Or else I’m screwed.
•••••••
I SUCCESSFULLY EVADE WESLEYfor the rest of the day, citing an upset stomach. The next morning I’ve got a new bottle of Pepto Bismol outside my bedroom door. He doesn’t initiate any more contact, thankfully. And sadly. Maybe he hates me now? Maybe he wasjustaboutto like me, but I ruined it, which I should be grateful for, because IT WOULDN’T WORK ANYWAY, MAYBELL. Maybell Parrishes don’t cycle through the five stages of grief. We burrow into the denial leg of the journey like touristsoverstaying our welcome and live there forever and ever. We also chug peppermint hot cocoa whenever we’re drowning in dramatic passions (I’m on my third pint of the day) and mythologize ourselves in the plural.
But on Wednesday, Wesley texts me. It’s a serve I didn’t expect.
He’s snapped a picture of my recent addition to the ballroom mural: the tinyMy May Bellechugging along near his pirate ship. I didn’t consult wind patterns before painting it and the two boats are on track to smash into each other.
He adds this question, sans punctuation:Why did you add an e
I look up the Wikipedia page forMy May Belle, a showboat that cruises the Tennessee River in Knoxville, and send him the link.
A young Julie Parrish had dreams of sailing away on that riverboat,I type.When she was pregnant with me she tried to run away from home, but the sheriff found her and brought her back. My name was supposed to be May Belle, but Mom was loopy on pain meds when she signed the birth certificate.
Growing up, she built up this boat in my head until it was larger than life, the pinnacle of Southern charm, telling me we’d go there someday to have lunch in big Kentucky Derby hats and white dresses. We finally went for my thirteenth birthday, but her boyfriend at the time’s daughter came along and I got jealous of the attention Mom gave her, then subsequently moody. Mom tended to be extra-specially nice to the kids of her boyfriends, trying to win them over. I ruined the day for everyone.
I like Maybell without an e,he types back.
I went once,I tell him.I told the staff what my name was and they gave me free dessert.
The occasion had been so talked up, so looked forward to, but ultimately I remember regular old Happy Meal dinners withmore fondness. I think my mom was trying to re-create a pale image of her own childhood nostalgia.
Is there a story behind the name Wesley?I ask.
He replies:I was the fifth son. They ran out of names.
A minute later, he tacks on:My mom had a dream while pregnant that she was putting wooden letters above the crib. They spelled out Wesley.
Aww, I like that story.
Better than my brother Humphrey’s. He was named after the paramedic who delivered him in a Walgreens parking lot.Then he sends another photo of the mural, playing a game of Can You Spot the Difference? A dark shape in the water swans away from the kraken.
Is that a sea snake?
The Loch Ness Monster,he says.She’s real and she’s out there.
I’m about to respond when I get a grip on myself and turn off my phone before temptation destroys the shred of self-control I’m clinging to.Distance. Space. Eyes on the prize.If I want to ward off a crush, it’s the only way.
I’m not so strong that I don’t duck into the ballroom a few hours later and paint a small island in the lagoon, complete with a palm tree and a tiny man laying out for a tan. When I check it again on Thursday, Wesley’s given the tiny man sunglasses and a sunburned nose. I also find two miniature people, a man on board the kraken-cagedFelled Starand a woman waving a handkerchief at him from the deck ofMy May Belle.
•••••••
I STRAIN TO IGNOREthe mural all day Thursday, but on Friday I’m swept away by a marathon of Hallmark movies and it punctures a hole in my already flimsy self-discipline. I take pity on the pirate, about to be sent to the ocean floor courtesy of an enormous sea monster.My May Bellethrows a life preserver out. I dot all the trees with tiny silver stars, even the palms.
Wesley notices immediately, adding ornaments and lights. We take turns sneaking into the ballroom to add more and more, until it doesn’t resemble your average waterfall-lagoon mural so much as Neverland. I have a sickness. I’m communicating with Wesley more now than I was when we were verbally talking.
We’ve both fully moved into the manor, he into my old bedroom and me right below in a guest room. I hear his footsteps above at night as he paces out of his room down the hall, then it falls quiet, then he’s pacing again. I can’t fall asleep until he’s completely still, not because the noise bothers me but because I get caught up in visualizing him, wondering what he’s doing, what he’s thinking about.
He texts on Friday night.Want to head out at 9 am tomorrow? Or 10, if 9 is too early?
This is the part where I should cancel the treasure hunt, apologies to Aunt Violet. She’ll understand if we don’t carry out this wish.
I reply:All packed and ready to go at 8:30. Just filling some virtual shopping carts with all the decorative rugs I’m going to buy with the solid gold bars you’re digging up tomorrow!
I’m about to turn off my phone, to be on the safe side, but he responds swiftly.My brother Casey built my landscaping website,and he’s making one for my animal sanctuary. He offered to make a website for the hotel if you want. Unless you’ve changed your mind and realized a hotel would be awful.
I sit up so fast that if there were water in this claw-foot tub I’m lounging fully clothed in, it would have gone sloshing all over the ballroom floor.
