The Summer of Lost Wishes (14 page)

You don’t have to tell me twice. I tell him
that sounds like a plan and then dash toward Mom’s office where my
makeshift bedroom awaits. I’ll be glad when this is over so I can
have an actual bed. The first few nights on that air mattress
weren’t so bad, but it’s getting harder and harder to sleep on it
night after night. Even if I’m scared of my bedroom, at least it’s
mine.

I slip on my flip-flops and grab my purse. I
unplug my cell phone from the charger and head next door. But once
I’m on the Carters’ front porch, I hesitate. I’ve never been inside
of his house. I know we’ve hit ‘serious milestones’ as far as
quirks go, but this is still new territory and I’m not experienced
in this department.

I knock on the door but instantly feel the
desire to run back home. With my luck, the grass would latch on to
my flip-flops and throw me to the ground, refusing to let me bail
out of fear. So I stay put and wait the ten agonizingly long
seconds for Rooks to open the door.

He’s in a pair of flannel pajama pants – and
shirtless – when he answers.

“Good morning,” he says, glancing down at
his attire. “I’m sort of running behind on life today. Want to come
in?”

I step into the dimly lit house. Either
they’re trying to save on electricity or Rooks just likes creeping
around in a dark house. The TV is on in the living room, spewing a
blue glow onto the couch. A bowl with a little bit of milk sits on
the coffee table. I don’t know how to act around him now. After our
Ferris wheel kiss and the cheek kiss good night, I feel like we’ve
definitely crossed the friends line into something more, but what
exactly? I don’t ask. I don’t want to be ‘that girl’ who needs to
define a relationship after the first kiss – but I’m so totally
that girl who needs a definition.

“If I’d known you were going to be at my
house today, I’d have cleaned up a little bit,” he says, rubbing
the back of his neck. “We don’t normally have company.”

“It’s fine,” I say, feeling about as
self-conscious as he probably does. “Your dad said you had the day
off and sent me over. Mom’s running errands, and watching your dad
and Mac patch the driveway wasn’t exactly something I wanted to
waste my day doing.”

He shakes his head. “It’s cool,” he says.
“Let me go put some clothes on, and we’ll find somewhere new to
explore today.”

He says to make myself at home, so I sit on
the couch to be polite. He disappears down the hallway and closes a
door behind him. After about thirty seconds, I can’t stop
fidgeting, so I stand up and walk over to the mantle to look at the
few photos Mr. Carter has for decoration. There’s a picture of
Rooks and his dad when Rooks was just a small kid. He’s holding a
fishing pole. There’s a lake in the background. There’s a much more
recent baseball photo of Rooks next to it.

“I was a cute kid, huh?” Rooks asks. He
slips into the living room and sits on the couch to put on his
tennis shoes. “You can admit it. No one will know but me.”

I glance over at him. “Sucks that you
outgrew it, huh?” I shoot back.

He throws himself back against the cushions,
grabs his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut. “You’ve wounded me,
Piper,” he says in a strained voice. “Straight through the
heart.”

“Oh hush,” I say, trying not to laugh.

I walk back over to the couch and sit next
to him. He nudges me with his elbow. I wonder if he feels as unsure
as I do right now. I don’t even know how to approach the topic
without seeming like a crazy girl. I can’t be the crazy girl. If
Seth’s secret girl could maintain her sanity, then I can too.

“So what’s the update on Seth McIntosh?” he
asks as he finishes putting on his other shoe.

What do I even say to that? Seth wants to
run away, and the girl believes it’s all some crazy fantasy that
will never come to life. I can’t tell Rooks that. He’s already
suspicious of Seth’s motives and possible homicidal tendencies. I
can’t add fuel to that fire.

“Not much. They went to a drive-in movie. He
wants to run away and be free. She does too, but she’s cautious,” I
say, leaving out the details of her hopelessness. “Nothing too
scandalous in the last letters.”

“Hmm,” he says, reaching for the remote to
turn off the TV. “I wonder if she ever wrote a final goodbye letter
after he died. Like if she took it to the Crane Pavilion and left
it there, just for closure. You think she put the letters in the
wall?”

I can’t imagine any woman in the 1960s
hiding letters in the wall of her dead secret love’s future home
with his promised-to-be wife. The girl just wants to go to a big
city and dance.

“She’s not the type,” I say, shaking my
head. “That’s just odd. No girl is going to go to the house that
her dead love was going to share with another girl and hide their
love letters in the wall.”

Rooks laughs. “Not the type? You don’t even
know who she is,” he reminds me.

Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m playing novelist in
my head and writing this story the way I’d like it to be told on
the big screen. There are so many gaps, and I’d rather fill them in
with my own wishful thinking than assume the worst. I want to
believe this love was real. Rooks wants to believe Seth killed
everyone else.

“I say let’s go find this Crane Pavilion and
see what it’s like,” Rooks says.

He swipes the screen on his phone and opens
a Google browser. He types in “Crane Pavilion” but the only things
that pop up are suggestions that he’s entered the wrong name and
links to a place in California. He readjusts his search to add
‘Coral Sands’ to the search bar. Nothing shows up of any use.

“Maybe that’s not its real name,” I say. “Or
they renamed it. This was fifty years ago. It may be torn down by
now.”

Rooks shrugs. “There are a few pavilions
along the beach. Want to check them out?”

We park in a parking lot on the outskirts of
Moonlight Harbor. According to the local tourist pamphlets, there
are multiple pavilions, gazebos, and picnic areas along the beach.
Seeing as these are the most popular ones in Coral Sands, I’m not
sure if we’re on to something or not. I can’t imagine Seth and his
girl leaving letters in a place where people vacationed, but then
again, the Shark Island tragedy is one of the reasons people visit.
The seafood businesses weren’t booming back then either. A lot has
changed in fifty years. This town isn’t the same, from the
buildings to the people and everything in between.

Rooks unfolds the tourism brochure from his
pocket. The first one on the map is just ahead of us – Gulf Breeze
Gazebo. We stroll past an ongoing volleyball game, and for a
second, my mind drifts to my father. I wonder if he married
eventually and had a family, if maybe he has a son who loves
volleyball the way he did as a teenager. I could have siblings out
there who I don’t know exist. I could have family right here in
Coral Sands who never had a chance to meet me. My own background
could be as twisted of a mystery as Seth and Hanna’s deaths.

“Right there,” Rooks says, bringing me back
to the present moment.

A large deck stretches out on the hill above
us. It’s painted dark green with high ceilings. There’s a staircase
leading up to the main floor, but it’s definitely not a place where
you’d go to leave letters.

“I don’t think this is it,” I say.

Rooks agrees. We stroll along the beach for
a while, talking about what renovations are left on my house,
before we stop at a drink stand. Rooks orders two bottled waters
and then asks the lady working the stand if she knows where Crane
Pavilion is. She shrugs and shakes her head, stating that she’s
never heard of it and she’s lived here for twenty years.

The next few locations are the same as
before – decks attached to restaurants, sitting areas for families,
and small spots for photo opportunities on the beach. We’ve walked
the length of the beach at Moonlight Harbor, almost into downtown
territory. The seafood docks from our first downtown trip are up
ahead.

And then we see it – a worn out,
weather-beaten large gazebo with wrap-around benches. The paint is
peeling, and there’s no visible sign with a name.

“What do you think?” Rooks asks.

I shrug. “It’s definitely not a place I
picture Seth hanging out near,” I admit.

Rooks nods in agreement. “Regardless of what
it is, I say let’s sit for a few minutes before trying to walk back
through that sand,” he says, winded.

I’ll never understand those fitness gurus
who can run miles along the beach like it’s no big deal. I’ve never
been so grateful for an ocean breeze as I am in this moment. The
sand is killing me. I drop my small excuse of a purse onto the step
next to me. Then I reach for my cell phone.

“Smile,” I say, holding the phone out for a
selfie.

Rooks uses the screen as a mirror to fix his
hair first. Then he wraps an arm around me and leans in. I snap the
picture.

“Another one,” he says.

As soon as I go to hit the button, he kisses
me on the cheek, catching me off guard so I look like an excited
little kid in the photo.

“Facebook it,” he says, fishing into his
pocket for his own phone. “Tag me, and caption it ‘Beach day with
the boy.’ Don’t say bae. I hate that word.”

“The boy?” I ask. I look up from my
phone.

Rooks pushes himself off of the steps and
walks out onto the sand, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, if you’re not cool with that label
then you can say ‘beach day with the hot guy next door who kisses
me sometimes’ or something like that,” he suggests instead. Then he
spins around and shoots me this sneaky smile.

“We’ll stick with ‘the boy,’” I say, typing
the caption into the text box.

“Piper,” he says.

I glance up but realize he’s not studying
me. He stares above the pavilion at something in the sky. I look up
but the roofing blocks my view. I set my phone aside and join in
him the sand. But he’s not looking at the clouds. He’s looking at
the roof.

“You see it, right?” he asks, pointing to
the statue of the crane poking from the center of the roof.

It reminds me of a church’s steeple, at a
point, but instead of a pane of stained glass in a pretty little
window, it’s the bird.

“Crane,” I say, shaking my head. “This is
really it. This is the actual Crane Pavilion.”

I rush back up the steps and glance around
for any place they may have stashed their letters. It had to be out
of the elements so the rain couldn’t ruin them and the wind
wouldn’t sweep them away. Aside from the benches, though, there’s
nowhere visible to the naked eye. Maybe they had a secret hiding
spot out here.

“Whoa,” Rooks says from the ground. He
stands behind the pavilion. “Come down here.”

I don’t think my legs can move fast enough.
I leave my flip-flops on the steps and rush around the structure to
where he stands. There’s a carved plaque affixed to the
pavilion.

Lancaster Pavilion, in memory of Warren
Lancaster

I run my fingers over the bronze letters.
Lancaster Pavilion, est. 1941, is the longest-standing gazebo in
Coral Sands. Originally nicknamed Crane Pavilion by locals due to
the birds that inhabited this area seasonally, Lancaster Pavilion
was never properly named until purchased by the Lancaster family in
1973. It was named in memory of their son and brother, Warren, who
lost his life in the Shark Island tragedy of 1965.

My breath is shaky when I exhale. What are
the odds? Crane Pavilion must have been a popular spot back then if
the Lancasters actually purchased it in memory of their son. I
wonder how many family picnics they had out here, how often they
watched the cranes and discussed the lobster business. Warren
probably sat with his dad, eating sandwiches and talking about
boats, while Frank played in the sand oblivious to what would
happen to his family.

“I think I’m officially creeped out now,” I
say aloud.

Then I feel weird for saying it out in the
open where the spirits of Shark Island may hear me and dash across
the harbor to snatch me away and prove that I don’t know what real
fear is yet.

Rooks wraps his arm around me. “You’re
right. This is getting creepy,” he admits. “It’s like a
never-ending web. Where one story ends, another begins. And they’re
all connected.”

“But what’s at the heart of that web?” I
ask. “That’s the real question.”

“The girl,” Rooks says. “She’s the only one
who is tied to this yet not related at all.”

And wherever she is, I hope the people of
Coral Sands never find her.

“I think I’m in love with the twinkle
lights,” I say, looking up from the corner booth at Casa Garcia.
“You should install some of these in my bedroom.”

Rooks smiles across the table. “If it’d make
you happy, I’m sure my dad and I could rig something for you,” he
says.

It’s like a carnival in here with the
lights, the colors, and the music. A never-ending festival of
celebration. I don’t care if the pirate ship pays more. If I were
Hector, I’d have to join the family business.

Woven baskets in bright, bold colors line
the wall next to our table. Colorful glass bottles sit in the
windows, capturing the sunlight in different hues. The smell of
spices and fresh tortilla chips lingers in the air.

“I’m sorry if I made things awkward today,”
Rooks says, drawing my eyes back to him and away from the waiter
who just walked by with salsa for someone else.

“When?” I ask.

“At the pavilion, about the Facebook
picture. You know, with ‘the boy.’” He uses air quotes around the
words. “I’ll be honest. I don’t have a clue in hell what I’m doing.
This whole world of dating is new to me, and I could be reading
into everything the wrong way. I just kind of thought you might
like me too, and I never bothered to ask if you did.”