Free Wish I Might by Coleen Murtagh Paratore

mouths drop. Theylook at Rob. They look at me. They look at Rob. They look at me, their eyes wide as teacup saucers.
    Willa and the movie-star-music-mogul-magazine-model.
    Tina and Ruby are so stunned that for once in their lives they are speechless.
    Oh, how I wish I could savor this moment. But it’s getting dark, and I need to bike home while there’s still some light.
    “I could show you around Bramble if you’d like,” I say, savoring, savoring.
    “That would be great, Willa, thanks.”
    I don’t introduce Tina and Ruby. I pretend like they’re not even there.
    “What time are you done lifeguarding?” I ask, raising my voice to be sure Tina and Ruby can hear me.
    “Five,” he says.
    “Come over for dinner, then,” I say. “My mom and dad would love to meet you.”
    “I’d like that, thanks.”
    Rob takes off down the beach stairs to join his friends. I take a sip from my water bottle, drop it in my basket, hop on my seat, and sail.
    Oh, my gosh, was that ever fun.

CHAPTER 15
The Widow’s Walk
    Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
    — Robert Herrick
    Biking home I’m giddy thinking about making Tina and Ruby jealous, but the feeling soon wears off as my mind starts remembering my worries.
    Just a few weeks ago, at the start of the summer, everything felt so right. That was before JFK left for Florida. Before Mariel left for New York. Before Tina became Ruby’s best friend. Before Will Havisham showed up and tipped my world upside down. Before Salty Dog turned traitor. Before the possibility that my birthfather might still be alive.
    What happened to summer being simple and fun? Hot dogs and suntans and fireflies? Not this summer, oh, no. This summer makes me wish it were January.
    It’s dark when I get home. The inn is lit up so cheerily, though, huge American flag blowing in the breeze, smaller flags lining the driveway, white votive candles in sand-filled brown bags, pots of red geraniums in between.
    Inside it’s quiet, everyone off to a beach, no doubt, to watch a fireworks display. Just about every town on the Cape puts on a good show.
    I know a spot where I can see several all at once. The widow’s walk on the roof.
    I head upstairs to the top floor of the inn, down the hall to Sam’s office, still painted the cheery sunflower yellow color it was when he first showed me and Mother the estate, on that happy Fourth of July two years ago when Sam invited us here for a barbecue. It’s a small room, small but big with books—wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, shelves and shelves and shelves of Sam’s favorite, page-frayed, finger-worn, much-loved books.
    Sam’s old mahogany sea captain’s desk is cluttered with notebooks and stacks of papers. I’m sure there’s a journal here somewhere. I’m tempted to look, but I don’t. I would never want someone to read my private thoughts. I would never invade another’s privacy.
    I am curious, though, about “the book.”
    That first night we came here, Sam told me and Mother he was “working on a book.” I was excited to ask him what he was writing, but Mother was babbling on about advice for renovating the building and we never got around to it. Sam kept turning the conversation back to Mother, back to me. That’s Sam for you. Always putting other people first, drawing them out, focusing on them.
    Over the past few years, I’ve noticed Sam scribbling notes here and there and I’ve asked him how his book is coming along, but he always changes the subject. Which of course makes me even more intrigued. Is it a book about the Cape? Fiction or nonfiction? Science fiction? Poetry? Mystery? Fantasy? A memoir?
    I smile at the quote from Shakespeare’s
The Tempest
on the wall:
    My library was dukedom large enough.
    The passageway up to the widow’s walk is narrow, the stairs are steep. For a second I wonder about Sam’s ancestors,