Cloud Nine. Luanne Rice
extremely good imagination. When she was very small, her mother had read her books by Rumer Godden. Secret had loved the sound of scones and tea, and she wished she had some that very minute.
She had baby-sat for the Neumanns after school. On her way home now, she was in no particular hurry; her mother and Julian were having cocktails at Dean Sherry’s house. Pedaling slower, she looked into the shops. A few still had jack-o’-lanterns in the window. Others had jumped the gun, entwined white lights with evergreen roping, getting ready for Christmas. The down shop looked especially inviting, with no holiday decorations whatsoever. The sign was enough: a magical cloud and a golden ‘9.’ Brass lamps glowed, the quilts appeared thick and enveloping. Wanting to warm up, Secret parked her bike and walked in.
‘Hi,’ the lady called from the back.
‘Hi,’ Secret said. Trying to look real, like a genuine shopper who might actually be in the market for pillows, Secret frowned and began looking at price tags.
‘Just let me know if you need any help.’
‘I will,’ Secret said, flattening her voice and earnestly rifling through a bin of small silk-velvet pillows. She had accompanied her mother and Julian to the Antiques Corner, so she knew how people who spent money looked. Spiced cider was brewing somewhere in back. What she wanted was to sink into this soft pile of velvet-covered down. She found herself relaxing, forgetting to concentrate, leisurely browsing through the beautiful things.
‘Would you like some hot cider?’ the voice asked.
‘Well, I shouldn’t,’ Secret said, feeling guilty for defrauding the lady. She had absolutely no intention of buying a single thing.
‘Are you sure? It’s pretty cold out there.’
‘You can say that again,’ Secret said.
‘Are you sure? It’s pretty cold out there.’
Secret chuckled. She glanced up, and for the first time she actually saw the shop owner. It was Sarah Talbot, the sick lady, Mimi Ferguson’s friend.
‘Oh, hi,’ Secret said.
‘Hi,’ Sarah said. ‘I know you. You were in the airport office the day I took my birthday flight.’
‘Yes. My father’s the pilot.’
‘An excellent pilot,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve had some terrible ones, believe me.’
‘You have?’
‘Absolutely. Small-plane pilots are the worst. I’ve had guys who taxi down the runway like bucking broncos. I know one pilot who flies under bridges, just for fun. When I was younger, I lived on an island, and some of them would fly when the fog was thicker than these quilts. Those pilots were the cowboys of the air.’
‘Half of them probably can’t get jobs at major airlines,’ Secret said confidentially. She leaned against the bed in the middle of the store.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Sarah said. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like a little cider?’
‘Maybe a little,’ Secret said. She waited while Sarah filled two brown mugs. ‘The airlines would hire my dad though. He had offers from TWA, Delta. He could fly anywhere, but he likes being his own boss.’
‘He certainly seems capable to me,’ Sarah said, handing her a mug. Secret accepted it, smelling the spicy steam.
‘The navy trained him,’ Secret said. ‘But he was a pilot even before that. He learned to fly when he was just a little older than me. He was so valuable to the navy, he could do everything. Fly, swim in times of disaster. Lead his men. He always kept his head in times of maneuvers.’
‘Maneuvers?’
‘Yes, such as the Persian Gulf. He was there.’
‘You sound like a proud daughter.’
‘I am.’
‘Upstate New York is pretty far inland for a navy family,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes,’ Secret said, sipping her cider. She felt her asthma just waiting for the next questions: Why are you here? Do you have any brothers or sisters? But the questions never came. Instead, Sarah stuck out her hand.
‘We haven’t officially met. I’m Sarah Talbot.’
‘I’m Secret Burke.’
‘What a beautiful name!’ Sarah said.
Secret glanced over to see if she was being fake. Certain older people tended to patronize her when they heard her name, but she could see that Sarah was being sincere. Sarah’s eyes were full of admiration. She had a wonderful smile, with a slightly crooked front tooth.
‘Thank you,’ Secret said. ‘I’m actually getting ready to change it.’
‘Really? To what?’
‘I was thinking of Snow.’
Sarah nodded, blowing on her cider. ‘Perfect for winter,’ she said.
‘Is Sarah your real name?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve lugged it around my whole life. For a while in seventh grade I tried out Sadie, but it wasn’t me.’
‘No,’ Secret agreed. ‘You are definitely a Sarah.’
For the first time since coming in, Secret focused on Sarah’s hair. It had grown out about half an inch, and the color was somewhere between yellow and gray. She knew people having cancer treatments lost their hair. Beauty tips were one of Secret’s best talents, and she eyed Sarah appraisingly.
‘What?’ Sarah said. The way she blushed, touching her hair with a stricken look in her eyes, made Secret feel so bad, she almost spilled her cider. Sarah was self-conscious! Secret had seen that same expression in the eyes of her friend Margie Drake when two of the cool girls, whispering and pointing, had made fun of her new perm.
‘Well …’ Secret said, trying to decide. She could lie, say nothing, pretend she had just been about to burp. Or she could tell the truth, offer to help. ‘I was just noticing your hair,’ she said bravely.
‘My poor hair,’ Sarah said, still pink. ‘Yep, I lost it. It used to be dark brown, and now look. It came in such a funny color. Somewhere between old socks and dirty dishwater.’
‘You could bleach it,’ Secret suggested. ‘The way it’s growing in, it’s so cute and punky. You could get it pure white and look so great!’
‘Like Annie Lennox,’ Sarah said, smiling.
‘Who?’ Secret asked.
Just then the bells above the door sounded. A cluster of tiny silver bells, just like you might find in England. A group of college girls walked in, hugging themselves to get warm. Sarah called hello to them, and they called back. She offered them cider.
Secret nestled into her spot on the edge of the bed. The bed took up most of the store. But it was a bed no one would ever sleep in. Like a toy bed in the bedroom of a beautiful dollhouse. Like her playhouse in the middle of their apartment in Newport. All they needed was Fred’s toy train chugging around the room, sounding its happy whistle.
Sarah served the college girls cider, but when she was done she came back to sit beside Secret. Their mugs were cool enough to really drink now. Side by side they sipped their drinks, while outside the air grew colder. The girls’ voices were cheerful and excited. Their parents had sent them money, and they were all buying new quilts for the winter. They were the paying customers, but Sarah was sitting with Secret. As if she were her friend. As if she were hers alone.
Later that night, Sarah stood in front of her bathroom mirror. The lights were bright, and she thought she looked like a startled cat. Her ugly yellow-gray hair stuck straight up, like the soft bristles of a baby brush. Ever since closing the shop, she had found herself thinking about what Secret had said: She could bleach her hair.