold for a school fundraiser one year. They pat my shoulder and frown and ask about the service. The plans. And, by the way, would Mom and Rachel prefer that they bring breakfast or lunch dishes to the house after the burial, or should they just pass around a sign-up sheet?
By the time Em arrives, Rachel’s got Patrick lugging boxes up from the basement while I manage a busload of retirees who spent their first twenty minutes here sniffing the encyclopedias.
“Busy, huh?” Em asks. “Awesome.”
“Awesome if you like book sniffers.”
“I love book sniffers! Hey, speaking of freaks, where’s Patrick? He said he’d be here today.”
“You rang?” Patrick steps out from behind a clothes rack in the driveway with a serving tray in his hand and an old tuxedo jacket buttoned tight over his chest, but before we can fully appreciate the costume, Rachel directs him back to the basement. I watch him cross the lawn, suddenly aware of Emily’s eyes, wide and giddy before me.
“Oh my God,” she says. “I know that look.”
“What? What look?”
“You! That look!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Patrick.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Delilah, are you in love with him?”
“No!” I pull my ponytail over my face.
“Yes!”
“I am not. I mean, not like that. Just… I don’t know… Em, this is totally freaking me out!”
“What? Why?”
“Because it’s so intense, you know? And I promised myself I wouldn’t get attached like that. Ever.”
We pause the girl talk long enough to sell three of the twelve kittens, January through March. Emily tries to make a case for not separating them, but the woman only needs enough for three birthday gifts.
“Delilah,” she says after the woman collects her bag of cats, “you can’t promise yourself that you’re not going to fall in love with someone. I’m not exactly a relationship expert, but I don’t think it works that way.”
“Em, Patrick lives in New York and I live in Key. That’s already one issue. And he’s going to college in the fall, and I have no idea what to do with my life. And then… God. There are so many reasons why this is a bad idea.”
“You’ve really worked on this list, haven’t you?” Em smiles, and I lower my voice as Patrick makes another trip across the lawn with an overloaded box of sports equipment.
“I look at my parents’ situation and it scares the hell out of me. Remember I told you how I never met my father? Well, my mom barely knew him. They met in a bar one night, and they got together, and no one knows what would’ve happened later because he died overseas on assignment a few days after. He was a journalist.”
“Wow, Delilah, I’m so sorry.”
“I sigh. The thing is, Mom doesn’t talk about it. So I don’t know if it was just a one-time thing, or love at first sight, or what. I’ll never know. I just know that he’s dead and she’s alone and all she does is work and I never want to end up like that, ever.”
Emily considers my story, rearranging the kittens on the table. “So you’d walk away from someone you’re totally in love with because it didn’t work out with your parents? Because your father died and your mom is a workaholic? Because you’re afraid something bad might happen one day?”
I shrug. “I know it’s neurotic, but things in my life are just… chaos. That’s the best word for it. School. Mom. Stuff at home. I can’t deal with a broken heart, Em. Not from someone dying or cheating or living too far away… I just can’t. I need to focus on getting my life back together. Stability, you know?”
“Stability?” Emily laughs as Patrick makes a he-man show of setting another of Rachel’s boxes in the driveway before disappearing back inside. “Somehow I don’t think that’s your style.”
“I don’t know what my style is.”
“What about the guys back home?”
I laugh. “There’s this one guy Finn, but he doesn’t really count. I call him my non-boyfriend.”
“Ooh, I had a non once. Convenient but meaningless. Extremely short-lived.”
“Exactly. But that’s what I wanted. And Finn’s pretty intense, too, but it’s not serious between us. There’s no timeline or expectations or promises. No rules. No what-ifs. Just what it is, moment to moment.”
“That’s cool. I mean, if that’s what you want. No strings.”
I shake my head. “I always thought I wanted it like that. But when we got to Vermont and everything was so crazy with my mom, it started to put things into perspective. I convinced myself to not think about Finn so I could deal with this family stuff… I mean, things have been kind of messed up at home for a while—not just because of my grandmother dying. I really wanted to… I don’t know. Work on things with my mother. I know it sounds all Oprah and everything, but it’s true. She and I used to be a lot closer, and when I see her now, the way she looks at me sometimes, it just sucks.”
“I totally get it. Why do you think I’m up here this summer with my aunt instead of with my parents?”
“I thought you were doing an internship thing.”
“I am,” Emily says, “but that was just an added benefit. My mother thought it might do me good to be away from home. I get along great with her, but Dad and I have some issues. Actually, ‘issues’ is putting it mildly.” She laughs, directing a man to the rest of the outdated music collection on another table. “So how is the Oprah stuff going?”
“It’s a total roller coaster with Mom and Rachel,” I say. “As far as boys… I was doing okay not thinking about Finn, or any other guy, but then I met Patrick, and everything flipped upside down. Ever since he kissed me, things—”
“Oh my God, he kissed you? Why am I the last to know these things?”
“Shh! Don’t let everyone hear you!” I laugh, lowering my voice to give her the highlights version of that night at Luna’s.
“Okay, best first kiss story ever,” Em says. “Even though you bailed right after. It still counts. What happened next?”
“The next day was Sugarbush,” I continue, “and things got even more intense.”
“Did he kiss you again?” she asks, blue eyes lighting up like the lake on a sunny day.
“Um, yeah. There’s pretty much been a lot of kissing since that night. And now, even though I had all these rules for myself at the beginning of the summer, I can’t stop thinking about him. I don’t know what to do.”
“This is not a bad problem to have,” Emily says, rubbing my knee. “First, what about Finn
? Are you done with him?”
“Who’s Finn?” Other than the first few days here and the one time when he called, I really haven’t thought about my non-boyfriend since I left Key.
“Good answer,” Em says, both of us laughing until the middle-aged man standing before us clears his throat, Papa’s fishing tackle box in one hand and two ladies slips in the other, beige and black.
“It’s a long story,” he says as if our laughter demands an explanation from him.
I bag up his purchases and he tells us to keep the change and Emily and I are near hysterical when Patrick emerges in a pair of fake alligator heels, a gold lamé housecoat, and a curly, gray-haired wig studded with neon butterfly clips.
“Welcome to Red Falls,” Patrick says in a husky voice. “I hope you’re enjoying your authentic New England experience.”
“What were you saying about stability?” Emily asks, wiping the tears from her face as the last customer cashes out without saying a word.
“I think we’re done for the morning,” Rachel says, snapping a picture with her cell phone before pulling the wig from Patrick’s head. “We’re going to end up in the town jail for disturbing the peace.”
“Don’t worry,” Em says. “I don’t think there is a town jail.”
Rachel laughs. “Either way. I think I’ve seen enough of the good people of Red Falls until after lunch. You guys want eggplant parm? Big hit at the Telluride Film Festival. Those people know their veggies.”
“I actually need to head out,” Em says. “I have to pack. I’m taking the bus to Montreal first thing tomorrow to visit my… this… some friends. That I know there.”
“When are you coming back?” I ask.
“Saturday. I won’t be at Patrick’s gig on Wednesday. Take good notes if his fan club does anything to embarrass him, okay?”
“Of course.” I hug her good-bye and unfold a pale green sheet to spread over the “Random Treasures” table, covering the rows of crystal salt dips and gray Spackleware dishes. On the other end of the table, between the demitasse cups and miniature Matchbox cars, the noon sun reflects from the center of a small metal box—the pink jeweled one I saw on Nana’s dresser that night I was in her room. Something calls me to it now, different from the last time I saw it, like maybe there’s some long-buried memory attached to it. I know this box. Not from the dresser, but from before. I hold it up to the light. The memory continues to evade me, poking at me from a faraway place but refusing to make itself fully known.