Marco and Elena’s moods were like a see-saw: when one of them was up, the other was down. As Marco became enthusiastic about his shop again, Elena found herself feeling anxious and lonely. More and more her thoughts strayed to her absent mother and how comforting her presence had been.

Eventually she found it hard to drag herself out of bed in the morning. She had grown to hate school; Mrs. Merrifield was a demanding teacher, and the kids were always asking her where her mother was. She had decided to tell them that her mama was dead, as it was easier than explaining her transformation into stage star Lulu Laxton.

The only thing worth going to school for, in Elena’s opinion, was a boy called Zale Whidbee. The Whidbees had settled on the island around the same time as the Portelas, on a small farm which so far produced only wildflowers and berries. Zale was a pleasant-faced young man, always friendly to the other children and eager to join in any game they had going. But for some reason Elena was pitifully shy around him, and never had the courage to strike up a conversation.

One day after school Elena decided to take a break from chores and stroll through the new park across the street. She waved good-bye to her father, who was directing a customer to the latest shipment of coffee beans, and stepped out into the refreshing island air.

She took a quick jaunt around the park, observing the beautiful flowers in bloom and the dancing of the fountains, her heart lightening with each step. On her way back to the shop, she caught sight of Zale Whidbee and slowed down considerably.

He seemed to be doing nothing but enjoying the scenery, and as Elena approached him, she pondered what she might say to him. She had never really talked to boys, except to tell them to “go away” when they teased her or tugged on her hair.

“Hallo there, Zale,” she called out, which caused the boy to turn and stare at her blankly. Elena worried that he didn’t recognize her, but dismissed the idea as ridiculous since she was the only girl of his age at the school.

“How do you like the park?” she ventured, trying to sound nonchalant. “Aren’t the flowers magnificent?”

Zale shrugged. He didn’t seem to give two figs about flowers. “I’m just passin’ through,” he said, looking around for an escape route.

“Well,” said Elena, clearing her throat. “Would you like to play a game of chess with me, perchance?”

Zale arched a brow skeptically, as if she had just asked him to eat a cartload of rotten apples.

“Chess?” he asked. “I don’t play chess.”

“How about hopscotch?” she asked. He shook his head. “Marbles? Jacks? Mary Mack?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Mary Mack? Are you pulling my leg? That’s a girls’ game!” With that he turned and cruised out of the park, not even glancing behind him once.

Elena was mortified. All she wanted to do was be friends with the boy, and he thought she was crazy. Even worse, she had wounded his pride by asking him to play a “girls’ game”. Elena moped over to a bench and heaved herself onto it.

“Are you the Portela girl?” said a kindly voice. Elena glanced up and saw a kindly face to match the voice. It was Mrs. Carmer, whose husband ran the new general store next to Portela’s Market. Feeling too despondent to be particularly friendly, Elena merely nodded her head and went back to brooding.

Mrs. Carmer took the seat next to Elena. “I wanted to tell you the pie you made was delicious. Your father was so nice to bring it over.”

This got Elena’s attention. She didn’t know her father had done such a thing. “Oh,” she began, not knowing how to reply. “I’m so glad.” She attempted a smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

There was an awkward lull before Mrs. Carmer spoke again. “I know it must be hard for you…without your mother,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “My mother passed away, too, when I was about your age.”

The color rose in Elena’s cheeks. So the “rumor” that her mother had died was making its way through the island…she wondered if it had reached her father’s ears. If so, she was in trouble, for her father despised liars. She thanked Mrs. Carmer for her sympathy and excused herself to go home and finish her chores.

Upon reaching the shop, she saw her father shaking hands with Mr. Carmer as if they were already lifelong friends.

As inconspicuously as possible, Elena slipped into the shop and up the back stair, hiding herself in her room to work on her lessons until her father came in. She had a feeling, however, that she was only prolonging the inevitable. At length she heard her father’s footfalls in the dining room, then the water running in the kitchen and her father whistling some merry tune. He sounded too chipper to be angry, so she ventured forth from her room, her steps timid.

“Elena!” he boomed as soon as he heard her door open. The tone of his voice made her want to race right back. “Elena, come here!” he called again. She took a deep breath and entered the kitchen.

Her father was in the midst of preparing supper. As he chopped up a wizened carrot, he said, “Elena, I was wondering if you could mind the shop for me tomorrow afternoon. I’m paying a visit to the Bruneys.”

Elena released her pent-up fear in a long sigh. She began slicing the potato he handed her.

“What for?” she asked, more relaxed now. All she knew of the Bruneys was that they lived in a big mansion over by the Dunnavants’.

“According to the Carmers,” he said, lifting his brows as if confiding something, “the Bruneys’ maid Miss Dearin already knows — or knows of — everyone in town. And, according to the Carmers, she’s known for being something of a matchmaker. I thought I’d see if she could find me a wife.”

“OUCH!” cried Elena, her knife missing the potato.

(continued on Page 3)