Our Secret Summer(91)

Beside the cup of coffee, Winnie’s antique ring sits on the bedside table facing me. I almost feel sick seeing it there. I never take it off, not even at bedtime, but maybe I slipped it off my finger while I slept.

I reach out for it and quickly slide it back into place, feeling calmer once I sense its weight on my finger. I climb out of bed and take the coffee, awash in a strange feeling.

Down in the kitchen, I find Lita at the table eating her toasted bread with jam.

“Did you bring me coffee this morning?”

She looks confused by the question, then her gaze shifts to the kettle on the stove. “No. I made tea. There’s still hot water if you want a cup.”

She misunderstands my worry. “And Jean? Is she around?”

“She went to La Friche. Do you need her to pick up anything? You might reach her by phone.”

“No.”

I stare down at the cup of steaming coffee in my hand and feel a wild laugh building in my throat. I almost want to press the issue, to confirm what time Jean left, how long she’s been gone, but Lita is already waving me over.

“Come here for a moment, I want to show you something.”

For now, I just accept the magic.

There’s an old photo album spread open on the table in front of her, its pages yellowed with age. It’s the kind where the printed photos are stuck in place behind a clingy film of plastic. She’s been talking about the album since I arrived in Marseille. For the last week, she’s been searching high and low, and here it is. I take the wooden chair beside her and lean in close.

“Are these from a certain year?”

“Oh, it’s all a mixture. None of them are organized well. The beginning was filled with photos from a trip I took to Malta when Dolores and I were younger.” She scoots the album in my direction. “These are from one of my visits to the States. You were so little still. Look, there’s you and your mom.” She tsks with disapproval. “Don’t tell her I said so, but she could never pull off that bob.”

I chuckle. “Oh my god.” I look closer at the photo at the bottom of the page. “I forgot Dad had that mustache for so long!”

“Yes. Very American.”

“He looks so young.”

She gives a short bark of laughter. “He was young.”

She flips to another page, and my gaze immediately lands on a photo of my mom crouching down next to a young, smiling Winnie proudly showing off a newly lost front tooth sitting in the palm of her hand. I’m looking at her when I tell Lita, “I think Winnie came to me in my dream this morning.”

Lita hmms. “She might have,” she states simply, her focus down on the photos. “Dolores visits me on occasion.”

I peer at her skeptically, studying her as she turns yet another page in the album.

“Sue?os de ángeles. Dreams of ángeles,” she continues. “My mother used to tell me about them all the time.”

“What are they?”

“Exactly as they sound. People in some parts of Spain believe if a deceased loved one visits you in your sleep, it’s a good thing. These dreams are a way for the dead to reassure the living and offer guidance.”

I’m looking for any signs of humor on her face, a barely restrained smile or a twinkle in her eye. When I realize she’s deeply serious, I reply, “Winnie kept urging me to wake up.”

She nods reverently. “That makes sense. You were asleep.”

I look down at the coffee. “No. It felt like more than that…”

“Well, of course, there’s always more to it. There!” she suddenly exclaims, repeatedly tapping her finger on a photo before she turns the entire album to face me. “I knew this album had photos from my party. And look! There you are and there is Cristiano.”

I can’t restrain my eager smile as I hunch over and look to where she’s pointing. Sure enough, I spot a teenage Cristiano off to the side, near a table covered with desserts, holding a bottle of Coke and smiling. It’s an old photo, poorly taken. Still, Cristiano is so recognizable it steals my breath. He’s unbelievably young, lanky in all the places he’s now muscled, a string bean compared to the man I know, but his features were already promising.

My amazement gives way to longing.

“He told me he was at this party.” My voice sounds wistful as I survey the image. I see myself wrapped around Lita while she smiles for the camera, and I think the girl in the pink dress, mostly hidden behind Lita, is Winnie. Yes. I remember coveting the gold shimmery sandals she was wearing.

“Can I have this?”

“Of course. Take any you want.”

After I’ve settled the film back in place over the other photos, Lita looks at me again with thoughtful green eyes.

“Sue?os de ángeles are nothing to fear. If Winnie came to visit you, I think you should listen to her.”

I nod, and she turns the page, the party photos giving way to images of Dolores and Caterina together on a beach, maybe in their mid-thirties. They’re at the edge of the surf throwing their hands up in celebration. Below that, there’s a photo of Dolores from the same day, sitting on a towel, this time with a handsome man kissing her shoulder. It looks like he’s in the process of tugging her toward him, and she’s protesting with a face-splitting grin. I bet if the camera kept snapping, a moment later, she’d be lying on top of him.