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“A beer, thanks,” he called back. “I can show you my ID. Or my I Think I’m Really Old membership card.” He winked at Zoey as he passed.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Zoey whispered to Pigeon. Still clutchingthe book, she had turned to join Oliver when she saw Frasier emerge from his office. He had his lunch box in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. She was surprised when he crossed over to her. “Oliver told me it’s your birthday,” he said. “I wanted to give you this on my way out.” He held out the piece of heavy-stock paper.
This was an embarrassment of riches. She set the book on Charlotte’s patio table and Frasier’s eyes followed the movement, frowning when he saw what it was. Zoey took the paper from him. It was a sketch of a fat dellawisp sitting on a thin branch. The bird’s weight was bending the branch so far down that he had to cock his head sideways to see the world straight from his awkward perch. Frasier had managed to perfectly capture both the bird’s annoyance and its beauty.
“That’s old man Otis,” Frasier said, his eyes finally leaving the book. “He’s the last of the original birds found nesting here.”
Zoey looked at him with surprise. “I didn’t know he had a name.”
“They all have names.” He shrugged. “But I’m the only one they’ve told.”
“Will you sign it for me?” she asked, handing it back to him.
He hesitated, then slid a pen out of his shirt pocket. He initialed it “FA” in the lower right-hand corner.
“Thank you,” she said. “This means a lot to me. Will you join us? There’s enough food for an army.”
“No, but thank you for asking. And thank you for giving Oliver a distraction tonight.” He looked up at the darkening sky, which was a foggy plum color. “There’s something in the air tonight. Do you feel it?” he asked, and Zoey shook her head. “There’s a lot to be let go of.”
Zoey watched him walk away. When he disappeared through the dark gate, she didn’t hear the now-familiar sound of the electronic lock clicking into place behind him. She thought she saw a shadowmove across the garden but, distracted, Zoey found herself looking back down at the drawing. There were more threads here, important stitches, but she couldn’t quite make the connection.
And then it dawned on her.
She picked up the book Oliver had just given her.
Dancing with the Dellawispsby Roscoe F. Avanger.
She turned the book over to the author photo on the back. She’d seen it hundreds of times on copies ofSweet Mallowat Kello’s bookstore. In the photo, his head was bald and his face was clean-shaven. He wasn’t wearing glasses, either. And he was decades younger, of course.
But it wasFrasier.
“Don’t tell the others,” Oliver said from behind her, his breath soft on her ear. Zoey turned quickly. He was very close to her, so close she could smell his cologne, but she didn’t step back. Neither, interestingly, did he. “He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“He’s Roscoe Avanger?” she whispered.
Oliver nodded conspiratorially.
She gave an incredulous laugh.
This might already be the best birthday she’d ever had.
Charlotte hated her dreams. They were always about the camp, or her mother, or Minister McCauley. The very things she wanted to forget.
But this week, all of a sudden, new ones began to present themselves. She would wake and catch the tail of dreams about the Dellawisp, or the birds, or the sandy road where Mac grew up, or wispy, warm presences like ghosts.
And Mac himself.
It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that only a few short weeks ago she’d had to leave the Sugar Warehouse, Benny had stolen her money, Lizbeth had died, and Zoey had just moved to the island. She’d had no idea that the confluence of these things would lead to this point, where she actually looked forward to coming home to people she considered friends. She liked these people. She even trusted them, inasmuch as she would ever be able to trust anyone. She had been profoundly lonely for as long as she could remember. She’d begun to wonder if she had finally satisfied enough of teenaged Charlotte’s unfulfilled longings that she could stay here. She wanted to settle into something that felt more like herself. She didn’t know what, or who, that was yet. But it was the first time she’d ever thought it might be possible to find out.
Later that evening, as Charlotte and Mac stood side by side in her galley kitchen putting candles on Zoey’s pie for dessert, she broke their companionable silence and said, “I had a dream about you last night.”
“Oh?” he asked with a quirk of one red eyebrow.
“Not like that.” She bumped him with her hip playfully. He’d recently started walking to the trolley tours every day with Zoey to hang out early in the afternoons before going to work, sometimes playing foosball with Zoey. One day he’d shown up on his own when Zoey, with the first day of school barreling down on her, had gone panic shopping for things on her college list. While the tour bus was out, he and Charlotte had sat on one of the couches and talked. She couldn’t even remember what about now. She could only remember how they’d faced each other, mirroring the other’s body language, and that there had been one moment when she’d thought,I could stay like this forever.
“It was snowing in the dream,” she said. “But it wasn’t really snow.It was like flour, and you were covered in it. Camille was sprinkling it over you.”
A flicker of something crossed his broad features as he turned back to the pie and changed the subject. “I hope Zoey likes this.”
