“Not really.” A short laugh escapes my throat. “So don’t get your hopes up. I won’t be revealing your future any time soon.”
“But you can do it?”
“Used to. But I’m out of practice.”
He holds out his mug for me to take.
“You don’t fully believe in the Swan sisters, but you believe that fortunes can be seen in tea leaves?” I ask, not accepting his mug.
“I’m unpredictable.”
I smile and raise both eyebrows at him. “I can’t read the leaves with liquid still in the cup. You have to finish it and then the pattern of leaves left inside is where your fortune lives.”
He looks down into his mug like he might be able to read his own future. “Spoken like a true witch.”
I shake my head and smile. It’s hardly witchcraft. It doesn’t involve spells or potions or anything quite so intriguing. But I don’t correct him.
He takes a long drink of his tea and finishes it in one gulp, then extends it out to me.
I hesitate. I really don’t want to do this. But he’s looking at me with such anticipation that I take the cup and hold it between both palms. I tilt it to one side, then the other, examining the whirl of leaves around the edges. “Hmm,” I say, as if I were considering something important, then peek at him from the corner of my eye. He looks like he’s moved closer to the edge of the log, about to fall off if I don’t tell him immediately what I see. I lift my head and look at him fully. “Long life, true love, piles of gold,” I say, then set the mug on the log between us.
One of his eyebrows lifts. He glances at the mug then at me. I try to keep a straight face, but my lips start to tug upward. “Very astute reading,” he says, smiling back then laughing. “Perhaps you shouldn’t make a career of reading tea leaves,” he says. “But I do hope you’re right about my future on all accounts.”
“Oh, I’m right,” I say, still grinning. “The leaves don’t lie.”
He laughs again, and I take a sip of my own tea.
Sparks dance and writhe up into the sky. And I realize how at ease I am sitting here with Bo. How normal it feels. As if this were something we do each evening: set trees on fire and laugh together in the dark.
I don’t feel the gnawing at the base of my skull that usually plagues me each summer—a ticking clock counting down the days until the summer solstice and the end of the Swan season. Bo has distracted me from all the awful things lurking in this town, in the harbor, and in my mind.
“People used to say that the apples and pears that grew on the island had magical healing properties,” I tell him, tilting my head back to watch the waves of smoke spiral upward like mini tornados. “They thought they could heal ailments like a bee sting or hay fever or even a broken heart. They would sell for twice the normal price in town.”
“Did your family used to sell them?” he asks.
“No. This was long before my family lived here. But if the orchards could produce edible fruit again, maybe we could sell it.”
“By next summer, you should be able to harvest ten to twenty pounds from each tree. It’ll be a lot of work, so you’ll probably need to hire more help.”
He says “you,” like he won’t be around to see it.
“Thank you for doing this,” I say, “for bringing them back to life.”
He nods and I touch my index finger, now wrapped with a Band-Aid. The stinging is gone, the cut almost healed. But it will probably leave a tiny scar. My gaze slides to Bo, to the scar beneath his left eye, and I have to ask, “How did you get that?” I nod to the smooth, waxy line of skin.
He blinks, the scar puckering together, as if he feels the pain of it again. “I jumped out of a tree when I was nine. A branch cut me open.”
“Did you get stitches?”
“Five. I remember it hurting like hell.”
“Why’d you jump out of a tree?”
“My brother dared me. For a week he had been trying to convince me that I could fly if I had enough speed.” His eyes smile at the memory. “I believed him. And I also probably just wanted to impress him since he was my older brother. So I jumped.”
He tilts his head back to look up at the sky, sewn together with stars.
“Maybe you didn’t have enough speed,” I suggest, smiling and craning my head back to look up at the same stars.
“Probably not. But I don’t think I’ll test the theory again.” His smile fades. “My brother felt terrible,” he goes on. “He carried me all the way back to our house while I sobbed. And after I got stitches, he sat beside my bed and read me comics for a week. You’d think I lost a leg, he felt so guilty.”
“He sounds like a good brother,” I say.
“Yeah. He was.”
A breath of silence weaves between us.
Sparks swirl up from the charred tree trunk into the dark. Bo clears his throat, still staring into the flames. “How long has that sailboat been sitting down by the dock?”
The question surprises me. I wasn’t expecting it. “A few years, I guess.”
“Who does it belong to?” His tone is careful, as though he’s unsure if he should be asking. The focus has quickly shifted from him to me. From one loss to another.
I let the words tumble around inside my skull before I answer, conjuring up a past that lies dormant in my mind. “My father.”
He waits before he speaks again, sensing that he’s venturing into delicate territory. “Does it still sail?”
“I think so.”
I stare down into the mug held between my palms, absorbing its warmth.
“I’d like to take it out sometime,” Bo says cautiously, “see if it still sails.”
“You know how to sail?”
His lips part open—a gentle smile—and he looks down at his feet like he’s about to reveal a secret. “I spent almost every summer sailing on Lake Washington growing up.”
“Did you live in Seattle?” I ask, hoping to narrow down the city where he’s from.
“Near there.” His answer is just as vague as the last time I asked. “But a much smaller town.”
“You realize I have more questions about you than answers.” He was built to conceal secrets, his face revealing not even a hint of what’s buried inside. It’s both intriguing and infuriating.
“I can say the same about you.”
I draw my lips to one side and squeeze the mug tighter between my hands. He’s right. We’re deadlocked in a strange battle of secrecy. Neither of us is willing to tell the truth. Neither of us is willing to let the other one in. “You can take the sailboat out if you want,” I say, standing up and tucking a loose strand of hair back behind my ear. “It’s late. I think I’ll head up to the house.” The flames burning in each stump have been reduced to hot embers, slowly chewing through the last of the wood.
“I’ll stay up and make sure the fires are out completely.”
“Good night,” I say, pausing to look back at him.
“Night.”
EIGHT
The orchard looks different. Pruned and tidy, like a manicured English garden. It reminds me of how it used to be in summers past, when ripe fruit would hang bright and vibrant beneath the sun, beckoning the birds to pick at the ones that had fallen to the ground. The air always smelled of sweet and salt. Fruit and sea.