Season of Salt and Honey (31 page)

“Oh . . .”

“Bella was filling me on things I missed yesterday. She said the cabin is yours?” Merriem's eyes are dancing.

“No, well . . . technically, I guess, but . . . They're going to contest the will.”

“You don't know that they will,” Bella says.

“I'd say it's pretty likely.”

Merriem considers. “Surely if it's left to you . . . in a will . . .?”

I look away, into the forest, thinking of Alex. It's confusing to think of him now, part grief, part anger, so many things I want to know but never will.

Merriem's voice softens. “Hey, you'll work it out. I'm just being selfish. It's been so nice to have you girls here. And your father, your family. I got excited.”

“We'll visit, either way. Whatever happens. Right, Frankie?” Bella says.

I nod.

“Good,” Merriem says, brightening. “We need some new life in this neighborhood. It's been Huia and Jack and me for too long. We need you Caputos to keep things zesty.”

Bella laughs.

Huia calls out. “What's so funny?”

“I'm trying to take Frankie and Bella hostage,” Merriem answers.

Huia trots over. “What does that mean?”

“I'm trying to get them to stay.”

Huia looks between us. She fixes her gaze on me. “Yes, you need to stay. It's so much funner with you here.”

Merriem gives one of her big, deep guffaws. “Much,
much
funner.” She looks at her watch. “And now we've got to get you to school, Miss.”

Huia starts to protest.

“No, no, we're already late. Your dad will kill me. He asked one favor. I need to keep my promises.”

As Merriem starts telling Bella about a friend who has a big, old house on the outskirts of Seattle with lots of rooms that she lets out, I feel a tug on my shirt. I crouch down, and Huia whispers into the cup of my ear, her breath hot.

“You'll stay, won't you, Frankie?”

I don't have the heart to tell her no. Instead I rub her back and look back up to Merriem. “I might come by this afternoon? I have those books to give back to you.”

“Oh, no rush now, keep them as long as you like,” Merriem says, grinning.

“No, it's okay, I should . . .”

Her grin fades to a smile and she nods. “Okay, honey. I'll be there.”

*  *  *

That afternoon, when I arrive at her house with the books, Merriem's expression is more solemn than usual. “Frankie, honey. I'm glad you're here.” She lifts the books from my arms. “Let me take those for you.”

Behind her, a figure rises from a chair by the dining table. My throat goes dry.

Summer.

My hand connects with Merriem's shoulder; she turns her head.

“Don't,” I whisper. “I can't . . . Why is she here?”

Merriem twists around to face me properly. “I'm sorry, Frankie. I didn't know that he was the same person. Summer's been waiting for you. She wants to talk.”

“There's nothing to say,” I say, my voice rising.

Summer steps towards me. I feel hijacked.

“Frankie?”

“Try,” Merriem encourages me, with a reassuring smile. “She's really sorry. It might help.”

I shake my head. “It won't help.”

“Frankie, please?” Summer says, closer now. Her face is worn and her eyes red-rimmed.

Merriem looks at her and then back to me. Her expression is
gentle and sad. I hate her for her sympathy. I feel my own expression harden.

“I'll make tea,” Merriem says.

“I have to go.”

“No, stay.” She wraps her arm around my back, guiding me to the dining table.

Summer and I take seats opposite each other. I hear Merriem filling the kettle in the kitchen. I stare at my hands on the table. When she clears her throat, I speak before she can begin.

“Alex proposed to me here. Did you know that?”

I lift my eyes just enough to see her shake her head.

“Down by the water. He made a picnic.” I realize I'm staring at my ring. “He said that we'd been through so much together and we made sense. He said I'd been good to him.”

Summer says nothing.

“I thought it was romantic. I thought he was being romantic. I'd been waiting so long. Now when I think about it, I feel like a consolation prize.”

Summer is blinking back tears.

“We met in high school. I've never loved anyone else.”

Her face is grave. “I'm so sorry. I understand. You had a love story. I ruined that.”

I nod. That is true. Partly true.

“I wish you didn't have to know. Don't let me change what you had,” she says. “One kiss, a mistake . . . It was nothing.”

I can see her pain as she speaks. It wasn't just a kiss. It wasn't nothing. It wasn't nothing to her, and it wasn't nothing to him; that's written all over her face. It was something and it will haunt
her. I may never get to be his wife but I was his fiancée. I'm allowed to be sad. I'm left with that and the cabin while Summer has nothing.

The diamond on my ring slides around, and when I make a fist it presses into my skin. Alex has abandoned all of us.

Merriem places a teapot and cups in the center of the table. We are silent. Then Merriem rests her palm against the top of my shoulder and for a moment I don't feel mad. Mainly just weary, like I want to go to bed. I think of Jack's couch, the smell of the blanket, cedar and lavender. Steam streams out of the teapot as Merriem leaves the room.

“Everything's different now,” I say.

Summer frowns dolefully. “I really am sorry. Can you believe me?”

I give a small nod.

“It was easier not knowing you,” she whispers.

We both stare at the teapot, until she stands and pours the tea, a cup for me and one for herself.

“We can't be friends,” I say. My tone is, surprisingly, almost regretful.

“I know,” Summer replies.

*  *  *

When I return, Bella is brushing out the tent. She's already packed some of her things. I tell her I'm taking a walk and she studies my face before nodding.

I take the path I took that day Bella arrived. In my mind I have walked it dozens of times. I pick my way through the ferns,
looking for things Huia would pluck and eat. I walk past the two identical Douglas firs. I walk past the nurse log with its tiny seedlings reaching up to the sunlight. I walk through the forest, till the trees thin and the ground becomes rocky. I lift my eyes from watching the fall of my feet and take in the ocean, which is suddenly in front of me. I drink in the air and feel the salty breeze tug at my hair.

A narrow path picks its way down the rocky face to the expanse of water. My feet follow the crooked line that many have wandered before me. I walk alone. My steps are quiet. I hear only the gulls and waves breaking against the rocks.

I pause at the place where the path meets the water. Or, I should say, where the water rushes and splashes at the path. How violent the ocean seems after the poise of the forest. How different the sounds, the scents. The nose-prickling, metallic, life-affirming smell of salt.

I take off my shoes and toss them behind me. I dip one foot into the water. The cold rockets through me and I pull it out again. This is always the way, I remind myself. Too cold at first.

I force myself in, still wearing my summer dress, and wade until the water is up to my knees. The chill is a sweet kind of pain. I lower myself in and swim beyond the waves crashing against the rocks to where it's calmer, bobbing like a buoy in the cold, rising and falling with the gentle swell of the ocean. I peer at my hands through the greenish tint of the water. The skin on my fingers is starting to pucker. I stare at my left hand, the diamond glinting like an eye.

Tesoro mio
, I whisper, though I never called him that other than in my head.
Tesoro mio
, my treasure, my darling.

I imagine him right beside me, like he was all those years ago, that night at the cape, grinning and glowing, lit up from below like a creature from another place. Like an angel.

• • • •

W
hen I come back, wet, Bella stares at me. The tent is no longer there; a rectangular imprint left on the ground. I know she is ready to leave.

“Are we staying?”

I shake my head. “You're going.”

“I'm not leaving you—”

“No, I don't mean it like that. I'll come soon. I just need a little time.”

“I don't think you should be alone,” she says, frowning.

I know she would stay here as long as I need her to. Would sleep in her car and refuse to leave as she did before. But it's time to go, for now, back to the life I have left.

“I won't be,” I say.

She touches my arm. “Ghosts don't count, Frankie.”

I smile. “I'll be right behind you. You have a lot to do if you're planning on moving back.”

“It can wait.”

“You don't need to worry.”

She blinks. “It's my job.”

“I'll be right behind you.”

She makes me promise and I do.

After she leaves, I start to pack my own things, retrieving clothes from the ramshackle closet. My fingers touch something shoved to the back of a shelf, which I pull out and unroll. My black dress. I press it between my fingertips and the material feels foreign. Thick, rustling, and stiff . . . I'm reminded of cucumber sandwiches. The airless room. Seeking freedom.

I pack the dress and slip on a long-sleeved top, stepping out of the cabin with the heavy key in my jeans pocket. The daylight is gone but the sky isn't black yet.

I drive away with my window rolled down. The air is fresh and tingling in my lungs. I stare down driveways, imagining the houses at the end of them. I imagine people all over Washington State, nestled deep in their homes, in living rooms watching television, in kitchens stacking dishwashers.

I remember Alex coming home after a day's work. The way he jangled his keys. The way he huffed as he took off his shoes at the door. Dropped his briefcase by his shoes. Tugged at the knot on his tie. I'd be on the couch. Reading a magazine or watching the news. He'd come over and kiss the top of my head. His breath against my hair.

“Hey, Frankie.”

“Hey.”

Then into the kitchen to open the fridge door. Searching for a beer, something to eat before dinner.

“How was your day?” I'd call out.

“Same as usual.”

That's what he said every day. Same as usual. Until the day there was no answer. And no usual. No sound of shoes coming off, or a briefcase falling to the floor. As far as I know, the briefcase is still where he dropped it that last Friday afternoon.

Reflective mailbox numbers shine at me like cat's eyes. Mine is the only car on the road. Lawns, where there are some, roll down into gutters, where leaves rot, making food for worms and mushrooms. Morels.

Soon there's the mailbox with a sunflower on the side. Yellow and hopeful against the battered metal. I slow down. Then the little green house with the beehives out back.

A sign at the fork in the road points to Edison. I turn in the opposite direction. The highway reaches out ahead, dark and twisting.

Though it's becoming night, the darkness seems to recede as I drive on. There is light on the motorway, then from houses in clusters, traffic lights, floodlights shining on billboards advertising coffee and clothing sales and health insurance.

I drive past children's playgrounds, empty now it's getting late, and gas stations, grocery stores. Neighborhoods that all look the same—garage, fence, mailbox, garage, fence, mailbox.

Finally, a vanilla-colored apartment building strung with little balconies. A kitchen window with a crystal hanging in it. Rooms full of things and ghosts and memories. I park the car and get out, taking only the keys and leaving the rest of my belongings in the backseat. In case I cannot do it. In case I need to escape.

I open the main door and ignore the row of silver mailboxes with dark mouths. I take the door leading to the stairs instead of
the elevator and every footfall echoes in the cool, concrete stairwell. My breath quickens and my heart pounds as I climb. When I get to our floor, my key slides easily into the lock though the door is heavy and needs a strong push. It's dark inside. I reach out to flick the light switch.

Our place
.

I swallow down the fear that rises up into my throat.

There is a briefcase in the hallway. I move slowly into the living room and switch on the light in there too. It is so quiet in here, like a strange cocoon. I see the surfing magazine on the side table, the photograph of us on the shelf. A gray throw blanket folded on the arm of the couch. Everything as it always was. I glance across to the open door of the kitchen, where the espresso machine shines, our two cups sitting on top. I listen and wait for ghosts to come to haunt me. For memories so vivid I could fall into them. Instead there is silence.

I breathe in deeply. There is no scent of soil and leaves and tree resin here. No salt and iron coming from the ocean. It smells as ordinary as any place. I lower myself down on our couch and exhale. There is no birdsong, no guitar being played, no laughter ringing out. It is simply an apartment, still a little warm from the afternoon sun. It is as ordinary as any place and full of ordinary things—just a magazine, just a photograph, just cups. And I start to believe Papa may be right.

Life will be better,
duci.

• • • •

T
his is where I come to eat lunch most days. The café is generally quiet and cool. It's across the road from the beach, which is rocky and met by the pale green, glittering sea. The café isn't pretty or fancy; the food's simple and traditional. Some days the cook is late and they serve only what the man at the bar can grill or fry—whole fish, the silver scales marked with charred black lines, and home-cut potato fries. On very hot days, I order gelato brioche or granita.