Wish I Might by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Read Free Book Online

umbrellas. Out on the water there are sailboats, kayaks, floats of every shape and size.
    A bronzed and buff college lifeguard surveys his kingdom from his wind-weathered wooden throne. My gaze rests on a mother and two little girls decorating a very fancy sand castle, shaped like a wedding cake, three tiers high with shells and loopy strands of seaweed frosting.
    “Willa!”
    That’s Will’s voice. I search the crowd for his face and then I see him waving to me. Thankfully, no Tina or Ruby. I go to him.
    “I’m sorry about this morning,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Your friends have powerful powers of persuasion. Talk about flirts. And I thought British girls were bad.” He laughs. “Forgive me?”
    “Nothing to forgive,” I say. “You don’t owe me anything.”
    “Oh, yes, I do,” he says. “I owe you an explanation. Take a ride on my boat with me, will you? My chum from boarding school’s family has a house over onthe Vineyard. It’s a short ride. I’ll have you back in a few hours.”
    The island of Martha’s Vineyard. It’s about a twenty-minute ride, I think. I look at his motorboat. It seems safe and sturdy enough. Thankfully, it’s not a sailboat. I don’t do well with little boats on the ocean, but that’s a different story.
    I look at Will’s face. He smiles reassuringly. He’s awfully charming. JFK doesn’t trust him. Do I?
    A seagull squawks, the lifeguard blows his whistle, a breeze sends ripples of foam across the waves. I close my eyes for a second to focus inward and take a Willa-reading of my feelings.
    “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 11
Will’s Story
    A man may stand there [Cape Cod]
and put all America behind him.
    — Henry David Thoreau
    With the roar of the motor making conversation nearly impossible, Will and I ride out to the Vineyard in silence.
    When we approach the harbor, which is bustling with tourists, Will cuts the engine.
    “Gosh, you drive fast,” I say, my hair a windblown bird’s nest.
    “You should see me in my car back home,” he says with a laugh.
    I wonder about Will’s home “across the pond.” I’ve always wanted to visit England, birthplace of Shakespeare and Dickens and so many literary heroes.
    Will maneuvers the boat skillfully, past one of the large ferries from Hyannis and numerous smaller yachts and motorboats, into an open spot.
    “There you are,” a dockhand says to Will. “The Southends have been asking about you.” “The Southends?” I ask.
    “Chauncey Southends,” Will says as he ties up the boat. “My chum from Bainbridge’s family. I’m staying with them for a while.”
    “Bainbridge is your boarding school?”
    Will nods. “Come on. I know a place where we can talk.”
    We head into town, past the busy shops and restaurants and out onto a quaint, quieter street lined with stately historic homes. When we turn a corner, Will stops in front of a bakery. “Let’s get a sweet,” he says.
    Will pays for two oatmeal raisin cookies and iced coffees to go. “Come on this way,” he says. I follow him up a path and through a wooded area. Eventually we come out into a clearing. We are facing an old cemetery.
    “Wait till you see this place,” Will says.
    The graveyard looks like it’s been here since the Pilgrims landed; probably some are even buried here. The etched names and dates on the headstones are faded with age and weather. Many of the markers are crumbling, most are moss covered. The place could feel dreary except for the flowers. There are colorful wild-flowers everywhere. Queen Anne’s lace and daisies,thistles and brown-eyed Susans. I smile. It’s pretty here, tranquil. Sam would like this place.
    I find myself saying the names on the gravestones in my head as we pass. Smith. Barnes. Rockwell. Spaulding. Morrow. Fletcher. Hunt. Some simply say MOTHER or FATHER.
What were their names?
I wonder.
    Will sits on a marble bench. I join him. I munch on the cookie, take a sip of coffee, steal a