Enchanting Lily (22 page)

“I’m not sure what we have to say to each other.” Her throat closed, but she couldn’t cry in front of Ben again.

“Lily, I—I’m sorry about what happened. But Altona and I—we had a long history. It’s over now.”

“Until the next time?”

“What about you? The shadow of Josh is always with you.”

“Josh died. He’s gone.” Her mouth felt dry—her eyes, her skin, everything. The room was too cluttered, oppressive. “Would you mind if I step outside for a minute? I need some air.”

“Walk with me out to the pier. The salty sea air might do us good. I’ll lock up.”

“I don’t know. I should get back.”

“Lily, please, grant me this one walk.”

She nodded, he grabbed his coat, and they headed out into the cold night, the black sky punctuated by the glint of stars. The quaint town of Fairport looked magical in the moonlight, the shop window displays dimly lit.

“How’s Bish?” Lily asked. “How is she taking her mother’s latest departure?”

“Final departure,” he said. “She’s not the type to stay. She never was. Bish is taking it as well as she can.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” She was genuinely sorry for him.

“It’s possible to have regrets, but also to know it wasn’t right. I could never be with her again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Would you be with your husband again if you could?”

“We had a great love.”

He nodded as if he understood. “But he’s gone, and Altona’s gone. We’ve got to move forward. Life keeps going.”

She nodded, too, her eyes filling with tears.

A few seagulls sat on the wooden railing, chattering softly. The tide was high, water engulfing the pilings, swallowing the beach and lapping the rocks near the road.

“Wait, just a minute.” Lily stopped halfway along the pier, resting her arms on the wooden railing, and peered down into the water. “I love it here. I can breathe on the island. I went back to the city, thinking maybe I could run away again, but I can’t.”

Ben stood beside her, his presence comforting and something more, too. “So where is home for you?”

“The island feels like the place I want to be. I still have a lot of work to do, to figure out my life.”

“You’ll make it. You’re a survivor.”

“Thanks. I hope you’re right.” She turned her face to the wind, and she thought of the fun she’d had with Ben.
Maybe they would go out again. Why not? The lights of Seattle winked in the distance—a view to another world.

Did Josh reside in another world, too? In Heaven? In an afterworld similar to Earth? She could not know, but she no longer sensed him nearby. He had gained some distance from her, like a boat drifting away on the waves.
Good-bye, Joshua,
she thought.
Smooth sailing.

She reached behind her neck and unclasped the gold chain, then she gathered the necklace in a bundle, the wedding ring and vial of ash both in the palm of her hand now, all that she had left of him. She dropped the wedding ring into her pocket, and then she opened the vial, turned it upside down, and let the wind whisk the ashes away into the sea.

Kitty

I love springtime in Fairport. Everything sparkles, a touch of magic in the air. Flowers bloom in bursts of bright color, butterfly bushes spill over with yellow spray, and tiny birds twitter in the trees. I dream about catching a nice, plump specimen, but then again, I prefer to remain indoors. I’ve had enough of the dangerous outdoor life.

I’ve spent the last two hours sitting in a sun spot in the window, gazing out at the people, the passing clouds, and the slope leading down to the beach. Lily’s shop sign still swings in the breeze, but she changed the name from Past
Perfect to Luna’s Corner. She named me Bella Luna, meaning “beautiful moon.” She said I was her light in the darkness.

She still talks to me all the time. I can’t escape the monologues, but these days, she chatters about Ben and Bish, her next clothing project, and some design contest she’s entering. I can see her future in the dust motes catching the light, in the angle of the sun, in the smile on Ben’s face when he stops by. Sometimes all three of them—Ben, Bish, and Lily—go out together. When they come back inside, bringing the smells of the world, they tell me stories and give me treats and love.

The spirit of Josh has gone away, don’t ask me where. And the angry, inky ghost finally found her lost sailor, who whisked her away on his phantom ship. Sometimes new spirits flit through the shop or linger in the clothes, but they soon wander off.

One afternoon, Vanya strides in with a bundle in some kind of a sling.

“Is this little Sven?” Lily says, rushing over to look inside the sling. “He’s gorgeous!”

“Seven pounds, eight ounces,” Vanya says. A baby? A human one? I lick my paw.

“I’m so happy for you,” Lily says, taking the baby from Vanya and cradling the creature in her arms.

“I was wondering if you would be Sven’s godmother. Kind of like an auntie. He doesn’t have any aunties, only uncles.”

Lily looks up and smiles. “Of course, I would love to. It would be my honor.”

“Do you have baby clothes?”

“We carry a few items in the back. Oh, look! Luna wants to see.”

“I like that name, Luna,” Vanya says. “Lily and Luna. You make a good pair.”

“Her full name is Bella Luna.”

“Even better.”

Somehow, I ended up between Lily and Vanya, looking up at the human infant all swaddled in white. I’m reaching up, too, standing on my hind legs.

Lily kneels to show me the tiny, hairless human, its face squished and pink, but it smells good, like milk and sweetness. Hard to believe this squirming bundle will become a full-grown person. I touch his forehead with my nose.

“Aw, how cute. Luna likes him. He’s adorable, isn’t he?” Lily kisses the baby’s cheek. What about me?

As if Lily has heard my thoughts, she hands the baby back to Vanya and bends to pick me up. Bliss, comfort. “You’re adorable, too,” she says, and puts me down again.

Vanya points to the shimmering white gown on the
mannequin by the window. “That’s a lovely dress. Have I seen that one before?”

“I was repairing the bodice,” Lily says, looking at the gown. “That was my wedding dress.”

“Yours! You must’ve been beautiful in it.”

Lily smiles a little and sighs, her eyes bright with tears, her heartbeat steady and hopeful.

Many thanks to my agent, Kevan Lyon; my editor, Wendy McCurdy; Katherine Pelz; Leslie Gelbman, publisher of Berkley Books; and all the talented people at Berkley; as well as my longtime writing group buddies—Susan Wiggs, Sheila Roberts, Elsa Watson, and Kate Breslin. Thanks to my story coach, Michael Hauge.

Thanks to Stephanie Lile and Bryan Sabol, and my Friday Tea group friends including, but not limited to, Toni Bonnell, Carol Caldwell, Dianne Gardner, Theo Gustafson, Catherine Hickey, Sandi Hill, Terrel Hoffman, Elizabeth Corcoran Murray, Penny Percenti, Gwynn Rogers, Pat Stricklin, Jan Symonds, Dee Marie, and Carol Wissmann. What would I do without my swimming friends, author Lois Faye Dyer and retired bookseller Rose Marie Harris?

Thanks to Maple Grove Cottage, a new and used designer
and vintage clothing store in Poulsbo, Washington; AimeeMcWhorter-Compton; Pretty Parlor in Seattle, including Angelica Gehm, clothing designer with her own label, Kombat Glamour; and the two resident shop cats, Vincent and Petunia. Like Bella Luna, Petunia has one blue eye and one green eye. I’m grateful to the shop owner, Anna Lange, as well.

Thanks so much to Andrea Hurst and her Coupeville writing posse, including Rowena Williamson, for their feedback and knowledge. Thanks, Deb Lund and Michele Torrey; thanks to the Garden Isle Guest Cottages in Coupeville; to Matthew Sias for his thoughtful feedback on early versions of the first chapters. Anjana Gattani, I appreciate your cat stories. Thanks to Bill Larson and Carol Ann Morris, Anita LaRae, Christa Sherwood, and Judy Hart. Marilyn Lundberg, deepest thanks for your insight and support. Thanks to Chief Wayne Senter, and I appreciate the staff at the Gig Harbor Public Library for giving me a quiet place in which to work. Thanks to Hedgebrook for giving me the cat’s voice in Waterfall Cottage—and Meadow House for a weekend.

Thanks to my family, including my husband, Joseph. To write the kitty’s character, I needed help from the kitties I’ve loved and lost—Shanti, Monet, and Alex—and those still living with us and entertaining us nonstop: Cheyenne, Ruby, Simon, Teddy, and our own Bella Luna.

I didn’t see this turn of events coming, or going. My ex-husband, Rob, used his charm like a weapon, and ultimately he didn’t care whose heart he broke—or whose life he ruined. Neither did he care whose bed he woke up in. My mother would say,
Well, Jasmine, that’s an American penis for you. You should’ve married a Bengali. Faithful, good, and true to his culture.
Her words conjure an image of the royal Bengali penis decked out in a traditional
churidar kurta
, its head peeking from the gold-embroidered white silk outfit at our
traditional Indian wedding. But my mother won’t get her wish—I won’t marry again.

Now that the divorce is final, I need a break from L.A., from the errant ex-husband whom I once thought was perfect. I’m alone on the ferry to Shelter Island, a green dot of rain-soaked darkness in the middle of Puget Sound. Out on the boat’s breezeway, the wind whips my hair, reminding me that I’m still alive, that I can still feel the cold. Robert’s number pops up on my cell phone screen—the green digits that I have come to loathe. I ignore the call and send him into the barren wasteland of Voice Mail. Let him deal with the real estate agent and the vultures descending on the condo. I’ve made my temporary escape into solitude.

As we approach the island, the eastern shoreline emerges from a wall of fog. Madrone and fir trees tumble down to wild rocky beaches; forested hillsides rise into pewter skies; and the town of Fairport hugs the harbor in a density of antique buildings and twinkling lights. My heartbeat thuds. What am I doing here? Soon the moss will grow between my fingers, in the creases of my nose, and in the pockets of my thin raincoat, where I keep Auntie’s letter, her urgent request that summoned me home.

In the age of e-mail, she prefers to write the old-fashioned way. I pull her note from its hiding place and sniff the paper—a faint scent of rose. Each time I unfold
the letter, the fragrance changes. Yesterday it was sandalwood, the day before, jasmine. But the words remain the same, written in Auntie’s slanted golden script:

When I called her to ask,
Why me?
she mentioned “fixing her health” in Kolkata. She wouldn’t say more, but how could I deny my fragile old auntie? She promised me refuge among the classics, although I haven’t had time to read a novel in years. The evidence hides in my oversized handbag—a rolled-up copy of
Forbes
magazine and a cell phone, a BlackBerry, and a netbook. The weight of technology pulls on the shoulder strap. I barely have room for the usual supplies—compact, lipstick, tissue, aspirin, allergy pills, charge cards, receipts, and a bundle of keys, including one that opens the exercise room at the office. Not a single novel, and yet, what do I have to lose? How hard can it be to sell the latest Nora Roberts or Mary Higgins Clark?

A month on the island, sitting in the bookstore, is a small enough sacrifice for my beloved auntie. I brought work to keep me occupied, including a roll of green bar reports that I haven’t had time to review.

As the ferry docks, a gust of wind snatches Auntie’s letter
from my hand. The pink paper flutters into the water, and for a moment her handwriting glows in the evening light, then dissolves into sparkles as the letter sinks. I consider diving in after it—drowning would be a welcome release from sorrow. But a seagull calls out, admonishing me to keep my chin up, to defy Rob.

I square my shoulders and join the herd of passengers shuffling down the ramp to Harborside Road. Lined with cast-iron lampposts and giant old poplar trees, the street meanders along the waterfront and disappears into a silver mist. I imagine entering that mist and emerging in a new world where men don’t have affairs, where two people can rewind time, fall in love again, and not hurt each other, but I know this is impossible. Time moves in one direction. I must keep up the pace toward Auntie’s bookstore, although my heels were not made for brick sidewalks and my coat is too thin for the weather.

The town hasn’t changed in the year since I last visited. Classic Cycle, Fairport Chiropractic, Island Eye Care. One token business for each human need. If you want a selection from which to choose, you’re out of luck. A handwritten Rotary Bake Sale sign flaps in the window of the Fairport Café, where neighbors gather to share gossip and recipes.

I can’t remember when I last had time to crack open a
cookbook. In L.A., Rob and I subsisted on takeout, a secret that would annoy my mother. She believes every good Bengali daughter should be like my sister, Gita, who excels at preparing curried fish. I barely remember how to boil water. Now that I’ll be staying with my parents, I’ll have a harder time hiding my flaws.

I set off toward Auntie’s bookstore, six blocks north at the water’s edge—a three-story Queen Anne Victorian painted in burnt umber and white. As I approach the house, a little girl runs out the front door, crying, followed by her mother.

“But I wanted
Curious George
!” the little girl wails.

“…next time,” her mother says and bundles her into a Volkswagen Beetle.

I stop at the curb in front of the bookstore, my heartbeat kicking up. I’m not prepared for screaming children. And I forgot how large the house is, and how complex—a pattern of bay windows, turrets, and a wraparound porch. Close up, patches of disrepair come into stark relief. The paint is peeling on the railing; a few shingles have come loose on the roof. Auntie should renovate, repaint, and place a neon sign in the window.