The Cupid Chronicles (3 page)

“So-so,” is good, very good, very excellent good.
And yet it is not: it is but so-so.

—“Silly Will” Shakespeare,
As You Like It

We set the hors d'oeuvres on the table. Stella turns on some jazz,
come away with me …
The sun is setting, painting our porch with the rich warm color of honey.

I hear our new guests before I see them.

“Add that to the list, Papa B.”

“Come again, Chickles?”

“That sweet word thingamajiggy they've got out front there.” The tall plump lady is pointing to my Bramble Board. “I want one on our front lawn.”

“Right away, Mama B.” The man nods, fetching a notebook from his jacket. His jacket is purple with yellow paisley swirls. You don't see a lot of jackets like that on Cape Cod. And he has shoes to match.

“Make that
all
of our front lawns,” the lady says, swooping back her boa. A purple feather flies off and lands on the cheddar cheese.

“Yes, ma'am,” the man says, fumbling for his notebook again. “Got it right here on the honey-do list. Do it soon as we get home.”

“Welcome to Bramblebriar,” Stella says, rising to the occasion. “Such a pleasure to meet you. I'm Stella Havisham. You met my husband, Sam Gracemore. This is our daughter, Willa.”

“Willa, say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Blazer. You'll know them from their company name, Blazer Buick USA. We've seen their commercials on TV”

Actually, Stella hardly lets me watch TV, but you'd have to be a hermit crab not to have heard that annoying commercial:
Blazin', blazin', it's amazin' …

The Blazers look at each other and then laugh like twins with a secret.

“Ready, Mama B?” Mr. Blazer clears his throat.

“Ready, Papa B.” Mrs. Blazer flips her boa.

“Blazin', blazin', it's amazin', cars and trucks from coast to coast,

Blazin', blazin', it's amazin', please excuse us while we boast,

Blazin', blazin', it's amazin', Blazer Buick sells the …”

And not only are the Blazers belting it out like they're on Broadway, but they've got macarena-style moves to go with it.
Oh, where's Sam?
I wish he could see this. I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from giggling. The other guests stare speechlessly.

Stella nudges me.

I extend my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Blazer.”

“Oh, don't mind us,” she says, giggling. She grabs my hand and shakes it like she's pumping for oil. “Call me Chickles or Mama B. Everybody does.”

As I shake I can't help noticing the diamond necklace, shaped like a limousine, parked over Mama B's amazin' cleavage.

“My, aren't you a pretty little thing,” she says, looking me up and down.

Instinctively, I stick out my chest and stand up straighter.

“And I'm Bellford T.” He shakes my hand. “Papa B to friends like you. And yes, Mama, she's pretty as a picture.” He pats his heart. “Makes me miss our Jubilee.”

There are cars and trucks on Papa B's tie, Buicks I
assume, and as he pats his heart, the diamonds on his steering wheel-shaped tie tack
blink, blink, blink.

“Is Jubilee your daughter?” Stella asks.

The Blazers nod, looking misty-eyed.

“Well, isn't that a lovely name,” Stella says. “Jubilee.”

“That's actually her middle name,” Mama B clarifies. “Her full name is Suzanna Jubilee, for it was truly a jubilee the day she was born.” Mama B sits down, swishes her boa, and settles her hands on her lap. She's gearing up for a long one.

“You see, I'd been laboring through that horrible hurricane Hoover, you remember the one …”

Stella is nodding like,
Yes, of course, how could anyone forget …

“The power was out for days and the sky was dark as the devil, and every contraction was a dagger slicing through my …”

Okay, way too much information.

“… but at the very moment our sweet Suzanna was born,” Mama B pauses for a sniffle, “… all I can say is, the sun shone through like it just learned how to shine.”

“That's right,” Papa B testifies with a hiccup, gazing upward at the sky.

I look up too, half-expecting to see angels waving down from the clouds. A fat gull swoops by,
caw,
and
poops. I dig my nails deeper to keep from giggling. I have a bad habit of laughing when it's not appropriate. I wait to see if Stella will slip and say something sarcastic. That's my mother's bad habit.

But, no, Stella's smiling and shaking her head side to side, listening as if this is the most fascinating story ever. “Well, we'd love to meet Suzanna Jubilee,” she says. “The next time you come for a visit, you'll have to bring her.”

“You read my mind, Stella,” Mama B says. “I was just saying as much to Papa. We'd have brought Suzy-Jube this time, but she's in the quarterfinals for Miss Daisydew and she's got an important session with her talent trainer today.”

I'm dying to ask what Suzy-Jube's talent is, but Stella gives me the homework signal and I dutifully head up to my room. I need to stay on Stella's good side so I can pop the barn question tonight. Thankfully, now that Sam is in the picture, Stella has eased up on “the rules” a bit, but homework hours are carved in stone.

After dinner I clear the dishes and help Bobbie and Makita set up the tables in the sunroom for breakfast. Later, I hear Stella and Sam talking in their room.

“The Blazers are loaded,” Stella says. “They're staying until after Halloween and then they're
coming back for Thanksgiving with a ton of relatives. They reserved ten rooms, three suites, and all of the cottages and—”

I knock and Stella calls “come in” in a chip-chippery voice. When business is good, Stella is good. Stella pays the bills at the Bramblebriar Inn. She handles bookings and manages the staff. Sam's in charge of the kitchen and grounds. I do the game room and the Bramble Board and help with meals. And, whenever there's a wedding, Stella lets me assist. Stella used to be the Cape's most famous wedding planner, but now that she and Sam are married, she prefers a less stressful life. Running an inn is challenging, but much easier than dealing with demanding debutantes.

“I finished all of my homework, the biology lab, and extra-credit algebra and I even started studying for the history quiz next week.”

“Excellent,” Stella says, pleased, but not really listening.

“So is it okay to have that Halloween community service get-together?”

Sam nods at me and winks. Sam was a teacher. He's no dummy. He knows there are a few lines missing in the story. But, like always, Sam-the-man stands by me.

“Fine,” Stella says with a smile. Clearly her mind is elsewhere.

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Sam.”

Yes.

I open my new journal: the as-yet untitled third book in the chronicle of my life. Book 1, “Cast Away” covers the awful time when Stella moved us to Maine. Book 2, “Wishes Come True,” is when Mom and Sam married and we opened the Bramblebriar Inn. Book 3 is “Summer Fun.” The journals stand in order on my shelf. I wonder how many I will write. Gramp Tweed says authors often start out by chronicling their own lives. Gramp says journal writing teaches you about your heart, what you care about, and that the best writing comes from that place.

Gramp gave me my first journal on a sad day last September. One of Stella's celebrity weddings had ended disastrously because of a foolish mistake I made. A soap star sued her. It made national news. Stella was angry and humiliated and that, combined with her being scared to death over falling in love with Sam, was more than she could handle. She put our house on the market and whisked us off to Maine.

That day, as we left Bramble and all the people I loved, somehow Gramp Tweed knew a blank book was just the gift I needed. I nearly missed my whole eighth-grade year before Stella came to her senses and we came home. The journal was a lifesaver during that long miserable year. I wrote and wrote every feeling I was feeling, and every day I felt a little better.

I open the cover and read Gramp's inscription: “To my kindred spirit, Willa … The secret is to write the truth and put your heart into it.”

I don't want to get my hopes up, but JFK's back and he's coming to the party in the barn. I don't know how “compatible” we are, but even when gorgeous Tina was talking to him, he kept looking at me….

I can't believe Mum had a boyfriend. I hope she'll write to him. Mum deserves every speck of happiness …

What should we do for community service? Nana supports Bramble Head Start for kids. Sam stocks the food pantry with fresh produce. Stella runs races to raise money for the heart association. Mum said to pick a cause I care about …

There's a stack of library books on my nightstand. Two are due back tomorrow I can't wait to ask Mrs. Saperstone what's going on. I reread the first page of
The Great Gilly Hopkins.
Gilly's going on my Willa's Pix recommended list of books.

They say you can't judge a book by its cover, but I think you can by its first page. I liked
Gilly
from the get-go.

The second book is an old edition of
A Tale of Two Cities,
by Charles Dickens. The jacket is frayed and the top corners of pages are creased from readers marking their places over the years. The opening line is famous. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times …” I sniff the book and smile. New books smell like ink. Old books are more mysterious. New or old, I love them.

All those years when Stella was a wedding planner and kept moving us to new towns, it was hard to make lasting friends. The friends in my books were always there.

When my head clunks down on Dickens, I shut off the light. The screen is dark and then the movie starts playing in my mind. JFK standing there with those dreamy blue eyes, that dimple to die for … Come on, Cupid. Move your butt.

CHAPTER 4
 
Ruby and the Bramble Burners
 

She hath more hair than wit,
and more faults than hairs,
and more wealth than faults.

—Shakespeare,
The Two Gentlemen of Verona

Sam slides the newspaper toward me at breakfast. “It doesn't look good for the library,” he says. “Harry Sivler says the debt may be insurmountable.” Harry Sivler is that obnoxious Ruby Snivler's father. Her last name is Sivler, but I call her Snivler. Snivler suits her better.

Mr. Sivler owns half the town of Bramble. Nana hates him. She says he's a “new money wash-ashore who won't stop until he's torn down every sweet Cape cottage and built a tacky trophy in its place.”

I read the article. They're cutting back hours to three days a week and are “in discussions with two neighboring towns about the possibility of merging.”

“They can't do that!” My heart is pounding.

Stella comes in from her morning run, sweating, huffing. “Look at the time,” she says to me. “Hurry up, Willa. You'll be late.”

At our lockers I start to tell Tina about the library, but she interrupts. “Let's get Ruby to help with the Halloween party,” she says. “We only have two weeks, and she's got lots of experience. Remember the June Bug dance in seventh grade?”

I do not have fond memories of the Bug.

“Besides, Willa, it's time you and Ruby bury the hatches and—”

“It's
hatchet,
Tina, but maybe you're right.”

Before I settled here in Bramble, Ruby and Tina were best friends.

“Hey, girls! What do you think?”

Tina and I swing around at the sound of Ruby's voice.

“Ahhh!”
We gasp in unison.

Ruby has been transformed. Her hair is permed
and poofed, and very, very
red.
Her lips and fingernails are on fire, too, and she's sporting a flaming leather jacket that fits so tight her boobs jut out like volcanoes. Ruby's a redheaded Dolly Parton.