Outrun the Moon(40)

“I might be able to replant it if the root structure is intact.” She locates the wronged plant in the sack and, using my spade, carefully replants the thing. “The French love this herb. They put it in béarnaise sauce.”

“Who’s Bernie?”

She wipes her hands on my apron and takes back her glass. “Not Bernie. Béarn is a region in France. Here, smell.” She picks off an injured leaf and holds it to my nose. It smells like grass to me, but she’s beaming as if we just told each other our deepest secrets.

She runs her fingers through an overly pruned rosemary plant. “Looks like Ruby needs to cut back on her clippings.”

So this is where Ruby harvests her corsages. “Did someone close to her die?”

“I’m not sure. Girls sometimes wear rosemary to attract suitors.”

“But there are no suitors here.”

She shrugs. “We get customers at the restaurant who say they smell our cooking from Rincon Hill two miles away. Rosemary has a long reach. It’s the secret ingredient in Luciana’s minestrone.”

I remember well the eatery with the checked tablecloths and snowball candles but feign surprise. “Your family has a restaurant?”

“Yes.” She sips her tea. “In North Beach. But of course, you know that.”

“How would I know that?”

A smile spans her face as she watches my eyes expand. “I’m sorry about my brother vexing you. He owns the restaurant, but you would never know it by the way he conducts himself. He’s a fannullone, a lazy bum. He was drunk that day, so I came in to help out.”

I don’t know what astonishes me more. That the hooligan who tried to take my chuen pooi bulb is her brother, or that she knew I was from Chinatown all along. “You never said anything.”

“There was nothing to say.”

I fall back onto my haunches, gaping like an open jar. She always treated me as an equal. My gratitude of her kindness warms me from deep inside my belly. “Did no one ever tell you that, as a general rule, Italians and Chinese don’t get along?”

“For every rule, there is a rule breaker.”

“Or a ruler breaker,” I mutter, and she nearly smiles again.

“Once, I helped Mrs. Tingle make minestrone, the good kind with oxtail and lentils. When she found out, Headmistress Crouch banned me from the kitchen. She said it’s unseemly to mingle with the staff. But she is well-intentioned, even with all her prickles.”

“She didn’t whip you, did she?”

“No. I think she enjoyed her minestrone too much.” She smiles, coaxing one from me. Then she gets to her feet and holds her hand out.

I think about the tarragon again, which narrowly escaped an untimely demise. To give up now would be premature, and as Ma always says, when men worry about the future, the gods laugh.

Maybe Headmistress Crouch’s letter will get lost.

I take Francesca’s hand.





17



AT BEDTIME, I CLIMB THE NARROW STAIRCASE to the attic with grim determination. My heart hammers in my chest as I stand before the door.

I don’t believe in hungry ghosts. I don’t believe in hungry ghosts.

I cautiously enter, holding my nightgown. The enormous space is mostly empty. A wooden chair faces one of the peek-through windows, and a simple mattress of horsehair occupies one of the corners. Were they set here for me, or was there a previous occupant—someone who might create late-night creaking?

I work my way around the rafters that extend to the shallow ceiling and switch on the lantern above the bed. A yellow parasol hangs on one of the posts. The bright fabric cheers me. Ghosts do not need parasols.

The attic is several degrees warmer than the rest of the house. I drape my shawl over the chair, then push open a window to feel the breeze fan my face. Maybe it’ll be cozy here. At least I won’t have to hear that insufferable Fancy Boots snore.

The sky is a brilliant peacock-blue that slips into orange at the horizon. It greets me like an old friend, the kind you don’t realize you miss until you run into him again.

I wish you could feast your eyes on this, Black Jack. The view is fair from the top of this mast, softly lit houses strewn out like pearls, seagulls chasing around the clouds.

My mind wanders to Tom. Maybe he’s a regular sea dog now. Maybe he’ll join Jack and me on our voyages one day, and forget about gliders.

And maybe I’ll grow antennae and start chirping.

“Mercy?”

I startle, surprised to see Katie standing on the narrow staircase, peering in.

She peers nervously around. “Is it . . . safe?”

“Very. Come in.”

She glances down the stairs, then tentatively steps forward. There’s a bulge under her shawl. “Are you sure there aren’t any, you know—?”

I shake my head. “I think your ghost was someone who came to enjoy the view.” I project more confidence than I feel. “Would you like to sit?” I nod toward the chair.

She chews her lip, then shrugs, but instead of taking the chair, she settles onto the mattress. “I brought something from the kitchen.” She produces a paper-wrapped bundle.

“That was kind of you.” Ma says a thoughtful person makes a better friend than a person full of thoughts.