Dear Papa,

I'm so very happy to have received a letter saying you're well. I always anxiously await news from you, and I suppose the postmaster here has tired of seeing me so often.

Things are well here on the island, though I miss Mama and the little girls terribly sometimes. I am, however, writing with a bit of news for you, which I have yet to inform Mr. Edja of. I've been offered a teaching position with the local school, beginning in the fall semester.

While I am certain that you and Mama were hoping I would return home when you return from Germany, I do love it here more than I had expected, and being so young, I cannot imagine that I would be offered a similar position in Manhattan if I were to return.

As I would not ask Mr. Edja to allow me to remain in my apartment here once I vacate my position at the bar, I have arranged to lease a room from my friend Brittany, the daughter of the ferry captain, and a retired Naval officer for the duration of my tenure.

My intention is to continue to send money back to Mama, and with the extra income that I will be making, my hope is that I can help with the expense of Marina's schooling. I have already informed Mama of my plans by telephone, and her letter on the subject may find you first, but I had wanted to write to you as well, in hopes that you will not be angry with me for choosing to stay here.

I love you very much, Papa, and I pray for your safety each morning and evening.

Love, Santana

Standing beside the letter box, you take a deep breath, and you slide the envelope inside, watching as it wafts down to the bottom. There's a deep sense of dread in the pit of your stomach, and you inhale the balmy summer air sharply as you step back.

Your father is a kind man. Unlike the fathers of many other girls you know, he has never sought to force you into a marriage, or ask you to do something that is against what you'd like. But still, you have never before told him by letter that you were leaving home permanently, never told him that you planned to live on an island in the middle of nowhere, and to live with a person he doesn't know.

Very much, you'd like him to know Brittany, you'd like for all your family to know her, but you fear it too. You wonder, lying awake at night, if they'd see it written on your face, the unnatural love you have for her. You wonder if they'd make you come back home then, if they'd tear you away from her, in fear that God will condemn your soul.

Thinking of it, you shake your head. They'll meet her, at least your mother and your sisters will, before the summer is out. There are things you need to get from home, some books you had left behind, some of your skirts and blouses from your school days that you might wear when you start your new job. And there are your sisters, the little girls you long to hug close every day of your life. You miss them so terribly, and you promised them, as they clamored for the phone, that you'd be hind to visit them soon. You'll take Brittany with you then, you'll show her the world you come from, you let your family meet the girl who owns your heart, even if the fear cuts you to the quick.

She's broken ground on the house. The trees she needed to clear from the lot are gone, stacked up in neat little piles along the sandy perimeter of the apartment. With David and Michael, she dug up sand and built the stilts your home will stand on to protect it from the sea, and mixed and poured cement to anchor it in place. Forgetting the letter in the box, you walk down to the beach, slipping your shoes off, even though the sand fills your nylons and makes you itch, and inexplicably, your muscles sting. But you're aching to see what she's done since you've been there last, three days ago, and nothing will slow the pace of your walk.

Before you reach the spot, you hear her laugh ring out, and you hear David's whistle. You love their easiness, their plain joy, the love they have for one another. They're a community, even more than your family is with the congregation in church. They love each other, they'd do anything for each other, so far as helping Brittany build a home to live in with her secret lady love. It strikes you powerfully, and your knees go weak. This place, this Island, this home, it's more than you ever could have imagined.

"Afternoon, Miss." Arthur tips his hat from the beam he sits upon. You assume the boys carried him down into the sand, so he could be a part of this, and it makes your heart ache something fierce. "I'm the foreman on this crew."

"Looks like you're doing a wonderful job." You laugh, admiring the skeleton taking shape before you. "Thank you for that."

"Santana!" Brittany waves furiously, hammer in her hand atop the structure of your future home. Before you can even lift your hand to her, you hear the hammer hit the sand, and in a flurry of blonde hair and trousers, she jumps down beside it and strides over to you. "What do ya think? Lookin' real swell, ain't it?"

"I don't know much about building houses, but I think this is the finest frame of a house I have ever seen."

"Ya think? I sure am proud'a it! Soon enough, we'll be gettin' ready't build it up! Goin' to have ya in here before the school term starts, if I've got anythin' to say about it."

"You ought to rest a bit, Brittany." You hand her the Thermos you'd filled with iced tea, and watch her skin flush as she takes a swig of it.

"Just what I needed!" She beams, stepping so close that you begin to fidget. Her friends know, of course they know, but you're remarkably shy, and the way she looks at you feels too intimate around public company. "I get plenty'a rest, don't ya worry your pretty face about that."

"Brittany." You murmur, low and warning.

"Santana." She teases back. "Wanna come on up and see the view?"

"Up there? Is it safe?"

"Do ya think I'd bring ya up if it weren't?"

"No." You mean to be playful in your response, but when you speak it, you realize you sound reverent. You are, perhaps. You trust her so deep in your heart that it hurts. "I'd like to see it with you."

"Cap, we're goin' to head on home. Ya keep workin' us to the bone down here." Michael grins, taking his hat off and wiping the sweat from his brow. "I need to be home for supper."

"Go on, go on." Brittany chuckles, waving them along. "Ya alright, Art?"

"Just fine." He nods, accepting a lift up from David, only a slight bit of shame showing in his face. "See ya t'morrow afternoon."

You watch as they head up the beach, and then, you turn your attention back to Brittany. The sun is just beginning to sink in the sky, and you know you have a few hours before it sets completely. Before she does anything else, she gathers up the remains of her tools, indicating that she plans to leave once you come down from the scaffolding, and you watch her. Through her shirt, you see the hard muscles ripple in her her back, and you watch her lithe form duck in and out of the wooden skeleton. She's beautiful, so beautiful, and seeing her beneath the work she's done with her hands, beneath the home she's building you, your breath is stolen.

"Alright then, ya ready to see?"

"I would love to."

"Step up on my knee, and I'll help ya up."

Though you think to object to climbing on her, to telling her that you can make it up the makeshift ladder, the truth is, it wracks your nerves. You trust her, certainly, but you don't trust your own ability to climb. Sliding your shoes from your feet and leaving them in the sand, you step with nylon clad toes onto her knee, and you feel her secure hold around your waist. A small squeak escapes your lips as she lifts you, and you wrap your hands around the smooth wooden pole when you can grasp it, scrabbling with your feet for something solid.

When you find the wood beneath, you stand up, cautious not to let go of the pole, and perhaps more cautious not to splinter your nearly-bare feet. More quickly than you can imagine, she scales the scaffold, and pops up beside you, taking a bow when she stands straight again. Her hand slips down to take yours in a gentle hold, and you breathe a sigh of relief at having her beside you.

"Here." Brittany tosses a thin board down over the frame. "Now ya don't have t' worry that ya might fall through."

"Brittany." You smile, and her eyes crinkle up in response. "Thank you."

"It ain't nothin', had that layin' around."

"I mean for everything."

She holds firm to your hand as you climb onto the board, and she doesn't settle until you're seated securely. Your lower back twinges, but you fight a grimace and wait until it passes, unsure where the aches in your body have come from today. Once you're settled, she sits down beside you, and wraps her arm around your waist, urging you to lean into her. You comply quickly, and finally, when you feel safe in her arms, you look ahead, gasping as you see the ocean waves break before you.

"I'll be puttin' a big window right here for ya, with one of those window benches so we can look out at the ocean whenever we feel like doin' it."

"That sounds beautiful."

"Only the best for my best lady." She kisses your temple. "Did ya have a nice day?"

"I…I sent a letter to my father before I walked down here. I wrote him to tell him that I'm staying here."

"Do ya think he'll understand like your Mama did?"

"I certainly hope so." You suck in a breath. "I think he might be said I won't be around the apartment any longer, more than anything. Mama is used to that by now, but Papa has never been there without me."

"I wouldn't like it much if I had to be anywhere without ya."

"Neither would I. You have been working so hard to build us this beautiful home, and there is nowhere else I would rather be."

"I'm workin' real hard to get it done before the summer ends. I want ya to know ya got a house to live in when ya leave the bar."

"If it isn't finished by the fall, I can figure things out."

"Pop'll let ya stay with us, no matter what, but I want t'start my life with ya when ya start your own new life."

"I would really love nothing more than that." You play with her hands in your lap, feeling her chaffed and calloused skin. "I still need to tell Mr. Edja that I'll be leaving at the end of the summer. I think I might be a little afraid of that. He was so kind to give me the job to begin with, and that job led me to you. I think I owe him a real debt of gratitude."

"Ya work real hard, I'd say ya paid your debt tenfold. Ya know, I was thinkin'…"

"What were you thinking about?" You turn from the ocean, and you look into her eyes, bright orange from the sun catching in the blue.

"Maybe he'd want t'hire Art on. Even if he can't see over the bar, he's real good at managing things."

"I could talk to him about that, if you think Arthur would want the job. It would certainly make me feel better if I let him know I found someone who might replace me."

"I can talk to him tomorrow. I'm sure he'd snap that up real quick. I think him helpin' us out here has been good for him, so I bet he'd cheer up even more if he could be makin' some money."

"To tell you the truth, I have really enjoyed getting to know him. Despite our rocky start, I look forward to his company."

"Now that ya know there ain't nothin' to be scared of about me and Art, and now that he knows your my girl." She laughs, pulling you closer. "Art's the only one I know who reads even close to as many books as I see ya readin'. I do like it when ya read to me at night though, your voice makes the stories sound real."

"Do you really like that? I've often wondered if I bore you with it."

"Course not. It's even better'n the radio! I know ya read lots'a books during the day, but I like how ya save our stories and don't skip ahead. I know ya read this one so many times ya almost know the words without readin', but still."

"It just makes me happy that you have been enjoying it so much."

"I do like Jo best though, and all her trampin' around."

"I like Jo best too." You smile, though you don't tell her that sometimes she reminds you of Jo March, but without such a temper. She must know, you think, but you just keep looking ahead at the waves lapping the shore. "I'm not sure there is a more beautiful place in the world, though I can't think I'd care much if it was ugly looking out from here. It would still make me happy knowing you build it."

"I think ya gotta pick some furniture and things. I'm good at the building, but I'm not so sure about the rest."

"I looked in the Sears catalogue, and everything looks so expensive. I have been trying to put aside some of my money each week to help pay for it."

"Don't ya remember that I was going t'have to get all this anyway, if ya weren't livin' with me? The money I got put aside'll be plenty, and I'd like if ya picked what ya wanted."

"I might be more comfortable if you and I were to pick it out together. I know it might be a silly thought for furniture, but this will be both of our home."

"I don't know much about furniture, but if ya wanted that…I think that'd be alright."

"There isn't much I know about it either, I haven't ever picked any out before."

"But ya know about pretty things. I think ya might be better at it than me."

"Brittany." You cock your head to the side, heat creeping up your neck. "I know that you know about pretty things too, like the flowers on my table right now."

"They just reminded me of ya, so I picked 'em when I went over to the mainland."

You are never really certain what to say when she says things like that about you, so you lean a little further into her as you look out over the deep blue water that spreads out before you. It's easy to imagine your future when you're sitting here. It's easy to allow the anxieties that churn deep within your belly to melt away. With Brittany, things are easy, despite how hard the should perhaps be. Her arms provide you a safety net, a soft place to fall when you're anxious and afraid, a refuge from the storms of your mind.

Together, you sit for a long while. Truthfully, you may be a little afraid to get down from your perch, but also, you feel so comfortable there, up above the world, that you don't want to leave. But the wind whipping off the ocean sends a chill through you, and without a jacket of her own, Brittany can only warm you so much with her body.

So you prepare yourself to come down and start the long walk home. She jumps first, and you gasp, fearful she'll injure herself. Of course, she doesn't, and she climbs halfway up the makeshift ladder to help you. It's sweet, and you love her more for the way she checks to make sure your skirt doesn't catch, and your feet don't slip. When you're safe on the sand again, you lift your shoes and tuck them beneath your arm, watching as she carefully arranges the fresh boards beneath the scaffold, and she gathers her tools up in her bag.

As you walk down the beach, you fight the increasing chills that you feel, and Brittany looks down at her feet, sheepish, you think, that she doesn't have a jacket or a sweater for you. She's like that, so concerned for your well being, and she pulls you closer for as long as she can, she holds up there, until houses begin to dot the beach, and she knows she has to let you go. You shiver more then, colder from the loss of her body heat, and she frowns as you make your way up the worn wooden steps off the beach.

Your hands shake as you attempt to unlock the door to your apartment, and you can't figure out how it got so cold so quickly. It's been so hot, even with the ocean breeze, and yet, tonight, the sun seems to have stolen all the warmth when it sank into the sea. Finally, you manage to open the door, and you rub your arms furiously with your hands, reaching for your sweater that hangs from the hook beside the front door.

"Cold, pretty lady?" She asks, closing the door behind herself and eyeing you with concern.

"Just a little, it's alright." You shrug it off. "I made a vegetable pie this morning that I was going to warm up for dinner. Is that alright with you, or would you rather something else?"

"I'm gettin' spoiled with all these fancy suppers. That sounds swell to me!"

As she always does at dinner time, she finds her way to wash up while you go to the kitchen. The chill doesn't leave you as you light the oven, and to try to force it away, you light the stove as well. You fill the percolator will water, hoping a cup of coffee will warm you up, and you take the pie from the icebox and slide it into the oven. When you pour your coffee, you begin to feel lightheaded, and you sink down into a chair, sipping it slowly, though your hands shake and threaten to slosh it over the edges.

Your head begins to throb, and you're uncertain what's wrong. You had been fine, mostly, besides the ache you felt earlier, but suddenly, you're feeling incredibly ill. Slowly, you set your coffee cup down on the saucer, and you take a deep breath, trying to stave off your headache, but everything feels blurry. You don't even realize Brittany has finished bathing until you feel a hand on your shoulder, and pricks shoot down your spine, settling in your lower back.

"Are ya alright, Santana?" She asks you, but lifting your head to look at her feels far too difficult.

"Suddenly I'm not feeling very well suddenly." You shake your head slowly. "I'm not quite sure why."

"What do ya feel?"

"Blurry." You speak the only word you can muster, and try to focus on her form kneeing beside you.

"Blurry." Brittany repeats. "I think ya oughta get in to bed."

"I have dinner in the oven."

"I'll take it out'a the oven. Ya look really pale, pretty lady. I think ya should be layin' down."

"Alright." You whisper, not feeling the strength to argue with her.

Before you can say anything else, Brittany lifts you from your chair, and she carries you into the bedroom. Tenderly, she helps you out of your nylons and dress, and dresses you in your nightgown. Her hands feel rough on your skin, gentle as she is, and you squeeze you eyes shut, letting her tuck you beneath the covers.

You fall into a fitful asleep quickly, a cold chill waking you every so often throughout the night. When the sun through your window prevents you from sleeping any longer, you roll onto your side, and curl your legs to your chest feeling you hair cling to to your face, and the sharp pinch of a stray hairpin against your ear. Everything still aches, everything is still cold, and slowly, you crack your eyes open.

At your bedside, Brittany sits rigid a chair. A basin of water sits on the table, and you can see her worrying her hands in her lap. From what you can see of her face, she appears to have been awake through the night, and despite how ill you feel, your heart skips in your chest. You love her, you love her, you love her, and her presence settles you, unsettled as you feel.

"Brittany." You croak, startled by the sound of your own voice.

"Good mornin' sunshine." She leans over, carefully kissing your forehead. "Ya still feel real warm."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"'S alright, I wanted to keep cooling ya down. Looks like summer flu. Runs around here every year 'round this time. Pop says it's from the damp evenin's, when the ocean cools everythin' down. Since ya keep comin' to see me down on the beach each night, and your body's not as used to it as the rest of us, seems like that makes sense."

"I feel awful. But you don't have to sit here and care for me. It must be nearly time for you to leave."

"I'm keepin' her in today. I already went down to tell the boys they had the day off. You're real sick, and I don't want to leave ya."

"Brittany. You shouldn't stay in on my account. I'll be alright." You tell her, though everything aches and prickles and weighs. "I'll take some Blosser's and you won't have to worry."

"I'm stayin' on my account. Won't be safe for me out there, if I'm worryin' after ya in here. Sometimes the flu causes hallucinations, and you shouldn't be all alone in case." She worries her lip between her teeth. "Ya shouldn't be arguin' with me, ya might tire yourself out."

"I think I might already be tired out. But I wish you might lay down with me, and have a rest. I'm so cold beneath the blankets…"

"I think ya might be trying to trick me." A slow smile creeps across her face, and then she yawns, stretching her hands about her head. "But I might just fall for it."

Though you're sore to the tips of your hair and the beds of your nails, when she crawls into bed with you, you let her hold you. While you'd slept, your dreams had been increasingly vivid, and vaguely terrifying, though you can't remember just what frightened you about them. But her arms are your home, your safety, and though your body writhes with discomfort, having her near is calming, soothing.

It's still difficult for you to stay awake, and you don't fight the urge to rest. The dreams come again, each time you fall back into slumber, and you wake over and over again with a start. Your head throbs, your throat stings, your limbs are heavy, but the nightmares are the worst, the nightmares feel real. While you sleep, you see the view from where the windows will be in your new home. You breathe the scent of salt air and bayberry and pine. You watch the ships on the water, as you read your stories, and you see the Alcott on the ocean, Brittany at the helm. And then it all changes. The sky grows dark, and the smell of sulfur fills the air. Raindrops pitter-patter on the windows, and then pelt harder as the wind picks up. Before your eyes, the Alcott takes on water, filling and slipping beneath, as you do nothing but scream.

The dreams caused by illness are too vivid, too lifelike, and finally, you wake up sobbing and thrashing. She's there when you do, sitting up quickly in alarm, hushing you, wiping the sweat from your face and neck. You can't articulate your nightmares to her, you won't, because though she knows you worry after her when she's out at sea, she is unaware of just how gripping the fear is. So you let her cool you down with water, you let her kiss your head and stroke your cheeks. You let her bring you cool water, and flu powder. You let her change your nightgown when the sweat had soaked through it and caused you such discomfort that it becomes impossible to sleep. You let her be here, though you know she should be working. You let her be your family, when your mother is so distant. You let her love you, because it's what you love best.

"I'll always take care of ya, Santana." You hear her whisper, as you're on the verge of another fitful sleep. "Ya won't ever be alone."