I lounge backward on my bed and readjust Pabbi’s old guitar.
Dragging my pick across the strings,
I play the familiar melody again.
A minor, F major, C major,
G major.
And again.
Notes reverberate
through my loft bedroom
upward through the morning sunlight
echoing in the rafters above.
I haven’t wanted to play lately.
But for two days,
this song has refused
to leave me
alone.
It wars for space in my head
with the spoiled American girl,
who invites herself into my thoughts
the same way she invited herself
into my orchard.
I take it from the top.
Before my fingers slide to G,
her annoying accent
creeps into my ears.
Muffled words.
I didn’t mean to cause trouble.
But trouble is exactly what she caused.
Trouble squared.
As I strum again,
her voice comes from the air vent
in the wall below me.
Talking to Agnes about that boy in the orchard.
I drop my guitar on the ground.
The reverberating bonnnng
is quieter than my panic.
She’s here.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Evie
Evie was on sensory overload from the minute the bell clanged against the shop door.
Grimmurson’s smelled like home. The scent of warm pastries and cherries inundated the cozy, wood-walled space. It gave her the urge to both stay and leave as quickly as possible. Because as much as the fragrance of baked goods and homemade preserves reminded her of Abuela’s kitchen, it just made her miss her even more.
The carefully curated souvenirs lining the shop shelves brought back memories of the roadside mom-and-pop places she’d seen in the southern Appalachians when her Papá had taken her and Abuela to the mountains of Tennessee one fall—the year her mother left.
Evie was surprised to find a Scottish woman running the place. Agnes was a tall, robust woman with long red hair pinned to the back of her head, a hospitable smile radiating from her rosy face. She wasn’t at all how Evie had pictured her. But she seemed nice enough, so Evie took a leap and told her about the ordeal in the orchard. And then she told her about the grumpy boy she’d met there—hoping to clear herself of any wrongdoing.
“Oh, ye mean Oskar? Aye, the boy’s a strange one.” Agnes grumbled in that strangely affectionate way adults often complained about young people they cared about.
Above them, the faint strumming of guitar chords came to an abrupt halt. Agnes’s bright green gaze followed the absence of sound to the rafters. Evie turned and looked above and behind her to a dark loft area.
The boy stood there, hands on the railing, looking down at them. Evie whirled back toward the counter, swallowing the nerves lurching up her throat. Agnes punched keys on the cash register, tallying the order.
“Does he speak English?” Evie asked, barely above a whisper.
Agnes glanced up again, and it took everything Evie had not to look back at him, too.
“Nay,” she said as she bagged the sandwiches and jam. “How will ye be paying?”
“Oh.” Evie fumbled with her wallet. “Do you take cards?”
“Surely do.” Agnes gave her a polite nod as she took the Visa. Evie gave in to temptation and peeked up and over her shoulder again while Agnes swiped her card. He was gone.
Evie had lots of questions for Agnes, but the nervous energy made her mind go blank. “So are you sure you don’t mind if I paint in the orchard?” Stall. Think.
Agnes glanced down at Evie’s card as she handed it back. “I said it was fine, didn’t I, Miss Perez? Customers are welcome back anytime.” An exasperated grin pulled her wrinkles away from her starched collar.
“Oh, good. It’s just that your orchard is an artist’s dream. I don’t think I’ve ever been so inspired,” Evie babbled. “After I had the pie, I knew I had to see this place. The cherries are really delicious, too.” Evie searched every corner of the shop, taking it all in, wondering where he went.
“Yes, dear. Matter o’ fact, here are some fresh cherries to take with ye. On the house. We have lots of them.” Agnes reached under the counter, hands coming out with a small plastic bag full of cherries.
“Oh, wow. Thanks. That’s very kind of you.” Evie took the bag. As she turned to go, the floorboards above creaked, someplace just beyond her line of sight.
“Come back and see us, lass,” Agnes called.
Evie nodded. Oh, don’t worry, she thought. I definitely will.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Oskar’s Journal
The wall fits coolly against my back.
Agnes’s voice nags at me the moment the door closes.
Care to come out of hiding and tell me what that was about?
I step to the catwalk again and look down.
Not r-r-really.
Crossing my arms, I prop my elbows on the railing.
People decide who you are whether you tell them or not.
I don’t plan to give her ammunition
to feel sorry for me.
Bonny lass. Surely ye noticed.
I won’t dignify rhetoricals with an answer.
Where’s the fearless boy Maggie always spoke of?
Don’t plan on talkin’ to her?
She asked about ye.
I resent the third degree
and the way she brings up my mamma
when she’s trying to manipulate me.
Tha-tha-tha-thanks for not telling her.
I’m grateful for that, at least.
Isn’t mine to tell, lad.
Agnes pins me in place with her trademark grimace.
She’ll be back, you know.
Which is her fault.
Maybe if Agnes knew
what had been in that painting,
she’d be less inclined to hand out open invitations
to the entitled American girl.
I don’t want company while I work.
I leave the conversation
and head back to my room.
When the embarrassment passes, the cherries await ye.
My neck tingles with heat,
either from leftover anger,
or the way her rassin1 looked
in those jeans.
Channel it into the song, I tell myself.
So I pick up the guitar
open up my veins
and bleed music
over the strings.
____________
1: rassin (ras-sin): [Icelandic] ass
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Evie
Evie waited a couple of days before she dug in to the goodies from Grimmurson’s.
She’d wanted to prolong the reward. And part of her wanted to wait to enjoy them with Papá. No such luck there. She’d kept herself busy inhaling books and taking walks around the guesthouse property, not wanting to stray too far in case her papá came back and wanted to spend time with her. But she’d barely seen him for more than five minutes each day, and she fell asleep each night thinking quizás mañana.