Willa by Heart by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

Rosie says. “Next time.”
    We wrap up thick pieces of barbecue baked chicken, a container of pasta salad, Cape Cod potato chips, peaches, rolls, soda, plates, forks, and knives. A wicker basket would be more romantic, but an insulated beach pack is morepractical. “Get some sugar cookies,” Rosie says. “I just stocked the jar. They’re probably still warm.”
    Every afternoon from two to four is teatime at Bramblebriar. We keep a big blue jar filled with cookies for our guests to enjoy with hot or cold tea and coffee. Every day is a fresh new batch—chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, Heath bar crunch….
    There are several guests hovering around the table. I make small talk and budge to the front as tactfully as I can. I do live here, after all.
    Rosie hands me some pink cloth napkins. “Fancier than paper,” she says.
    â€œThanks so much, Rosie.”
    â€œYou’re welcome, Willa. Have fun!”
    The doorbell rings right at two o’clock. Mom and Sam are waiting in the vestibule.
    â€œMom,” I say, nervous, catching a quick look in the hallway mirror. “Please just say hello and let us go, okay?”
    She opens the door. “Hi, Joseph, come in.”
    JFK looks like he should be on the cover of
Cape Cod Life
magazine. Cut-off jean shorts hung low on his hips, white pocket T-shirt, sandy brown hair tucked behind his ear, a Frisbee under his arm. He looks tanned, like he’s been out sailing all day.
    An alarm bell wakes the towns of butterflies in my stomach, and they all start batting their wings at once. He is so beautiful.
    â€œHi, Willa.” JFK cocks his head, shy. He turns the Frisbee around in his hand like he’s steering it for support.
    â€œHi, Joseph.” I set down the picnic bag. “I think you know my mother.”
    JFK shakes her hand. “Mrs. Gracemore, it’s a pleasure.”
    â€œNice to formally meet you, Joseph.”
    â€œAnd I know you know my stepfather, Sam Gracemore.”
    â€œMr. Gracemore.” JFK shakes Sam’s hand. “I started
Oz
last night. It’s good.”
    â€œGlad you like it, Joe,” Sam says, smiling.
    I pick up the picnic. “All set?”
    â€œWhat time will you be home?” Mom asks.
    â€œIs nine okay?” JFK says.
    â€œThat’s fine,” Mom says.
    And then, thank all the angels in heaven, we’re off.
    JFK hooks the picnic bag onto the handlebars of his bike. I put a beach blanket and the Frisbee in the basket on mine. “Ready?” he says.
    â€œReady.” And off we go to Sandy Beach.
    The bike lane is narrow. JFK goes ahead of me. I follow along behind him, the sun on my face, wind whistling in my ears. I feel so happy and pretty and lucky. I picture us holding hands walking out on the Spit, eating dinner, kissing…. Then before I know it, we are pulling into the parking lot, setting our bikes in the rack. I don’t remember one street we passed. It’s like I dreamed myself here.
    There are several people on the beach. It’s warm. We walk down the steps and kick off our sneaks.
    â€œWhere should we put this?” JFK says, holding up the bag.
    â€œLet’s walk out a bit,” I say.
I’d like to walk all the way out to that secluded little scallop of beach, our special spot, where you kissed me on the cheek in seventh grade….
    â€œGood, let’s go,” he says, slinging the picnic sack on his shoulder.
    I walk next to him. He lets me have the level ground by the water. The ocean is calm, there’s a light, feathery breeze. The sky is the color I used to pick from the crayon box to paint the picture perfect when I was little.
    We arc around a young boy and his mother building a sand castle. It’s quite an elaborate affair, moat and everything. The boy unloads a cement-mixer pail of sand, complete with sound effects. His trusty assistant packs it smooth. Past them are some little girls. They