8. Lana
CHAPTER 8
LANA
I woke to the good smells of frying eggs and bacon, and underneath that, the richness of coffee. In my half-asleep haze, my first thought was Mom? Then I remembered, and fresh grief rushed in. It was like that most days, the shock of remembering. That moment of lightness before it sank in. The first few weeks, that shock had been stunning, like a blow to the head. Blinding. Too much. It had left me flattened, curled in bed, too heavy with sadness to start my day. Now I could push through it, but it was exhausting.
I pushed off the covers, then got up and dressed, and made my bleary way out to the kitchen. Brad greeted me with a wave of his spatula.
“I brought up the coffee pot. I hope you don’t mind.”
I closed my eyes and breathed in the coffee. “Not if I get a cup.”
“Go ahead.” Brad passed me a mug from the rack by the stove. I filled it with coffee and a dollop of cream. Brad got down two plates and started loading them with breakfast. “I thought we could eat, then we’d look through your books.”
“You made me some too?” I felt suddenly hungry. I couldn’t remember my last real, cooked breakfast, the last morning I hadn’t made do with a protein bar. Brad had moved them, I noticed, shoved them behind the bread box. He noticed me noticing and his brows drew together.
“If you’d rather have those?—”
“No! No, they’re awful. I’ve just been busy lately, no time to cook.”
“Well, you have time to eat.” Brad set out our plates. I grabbed us some forks and two glasses of OJ. We dug into our eggs, and I moaned without thinking. Brad’s lips quirked up.
“Good?”
“ So good. So fluffy.” I bit my lip to keep from moaning again. Once was understandable. A show of enjoyment. Anything more than that would be just weird. “Where’d you learn to make these?”
“My dad,” said Brad. He hid a frown in his coffee mug, and shook his head. “He said a man?—”
“He said a man what?”
“It’s so caveman.” Brad groaned. “He thinks a man should be able to do everything himself. Apart from, y’know… his own dental work. But growing food, hunting it, cooking up dinner, building a house, he should be able to do all that. Not that Dad does these days, but he thinks if you can’t, it’s some failure of manhood.”
I had to close my eyes to keep them from rolling. Failure of manhood , wasn’t his dad a prize? But before I could press for more, Brad changed the subject. I didn’t mind letting him, when it came to fathers: mine had run out on us when I was still small. I barely remembered him beyond the scratch of his beard.
We talked mostly about lighter things for the rest of breakfast, books we’d read lately, the best beaches in town. What we’d each do if we won the lottery. Then we cleaned up our plates — he washed, I dried — and headed down to the shop to dig into my books.
I paced back and forth as Brad went through the numbers, unable to look too long at his face. I was certain I’d read something there, some expression, shock. Resignation. The death of my hopes. Every so often, he’d ask me a question, how did I handle overstock? Was spring always busy? What was I doing to boost sales in the off-months, when the summer houses were empty and the island was quiet? To some of my answers, Brad nodded slowly. To others, he frowned, and I felt myself wither. When he closed the last ledger, I held my breath.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” he said. “Business seems steady. But you’re spending too much on things you don’t have to. All these small orders’ll kill you on shipping. And your ad budget’s small, but I see it’s all local. From what I saw last night, everyone here loves you, so you’re advertising in the off-season to basically your friends.”
“I get a discount,” I said. “For running my ads every month.”
“But, see, look at this.” Brad leafed through the ledger. “You’re getting a discount, but a discount on what? You’re not attracting new business or online sales. Spending less isn’t better if you don’t see returns.”
We worked on my ad budget right through the morning, then Gareth showed up with the plumber in tow.
“I don’t mind if you keep working,” said Francis, the plumber. “But it’s going to get loud in here at least for a while.”
Brad glanced at his watch. “It’s about lunchtime, right? Why don’t we take a break and go grab some food?”
Food sounded good to me, as did getting outside. My eyes were starting to cross from all the numbers. I’d never had a head for them, much as I’d tried. But now I was learning. It wasn’t too late. For the first time in months, I felt something like hope, like I could still set the shop back to rights.
I led Brad to Baguettes for lunch by force of habit, but when we got there, the tables were packed. The spring rush had come early, and I was missing the boat. Perhaps sensing my panic, Brad gave me a nudge.
“How about we grab ourselves something to go? We could eat and explore. You could show me the sights.”
I nodded and swallowed, getting hold of myself. The rush had started, so what? It would go on for a while. I’d still catch the bulk of it when schools let out next month.
“My treat,” said Brad, heading up to the counter. “To thank you for such a great place to live.”
I wanted to insist today’s lunch was my treat, my way of thanking Brad for his help with my books. But I couldn’t afford it, and I guessed he knew that. I’d mostly been eating at home these past weeks, pretending to Alice I didn’t feel like the walk. No wonder she’d started to call me a shut-in.
“I’ll get the chicken baguette with pepper mayo,” said Brad.
“Same for me,” I said. Jenny behind the counter saw me and smiled.
“Oh, Lana, you’re back! We’ve missed you at lunch hour. Let me throw in some cookies for your dessert.”
I tried to refuse, but Jenny insisted, stuffing our lunch bags with oven-warm cookies. Brad tried one of his straight out the door.
“What, dessert first?”
“Patience is overrated.” He took another bite and sighed happily. “Mm, these are great. Still warm and gooey. So, where are your favorite spots around here?”
I peered up the street, trying to think. Where could I take him that wouldn’t bore him to death? He was used to the city, to noise and excitement. The closest we had here was the beach club, and that was private, and probably closed.
“There’s the lighthouse,” I said. “And Hidden Beach. Oh, and the wishing bell.”
“You mean ‘wishing well?’”
“No, it’s a bell.” I shook my head. “But it’s not that exciting, just this weird bell.”
“I want to see it,” said Brad. “And that other stuff too. I want to know all the places the tourists don’t know.”
I took him up to the bell first, as it was closest. It was like I’d told him, just this weird bell. It stood on the bluff at the head of a deer trail, a bell on a post overlooking the water. Brad went up and examined it, but he didn’t ring it.
“Why is it the wishing bell?”
I shrugged. “If you ring it at midnight, it’s supposed to grant wishes.”
Brad reached up and touched the bell. “Have you ever tried?”
“It’s dark here at midnight. But—” I bit my tongue. I’d been about to say Mom had tried once. She’d told me about it, how she’d wished for me. And just six weeks later, she’d found out she was pregnant. “But you never know,” I finished, instead.
Brad checked his watch. “It’s midnight somewhere. In… Singapore.” He grabbed the bell pull and gave it a shake. The bell clanged and bonged, an old, brittle sound.
“What did you wish for?”
He winked. “Can’t tell you. If I do, it won’t come true.”
“That’s birthday rules, not bell rules.”
“It’s wish rules.” He grinned, then he turned his gaze to the ocean. “The view here is stunning, bell or no bell.”
“The lighthouse is near here, up at the point. You’ll see it as soon as we’re out past those trees.” I led the way down the trail, out to the beach. Brad got sand in his shoes and stopped to remove them. He wiggled his toes around.
“I love the feel of warm sand.”
I took my shoes off too for the walk to the lighthouse, and we kicked through the shallows, dodging the waves. We put our shoes back on when we got to the pier, and trekked out to the lighthouse perched at its end. Brad squinted up at it.
“Does somebody live there?”
I shook my head. “Not anymore, but they used to. You can still go inside, in June when the tours start. See how the keeper lived.” I’d done the tour on a school trip, Mom at my side. She’d held my hand when things got spooky. The lighthouse was haunted, the guide had said, by the ghost of a drowned man and his little drowned dog. You could see them sometimes in the light from the beacon, swimming and swimming, but they never hit land.
“The beacon was out that night,” the guide had said. “So they swam in circles, lost in the dark. And they’re still out there swimming, and ? —”
“That’s not how I heard it.” Mom had squeezed my hand tighter. “What I heard was, those ghosts loved to swim. So they sneak out sometimes when they get bored of heaven, and they come back down here for some fun at the beach.”
A cold feeling swept through me, deep loneliness. For a moment, lost in memory, I’d felt Mom’s hand in mine. Now it was gone again, and the breeze had gone chilly. I shivered and Brad frowned.
“It’s windy out here.” He shrugged off his jacket. “Here, to keep warm.”
I pulled on his jacket, still warm from his body. It smelled of him too, of his aftershave. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, it felt like a hug. Like I’d imagined, Brad holding me close. I blinked the thought away, but too late. I was blushing.
“You’re all red from the wind,” said Brad.
“Next stop, Hidden Beach!” I struck out ahead of him half at a jog. Brad kept up without effort, lengthening his stride.
“Why is it hidden?”
“Huh?”
“Hidden Beach.”
“Oh.” I laughed. “Now you mention it, it isn’t. We just call it that because the tourists don’t come there. Mom used to bring me, uh…” I felt my face fall. This whole place, this whole island, my entire home — it was all tied up with her in my memories. I couldn’t look anywhere without seeing her ghost, without remembering the two of us, some outing we’d shared. The tour at the lighthouse. The wishing bell. Picnics on Hidden Beach. She’d taught me to swim there.
Brad touched my arm. “Hey. You okay?”
I jerked back. His eyes went wide.
“Sorry. I scared you.”
“No! No, you didn’t.” I was nearly shouting. I cleared my throat, tried a laugh, but it came out all crazy. I needed something to talk about. Some easy subject.
“I get it, I think,” said Brad. “You and your mom?—”
A volley of barking cut him off mid-thought. I’d never been happier to see stupid Wiener. He came charging toward us out of the woods, leash dragging behind him. Mrs. Schneiderman came puffing hot on his heels!
“Wiener! Bad Wiener. Oh, Lana. I’m sorry.”
“He’s fine,” I said, stooping to scratch his ears. Brad offered his hand to sniff and Wiener licked it.
“I meant for your store,” Mrs. Schneiderman said. “I saw the repairmen. If there’s anything I can do, pay for the damage…”
“It wasn’t Wiener,” I said. “The building’s just old.” I played with the dog some more, ruffling his fur. He thrust his big head at me, nosed at Brad’s jacket. Mrs. Schneiderman let out a sigh of relief.
“Still, if you need anything, I’m right next door. I can help you clean up when the workmen are gone?”
I mussed Wiener’s fur some more. He tried to lick me. “I’d love that,” I said. “We can make it a party.”
“They all love you,” said Brad, when Mrs. Schneiderman had moved on. “And they love your shop too, from what I’ve been hearing. You can leverage that to get back on your feet.”
I’d been watching the dog prance off, lost in my thoughts. Now I snapped to attention. “Leverage… what?”
“I mean, your shop is well-known. It’s loved. You need to remind people it’s part of their lives, a part they’d miss if it closed down. They’d all want to help if they knew you were struggling.”
I pressed my lips together, a sour taste in my mouth. “That’s not… that’s…”
“I don’t mean ask for money. But they all want to help. I’m sure they’d all volunteer, if you?—”
“I’m not asking for help.” I realized I was snapping and took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just, what I’m trying to say is, when Mom was in charge…” I trailed off, a lump rising thick in my throat. Brad reached for me again but didn’t quite touch me, and I felt like a heel for the way I’d been acting. It wasn’t his fault I’d been hiding for months, and now I was out again, it was all too much. Mom was part of this place, always had been. Seeing it without her, it hardly seemed real.
“When Mom was in charge,” I tried again, “the shop was a haven. People would drop in for advice. For a break. To find some peace in the thick of their day. Mom was the one people went to in need. She was there and her shop was there for the whole town. I can’t be— I can’t be…”
“You can’t be what?”
“The opposite of that. The one asking for help.” I flung my hands up, frustrated. “If I can’t be like she was, the shop’s just a bookshop. Just a place for the tourists to pick up their beach reads. So, no, I can’t leverage… whatever you said. I can’t use these people, the friends I grew up with.”
“I didn’t mean that,” said Brad. “I didn’t mean use them. I meant more like, community goes both ways, right? You give them that haven. They help you stay open. Everyone wins. You see what I’m saying?”
I didn’t know if I saw or not. It was all still too raw. All I could think was, the shop would change. It wouldn’t be Mom’s shop, not anymore. Better I keep doing things how she’d always done them. It had worked for her, right? It had … hadn’t it?
“I’ll give it some thought,” I said, with a wide, too-bright smile. “Now, Hidden Beach. Come on, I’ll show you.”