Juliet Dove, Queen of Love Page 2

  It was what she had seen when she glanced back before leaving the shop. The woman behind the counter had been smiling—a fierce, eager smile. And her eyes had been lit with a look that was both hungry and triumphant.

  The very memory of it made Juliet shudder.

  She opened her hand to stare at the amulet again. Extending the forefinger of her left hand, she touched the beautifully carved ivory. A jolt of power, almost like an electric shock, stung her. Juliet stared at the amulet in awe, then crammed it into her pocket and ran for home.

  TWO

  Spring Fever

  The Doves lived eight blocks from the shore, in a rambling old house they’d inherited from Mr. Dove’s great aunt Bessie, who had owned one of the town’s first gift shops. Juliet had never met Great Aunt Bessie. Even so, she felt almost as if she knew the old woman—partly because she had spent a lot of time in the attic poring over albums filled with photographs from Bessie’s life, partly because her father had told them so many stories about Bessie, whom he always described as having “the face of an angel and the heart of a pirate.”

  Mr. Dove tended to speak this way. He taught poetry at the state university, about forty miles away, and loved words with, as he put it, “a passion that passeth understanding.” Mr. Dove—or Prof, as he was known to the neighbors—was the one who had convinced the Venus Harbor town council to have an annual poetry jam on Valentine’s Day, on the theory that the town ought to take more advantage of being named for the goddess of love.

  Juliet would have thought this was quite wonderful—she loved poetry—were it not for the fact that her father wanted her to participate in this year’s jam, even after what had happened the first year. In Juliet’s opinion, this was like saying, “Hey, honey, why don’t you take off your shoes and walk barefoot over hot coals. It’ll be fun!”

  It wasn’t that she didn’t have poems in her head; each of the Dove children was expected to memorize at least one poem a month. It was just that death held less terror for her than standing in front of a crowd to speak.

  As Juliet drew near the house, her hand still clutching the mysterious amulet in her pocket, she could see by the cars in the driveway that her parents were both home. A third car, unfamiliar to Juliet, indicated her mother had probably invited someone from the library for dinner. Mrs. Dove volunteered at the Venus Harbor Free Library two afternoons a week, and she loved bringing other workers home with her. Though this was very kind, it was a habit that made life hard for any shy people who happened to be living in the house. Not that any of the Doves other than Juliet had an ounce of shyness in them.

  Juliet slipped through the back door, hoping to come in without being noticed.

  No such luck.

  “You’re late!” called Mrs. Dove from the living room, her voice cheerful. “Wash up and hurry on in. Supper’s almost ready, and we’ve got company.”

  Juliet sighed. Trudging upstairs, she went to her room and dumped her books on her bed. Then in the bathroom she ran a little water over her hands—a gesture she knew her mother would never really consider washing.

  “Ah, here she is at last!” cried Margaret, when Juliet came thumping into the living room.

  Margaret was Juliet’s big sister. She was also a big tease, which could be amusing but was mostly annoying. Now that she was seventeen, she liked to associate with the adults. Their younger siblings, Byron and Clarice, still preferred to associate with the television set and were undoubtedly in the family room doing just that.

  Juliet noticed that Margaret’s hair, which was only about an inch long, was blue.

  She was pretty sure it had been green the day before.

  The Dove family had a hard time keeping track of Margaret’s hair colors.

  Sitting on the love seat was a striking-looking woman whom Juliet had never met. The woman had a high forehead, a prominent nose, and warm, friendly eyes. She was beautiful, but not like a Hollywood actress. It was a much more interesting kind of beautiful.

  “Juliet, I’d like you to meet Hyacinth Priest,” said her mother. “She’s in town for a few weeks to teach a storytelling class at the library.”

  “She’s also going to be one of the judges for the poetry jam,” said Mr. Dove.

  “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Juliet, repeating the phrase her mother had drilled into her. She stepped dutifully forward to shake Ms. Priest’s hand.

  The woman stood. She wore a flowing dress patterned with swirls of color—more colors than Juliet could count—and a pair of earrings from which dangled moons and stars. Taking Juliet’s hand in hers, she said, “And I am very pleased to meet you, Juliet Dove.” Her voice was warm, and she spoke with great precision.

  Juliet started to back away, but Ms. Priest tightened her grip. Lowering her voice, she said intensely, “I expect we will get to know each other very well in the days to come, Juliet.”

  Juliet blinked in surprise, but Ms. Priest dropped her hand and sat back down, as if she had not said something extraordinary at all.

  A buzzer sounded from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!” cried Mrs. Dove brightly. “Juliet, go get the little ones, would you?”

  She was glad for an excuse to escape the room.

  Dinner was excellent, if a little exotic for Juliet’s taste. Mr. and Mrs. Dove were both good cooks, and they liked to work together in the kitchen, where they took an unfortunate delight in trying new recipes from “authentic ethnic cuisines.”

  The young Doves were expected to eat this stuff, no matter how strange it might seem. Fortunately, there were some limits. Three years earlier, the children—led by Margaret—had negotiated a compromise that allowed their parents to try new recipes twice a week as long as they never served liver, brussels sprouts, or any meat that came from an animal you might be able to buy in a pet store. (This last item had been added to the list the day Margaret caught Mr. Dove studying a book on the cuisine of South America, including complete instructions on how to cook a guinea pig.)

  Clarice had found her own way around the dinner problem. At the age of two—she was now four—she had introduced the family to her new best friend, Mr. Toe. Now Mr. Toe joined them for dinner every night. His place was marked by a saucer set next to Clarice’s own plate—a saucer where she carefully piled small amounts of food for him to eat. Juliet had noticed that Clarice mostly fed Mr. Toe whatever it was that she did not like herself. Juliet had also noticed that it didn’t seem to bother Clarice that Mr. Toe never actually ate any of it.

  Once Juliet asked Clarice what Mr. Toe looked like.

  “He’s a toe, silly,” she had replied, sounding a little miffed.

  “Pinky?” asked Juliet, genuinely curious.

  Clarice shook her head. “Big,” she said firmly. “He’s about this tall,” she added, holding her hand a foot above the floor.

  “Does he have eyes?” Juliet had persisted.

  “Go away,” was all Clarice would say.

  Juliet still had not decided how she felt about her little sister having a giant big toe for a best friend. Sometimes she was amused by the idea. Other times she found it flat out embarrassing.

  Despite the presence of a stranger, Juliet actually had a good time at supper. Her mother had once pointed out, when Juliet was complaining about how often Mrs. Dove brought people home, that Juliet almost always had a good time after she got over her initial shyness. Juliet had to admit this was true. However, she was not convinced it made up for the half hour or so of intense discomfort she always suffered first.

  Her father was in fine form, quoting poetry right and left. Before Mrs. Dove brought in the main course, he rose and said, “The actual occasion for tonight’s dinner is to bid farewell to our kitchen floor, which Margaret and I are about to replace in response to many years of requests from her mother, my beloved spousal unit. Therefore, I propose a toast to the floor that was, which we shall miss but shall not mourn.”

  Lifting his glass, he said,

&nbs
p; “Farewell, floor,

  You’ve served us well,

  But now you’re old and cracking.

  It’s time, make way

  For younger tiles

  That have the glow you’re lacking!”

  Then they all raised their glasses—the adults with wine, the children with milk or water—in farewell to the floor. Not long after that, Ms. Priest told a story that was so funny it made Byron spit milk through his nose.

  So all in all it was a lovely evening.

  While the adults were having coffee, Juliet excused herself. “I’m going to Arturo’s,” she whispered to her mother.

  This was expected. Juliet and Arturo had been doing their homework together since first grade.

  “Don’t be late, dear,” said Mrs. Dove. The words were spoken more as a ritual than anything else; Arturo’s mother never allowed them to work too late.

  As Juliet crossed the backyard, heading for the gap in the hedge that would let her pass from their lawn to that of the Perez family, she stopped to admire the tall green shoots thrusting up from the tulip bulbs she had helped her mother plant the previous fall. The buds on some of them were swelling, almost ready to burst. She couldn’t wait to see them.

  Arturo was at the kitchen table, books out and ready to work. He was a handsome boy—not that Juliet ever thought of him that way—with thick black hair and a snub of a nose. His dark eyes were framed by extraordinarily long lashes.

  Since they were working at Arturo’s house, they started with spelling, which was his specialty.

  The first word on the list was amorous.

  “Amorous,” said Juliet. “A-M-O-U-R—”

  “Wrong!” cried Arturo, a little too gleefully.

  Juliet rolled her eyes and tried again. “Amorous. A-M-O-R-O-U-S. Amorous. What the heck does it mean, anyway?”

  “Romantic, or filled with desire,” said Arturo, who sometimes reminded her of a small version of her father. “It’s from the Latin root amo, which means ‘to love.’”

  “All right, all right!” said Juliet, who didn’t like to talk about this kind of thing. “Let’s get back to the list.”

  She was relieved when they finally finished their spelling and could move on to math, which was her specialty.

  Opening their books, they started working on a series of word problems that involved figuring out how much profit a store could make on cream of mushroom soup. Sometime after the third problem, Juliet noticed that Arturo didn’t seem to be concentrating on the math. Instead, he kept glancing at her, then looking down whenever she looked back at him.

  “What is it?” she snapped at last. “Do I have spinach in my teeth or something?”

  Arturo shook his head. “No, it’s just that . . . well, I never noticed how pretty your hair is before.”

  Juliet looked at him in astonishment. “What did you say?”

  Arturo’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t have looked more surprised if he had just discovered that he had laid an egg. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Forget it.”

  Juliet squinted at him for a second, then turned back to the math work. But she couldn’t help glancing up at him every now and then. He kept staring at her. Finally she slammed her book shut and snapped, “Will you keep your eyes to yourself?”

  “I’m trying to,” Arturo said, sounding miserable. “But they won’t do what I tell them!”

  “That is the most pathetic thing I have ever heard in my life!” said Juliet. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get anywhere with girls.”

  “Who said I want to get anywhere with girls?”

  “Well, why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “That’s it,” said Juliet. “you can just keep your X-ray eyes to yourself. I’m out of here!”

  Scooping up her books, she sailed through the kitchen, barely nodding to Mrs. Perez, who was sitting in the living room watching a telenovela.

  Juliet stalked out into a night that was lashed by a crisp wind. The sea air, even eight blocks inland, was delicious. She gazed up at the sky. The moon, growing toward fullness, seemed to be floating on a bed of clouds that glowed silver with its light. Other clouds drifted in front of the moon like veils, shifting and moving so that she could never quite see all of it. It made her think of Arturo and his furtive glances. What the heck was that all about? she wondered uncomfortably.

  Juliet had just stepped through the gap in the hedge when she caught the scent of flowers in bloom.

  She looked down and almost dropped her books. The tulip buds she had noticed earlier that evening were now wide open. Juliet furrowed her brow. Her mother had showed her how tulips bloomed years ago: Their blossoms opened in sunlight and closed when it got dark.

  They did not open at night.

  She noticed a mist creeping about her feet, and shuddered. After what had happened earlier today, the sight of it made her nervous.

  Looking up again, Juliet saw a tall woman standing about thirty feet away. The woman was surrounded by mist—too much of it for Juliet to see her clearly. The only thing she could tell for certain was that the woman was dressed all in white. Slowly, in the most graceful movement Juliet had ever seen, she raised an arm, beckoning. Part of Juliet longed to respond. But she stood without moving, her normal shyness magnified a hundredfold by the weirdness of the situation.

  The woman beckoned again, more urgently.

  Juliet still did not—could not—move.

  “Be wise!” called the woman in a voice that sounded as if it came from much farther away than she was standing.

  Faint as the words were, Juliet could sense a desperate note in them. But before she could call back to ask what they meant, the mist rose and swirled around the woman, blocking her from view.

  Juliet hesitated, uncertain whether to step forward or flee. As she wavered, a sudden gust of wind blew the mist away.

  When it was gone, the woman had vanished as well.

  THREE

  Boy Trouble

  Juliet stood gaping at the spot where the woman had been standing. Surely she had not really vanished. She must have slipped away in the mist or something. But who was she? Why was she wearing such a weird outfit? And what the heck did she mean by “Be wise!”?

  Trembling, Juliet hurried across the lawn and into the house. Ms. Priest was still there, listening politely as Mr. Dove carried on about the “poetic tradition.” Juliet desperately wanted to tell her parents what had happened with Arturo. But she couldn’t stand to do it in front of a stranger; it was too private.

  “Everything go all right, Juli?” called her mother.

  “Fine,” mumbled Juliet.

  “Speak up, dear,” said Mrs. Dove. “I can’t hear you.”

  “And come on in and say good night,” added her father.

  Shyly, Juliet stepped into the living room. “Good night, everyone,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible. She wanted to get her good-night kisses but was too embarrassed to do so in front of Ms. Priest.

  Her father stretched out a hand and said—as he had every night for as long as she could remember—“‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”

  Blushing, and mentally kicking herself for being such a sissy, Juliet trudged up the stairs.

  The light was still on in Byron’s room, so she went in to tell him good night. He was at his desk, working on a drawing of an airplane surrounded by blazing guns and explosions.

  “What do you think?” he asked, moving his arm so she could see it.

  “You’re getting better. I like the way you made the plane look as if it’s coming right at you.”

  “Mom showed me how to do that,” he said happily.

  Their mother was a cartoonist, and Byron hoped to follow in her footsteps. The difference was that while Mrs. Dove’s drawings were about family life, Byron’s were all about war, death, explosions, and vio
lence. The Doves had worried about this until Byron’s teacher told them that every third-grade class she had taught for the last twenty years had had at least three boys who drew that kind of thing, and as far as she knew, all but one of them had grown up to be normal, healthy citizens.

  Juliet sat and talked with Byron for a while, not about anything in particular, just because she liked being with him.

  “I think that Ms. Priest person is pretty cool,” he said as he continued to work on his drawing.

  Juliet shrugged. “She’s okay. I just wish Mom would stop bringing home complete strangers.”

  “Do you want her to bring home incomplete strangers?” asked Byron with a grin.

  Juliet biffed his ear. “Do you have your poem ready?” she asked, by way of changing the subject.

  “Sure. I’m way ahead of Dad.”

  Juliet wasn’t surprised. Though the Dove children were only required to learn one new poem every month, she suspected that Byron had enough Shel Silverstein already tucked away in his head to carry him through the next three years—somewhat to the despair of their father, who had been hoping to have his offspring memorize more elevated works. On this matter Mrs. Dove had taken Byron’s side, insisting that if the children were required to memorize that many poems, then they should have some choice in what the poems actually were.

  Juliet suspected that Mrs. Dove had begun to regret her intervention sometime between Byron’s thirtieth and fortieth recitations of “Someone Ate the Baby.”

  “What about you?” asked Byron. “You going to do a poem at Dad’s festival?”