Forget Me Not (11 page)

I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Surprise, surprise. Guess who gave the sermon at BUC this morning?

Sam. My wonderful father, the poet, writer, and most of all, great teacher, Sam Gracemore. Nana explained that while the BUC Board of Directors is searching for a new minister, they’ve asked certain members of the congregation to give the sermons. They are supposed to talk about their spiritual journey, what they “believe.”

Sam talks about how he was raised in “the Unitarian Universalist tradition” and like two of the early leaders of this faith, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry
Thoreau, he finds his greatest connection to God in nature, and like Emerson, he believes in making time for solitude, for being totally quiet and alone so as to listen to the voice within.

“Emerson said he believed that what was true in his heart was true for others as well.” Sam looks down at me from the pulpit and smiles. He continues talking. I look around the room. Everyone is paying attention.
I’m so proud of you, Dad.
I give him a little thumbs-up sign that only he can see, and he smiles at me and winks.

“In conclusion…I believe we are all connected…people, plants, animals. I believe that in our search for the divine, we need look no further than the sound of the mourning dove, or the scent of the wild beach rose. We need look no further than into the eyes of the one seated next to us.”

I look at my mother and her eyes are brimming, too.

After brunch, I change into comfortable clothes. I can’t wait to get to the beach.

I rush down the stairs, flip off my sandals, and set
off toward the Spit like I’m already prepping for the Falmouth Road Race. Mom says official training starts tomorrow.

The beach is fairly empty. They forecasted rain. I keep running, the sand cool and soft beneath my feet.

Out at the end, the endangered bird sign has been repainted. The ropes are intact. A tern scampers fast in front of me, leaving little three-pronged prints in his wake. There’s a boat anchored and someone is sitting on the sand. As I get closer, I see it’s a boy, older than me.

He turns to me and smiles. He looks sixteen, maybe seventeen, blue eyes, very handsome. He looks familiar, but I’m not sure why. He holds up the book he’s reading and smiles. “Read any David Almond? The man is bloody brilliant.”

How do I know this boy? Then it dawns on me. “You were at the inn, by my father’s car the other day. When I saw you, you ran.”

“And I saw you yesterday,” the boy says. “All dollied up fancy, dancing.”

My heart starts pounding. “Where were you?”

“I’ve been observin’ you this past week, but I had to clear out yesterday when the mutt place opened.”

“That was you up in the window?” Now I’m scared. “Why were you watching me?”

“To see if you were worth traveling all this way to find,” he says, laughing. “You used to live in a
funeral home?
That’s bloody creepy, don’t you think?”

“What’s creepy is you spying on me…”

I hear barking and then there he is…My dog!

Salty bounds over the dune and runs to me. I bend down and he lick, lick, licks my face. Then he turns and bolts over to the boy.

“There’s my dog,” the boy says, laughing, ruffling the dog’s furry head. “There’s my Salty Dog.”

“How do you know his name?” I say.

“Ought to know my own dog’s name, don’t you think?”

“
His name is really Salty?
” I say, incredulous.

“I just told you that, didn’t I? I finally found him yesterday. When we came ashore last Saturday, this lady said no dogs allowed on the beach. I told her to bug off. She said I had to go or she’d call the coppers. Something about birds called the piping plovers. I said my mum would serve ‘em up hot with bangers. The lady said, ‘What’s bangers?’ and I explained. She said, ‘You’re in America now, son. We call them French fries here.’”

“So, it was you who put that paper on my Bramble Board.”

“Figured you could use something more lively,”
he says. “Those candy floss poems’ll put ya to sleep, Willa.”

How does he know my name?
“How do you know my…”

“Willa!”

I turn. JFK is walking toward me.

“I thought you’d left!” I say.

JFK looks past me to the boy with the dog. “My flight was overbooked,” he says, “then I had to go somewhere with my dad. I’m not leaving till tonight. Your mom said you’d be here.”

JFK looks at me and then at the boy. They stare at each other for a second. “Who are you?” JFK asks in a suspicious-sounding voice. JFK puffs out his chest and stands taller. I can’t believe it, but he’s jealous. He looks even cuter when he’s jealous.

Here I am on the beach with two beautiful boys. Ooooh…this is sort of fun.

“Don’t worry, bloke,” the boy says to JFK. “I’m not her boyfriend. I’m her brother.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Copyright © 2009 by Coleen Murtagh Paratore.

Cover photograph © by Michael Frost

Cover design by Lillie Mear

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This book was originally published in hardcover by Scholastic Press in 2009.

First Scholastic paperback printing, January 2010

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eISBN: 978-0-545-28302-1