Apparently the talkativeness of the previous morning had not extended to today. I didn’t see Ada’s face until she rose to prepare for the day’s clients. A single errant curl at the nape of her neck was the only clue that perhaps she had been near water that morning.
The curl had been subdued by the time the first girl and her mother arrived. I observed both Ada and the girl, this one plump and cheerful, confident Ada would have no trouble finding her someone, through new eyes having gotten a glimpse at Ada’s methods.
“Do you enjoy dinner parties?” Ada asked.
“I adore them,” she said. “Especially hosting. I love cooking and seeing others enjoy what I’ve made.”
Needs someone social, I wrote.
“Do you have a favorite book?”
A quick, panicked look entered her eyes. Ada’s face didn’t change, but I knew she saw it too. “Let me think,” she said. “Honestly, it was probably something from school.”
“That’s fine,” Ada said smoothly. “Movies? Television shows?”
“Oh my goodness, that’s much easier. Let me see . . .” She began rattling off a list of generic comedies.
No education beyond high school, I wrote. Doesn’t read. Wants a sense of humor, but nothing dry or sarcastic.
When we finished for the morning, Ada flipped through my notes as she always did, but this time she nodded approvingly. “You’re a fast study.”
“I do try.”
“I’ll have to watch my back. You’ll be my competition before long.”
I had no interest whatsoever in matchmaking. Nor did I believe for a moment that I could do what she did. If a girl came in with a domineering mother, I’d probably tell the girl to run away and start her own life. And I could never knowingly send someone into a meeting with someone I found repugnant.
But Ada’s praise was seldom given and never undeservedly. And there was no higher compliment than seeing me as potential competition. If I ducked my head in modesty, the corner of her mouth would turn down—which was just fine, as modesty wasn’t exactly my forte. Instead, I laughed. “Apples and oranges. No one can do what you do.”
She turned me loose after lunch, citing my becoming too good at her line of work to be allowed to be involved, but she said it with a wink. “Take an umbrella to the beach,” she warned.
“I will,” I lied merrily.
Ada shook her head. “It’ll be 2015 when you’re my age. And I’ll be long dead. But you’ll look in the mirror one day and think, I should have listened to Ada.”
“Oh, Ada,” I said. “You’re far too cantankerous to die. You’ll make it to a hundred and thirty for sure, and then you can tell me yourself.”
She swatted at me and told me to get out, but she was laughing. “You should be so lucky.”
I was smiling as I walked to the beach sans umbrella. I was lucky my parents had banished me here. And not just because Freddy came jogging over soon after I set up my towel in the sand and picked me up, swirling me around in a kiss.
“Why, Mr. Goldman,” I said, feigning shock. “In broad daylight? What will the neighbors think?”
“That Freddy Goldman has finally settled down,” he said, flopping onto my towel. “I have an hour break. Thanks for setting up such a great nap spot.”
I pouted, kicking sand over his foot. He opened his right eye to look at me. “You could always sleep with me. All puns intended.”
“Freddy Goldman!”
He leaned up on his elbows. “Was worth a shot. Come on. Let’s walk down to the jetty. Sometimes you can find crabs at low tide.” He stood up and took my hand, and we strolled leisurely down the beach together.
When I arrived back at the house, I yelled a hello to Ada, who yelled back that I wasn’t to yell room to room, and went upstairs to shower. But when I entered my bedroom to grab my bathrobe, I stopped short.
On the dressing table was a baby blue portable Underwood typewriter, an unopened ream of paper next to it. As if in a trance, I approached it, running my fingers over the feel of the new keys.
“Do you like it?” Ada asked from the doorway. “I suppose we’ll need to get you a proper desk, too, though I chose this model so you could write anywhere.”
I swallowed. “I—I don’t know what to say. This is for me?”
“Who else would it be for? I’m not planning to write my life story anytime soon. You said you wanted to write.”
“This is—” I stopped, afraid the lump in my throat would betray me. “Thank you.”
“Well, don’t get all mushy on me about it,” Ada said gruffly. But she didn’t fool me. I threw my arms around her neck, suddenly understanding the picture of her and my mother. She wasn’t warm and she suffered no fools. But no one had a better heart than this indomitable battle-ax before me.
She squeezed me back once, then peeled my arms from her neck. “Go shower. You smell like you’ve been working on the docks.” Then she was gone. But I sat at the dressing table chair before I went to shower, opened the ream of paper, and slid a crisp, white sheet onto the roller, feeling like a proper writer, envisioning a day when I would be walking along the beach and seeing people reading my novel. Even if I had no idea where to begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
That blank paper was still sitting there two days later when Ada walked by my room. She sighed. “You do know it works, right? I didn’t get you a typewriter-shaped paperweight.”
I looked up from where I was sprawled on the bed, my nose in Hawaii. It was engrossing. Ada’s good taste extended beyond clothes, decor, and my lipstick.
“I’ll write the Great American Novel tomorrow,” I said flippantly and turned a page, hoping I had one-eighth of Ada’s sass in page flipping.
“I had you pegged as serious,” she said coolly. “But I can take it away.” She moved toward the typewriter, and I sat up suddenly.
“No, please, don’t!”
She stopped and turned. “Your parents didn’t send you here to lounge on the beach all summer.”
“No. They sent me here so either my mother could smooth my father down or you could marry me off and make me someone else’s problem.”
One hand went to her hip. The other pointed a finger at the typewriter. “And that is your way out of both problems. You said you wanted to write. The only one who is going to make that happen is you. If you lie on a beach flirting with boys all day, the best you can hope for is marriage.”
I was ready to throw that stupid typewriter at her head. Or the copy of Hawaii. At almost a thousand pages, it probably weighed about as much as the typewriter.
“I’m not you,” I said bitterly. “Maybe I just want to fall in love before I get married.”
“That’s well and good,” she said. “But love doesn’t always work out.”
“What would you know about that?”
She let out a short, barking laugh. “More than you do, I know that much. But fine. You want me to be the villain? I don’t mind. As long as you write something.”
She left and I flopped back onto the bed.