Flutter (21 page)

I knew he had something big to tell me, there was no question. Maybe it would explain the reasons that he was running from the past that he didn’t want to talk about, the reason he didn’t want to let me completely in.

Maybe it had something to do with the silver key.

I mixed the batter for my rosettes and started to heat the oil. Dinner might have to be plain pasta, for I needed an oven and not just a hot plate to be the Julia Child of the UP, but I could still make my beautiful, favorite dessert, my little snowflake-shaped cookies. I had found the rosette iron at the little Swedish shop near the VFW.

As I dipped the iron in the batter and placed it into the hot oil, my mind traced over my conversation with Ash. I was unsure how I fit into this confession that Ash had to give me tonight.

His penance, that was what he had called his project for Daisy. And hadn’t I overheard the two blue-haired ladies in the booth next to me at the diner talking about how they thought there was a Good Samaritan around Esperanza these days, paying people’s parking tickets, taking groceries
to the widow down by the bait shop, buying a bicycle for the one Winging girl?

Was this all Ash? The bike was. The van was. I knew that. Was he also responsible for everything else? I was sure it had to be him. What was it that he was trying to atone for?

My heart ached for him, for whatever it was that he was carrying around with him. For whatever debt he felt he was repaying.

I placed the first rosette on the paper towels I had laid out and dipped the iron in the batter again. I clumsily dropped the iron in the pan, and the hot oil splattered, burning the palm of my left hand.

“Ouch! Shit!” I quickly ran my hand under the cold kitchen sink water, and a thought jumped into my head. It flashed across my mind in big neon letters, and it leveled me.

Of course! I felt like I had been socked in the stomach, and I pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, reminding myself to take deep breaths.

I looked at the vase full of Christmas roses on the table and laughed. I laughed at myself and how silly I had been. I caught a glimpse of myself in my reflection in the east window. I had put on my favorite cream sweater dress, tights, fancy leather boots, and I put my hair in a messy pile on top of my head. I had smeared on a bit of blush, some glittery lip gloss. I had pulled out all the stops. I felt foolish—ridiculous. Angry at myself for being so naive, so ready to believe I could be something special to anyone who didn’t wear a white lab coat.

I had been locked up for too long, lived a life of nothing for too long, and as soon as I was free for a moment, here I was—a fool.

Ash knocked at the door then, one serious knock, then another. Dala looked up from her place on the hearth. Meowed once as if to tell me to answer the knock.

I opened the door and knew that I was flushed, probably crazy-looking. I bit my lip and tried to regain my composure. He was absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous with his wind-chapped cheeks and his five-o’clock shadow. He took one look at me, and a hand went to his heart. “Wow.”

He took a step in, but I could tell he sensed something was wrong. “The hot plate,” he said, motioning toward the boiling, sputtering oil. “Let me get it.”

I watched him walk into the kitchen, drop his coat on the back of one of the chairs.

I could hardly make myself say it. “Am I part of your penance, Ash?”

“What?” He spun away from the hot plate. He looked at me, stricken. “What?”

“Is that why you’re here with me? Is that what this is? You’re just helping out a … a … freak?” I spit that last word out and turned away from him, folding my arms across my chest in anger, in embarrassment.

“Why would you say that?” he answered, turning me toward him. “No,” he answered evenly. “Of course not.”

“I’m fine, you know. I can be on my own, Ash. I was fine,
until you—” My voice broke then and I stopped, not trusting myself to go on. I didn’t want to cry.

“No, Emery. Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.” His voice was even and low. He was standing over me now, his head bent toward mine. “Don’t say it.”

“But you
are
holding back. And you should. I mean, look at what I am. I’m not able to think about the future. It’s best. I shouldn’t hope.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”

“I had given up hope before I came here.”

“Listen, Emery, so had I. And you are not charity to me.”

“Then what is it, Ash?”

He pushed a stray curl from my eyes then, tucked it behind my ear. “Don’t you see that this is real, right here, right now, you and me?”

“Then why the distance?”

“I’m right here.” He moved even closer, our faces only an inch apart.

“You know what I mean. We keep dancing around this … us. What are we doing together? Why can’t we be together?” I said, lowering my gaze for a moment. I had never been with a guy, barely kissed any, but now I knew what it felt like to want to.

He was silent, and when I looked up, his eyes were soft, pleading with me. We both stood there, neither moving. If it wasn’t me imagining this, if this was real, what was it that was stopping him?

“You don’t want me like I want you,” I whispered.

“Emery. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that. I’m not who you think I am.”

“I know you.” I touched the freshly healed scar on his brow. As we touched, he pulled me into his arms. And he kissed me. His lips pressed firmly onto mine, then gently, ever so gently. His mouth kissed my lips, my cheeks, my neck, and he pulled my body closer to his, one hand on the small of my back, one hand in my hair.

I was melting, melting into him, pulled from the very core of my being, together, me against him, him against me, and we gave in to that force between us, each part of us molding into one another. And I kissed him back, tasting his lips, his tongue.

He picked me up, swept my legs out from under me with one arm, and walked me over to the bed, laying me down gently. He tenderly hovered above me, kissing my collarbone, my jawline.

“I know you, Ash, the real you,” I whispered.

His body became taut. He stopped kissing me. He stood up, running his hand through his hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose and paced for a second. “No, you don’t” was all he said. Then he grabbed his hat and his jacket and walked out, leaving me confused and angry and alone.

I threw on my coat and scarf and took off after him. Out into the frigid, snowy, quiet night. I saw him standing on the rocky shore of the lake, his body silhouetted by the
lighthouse beam every few seconds. His shoulders were hunched, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

The white waves crashed into the rocks, and as I approached him, I could feel the freezing cold drops of the lake water splash me in the face, on my hands.

The lighthouse continued its rhythmic work. The light shone on Ash’s face every few seconds. I watched him as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. I wanted nothing more than to reach out to him and have him accept me. Accept us.

He didn’t turn and face me. “I know what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“You’re not making sense,” I pleaded.

“You can’t get involved with me. I. Can’t. Do. This.”

“It’s too late for that,” I said.

“We can’t be together.”

“We
are
together, Ash, whether you stay here with me or not.”

“Emery, you don’t know what I’ve done, what I’m running from, what I’ve—”

“So tell me! I told you everything. Like I’m such a barrel of fun over here, for God’s sake. Look at me, Ash! I’m having loops that involve your drawing of your mom, loops right at Next Hill.… Don’t I deserve to be let in?” I fingered the key in my pocket then.

“I’m a danger to you,” he said. “A danger to the Wingings. I never should have—”

“Ash, please—”

“I can’t let you get hurt because of me.”

“Ash—”

“I’ve stayed too long, and it will catch up to me and then you, if—”

“I don’t care! Tell me what you’re talking about.”

He turned then, and I could see it in his face: his decision had been made. He shook his head. This was it.

I panicked and withdrew the key from my pocket. I didn’t know what it meant to him. I didn’t know what it might do.

But I had to try. I had to try.

I held the solitary silver key up with two fingers, right in between us, and I watched as the lighthouse beam captured its metallic surface in its funnel of light. “Tell me what you need to tell me,” I said sternly. “What does this mean?”

Ash actually shuddered—his entire body shook at the sight of the key. He turned from me, grabbing the key away from me yet not looking at it. “Where did you get that?” he asked with such disdain, with such repulsion.

In that instant, I would’ve given anything—
anything
—to take it back.

“That is precisely, exactly, why I have to leave Esperanza,” Ash said, his voice low, barely a whisper.

He walked away from the lake, and I let him go. Because I had no other choice. I sat down on those rocks there on the Lake Michigan shore and wept because I had nothing else left to do.

Ash had left. He was gone, and he stayed gone.

The next night, as the little cabin began to darken after the light of day, I looked for him out the west window, hoping against hope that he would show up with his tent, his sleeping bag, and just make camp in the clearing.

That was all I was asking for. He didn’t have to run to me and grab me in his arms. He didn’t have to declare his undying love.

I just wanted him near.

Even Dala seemed worried. She paced in front of the door at dusk, just when Ash would usually show up for dinner.

We waited, Dala and me. Playing with a long string of yarn from my Gia scarf, giving Dala endless hours of entertainment. I painted Dala, asleep in her favorite position on
the mantel. I sketched her paws, clawing, working at the air in her sleep. We played with the red satin mouse. We wasted time. We were sure he was coming back.

But he didn’t come back.

On the second day, I forced myself to leave the cabin. I showered, dressed, and made my way into town, all the while trying to figure out what that damn silver key could mean to Ash. How it could have forced such a terrible reaction.

Did it open a lock? Was it a house key? A key for a locker?

I really had no idea.

I walked to the bus station and bought a ticket to the town of Charlevoix. I had planned this trip several days ago. I was going to the Northern Michigan Historical Society, to see if there was any information that could help me out about the church. But I knew I was not going to enjoy it. I had thought that Ash and I would take this trip together. That we might visit the nearby art museum. Make it into a getaway, like the two sisters had suggested. But now it was just me.

The gray, itchy seat on the bus was uncomfortable, and I had to sit next to a teenage couple with too many piercings who were making out noisily next to me. It was disgusting. They smelled like clove cigarettes and body odor.

My phone buzzed at the start of the trip, and I found a text message from Gia.
NSA?

I thought about this. What did
NSA
mean? What did it stand for? All I could come up with was National Security Agency.

Could that be it? Were they really in on this? After me? My insides turned cold just thinking about it. Did that mean Dad had told them … what? That I could time-travel? Was that a national threat?

A soon-to-be-cultivated military strategy? I let out a deep sigh. I texted her back, asking her what she meant exactly. Maybe Gia was just being a drama queen. This seemed a little nuts. But I knew it had to mean something big for Gia to chance getting in touch with me.

I kept checking my phone. But nothing. No response from Gia.

I curled myself as close to the window as I could and tried just to zone out.

Slurp, smack, slurp
from the couple next to me.

I kept picturing Ash’s face out on the shore when I’d shown him the key. He looked stricken, like he’d seen a ghost.

It struck me deep in my center, skewered me. How had that key done that? And what was he running from? What was going to catch up with him?

The ride felt like it lasted forever, but it was only a bit over an hour. The Historical Society was in the downtown area of Charlevoix, next to the minor-league baseball stadium, not far from the bus station, but I took a cab. I didn’t
want to get too exhausted. I didn’t want to take any chances. If I could keep from looping, I was going to.

I felt sort of naked, exposed, out in the real world, away from the isolation of Esperanza, my cabin, Ash, what I had begun to think of as my home. I began to peer at everyone around me, strangers on the street, wondering if any of them could possibly know my secret.

The Historical Society was really just an open warehouse space, with several large wooden tables, a few study carrels, and rows and rows of metal bookcases. There were sections of old, dusty hardcovers; boxes of microfiche; collections of area yearbooks; stacks of yellowed newspapers; and lots of other odds and ends, including an assortment of traditional, vintage Swedish costumes for the local Swedish Days Festival that was held each summer.

I wondered if I would still be here, in the UP, when summer came around. Or if I’d even be alive.

The young woman working at the society was named Sylvia Glad, and she was every bit her name. She spent more than an hour uncovering blueprints for me, church building plans, old church newsletters, and other documents. I pored over the papers, the books, the photographs. It was tedious work and exhausting.

In the end, we found nothing.

“Can I ask exactly why you’re interested in this church?” she said, her green eyes smiling at me.

“You can ask,” I told her, giving a sigh. “But it’s a very
long and difficult story.” Just thinking about where to start, where to begin with the spiral of near craziness to tell this tale was enough to wear me out. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head and folding up the last of the northern Michigan maps that we’d been looking at. “It’s just that you seem so heartbroken. I wish I could help.”