NOW LEAVING BEAUTY. HAVE A BEAUTIFUL DAY AND COME AGAIN SOON: Roadside sign on the highway north of Beauty, Rhode Island. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
October
There’s a long-held belief in my family that all the Saint-Martin women are romantically cursed: unlucky in love, doomed to end up miserable and alone.
But as my grandmother would say, that’s a load of bull.
The only thing we’re cursed with is terrible communication skills, and that has nothing to do with any kind of witchy hex. Somewhere along the line, one of the Saint-Martins was a lousy communicator, and she taught the bad habit to her daughter, who then led by example and taught it to hers. And now here we are, three generations of women all facing the fact that we’ve been repeating the same mistakes that our stupid ancestors passed down to us.
All we can do is wake up. Be better. Admit when we’re wrong, try to fix our mistakes, and smash all the invisible walls we can.
Who knew that would start with smashing a department store window?
Sometimes doing the wrong thing can point you in the right direction.
Sometimes being a little bad can turn out good.
And sometimes the places we think are portals to hell are actually just things we fear.
“Ugh. I’m not sure if this is the best idea.…” Mom frets near the old printing press in the Nook, brushing the front of her dress for the umpteenth time. “Maybe I should change. Or just leave town forever. Maybe I should just do that?”
“No,” Evie says from behind her paperback, perched on our non-squeaky stool behind the bookshop register. “That color looks good on you. It’s too brisk outside for the other dress. You’re just nervous, which is understandable. But it’s just a date.”
“Not even a date,” I assure her. “A double date isn’t a date.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a date,” Lucky says as he leans against the printing press, flipping the page of a book about ironwork in Victorian England. He looks up to see us all staring at him. “Hey. I’m just telling it like it is. It’s a real date. Drew is ridiculously nervous too, if that helps. He’s been pacing around the blacksmith studio chanting positive affirmations, driving me up the wall.”
Mom clutches her stomach. “I’m going to be sick. I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can,” he assures her. “My parents will be there to hold up the conversation.”
The double date was Evie’s idea, and the only way my mom would agree to go. Funny that a woman who’s spent the last few years right-swiping anonymous strangers would be terrified. But she deleted her online dating apps, and right now, I’ve never seen her so nervous.
“It’s going to be fine,” I tell Mom. “All we’re going to think about is what a fun, easy-breezy time you’re going to have at the fall Renaissance Faire—”
“Revolutionary,” Lucky corrects. “This is Beauty.”
“At the Rev Faire,” I say. “A fun, easy-breezy time, laughing at people dressed in Revolutionary War costumes mingling with people dressed in Renaissance costumes, eating giant turkey legs, and cheering on jousting contests. It’s all perfectly weird and wacky, and you’re just … reconnecting with an old friend.”
“Who may or may not still be madly in love with you after all these years,” Evie says.
“No pressure,” Grandma teases, breezing past us as she makes her way to the children’s section with a stack of books for storytime. “Tell him I said ‘sorry, not sorry’ about ending his stupid plan to marry you at Candy’s Honeymoon Motel on Route 138 in the middle of the night before the ink was dry on your high school diplomas. If he still wants you, he’ll have more class now.”
“I’m seriously going to be sick,” Mom mumbles.
“Don’t listen to these bozos,” Lucky tells her. “I know it’s intense. He’s just as nervous as you are, and maybe it’ll be easier than you think. If you don’t hit it off, no big deal.”
Mom nods. “Maybe you’re right. It’s not a date. It’s just walking around the woods, looking at things in tents. I can do that.”
“All the food trucks will be there,” I remind her. “Even the egg roll guys from Victory Day if you want to take your chances again. Eating things on sticks—your favorite.”
“I do love food on sticks,” she admits.
“And hey, my mom knows this is a high-pressure situation,” Lucky says. “She’s got your back. Both she and my dad will be there if you need an escape. Seriously, you’ll be okay.”
“You just need an emergency word if the date goes bad,” Evie says. “Something to signal Kat and Nick that they need to get you out of there, stat. Like … ‘huzzah!’ ”
“Do you know how many people will be saying ‘huzzah’ at a Ren Faire?” Lucky says. “I guarantee you that you’ll be hearing a million versions of ‘huzzah,’ ‘wench,’ ‘master,’ ‘ladies,’ ‘lords,’ ‘doth,’ ‘taketh’ …”
“Pray, my lord, Phantom,” Evie says to Lucky in a terrible accent, “what oil dost thou prefer for polishing thoust sword?”
“Not sure why I even come in here sometimes,” Lucky says, burying his nose back in his book. “The customer service is atrocious.”
I loop my arm around his waist, and he slings an arm over my shoulders. “Probably because we’re the only bookshop in town.”
“Oh, r-i-i-ight,” he murmurs, smiling down before quickly kissing my forehead.
Evie bats dramatic, long eyelashes at us from the counter. “You two make me sick in the best way possible. Madame Evie says the spirits are delighted—please don’t stop.”
I stick out my tongue at her playfully, and then I tell Mom, “Don’t use ‘huzzah’ as your emergency word. Use ‘cornucopia.’ Like, ‘Wow, there sure is a cornucopia of food trucks here today.’ Inform Lucky’s mom when she comes in, so she knows to help you if she hears it.”
“I don’t need an emergency word,” Mom says. “Evie, I’ll be back to close up the shop.”
“If you aren’t, you aren’t. It’s Saturday, and I’m perfectly capable of closing this shop on my own. Grandma’s here for storytime, my mom’s coming by any second, and Vanessa’s meeting me here later, so I won’t be alone.”
Vanessa from Barcelona has been meeting Evie here almost every day since their fall semester started back at community college. It’s kind of nice. Maybe even more than nice … Starting to suspect that Vanessa and Evie’s friendship might be a little like mine and Lucky’s.
Mom turns to me. “Are you guys set to go? This is a big day for you, too.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
Lucky and I are taking a little afternoon trip on his Superhawk to a town outside Providence. Turns out one of my half-sisters lives there. She’s two years younger than me, and Henry Zabka hasn’t really been much of a father to her, either. Maybe we won’t connect, but I thought … why not?
Gotta try, right?
Plus, I’m experimenting with some new pictures, and a road trip is a good opportunity for camera time. The leaves are beautiful, and the weather’s good. I’m still photographing signs—I still love the poetry of billboards and forgotten flyers stapled to telephone poles. But I’m taking Lucky’s advice and am trying to include people in the shots. It’s not as hard as I once thought. The light’s tricky on faces, but you know, as a wise woman once told me: If it was easy, any clown would do it.
“Don’t worry about us,” I tell Mom. “We’ll be back by nine.”
“Or ten,” Lucky says. “We’ll both have our phones on. Promise, cross our hearts, we will not be taking a boat out to Rapture Island or any other island.”
My mom makes him swear that same thing every time we leave the town limits now. It’s mostly a joke … mostly. “And you’ll be careful on the drive to Providence?”
“Very careful,” Lucky assures her. “Helmets on.”
He points to the counter, where our helmets sit side by side. I’m no longer wearing his cousin Gabe’s sparkly tri-corn. Lucky got me my own full-face helmet—safety first—and on the back, in a compact silver font, it says SHUTTERBUG.
Mom nods. “Just take it slow around that Dead Man’s Curve on the highway where Evie wrecked.” Evie. Not Adrian. Because we don’t speak that jerk’s name anymore. We haven’t seen him around here lately, but word on the street is that he’s already moved back into his apartment at Harvard, but he’s not taking any classes. As long as he stays out of Beauty and away from Evie, I honestly don’t care.
Evie says I should turn the poster-on-the-door incident into a plus and spread my own rumor around Golden Academy that my subscription service is nudes. Get people to fork over cash, then kablam! They subscribe and get photos of all my signs instead. Fleece the Goldens.
Tempting as that scam may be, I don’t need that kind of energy in my life right now. Besides, I’ve picked up eight new online subscribers this month without resorting to trickery. I have a strong suspicion it may be members of the Karras family, but maybe one day Levi Summers himself will subscribe. I still haven’t given up on convincing him to let me do photography to pay him back for the department store window. One of these days, he’s going to say yes.…
The door to the bookshop swings open, and Kat Karras’s dark head pops inside. “He’s here, Winona. Ready to go?”
Mom looks as if she may faint. So I duck away from Lucky for a moment to walk over to her, and I squeeze her hand and smile, nodding. “You can do it,” I whisper. “We Saint-Martins are not cursed.”
“Not cursed,” she whispers back. “Definitely not cursed.”
Mostly not cursed.
But it’s okay. We can break the curse ourselves. No magic spell needed. No special charm. All we have to do is decide that we’re ready to smash down a few invisible walls.
And that’s exactly what we do.