“Please.Cypress Beach: Where Old, Rich People Come to Die.That slogan’s carved into the welcome sign—surprised you didn’t notice when we cruised past. Besides, I’ve got my vicious guard dog to keep me safe.”
Mom heaves a sigh, but her mouth turns up in a slight smile. “Promise you’ll stay on the beach and out of the water?”
“But what if my life’s calling is to save foolish people who wander into the ocean?”
She meets my gaze, solemn now. “What if you get hurt? What if…?”
What if I die? Like my brother.
“I can’t do it again, Lissy,” she says, her voice soft, quavering a little. “Losing Nick is the worst I’ve been through. If something happened to you…”
“I know,” I say, and I do. Nick died at twenty, tragically young. I was fourteen. Janie, his daughter, was a wrinkly-faced newborn; he’d only seen pictures of her, sent as email attachments by Audrey. My mom isn’t over his death—I’m not sure any of us ever will be—though she’sdoing better. She adores Janie, and she’s gathered Audrey neatly into the Parker family fold. But she still worries. She still what-ifs.
“Please stay out of the water, Elise.”
“I will.” To seal my promise, I lean forward, passing her my half-full mug.
She sips, then, thankfully, changes the subject. “What are you up to later?”
“Hanging out with my slew of friends, obviously.”
She frowns. She looks tired and older. I feel bad for making her worry.
“And by friends,” I amend, “I mean Janie and Audrey. We’re going to the park on Raspberry Street. Want to come?”
“Can’t,” she says, glowering at her computer. The first draft of her book is due to her editor in a month and a half, just before I start my senior year at (terrifyingly unfamiliar) Cypress Valley High. “Rain check?”
I push up out of my chair. “Definitely. I’ve got photos to edit until then. I’ll fix us lunch before I go, okay?”
“Thanks, Lissy.” She moves to hand me my coffee mug.
“Keep it,” I tell her. “You’re on a deadline.”
elise
The park on Raspberry Street is straight out of any fanciful kid’s dreams. It’s a huge wooden castle, with slides and turrets and a drawbridge that swings creakily anytime someone runs across it. Janie is in heaven.
She’s dressed in pink: tutu, hoodie, miniature cowgirl boots, with a glittery bow pinning her wispy hair off her face. She’s the cutest—blue eyes, blond hair, perpetually golden skin—one of those kids who could be in commercials, if her equally beautiful mama was into all that.
Audrey sits on one of the benches surrounding the playground, reading from a thick textbook. She’s working on an early-childhood development degree, though with everything else she’s got going on, it’s taking her forever. She spends a few nights a week waitressing for big tips at Camembert, one of Cypress Beach’s fanciest restaurants (my mom and I have been sharing babysitting duties since we moved here), and weekday mornings, she works at the local preschool (where Janie tags along and scores a free education). Every so often, she glances up to watch her little girl take a trip down the coiled slide.
While Janie plays, I snap a million pictures. Normally, I choose inanimate objects as subjects—architecture, the seashore, and cemeteries, lately—but my niece and my dog are exceptions. Their jubilation is inspiring.
Janie scampers into the grass surrounding the playground. I follow, but at a distance, because I like to see where her imagination takes her. I snap a few shots as she stoops, teetering in her boots, to pluck a dandelion from the lawn. She examines its head, gone to seed, running a finger over the white fluff. She turns to me, holding it out. “Look, Auntie.”
I lower my camera and crouch down beside her. “These are seeds,” I say, pointing. “When the wind blows, they scatter. They make new flowers wherever they land.” I almost saynew weedsbut catch myself. Janie doesn’t see weeds; she sees beauty and believes in magic. “Do you know what your daddy and I used to do with these?”
She shakes her head, wide-eyed. She loves when I tell her stories about Nick.
“We’d pretend to be the wind. We’d take big breaths, then blow the seeds. But the best part is, we’d make wishes every time. Then, when the seeds made new flowers, our wishes would come true.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Want to try?”
She nods earnestly.
“Think of a wish—something really good.” I glance over at her mama and drop my voice, as if I’ve got a special secret. “Like, maybe you could wish for cookies. When I was little, I almost always wished for cookies.”
