A Handful of Stars, Page 2

  In the summer, our store gets lots of business. But after the blueberry barrens turn from summer blue and green to fiery autumn red, things slow down. By the time the snow comes and winter settles in to stay, we get only a trickle of locals and snowmobilers.

  So Mémère and Pépère have to make most of their money from June to early October when the bell above the door is constantly ringing with all kinds of people coming in: workers from the blueberry fields, Canadian tourists driving south, American tourists driving north, summer people, lost people needing directions, and locals.

  As Pépère says, “It takes all kinds of people to make a world,” and our store is the only one in town, so everyone comes here. Blueberry pies and muffins are big sellers, so Mémère and I bake lots of them.

  Lucky lay in his hopeful spot under the kitchen table where he always likes to be when we’re eating or baking—just in case something drops. While Mémère had her back to me, I pinged a blueberry off the side of the table on purpose, so he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  Even though he couldn’t see it, Lucky was on that blueberry like a seagull on a French fry. His eyes used to be black with a twinkle in them, but now they’re blue-ish gray. They don’t even look like they belong to him. It’s like someone just traded out his sparkling black eyes and left blue marbles instead.

  “I haven’t seen much of Hannah this summer.” Mémère pushed a strand of graying hair away from her face. “What’s she been up to?”

  I shrugged. “Probably helping her dad.”

  “Have you called her?” Mémère asked. “Because—”

  “I will,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to explain that it isn’t as fun with Hannah anymore. Or how it makes me sad because I miss the way it used to be.

  Hannah and I had become friends on the first day of kindergarten when she shared her chocolate cookies with me at snack time. From then on, Pépère said we were like two peas in a pod.

  But last year toward the end of fifth grade, something shifted, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not sure how it happened, but it was like a crack that started small and kept getting bigger and bigger.

  Before I knew it, there was only one pea left in the pod. I still love to do the things Hannah and I always did together: riding bikes, hiking, swimming, and playing with Lucky. Hannah still likes those things sometimes, but they aren’t her favorites anymore. Now she mostly wants to talk about the boy from church that she secretly likes—though it’s only a secret to him. We don’t go to the same church, so I’ve never met the Amazing Brandon. But if she talked to him half as much as she talks about him, she’d have talked his ear off by now.

  By the time Mémère and I finished baking, our whole kitchen smelled sweet and blue. Mémère loaded up pie baskets so we could each carry four pies downstairs to the store.

  “Come on, Lucky!” I said. “Let’s go to work!”

  “Lucky should stay—” Mémère started, but he was already beside the door, waiting for me. His wagging tail whipped the hem of Mémère’s skirt as she stepped past him. Lucky didn’t see her frown.

  Pépère says Mémère is “practical to a fault.” That means she likes everything to make sense and to do its job. And Lucky doesn’t really fit that. He doesn’t earn his keep, the way a farm animal might. She doesn’t see the point of him.

  But I think the real reason Mémère doesn’t like Lucky is because she blames him for Mama being gone. They had a fight about Lucky one night and Mama left, slamming the door, leaving a hole behind her as wide as the whole world.

  If Pépère and I didn’t love Lucky so much, I think Mémère would’ve given him away a long time ago. But as Pépère says to me, “We outnumber her.” So Lucky stays.

  I counted to twenty-five in my head to give Mémère a big head start down the stairs before saying again, “Come on, Lucky. Let’s go to work!”

  I always go ahead of him on the stairs, because it’s easier for him to follow the sound of my footsteps than to step off into empty space.

  Downstairs, Mémère was already talking to Charles Wabisi, who was buying cans of beans and tomato sauce. I left my baskets behind the counter so Mémère could decide which pies went in the display case and which ones went in the freezer. Then I led Lucky right to my table by the coffee station.

  Our store is a true general store: a little of this and a little of that, adding up to a whole lot of everything. You can buy candy, souvenirs, local foods and artwork, garden supplies, car stuff, and more. The sign above the cash register says, IF WE DON’T HAVE IT, YOU DON’T NEED IT.

  But mostly, we do have it.

  The store’s a mishmash of smells, too: soaps and balsam and a big pot of coffee brewing in the corner. When I’m in the store, it also smells like lumber and paint, because Pépère builds houses for mason bees and I paint them. I work at a little table near the coffee station, because that’s where you hear all the news in town.

  When most people think of bees, they think of honeybees that live in hives, but mason bees don’t live that way. Mason bees are little, native bees. They don’t mind living near one another, but—unlike honeybees that share the work—mason bees are solitary. They aren’t yellow and black, either—they’re blue! Tiny blue bees that just fly about, minding their own business, pollinating the blueberry barrens and people’s gardens. They live in holes, not hives, so Pépère takes a fat block of wood, about the size of a hardcover book, and drills lots of little holes in the skinny side. I stencil the front with paint to make it pretty. Pépère calls my painting “bee-dazzling.”

  Every time we sell a bee house, Pépère takes out enough money to buy the materials, and the rest goes to me. I’m saving up to pay for an operation on Lucky’s eyes so maybe he’ll be able to see again. It’ll take me a long time to earn enough, but as Pépère says, “Every little bit helps, and even the ocean is made up of drops.”

  I have three different patterns: blueberries and blue bees, green grass with pink flowers, or a circle of maple leaves that I usually paint autumn red, orange, yellow, and brown because those colors sell better than green.

  Which one should I choose today? Looking through my stencils, I wondered if Mémère was right and maybe I should call Hannah. Part of me wanted to.

  “She’s over by the coffee,” I heard Mémère say. “Lily!”

  I looked up from my stencil to see Salma Santiago standing by the register.

  I jumped to my feet so fast that I woke Lucky under the table. He barked.

  “Shh,” I said, grabbing his collar. “It’s okay. I was just surprised.”

  “Hey,” Salma said, coming over. “The pork pie was good. We all tried it.” She laid something wrapped in waxed paper on my painting table. “My mama sent you a blueberry enchilada.”

  My first thought popped right out of my mouth. “How’d she cook it without a stove?” I blushed, hoping I hadn’t offended her.

  “There’s a camp kitchen,” Salma said matter-of-factly. “Everyone can use it, and Mama sometimes bakes things to sell.”

  Salma seemed to be waiting for me to try the enchilada, so I unwrapped the waxed paper. Folded up tight, the enchilada was like a little package and still warm. I didn’t know if I’d like it, so I took just a small bite from the corner. It was as gooey and sweet as blueberry pie, but just a little spicy, too.

  “It’s really good!” It felt wrong to eat in front of her. So I grabbed a couple of napkins and a stirrer from the coffee station. “We’ll split it.”

  As I sawed through the enchilada with the coffee stirrer, Salma touched Lucky’s head.

  His whole body startled, bumping the table leg.

  “Just say his name first,” I told her. “He likes being patted, but it surprises him if he doesn’t know it’s coming.”

  “Hey, Lucky,” she said softly, reaching out her hand.

  As soon as Lucky sniffed her fingers, his tail thumped happily on the floor.

  “He remembers you.” I handed Salma her half of t
he enchilada.

  She broke off a piece and held it in front of Lucky’s nose. He only took one sniff before gulping it down so fast I don’t think he even chewed it, more like he breathed it down.

  “I used to have a dog,” Salma said. “Her name was Luna because she was bright white. Even outside in the dark you could see her, just like the moon.”

  “Lucky is the exact opposite,” I said. “He blends in with the dark. A few times, I’ve tripped over him when I had to get up in the night.”

  “Maybe Luna and Lucky would’ve been friends,” Salma said, smiling.

  I shook my head. “I can’t let Lucky play with other dogs. He can’t see if they’re happy or angry. So he might do the wrong thing and get hurt.”

  “Wouldn’t he know from listening to the other dog?” Salma asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “But what if he couldn’t tell?”

  As Salma rubbed his ears, Lucky’s tongue moved all around, trying to lick her fingers. “I wish we could get another dog,” Salma said. “But Papa thinks it’s too hard when we’re away from home so much.”

  I didn’t want to hurt her by asking about something sad, but I was wondering. “What happened to Luna?”

  Salma didn’t look at me, just kept rubbing Lucky’s ears. “We left her with my grandma while we were away last summer. Luna dug under her fence and escaped. I think maybe she went back to our house looking for us. But no one was home. Whenever I see a white dog, I check to see if it’s her.”

  Lucky rested his chin on Salma’s knee to make it easier for her to pat him.

  My stomach hurt thinking about never seeing my dog again. “If you hadn’t stopped Lucky with your lunch, I might’ve lost him, too.”

  Salma nodded. “That’s why I ran so fast.”

  I don’t know many kids who’ve lost somebody really important to them. Usually I’m the only one. It felt good to meet someone who knew that “missing” feeling, too.

  “Lucky’s from Florida,” I told her. “My mama lived there before I was born.”

  “Lucky, you’re from Florida, too? Just like me?” Then Salma spoke to him in Spanish, soft and pretty.

  He did a little half jump to put his front paws in her lap. Maybe he knew what she said. Or maybe he just heard the friendship in her voice. Or maybe there are some things a dog just understands.

  As Salma scratched Lucky’s chest, she looked over at my paints and half-finished bee house. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m painting houses for mason bees,” I explained. “Mason bees are tiny blue bees that live in holes. So my pépère—that’s my grandfather—he makes these houses and I bee-dazzle them. That’s what Pépère calls it when I decorate them. We sell them here in the store. I’m saving up money for an operation to help Lucky’s eyes.”

  “What’s wrong with his eyes?” Salma held another bite of enchilada close to Lucky’s nose, and he gobbled it up.

  “He has something called cataracts. It’s why his eyes look cloudy. Our vet said Lucky might still be able to see shadows, but we don’t know for sure. My mémère says the operation is too expensive and maybe it won’t even work and blind dogs adjust fine. But I figure if I pay for it myself, she can’t say no.”

  Salma picked up one of my paintbrushes. “I’m good at painting. I’ll help you.”

  “Really? Okay.” It would be nice to have help. “Lucky, get down now,” I said, pulling him off Salma’s lap so she could choose a stencil. “Do you want to paint blueberries, flowers, or leaves?”

  “Flowers, but I don’t need the stencil.” Salma reached into my paint case. My eyebrows shot up as she took my fall maple leaf orange and grass green and flower pink.

  “Are you going to use those together?” I asked.

  “It’ll be beautiful.” She took a pencil and divided the square front of the bee house into six equal-size boxes. Then she started painting the boxes different colors: green, pink, and orange along the top; blue, red, and yellow on the bottom.

  Molly Peasley came to the coffee station. She glanced over at us and then took a step backward. I don’t know if it was the bright colors of Salma’s bee house or Salma herself sitting at my little table that seemed so surprising.

  By then Salma’s first square was dry. On the green background, she painted an orange circle with red petals and dots of yellow in the middle. A flower so vibrant and bold and big that it nearly filled the square. On the pink square, she painted a green circle with yellow petals and dots of blueberry blue.

  Her bee house wouldn’t fit in with mine. But what was I supposed to say?

  “I wish I’d brought my paints with me from home, but I didn’t think we’d be gone this long,” Salma said. “A family that usually comes to Maine couldn’t come this year, and they offered us their spot. So we went right from Pennsylvania to here. Maine isn’t as cold as I expected it to be. And I haven’t seen one lighthouse yet!” Salma sighed. “They’re on all the postcards, but where are they?”

  “It’s only cold in Maine in the winter,” I explained. “And we have a few lighthouses near us, but they’re on islands. You can only see them down at the point. Or if you’re in a boat.”

  “Oh.” Salma painted a blue flower with pink petals in the orange square.

  Funny to think she expected to see lighthouses around every bend in the road. But I guess if you’ve never been here, you might think that. I went back to my stencil, and Molly Peasley went back to her coffee. Lucky slept on the floor next to Salma, his head on her foot.

  When Salma and I were done painting, I placed the bee houses on the shelf above my table, facing out, so they could finish drying. Anyone who walked by that shelf would see four bee houses: three of my stenciled blueberries and bees, and Salma’s flower-power color explosion.

  “You should sign yours,” Salma said. “Artists sign their work.”

  I’d been so distracted by the flowers that I hadn’t noticed the tiny word SALMA painted down in the bottom corner.

  “It’s just stenciling,” I said as I put up the little sign that I always used when the bee houses weren’t ready for sale. THESE MASON BEE HOUSES ARE DRYING, BUT THERE ARE MORE IN THE GARDENING SECTION!

  Salma stood back to admire them. “After I’m done raking tomorrow, I could come and help you paint again. The more bee houses you have for sale, the more money you’ll make for Lucky’s eyes.”

  I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t afford to waste bee houses, and I didn’t think anyone would buy Salma’s bee-double-dazzled one. It was just too colorful and loud. Who would want that in their garden? The bees might even be scared of it.

  I liked Salma, though, and I really did want her to come back. So I said, “Gracias,” and didn’t mention that I planned to paint over her bee house after it dried.

  The next morning, when I came downstairs to the store, Salma’s bee house wasn’t on the drying shelf.

  The sign was still there. All my bee houses were lined up on the shelf—just as I’d left them. But Salma’s was gone.

  Beside me, Caleb Dow and Jacob Dunlap were fixing their coffee at the coffee station. “I know!” Caleb said to Jacob as he poured sugar into his cup. “If the town had fixed it right the first time—Good morning, Lily—we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Hey, Lucky!” Jacob ran his hand over Lucky’s head before picking up a little wooden coffee stirrer. “Didn’t I tell you that? It’s gonna cost twice as much because they tried to cut corners.”

  As soon as I had Lucky settled under my table, I turned and headed for the front of the store, bumping Caleb on my way.

  “Careful, Lily! This is hot.”

  Pépère was ringing up Mrs. Putney buying some milk. Usually I wouldn’t interrupt, but—“Pépère, one of the bee houses that was drying is missing! Do you have it?”

  He grinned. “Do you mean that razzle-bee-dazzled one? I sold it!”

  My mouth dropped open. “You sold it? To who?”

  “Ha
ve a nice day now!” Pépère said to Mrs. Putney. “I hope your company enjoys their trip to Bar Harbor. You tell them to get there early. It can be hard to find parking downtown in the afternoon.”

  I squeezed my lips shut, waiting for her to leave. But as soon as I heard the bell ring over the door, the words rushed out, “Who bought the bee house?”

  “I don’t know the lady’s name,” Pépère said. “Just a tourist passing through. She came in to pay for her gasoline and she saw that fancy bee house. She wanted it bad. So I checked to see if the paint was dry, and it was.”

  “Didn’t you show her the others?” I asked. “The ones for sale up by the gardening supplies?”

  “I did, but she had her heart set on that flashy one. She called it art.”

  I felt a little sour that the lady didn’t think mine were art. Still, a sale was a sale. Every bit of money was a help.

  When three o’clock came, Lucky knew Salma was there before I did. Maybe he could smell her or maybe he already knew her footsteps. But I heard his tail thump on the floor under my table.

  “Hi, Lucky!” As Salma patted his head, he wagged all over. Even his tongue swung back and forth with happiness.

  “We sold the bee house you painted yesterday,” I said. “In fact, Pépère sold it before it was even for sale. The lady who bought it really liked it.”

  “That’s great!” Salma said. “This morning while I was raking, I saw some of those little blue mason bees. They put me in the mood to paint bees today.”

  I handed her the blue paint, but Salma said, “No, thanks. My bees are gonna be pink.”

  Pink? I opened my mouth, but she was already opening the pink paint. Just because one lady had liked Salma’s crazy-colored bee house didn’t mean I could sell more of them. Flowers came in lots of colors, but bees—“Have you ever seen a pink bee?” I asked.

  Salma nodded. “Sure. In my imagination. Don’t you like to imagine?”

  “Sometimes,” I said slowly. My favorite thing to pretend was that Mama was behind me, invisible to everyone else. Every now and then she’d whisper things in my ear, things like “I’m proud of you” when I did good in school. Or “You look as pretty as the tiger lilies I saw on that first day,” when I’m dressing up for church. Things Mémère didn’t ever say even if maybe she thought so.