up a grassy slope to an ancient cemetery, some of the marble headstones so old that the names and dates have worn off. On the hilltop, the wind is strong and smells of freshly cut grass, and the Pacific Ocean rushes away in stutters of white-capped waves. There’s a crazy openness here, a feeling that I could lift off and drift away.
“Buena Vista Cemetery,” Nick says. “Dates from the mid-1800s. First U.S. Navy Coxswain Gustave Englebrecht of the USS Massachusetts died in a skirmish with Haida raiders.”
“Wow, you remember all that?”
“I’ve been here a million times. Come up here to think. Englebrecht was the first U.S. Navy man killed in the Pacific.”
He shows me a burial plot surrounded by an iron fence, but without a headstone. “That’s where the town founder, Josiah Keller, is buried. Died in the 1860s, I think.”
My teeth are chattering now, but Nick’s hand still feels warm. I don’t want to let go. How silly is that? “This feels like the town that time forgot,” I say. I close my eyes and take in the rush of the wind, the distant voices of tourists sauntering through the graveyard, and I realize that there’s a bizarre peace in standing among the dead. The dead don’t have needs, their thoughts don’t assault me, and at this moment, Nick is the only buffer between me and the living.
“The Klallam people used to live here,” he says. “Until the mills came. I feel their ghosts here.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were asked to move. There was a treaty, but it wasn’t entirely fair to the Klallam people. The usual story of the white man taking over.” He’s still holding my hand as if it’s the most natural thing to do, although I barely know him.
Maybe he won’t be like Sean, who sometimes wouldn’t hold my hand in public, around people who knew his family. He never would’ve taken me to a cemetery to talk about the way the native people were treated. Never would’ve rallied to the defense of a confused girl like Pooja, either.
“Come on—let’s go. Your lips are blue,” Nick says.
Sean wouldn’t have cared if I was cold. He would’ve told me to slap on more lipstick.
When we get back to the car, I find I don’t want to leave just yet. “What about that tearoom across the street? Why don’t we get a coffee?”
“Are you allowed to fraternize with the help?” Nick gives me another half smile, and I’m blushing but hoping he can’t tell in this wind.
The tea room is small, intimate, and noisy, and we’re squished at a round corner table near a glass case full of cinnamon rolls and scones. “The smell in here—it’s heavenly,” I say.
“Reminds me of my mother’s baking,” Nick says.
The warm air thaws me while outside the wind whips up to a screech.
“So tell me about your guy in India,” Nick says over coffee. “Is this an arranged deal too?”
I look at Nick, at the rugged lines of his profile, the strong jaw. “Arranged marriages have been working in India for generations.”
“And young brides get burned and disfigured if they don’t pay enough dowry money to the man’s family,” he says. “I read about this stuff in the papers.”
The foam bubbles make a renewed appearance. I become hyperaware of Nick’s body beside me, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying masculine smell. A curious fluttering begins in the center of my belly.
“Bride burning still happens,” I say. “But not everywhere, and not in enlightened families.”
“This guy in India—is he enlightened then?”
“All I know is that he comes from a good family, has a good job, and he’s Bengali. He speaks my mother’s language—”
“What about your language, Lakshmi? Why does your mother’s language matter so much?”
“I suppose we are traditional in that way. Ma’s been waiting to tell our extended family that I’ve finally found the right guy. They keep pestering her about having an unmarried daughter.”
“Families don’t know
“Buena Vista Cemetery,” Nick says. “Dates from the mid-1800s. First U.S. Navy Coxswain Gustave Englebrecht of the USS Massachusetts died in a skirmish with Haida raiders.”
“Wow, you remember all that?”
“I’ve been here a million times. Come up here to think. Englebrecht was the first U.S. Navy man killed in the Pacific.”
He shows me a burial plot surrounded by an iron fence, but without a headstone. “That’s where the town founder, Josiah Keller, is buried. Died in the 1860s, I think.”
My teeth are chattering now, but Nick’s hand still feels warm. I don’t want to let go. How silly is that? “This feels like the town that time forgot,” I say. I close my eyes and take in the rush of the wind, the distant voices of tourists sauntering through the graveyard, and I realize that there’s a bizarre peace in standing among the dead. The dead don’t have needs, their thoughts don’t assault me, and at this moment, Nick is the only buffer between me and the living.
“The Klallam people used to live here,” he says. “Until the mills came. I feel their ghosts here.”
“What happened to them?”
“They were asked to move. There was a treaty, but it wasn’t entirely fair to the Klallam people. The usual story of the white man taking over.” He’s still holding my hand as if it’s the most natural thing to do, although I barely know him.
Maybe he won’t be like Sean, who sometimes wouldn’t hold my hand in public, around people who knew his family. He never would’ve taken me to a cemetery to talk about the way the native people were treated. Never would’ve rallied to the defense of a confused girl like Pooja, either.
“Come on—let’s go. Your lips are blue,” Nick says.
Sean wouldn’t have cared if I was cold. He would’ve told me to slap on more lipstick.
When we get back to the car, I find I don’t want to leave just yet. “What about that tearoom across the street? Why don’t we get a coffee?”
“Are you allowed to fraternize with the help?” Nick gives me another half smile, and I’m blushing but hoping he can’t tell in this wind.
The tea room is small, intimate, and noisy, and we’re squished at a round corner table near a glass case full of cinnamon rolls and scones. “The smell in here—it’s heavenly,” I say.
“Reminds me of my mother’s baking,” Nick says.
The warm air thaws me while outside the wind whips up to a screech.
“So tell me about your guy in India,” Nick says over coffee. “Is this an arranged deal too?”
I look at Nick, at the rugged lines of his profile, the strong jaw. “Arranged marriages have been working in India for generations.”
“And young brides get burned and disfigured if they don’t pay enough dowry money to the man’s family,” he says. “I read about this stuff in the papers.”
The foam bubbles make a renewed appearance. I become hyperaware of Nick’s body beside me, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying masculine smell. A curious fluttering begins in the center of my belly.
“Bride burning still happens,” I say. “But not everywhere, and not in enlightened families.”
“This guy in India—is he enlightened then?”
“All I know is that he comes from a good family, has a good job, and he’s Bengali. He speaks my mother’s language—”
“What about your language, Lakshmi? Why does your mother’s language matter so much?”
“I suppose we are traditional in that way. Ma’s been waiting to tell our extended family that I’ve finally found the right guy. They keep pestering her about having an unmarried daughter.”
“Families don’t know
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