Summer By The Sea. Susan Wiggs
mean to.”
Mrs. Carmichael shook her head. “Let’s go.”
As she followed Mrs. Carmichael across the lawn, Rosa glanced at the house and saw a ghost in the window. A small, pale person with a round Charlie Brown head stood staring out at her, veiled by lace curtains. She looked again and saw that the ghost was gone, shy as a hummingbird zipping out of sight.
“Holy moly,” she muttered.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Carmichael cranked opened the spigot.
“Oh, nothing.” It was kind of interesting, seeing a ghost. Sometimes she saw Mamma, but she didn’t tell anyone. People would think she was lying, but she wasn’t.
“Stand right there.” Mrs. Carmichael indicated a sunny spot. The grass was as soft as brand-new shag carpet. “Hold out your arms.”
Rosa’s shadow fell over the grass, a skinny cruciform with stringy hair. An arc of fresh water from the hose drenched her. “Yikes, that’s cold,” she said.
“Hold still and I’ll be quick.”
She couldn’t hold still. The water was too cold, which felt good on the beestings but chilled the rest of her. She jumped up and down as though stomping grapes, like Pop said they used to do in the Old Country.
The ghost came to the window again.
“Who is that?” Rosa asked through chattering teeth.
“He’s Mrs. Montgomery’s boy.”
“Is he all alone in there?”
“He is. Put your head back,” Mrs. Carmichael instructed. “His sister went away to summer camp.”
“I bet he’s lonely. Maybe I could play with him.”
Mrs. Carmichael gave a dry laugh. “I don’t think so, dear.”
“Is he shy?” Rosa persisted.
“No. He’s a Montgomery. Now, turn around and I’ll finish up.”
Rosa squirmed under the impact of the cold stream of water. When the torture stopped, Mrs. Carmichael told her to wait on the back porch. She disappeared into the house, carefully closing the door behind her. She returned with a stack of towels and a white terry-cloth bathrobe. “Put this on, and I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”
As Rosa peeled off her wet clothes, Mrs. Carmichael stared at her legs. “Mother of God, what happened to you?”
Rosa surveyed the welts on her feet and legs. “Bee-stings,” she said. “I kicked a hive. It was an accident, I swear—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Rosa thought it would be rude to point out that she had already tried to explain.
“Heavenly days,” said Mrs. Carmichael, wrapping a towel around her. “You must be made of steel, child. Doesn’t it hurt like hellfire?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s all right to cry, you know.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it won’t make me feel any better. The mud helped, though. And the cold water.”
“Let me find the tweezers and get those stingers out. We might need to call a doctor.”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Rosa hoped she sounded firm, not impolite. While Mamma was sick, the whole family had had their fill of doctors. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“You sit tight, then. I’ll get the tweezers.”
A few minutes later, she returned with a blue-and-white first-aid kit and used the tweezers to pluck out at least seven stingers. “Hmm,” Mrs. Carmichael mused, “maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea, jumping in the pond. I think it’ll keep the swelling down.” She gently pressed the palm of her hand to Rosa’s forehead, and then to her cheek.
Rosa closed her eyes. She had forgotten how good it felt when someone checked you for fever. It had to be done by a woman. A mother had a way of touching you just so. It was one of the zillion things she missed about Mamma.
“No fever,” Mrs. Carmichael declared. “You’re lucky. You’re not allergic to beestings.”
“I’m not allergic to anything.”
Mrs. Carmichael treated the stings with baking soda and gave Rosa a grape Popsicle. “You’re very brave,” she said.
“Thank you.” Rosa didn’t feel brave. The beestings hurt plenty, like little licks of fire all over, but after what happened with Mamma, Rosa had a different idea about what was worth crying about.
Mrs. Carmichael got a comb and tugged it through Rosa’s long, thick, curly hair. Rosa endured it in silence, biting her lip to keep from crying out. “This is a mass of tangles,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Honestly, doesn’t your father—”
“I do it myself,” Rosa said, forcing bright pride into her tone. “Pop doesn’t know how to do hair.”
“I see.”
Rosa pressed her lips together hard and stared at the painted planks on the porch floor. “Mamma taught me how to make a braid. When she was sick, she used to let me get in bed with her, and she’d do my hair.” Rosa didn’t tell Mrs. Carmichael that by the end, Mamma was too weak to do anything; she couldn’t even hold a brush. She didn’t tell her that the sickness that had taken Mamma took some of Rosa, too, the part that was easy laughter and feeling safe in the dark at night, the security of living in a house that smelled of baking bread and simmering sauce.
“Dear? Are you all right?”
Rosa tucked the memories away. “Mamma said every girl should know how to make a braid. But it’s hard to do on your own head.”
Mrs. Carmichael surprised her by holding her close, stroking her damp head. “I guess it is hard, kiddo.”
“I’ll keep practicing.”
“You do that.” Like all grown-up women, Mrs. Carmichael was a champ at braiding hair. She made a fat, perfect braid down Rosa’s back. “I’ll put these things in the dryer. Wait here, and try to stay out of mischief.”
Six
The housekeeper disappeared again and Rosa tried to be patient. Waiting was the pits. It was totally boring, and you never knew when it would end. She fiddled with the long tie that cinched in the waist of the thick terry robe. It was way too big for her, the sleeves and hem practically dragging.
Somewhere far away, the phone rang three times. Mrs. Carmichael’s voice drifted through the house. Rosa couldn’t hear the conversation, but Mrs. Carmichael laughed and talked on and on. She probably forgot all about Rosa.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Rosa pushed it with her foot and, almost all by itself, it swung open. She gasped softly at what she saw. Everything was white and steel, polished until it shone. There were miles of countertops, and Rosa figured the Montgomerys owned every tool and utensil that had ever been invented—strainers and oddly shaped spoons, gleaming pots hanging from a rack, a huge collection of knives, baking pans in several shapes, timers and stacks of snow-white tea towels.
Boy, thought Rosa, Mamma would love this. She was the world’s best cook. Every night, she used to sing “Funiculi” while she fixed supper—puttanesca sauce, homemade bread, pasta she made every Wednesday. Rosa had loved nothing better than working side by side with her in the bright scrubbed kitchen in the house on Prospect Street, turning out fresh pasta, baking a calzone on a winter afternoon, adding a pinch of basil or fennel to the sauce. Most of all, Rosa could picture, like an indelible snapshot in her mind, Mamma standing at the sink and looking out the window, a soft, slightly mysterious smile on her face. Her “Mona Lisa smile,” Pop used to call it. Rosa didn’t know about that. She had seen a postcard