Authors: Coleen Paratore
What is a weed?
A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ruthie is Sam’s big sister. He hasn’t seen her in years. An old neighbor sent Ruthie one of the bride magazine articles about the weddings we do at the Bramblebriar Inn, and Ruthie wrote Sam to ask if she could get married here. She’s on her way home from South America right now. Ruthie works for Planet Partners, an organization that helps bring safe drinking water to impoverished areas around the world.
“Ruthie’s skinny as a string bean,” Sam says, holding up a bean to illustrate his point, “but she’ll wallop you like a watermelon.” He pounds his fist in his palm. “She’s absolutely possessed about saving the planet. Preserving waterfalls, the wilderness, the whip-poor-wills and wallabies, wildflowers…
weeds.
”
“What’s wrong with that?” I pick beans up off the floor and toss the basket into the sink, turning on the water to rinse them off. “We care about the planet, too. We recycle and compost and…”
“You don’t understand,” Sam says. “Ruthie is a fanatic. Our mother used to call her ‘Ruthie the Ruthless.’ She’s like some evil environmental superhero. All she needs is a green cape. My sister won’t stop until she single-handedly saves the planet, never mind how many people she plunders in the process.”
“Sam…Dad, come on,” I say, spraying water over the beans, rinsing off the garden dirt. I try not to laugh. “Aren’t you stretching the taffy a bit?”
“No, Willa, I’m not. I still have mental scars from high school. Ruthie would stand outside the bathroom with a stopwatch, timing me when I took a shower. If I exceeded my quota, she’d bang on the door screaming, ‘Do you know how many gallons of water you wasted, Sam? Do you? Do you know how many people will die from thirst today, Sam, while YOU are wasting precious, potable water? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY? Do you, Sam?’ My friends used to call ahead of time to make sure Ruthie wasn’t home before they came over. Once, I was eating a ham sandwich with my girlfriend Becky, and Ruthie lunged at us in the kitchen, sobbing: ‘How can you eat something that
had eyes!
Eyes!
Two of them. Probably brown ones just like you, Becky.’
“Becky lost her appetite. Me, I lost Becky.”
I burst out laughing.
“
Willa
,” Sam says. “This is serious. Ruthie’s not human. She’s a lean-green-mean-menacing-ma…”
“Sam!” I shut off the water, dry my hands off quickly on a towel. I walk over, rest my palm on Sam’s shoulder, and look into his eyes. “It’s okay, Dad. Settle down. Take a deep breath.” I model breathing. “There you go. In, out, in, out. That’s right. Good.”
Sam seems to calm down a bit.
“So Aunt Ruthie’s a
Greenzilla
? Piece a cake. I’ve watched Mom handle Bridezillas for years. I’ve got the Stella skills. You’ll see.”
I can’t wait to meet this lady. This is gonna be a blast!
“You don’t understand,” Sam says. “Your mother and Ruthie are complete opposites, North and South Pole opposites. They’ll drive each other crazy. Your mother’s a neat freak; Ruthie’s a slob. Stella likes rules and order. Ruthie likes Reiki and oracle readings. Just wait till you see her moon salutations.”
Oh, my gosh, this is going to be great. Wait till I tell Tina!
“But…” Sam takes another good, deep, cleansing
breath. “She
is
my only sister.” He’s calmer now, his good old Sam-the-man reason returning. “And she’s not expecting anything
big
for her wedding.” He pulls a folded-up letter out of his shirt pocket and looks it over. “It’s just going to be Ruthie and her fiancé, Spruce, and a few close friends.”
“His name is Spruce?”
“Yes,” Sam says, smiling, “but, who knows, he might be a great guy. They’re headed off to Washington right after the wedding for the Greenvolution March on the Fourth of July. Ruthie says she’d like the wedding outdoors, nothing fancy. It just has to be strictly eco-friendly, with no animals injured in the process and—”
My mother comes in. Sam stops talking. We’re both extra-sensitive around her these days. Mom had a miscarriage last month, and we all feel horrible, but nobody’s supposed to talk about it. I feel bad for my mother, and for Sam, and me—I was excited about having a baby sister or brother—but it’s a silent subject. Sam, Nana…we’ve all been extra-specially considerate, but my mother deals with pain by building ice barge barricades around herself. I try, but sometimes it’s hard to be nice to ice.
“Willa, please check the vases on the tables before
lunch,” she says. “Be sure they have fresh water. And I don’t want any deadheads on the dahlias.”
“Sure, Mom,” I say. I lower my voice. “Don’t worry, Dad. Give me the letter. I’ll come up with a plan. Oh, and, wait, I have something to show you.”
I hand Sam the nasty paper about the piping plovers. He reads it and frowns.
“I’ll look into this,” Sam says. “This I can handle. Fair-trade barter, okay?”
“What?”
“Ruthie will explain the concept to you. She won’t expect to pay a cent for the wedding. She’ll offer some sort of service in exchange. Do our star readings or…”
Oh, my gosh. This is going to be great.
“Okay, so a fair trade of worries, then?” I say to Sam. “You tackle the plover pirates. I’ll tackle Ruthie the Ruthless. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Done.”
A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
It’s nearly three when we finish clearing the lunch trays from the sunporch. “Everyone raved about the triple-berry shortcake,” I tell my friend Rosie, our baker and assistant head chef.
“Thank you, Willa,” Rosie says quietly. She steals a glance at my mother, who is sitting at the table doing paperwork. “But you can’t really miss with fresh berries in season.”
“Don’t be modest, Rosie,” I say, stacking plates in the dishwasher. “You are
soooo
talented. That shortcake was sublime.”
I look quickly at my mother. As expected, she rolls her eyes about “sublime.” What’s the use of cool words if you can’t show them off now and then?
“And what was that spice in the shortcake, Rosie? It was familiar, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
Rosie smiles.
“Everybody was just buzzing about dessert, Rosie,” I continue. “That big family reunion group from New Jersey, the Moscatellos, asked if it could be on the menu again tonight, and the Red Hat ladies from Rhode Island wondered if you’d please share the recipe for the cookbook they’re writing.”
“They’re writing a cookbook?” Rosie says.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s called
Red Hot Hats in the Kitchen.
”
My mother clears her throat and looks at the clock. I know Stella’s thinking,
Let’s hurry up; it’s nearly time to start the soups and sides for dinner.
“You know what, Rosie?” I say. “I think you should write a cookbook about desserts. Nobody does sweets like you. And my grandmother knows publishers. Sales people from publishing companies call on her at Sweet Bramble Books. You could do a whole series. A pie book, a cake book, a cookie book. And you should have your own TV show, too. You could call it
Rosie’s Sweets
…or
Sweet Rosie Sweets
…or
Rosie, Sweet and Simple.
”
My mother sighs loudly.
Rosie laughs and shakes her head. “Willa, enough.”
“That’s right, Willa, enough,” my mother says. “You’re embarrassing Rosie.”
Even though the
Cape Cod Times
wedding supplement called the Bramblebriar Inn signature wedding cake that Rosie created the “crème de la crème wedding cake to copy this season,” and our good family friend Chickles Blazer of the Blazer Buick fortune—we hosted her daughter Suzanna Jubilee’s wedding here last month—says it’s the best cake she’s ever tasted (and, trust me, Mama Blazer has sampled her fair share of frosting), Rosie continues to be absolutely mouse-modest about her confectionery genius.
I cut myself a second helping of shortcake.
Mmmm, yum.
Rosie plops another dollop of whipped cream on top. “Nutmeg,” she whispers, and winks at me.
My mother stands up with some envelopes in her hand. “Would you drop these off at the post office on your way home, Rosie?”
“Sure thing, Stella.”
I walk outside with Rosie. I ask her if she’ll make a cake for Ruthie Gracemore’s wedding next Saturday night and help me plan the dinner, too.
“No problem, Willa,” Rosie says. “Just tell Stella
to put me on the schedule that night. I’ll oversee the kitchen.”
“But you’re working the Caldor wedding all Saturday afternoon,” I say. “You’ll be exhausted.”
“Don’t worry about me, Willa. I’m a big girl. I want things to be just right for Sam’s sister’s wedding. Your father is such a good man. I’d do anything to help him out, and
you.
Besides, I sure could use the money.”
When I go back inside the kitchen, Stella is waiting for me with her arms folded across her chest. “Willa, I would appreciate it if you didn’t actively try to get our employees to leave us. It’s hard enough finding good help on the Cape without—”
“Is that how you think of Rosie, Mom? As ‘help’? Rosie is our friend.”
My mother huffs. “There’s nothing derogatory about the term ‘help,’ Willa. We have several workers we count on. Rosie, Darryl, Makita…we couldn’t run this place without them…and Betty and Mae-Alice, the housekeeping staff…and the laundry girls.”
“
The laundry girls?
”
“You know who I mean, the girls who wash the linens. We’ve got thirty rooms in the inn, plus all the
cottages, six clean bath towels in each room every day, and then there’s the sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths, and napkins…”
“Don’t the laundry girls have names?”
“Oh, Willa, please, they’re part-timers. Mae-Alice hires them. I cut their checks. Simple as that. This is a business.”
“But this is our home, too. Rosie is like a sister to me. Maybe we won’t be so close to everyone, but we should at least know the names of the people who work here.”
“Fine,” my mother says, standing up abruptly.
When Stella Havisham is done, she’s done. There’s never a question who’s boss. She didn’t earn her MBA in a beauty pageant, although she could win any beauty contest she entered. My mother is stunning. Sleek black hair, jade-green eyes, peach-perfect skin. And she knows how to run a business. My mother ran one of New England’s most successful wedding planning businesses. Now she runs one of the hottest inns on Cape Cod and we host weddings here.
When I was younger, Stella wouldn’t let me anywhere near her wedding planning studio. She was worried I would grow up with my head in the clouds, waiting for Prince Charming, instead of working hard
in school. But she finally realized she doesn’t have to worry about me. I’ve got my sights set straight on college. And so, just this past year, she let me assist her with the weddings. We did two weddings together for good friends last month. Suzanna Blazer, whose mother I mentioned before, and our town minister, Sulamina Mum. I was maid of honor in both! It was a magical month.
My mother huffs and crosses her arms again. “Why don’t you come to the next staff meeting, Willa, and we’ll have everybody introduce themselves.”
“Fine, Mother. I will,” I huff back and cross my arms. “Oh, and, Sam said he talked to you about his sister, Ruthie, wanting to get married here next Saturday. I know we have the Caldor-Hollister wedding at eleven with the reception on the lawn at one, but if I plan Ruthie and Spruce’s wedding for that night, say around six out in the Labyrinth, would that be okay?”
“His name is
Spruce
?” My mother rolls her eyes. “Oh pa-lease. What is he, a pine tree? I heard Ruthie’s a tree hugger, but…”
“I know, Mom, but,
come on,
she is Sam’s only sister and we’ve never even met her.”
Mom sighs. “I told Sam that planning a wedding in a week was out of the question. We have a booking
earlier that day and Katie Caldor must have my complete attention all—”
“Mom, listen. What if I take care of everything, every detail of Aunt Ruthie’s wedding, so you won’t even have to think about it? Would that be okay?”
We hear loud laughter outside and turn toward the window. My mother smiles and then looks sad, watching two of the Red Hats riding up and down on the new seesaw Sam put in last month. Sam set up swings and a sandbox, too. He said it was for younger guests at the inn, but I think he had the baby in mind. Poor Sam. Poor Mom. I hope maybe they’ll try again.
“Come on, Mom. Let me plan the wedding. Family is important. Aunt Ruthie is Sam’s only sister, after all.”
“Okay, Willa, enough with the guilt.” Mom shakes her head and frowns. Then her eyes meet mine and I smile. Her face brightens and she smiles, too.
“As always, Willa, your heart is in the right place. And I appreciate your enthusiasm. And it is summer vacation and you did do such a lovely job helping me plan the weddings last month. I’d say you’ve passed your apprenticeship with flying colors.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, beaming. My mother’s never one to pile on the praise.
Stella looks out through the open door. A breeze ruffles her hair. She smiles, watching a Red Hat climb up the sliding board. “Okay, Willa. Go ahead. You have my blessing. We’ll consider this your solo wedding planning debut.”
Whoo-hoo! “Thanks, Mom!” I hug her.
My first wedding. Whoo-hoo!
Just wait until Tina hears. Willa the Wedding Planner.
‘Tis the good reader that makes the good book;…
in every book he finds passages which seem confidences or asides
hidden from all else and unmistakably meant for his ear.—Ralph Waldo Emerson
I head up to my room, exhausted. Good time for a catnap, not that we have cats, just the barn cats that roam the fields. Real pets would be way too messy for my mother. Stella likes things squeaky-clean. Paw prints on a Persian carpet or cat hairs on a white wingback chair would drive her batty. When I need a pet fix, I go to Nana’s and hang out with her scrappy dog, Scamp, and his sister, Muffles, a big, old, fluffy gray cat who loves the sunny window ledge at Sweet Bramble Books.
Tired from my walk and work, I hit the pillow.
An hour later, I wake up. I reach for a book,
Green Angel
, by Alice Hoffman. It’s a short book and I only have a few pages left. I’m trying to read a book a day
until the end of July. I asked Mrs. Saperstone, my librarian friend, to suggest some short but powerful books—I’m calling them “skinny-punch books”—then I asked Nana to order them for me in paperback. I like having my own copies of books so I can read them with a pen in my hand, marking things that move me. I write the date on the inside front cover when I finish reading it, so that when I look back someday, I can see what I was thinking about and feeling then. Sam taught me that trick. Sam is an English teacher by profession. Now he helps run the inn—he’s our main chef—but I liked when Sam was our substitute teacher last semester when Dr. Swaminathan was in India.
Yesterday, I read
Bronx Masquerade
by Nikki Grimes. It’s about a bunch of kids who sort out big issues in their lives by writing poetry, which they read aloud at school every Friday. I can’t wait to tell JFK about it. He likes writing rhymes.
I open the drawer of my nightstand and take out my trusty bag of saltwater taffy, unwrap a lemon-lime, “lemmego-lime” Nana calls it, and pop it in.
Mmmm, yum.
I mark many pages of
Green Angel
, underlining beautiful images, writing “nice,” “yes,” and “love that” in the margins. In the story, fifteen-year-old “Green” is
learning to heal and find hope after losing her family in a disaster. In the end, she decides she will tell their stories:
“
Every white page looked like a garden, in which anything might grow.
I sat down at the table with the pen and ink. I spread out the clean, white pages.
Then and there, I began to tell their story.
”
So lovely, so hopeful. This is definitely going on my “Willa’s Pix” list of recommended books.
I look at the clock. Almost time to get ready for my date with JFK. I pick up the book on Emerson that Sam bought for me. Ralph Waldo Emerson was a famous nineteenth-century American poet and essayist. I first discovered this book in Sam’s study upstairs and when Sam noticed how interested I was, he ordered me my own copy. Sam knows I like to read with a pen in my hand, marking it up, making the book my own. Sam says I read like a writer.
To me reading and writing are inseparably connected. Someday I want to write books. My wonderful Gramp Tweed, whom I loved so much, told me he thought I’d be a writer. Gramp said the best way to
prepare for that was to read all the best books I could. That was very good advice.
Emerson kept a journal just like I do. On June 27, 1839, he wrote:
“
I wish to write such rhymes as shall not suggest a restraint,
but contrariwise the wildest freedom.
”
The wildest freedom, nice. I like that. I wonder if JFK has written any new rhymes? He writes rap lyrics, good ones, about important things. JFK says rap is like poetry, but it’s music. I look at the clock. He’ll be here soon. He wouldn’t tell me where we’re going, but he’s awfully excited about it. He said he wanted to surprise me.
I shower and get dressed, pull on a pink T-shirt and my favorite jean shorts. I put on some makeup, towel dry my hair, scrunching up curls on one side, combing straight the other, my signature hairstyle, “the Willa.” Ruby Sivler actually invented it for me. At least there’s that one nice thing between us. I think about Tina and Ruby hanging out together, checking out the lifeguards at the beach, and then I push that thought from my mind.
I pick up my locket, open the heart, and smile at the faces, JFK on one side, me on the other. I snap the heart shut and clasp the chain around my neck.
JFK is waiting for me at the kitchen door like I asked. That way we won’t have to make chitchat with the guests on the front porch. The Red Hats got one look at my guy last night and were all so absolutely smitten, they nearly locked him up in the library so they could talk to him.
JFK was a good sport. He’s always such a good sport.
But today I’m being selfish. I want my boyfriend all to myself.
JFK is wearing long tan shorts and a yellow polo shirt. His brown hair is streaked lighter from the summer sun, nearly collar length and wavy.
“Ready?” He smiles with those sea-blue eyes I could sail to Singapore in.
“Ready,” I say.
Chef Sam looks over at us from the stove. “Have a good time,” he says.
“Thanks, Mr. Gracemore,” JFK says.
“Bye, Dad. See ya later.”
“Where are we going anyway?” I ask JFK. “You’ve had me wondering all day.”
“You’ll see,” he says, smiling. “You won’t be disappointed. But bring a jacket. It could get chilly.”
We take our bikes. It’s still gorgeous out. I love these long summer days.
Passing through town, I see Nana’s store, Sweet Bramble Books, a combination bookstore and candy shop, is bustling busy. We love the tourists. In July and August, Bramble balloons to three times its normal size with summer visitors. Small stores like Nana’s depend on that business.
Biking side by side, I tell JFK about Emerson, the part about rhymes and freedom. “How’s your writing coming?” I ask.
“It was flowing today,” he says. “I was mowing the lawn, mindless, and then all of a sudden, over the roar, I started getting more lines about the war. Hey, that rhymes.” He smiles. “Flags can’t hide the body bags. Had enough talk. Time to walk. People dying. Stop the lying. Don’t see
your
kids on the line fighting. Made in America.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Powerful.”
“What about you?” he says. “Writing any more letters to stir up trouble?”
He means the letter I wrote to the
Cape Times
about the lack of affordable housing on Cape Cod. A wealthy couple from New Seabury read my letter and
started a foundation to build houses for low-income residents.
“No, just my journal.”
JFK leads us toward Sandy Beach, way down at the far end. When we come up over the hill, we leave our bikes in the rack, stepping around the cinnamon-sweet smelling
rugosa
, beach roses. JFK takes my hand. “Guessed the surprise yet?”
“No,” I say. “I haven’t got a clue.”
He squeezes my hand. “Wait till you see.”
At the top of the stairs he stops and points. “There she is, by the jetty.” His face is shining like a kid at the gummy fish bin in Nana’s store. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I look down.
No, it can’t be.
It is.
A boat.
A very small sailboat next to that very big sea.
The sail is red-and-white striped, with a black fish on the top.
I gulp. Oh, no. I can’t.
No way can I go sailing.