When We Believed in Mermaids(36)

I nod tightly. Lift the book to show him I’ve been looking at it. With a sensitivity that’s rare, he settles one warm palm against the very center of my back and holds out the other for the book. I let go of it.

When I can speak, I say, “Did you find anything interesting?”

He gives me a wry grin, one that lights a dimple in his cheek. “Many things, but I have learned to just carry one book, or my bag starts to weigh too much for me to lift!” He shows me a book of Pablo Neruda poetry. “This one for now.”

“But you already have a book.”

“No, I have finished that one. I can leave it behind for someone else.”

The ache has eased enough that I can laugh a little. “I’m taking that one, but I do know what you mean.”

He hands the book back to me. “You’ll have to tell me about it. Shall we find lunch?”

“Absolutely.”

At the counter, he sets his book down and holds his hand out for mine. I think about arguing that I have the money, but it’s a small kindness, and I don’t have to push it away. “Thank you.”

The village is geared toward tourists—at least it is by the waterfront. I know from experience that the town itself will have normal homes and people and schools and supermarkets. It bemuses me that this tourist town is much like my own, that everywhere the land meets the ocean there is probably some variation on this idea.

We have a wealth of options, but I love the look of a sandwich-and-tea shop situated in an old building, and we’re shown to a table by the window overlooking the harbor and islands and bluffs. Somewhere out there is my sister. Now that I know it for sure, I feel a renewed sense of urgency. How will I find her?

“You are troubled?”

I half nod, half shrug, trying to dislodge the emotions the book raised. “A little. I don’t know how I will find her. I mean, how do you do that in such a large city?”

“You could hire a detective.” He gives the word a Spanish inflection.

I’ve thought of this. “Maybe I will if I don’t find her another way.” Then I straighten. I’ve agreed to this day trip with Javier because I didn’t want to be lonely, and I owe him my attention for the afternoon. “This is an insanely beautiful place,” I say.

Javier, holding the menu lightly, admires the view along with me. “It’s restful to look at it.”

A note in his voice pricks my curiosity. “Do you need rest?” I ask lightly.

“I needed time to”—he gestures to include the room, the table, the view, me—“enjoy the world.”

A youth with a tumble of black curls asks us for a drink order. I’m not sure yet what the local standard drinks are—what’s an L&P?—so I order sparkling water.

Charmingly, Javier orders lemonade. We study the menus. “I keep seeing kumara on menus. Is it a squash or something?”

“Sweet potato,” he says. “Miguel explained to me.”

Eyeing the kumara soup and a whitebait fritter, as well as classic fish and chips, I decide to go for the adventure—the fritter and soup. Javier orders oysters.

As he hands the waiter his menu, he’s framed against the light from a window behind him. It haloes his hair and the square solidness of his shoulders, casts his profile into relief—high brow, powerful nose, full lips. I like the elegance of his shirt. His ease in the world.

He taps the book, cradled in a paper bag. “Tell me about this.”

“Oh, that.” The ache of memory comes flooding back. “Did you ever see Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory?”

“I know of it.”

“This is the novel it was made from.”

He nods, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. “And?”

I sip water. “My parents sort of adopted a runaway who worked in the restaurant. Dylan.” How long has it been since I’ve spoken his name? A faint ache runs along my ribs. “He lived with us for years and years. And this”—I smooth a palm over the cover—“was his favorite book. He used to read it to my sister and me.”

“What is the story?”

“A poor boy in the slums of London finds a golden ticket in a chocolate bar and is given a tour of a chocolate factory run by an eccentric man.”

“Why did your friend love it?”

I consider the question. There is so much I don’t know. What his history was, though he’d clearly been beaten within an inch of his life, who his family was. All he ever said about his mother was that they used to go to Chinatown sometimes. Aloud, I say, “Charlie is a poor boy who finds the winning ticket. There’s magic in a candy factory, right?”

“You miss him.”

“Not just him.” How to explain such a tangle of loves? My mother smoking in the kitchen as Dylan read aloud, the smell of coffee thick in the air, my sister chewing on the end of her hair, my dad singing somewhere as he engaged in some physical task. “All of them, really. Maybe even my little-girl self.”

His big hands reach over the table to take one of mine, engulfing it completely. “Tell me about them.”

Oh, I do not want to like him so much. Lust, yes. Not like. I don’t know him at all, but in this gesture I feel the heart of a lion, big and inclusive and wise. It tips open the closed doors of my life.