Spirits of Ash and Foam Read Free

time wasn’t until 1:00 P.M. , and the two connecting rooms the Kims had reserved had only just been vacated by Timo’s latest fares and weren’t yet ready for occupation. Rain glanced down at the guest register and read the following names upside down:
    Rebecca Sawyer, Hannibal, MO
    Mr. & Mrs. John DeLancy, San Francisco
    Terry Chung and Elizabeth Ellis-Chung, Cambridge, Mass.
    Callahan
    Judith Vendaval, New York.
    Fred, Esther, Wendy, John & Michael Kim, Seattle
    Wow, Rain thought, they came all the way from Seattle! They must have been flying all night. The inevitable bad news was going to be really bad news. She looked at the other names. Mrs. Sawyer and Ms. Vendaval were still staying at the Inn, but Callahan, thank God, was long gone.
    At her first opportunity, Rain returned the credit card to Mrs. Kim and disappeared into the dining room—just as Alonso was saying, “You’re going to have to give us a little time…”
    Tourists. They were Rain’s life—in fact, practically the sum total of her life until this past weekend. She lived with her parents in the Inn, which was almost never completely empty of guests. Among other chores, she served them breakfast, cleaned their rooms on weekends, and, every couple of weeks or so, helped crew her dad’s charter boat for them. Now all that had changed. Tourists had become a side venture. Her life now was with the zemi, and she wanted to shout it to the world.
    Although maybe not to Rebecca Sawyer. The old woman was sitting alone in the dining room, reading a Lew Archer mystery novel and sipping black coffee. A half-eaten fresh-baked scone sat on her bread plate. She glanced up over the top of her paperback and smiled. “Hello, Rain.”
    â€œHi, Rebecca.” The first morning after she had checked in, Mrs. Sawyer had insisted Rain call her Rebecca or Becky. Rain had settled on the more formal of the two options. “I’ll have your breakfast in just a minute. Mom took your order?”
    Mrs. Sawyer confirmed as much, and Rain passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
    Instantly, she was hit by the wonderful smells of her mother’s cooking. Iris Cacique had three skillets going on the burners. In one, she was sautéing onions, mushrooms and tomatoes in salted butter, while flipping a half-cooked omelet in a second and frying a few links of La Géante sausage in the third. There was a large bowl of mixed berries on the big wooden table where the family ate their own meals, alongside carafes of fresh orange and pineapple juice chilling in the ice bucket.
    A cheerful Rain hung her backpack on the hook by the back door. “Morning!”
    â€œMorning, baby,” her mother said tenderly, glancing briefly at Rain, who could instantly tell Iris had been crying—and not because of the onions. For a second or two Rain searched her brain for an explanation, and then it hit her: ’Bastian! Her mother was still mourning her own father, who had only died three days ago. The funeral and the wake had followed rapidly, a Ghost Keys tradition, as it’s not wise to let a body linger on a tropical island. Now life was supposed to go back to normal, but what was the new normal? Most days when Rain came down for breakfast, Papa ’Bastian was already sitting at the table, reading the paper and eating his Lucky Charms. Not today, and not ever again. Of course, Rain knew that tonight—at sunset—’Bastian would emerge from the zemi, a bit pale, transparent and ethereal but otherwise none the worse for being dead. Iris, however, didn’t know that and grieved still. Rain felt an irresistible longing to ease her mother’s pain by telling her everything, the whole adventure—even the parts she knew would get her grounded for life. It was all so exciting, and she wanted to share it. But how can I? She’ll only think I’m nuts—or worse, on drugs or something.
    Rain settled