George’s house sits on a hill above the water. It has weathered shingles with a porch all around. It looks like a house in a book.
Tess runs up the steps in front of us.
“It’s fine. Tess visits us often. My mother and father like her. When we tell her it’s time to go home, she goes.”
We open the door, and George’s father, very tall and darker than George, smiles at me.
“Louisiana with the beautiful hair,” he exclaims. “I’m Eliasi,” he says, holding out his hand.
I take it. It is warm. And I do not feel shy.
“Don’t tease her,” calls George’s mother from the kitchen. When she comes into the room, we both stare at each other and smile.
Her hair is wild and curly, just like mine. She has tied it back, but not successfully. Curls pop around her face.
“Hello, Louisa. I’m Willa,” she says. “And hello, Tess. What would Tess like to eat?”
“Toast,” George and I say at the same time.
“Eliasi is the cook, but we can make toast,” says Willa as I follow her into the kitchen. “I made . . .”
“Caprese salad!” I exclaim. “My favorite! No one in my family makes a beautiful salad like this!”
There is a huge platter of large sliced red tomatoes and basil leaves and thick slices of mozzarella cheese drizzled with oil and vinegar.
“Yay,” says Willa.
“Yay,” I repeat.
“I am grilling fish,” says Eliasi. “Unless you don’t like it, Louisa.”
“I like it really, really crisp,” I say, feeling brave to say so.
Eliasi smiles his huge smile. “I shall burn the fish for you, Louisiana.”
And he does.
I eat three pieces of Eliasi’s burned fish. And half the caprese salad.
Tess sleeps under the table by my feet.
“Willa and I met in Tanzania,” says Eliasi. “She was working with the women and children in the villages. I fell in love with her hair before I fell in love with her.”
“Boots and Jake fell in love across the classroom in middle school,” I say. “Very young.”
George is quiet, listening to our talk.
“I would have fallen in love with Willa if I’d met her in school,” Eliasi says quietly. “It happens.”
The sun has set. Tess has eaten crisp toast made by George.
“I loved your fish,” I say to Eliasi.
“I love you for loving it,” he says.
“And I loved the salad.”
Willa smiles.
“As Jake would say,” says George, “now that we all like each other, let’s get going home.”
I laugh.
“I’d like to come again.”
Eliasi reaches over and holds my hand. “Of course.”
“Of course,” echoes Willa. “There will always be tomatoes.”
“That’s for sure,” says Eliasi.
We wake Tess and say good-bye and start home again.
“Kwaheri!” Eliasi calls from the porch.
“That means ‘good-bye’ in Swahili,” says George.
“How do I say ‘thank you’ in Swahili?” I ask.
“Asante,” says George.
“Asante!” I call, and see Eliasi smile.
“He will teach you more Swahili,” he says. “He likes you.”
It is late dusk with a low red line of sunset on the water.
“Your mother has hair like mine,” I say.
“You noticed,” says George with a grin. “My parents married in Africa. And I was born there. This was my mother’s island home. My father loved it because it reminded him of living by Lake Tanganyika, in Africa, where he fished.”
“My father went to school to become a teacher,” George says. “He teaches African studies at a college on the mainland. Sometimes he teaches at my school. And he still fishes.”
We walk all the way home without more words, watching Tess sniffing the smells of the road, and the grasses, and the sea.
“Asante,” I say to George when we get to the house.
George reaches over suddenly to put his hand against my hair—only for a moment.
I think of Eliasi’s large, comforting hand.
George hadn’t said hello when he came for me.
And he doesn’t say good-bye.
I put my hand up to my hair where George’s hand had been and watch him walk home again.
He turns once to look at me, walking backward. Then he is gone.
When I go inside, Boots and Jake are alone in the kitchen, dancing close together. There are candles on the table, flickering light in the dim room. Jake puts his hands on either side of Boots’s face as they dance.
There is no music.
They don’t notice me.
I walk past them and up the stairs to my room.
Hands.
“Louisa?”
It is night, Boots whispering in the dark.
“Yes?” I lift my head off the pillow.
“I didn’t see you come in tonight.”
“You were dancing with Jake,” I whisper.
I can imagine Boots smiling at this.
“Did you have a good time at dinner?”
“Willa made caprese salad,” I say, half asleep. Boots leans over to kiss my head.
“See you in the morning.”
I don’t remember her leaving.