Shining Sea Page 10

  He was there, and then not there. Down on the docks. A stranger—I thought.

  But Lilah—the way she bounced on her toes with excitement. The shine on her the day she disappeared—I remember it now. That shimmer—was it for him?

  And why is he a blur, when the rest of my memories are suddenly so clear?

  I am waiting.

  She could have met him here in Maine, just like I imagined—it’s possible. He could have traveled to San Francisco to see her. Boys. They fell hard for Lilah—she made them fall hard. She could have bewitched him. He could have flown out to see her. Moved out. It’s possible.

  But not probable. Some guy from the docks, some fisherman? Not probable.

  “I knew it would happen!” Mom cried to Dad. “Your damn docks—those men! Out for weeks at a time, months even, with nothing to look at but the sea. My Delilah . . .”

  I put my pillow over my head that night, and so many others, not wanting to hear, not wanting to be there. I wanted to disappear, but I couldn’t.

  So I forgot.

  A distress signal from the ship came in—one of several the Coast Guard received once the storm hit—but by then it was too late, too late for Lilah, and too late for the two men, who must have been washed over the side.

  A dinghy—they found her in a dinghy. Bruises on her shoulders and her wrists and her ribs—she couldn’t have managed to climb in herself. Someone cared enough to help her.

  Or maybe someone just didn’t want to be a murderer.

  No one knew who sent the Mayday call. Thank God, the Coast Guard heard it.

  What I heard was my parents—fighting. I heard the doctors, and I heard the police. I heard everyone trying to piece together a patchwork picture of twenty-four terrible hours.

  Then I shut it all out.

  So that up until today, the only things I’d allowed myself to know for sure, were that my sister had almost been killed, when a boat was lost, on a day that started out as deceptively beautiful as this one.

  And one more thing.

  I hate water.

  SALT

  “Hmm?” My ears are ringing. Distant chimes. Fading, getting louder—I can’t tell.

  “I said—we’re here.”

  We’re here, and I know everything, as much as I can know. I look out the window at the back of the lighthouse. “How did we—?”

  “You crashed out. Think you were dreaming.”

  “No.” I rub at my face. “Remembering.” And the pain of that remembering is sharp, so sharp it clears my head.

  “It looked a lot like sleeping to me.” Bo’s voice is a reticent song. He taps a rhythmic pattern on the steering wheel now, and I remember how his hands had felt on me as he carried me from the water, and last week, the way his fingers slipped over my skin.

  “Bo, I know that when I fell from the cliff, you caught me in your arms. And you already confessed that you lied to my dad, so you and I both know, you didn’t help me out of any tide pool.”

  “I did.” He turns toward me. I look into the seas of his eyes. He says, “I found you by the pools. You’d obviously slipped and fallen. You were halfway in, halfway out—”

  “Fine. Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me what really happened. If we, I don’t know . . . Sometime in the future.”

  “The future,” he says softly. Then he scowls. “Why can’t you just believe me?” He runs his hands over his face, and from behind his fingers I think I hear him say, “Don’t make me convince you.” The hair slowly rises along my arms.

  But when he drops his hands to his lap, the smirk he’d been wearing when he carried me out of the water today is back. “Maybe you should reconsider your footwear.”

  I follow his gaze down to my feet, which are back in my boots. During the exam, I’d gone barefoot, something I’m sure to lose points for. “Got something against cowboy boots?”

  “Not at all. They’re great. For cowboys. Not so great for hiking maybe.”

  Lifting my legs, I brace my feet against the dash. “Red’s my favorite color.”

  “Not mine. Too bright.” His lips twist. “Too wild. Like your imagination.”

  “Red is the color of your Jeep. You like it, admit it.” Admit everything, while you’re at it.

  But he doesn’t. He only says, “So what about today? What happened?”

  “You tell me. You were right there.” And if you didn’t drag me under . . . “Bo, listen—”

  “Oh, I’m listening,” he says. “I’ve been listening.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Our eyes catch— My thoughts begin to blur.

  I try to focus on my anger, thinking of what a fool I’d looked like today, how it had been his fault. But the anger isn’t enough to hold back my confusion, or my tears.

  He held me down, under the water.

  Bo continues to stare at me, then slowly, he reaches over and with one finger traces a tear down my cheek. Then he draws his hand back just as slowly, studying his fingertip—

  Before he puts it in his mouth.

  “What are you do—”

  “It’s salt,” he muses. “It really is salt water.”

  “Riiight, so?”

  “So, that’s fascinating.” The golden late-day suns at the centers of his blue-green eyes seem to pull at me, and all at once, it doesn’t matter that he just tasted my tears in a strangely scientific manner, doesn’t matter that he lied to me, ran from me. Again, he brings his nearly scalding fingertip to my face, runs it down my cheek. Leaning into his touch, my blood buzzes in my veins as, this time, his finger stops at the corner of my mouth. He traces the line of my lower lip and his eyes darken. I close my own eyes, feeling his hands slide to my shoulders. Even through three layers his touch is so warm, evokes something in me so intense, I gasp—

  He draws back so fast my eyes fly open—

  Spots of color top his cheekbones, and his hands grip the wheel. “I’ve got to go,” he says in a low voice edged with something akin to violence. His eyes are oceans—on fire.

  My fingers fumble for the door handle. I leap out of the car—the urge to run coursing through me. What just happened? Opening my mouth to say goodbye—goodbye doesn’t come out. “Was it supposed to be funny,” I ask, voice hitching, “when you pulled me under today?”

  A small, derisive sound escapes his lips. Then he says, “Arion,” and gives that brief nod, just before he reaches over—and shuts the door.

  I watch him drive off. He scares me. But . . . it seems like I can still hear his voice, saying my name. The way he’d said it . . . didn’t sound anything like goodbye.

  Waves of wondering swell inside of me, rising so high, they breach the walls of logic, the reasonable part of the construct that is my brain.

  What would kissing him be like?

  Just the thought of kissing him—it gives me this feeling, like the time I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge and stopped in the middle to look over the edge. My stomach went swoop and my vision turned sharp. But it wasn’t like I was afraid I might fall. More like, I was afraid I’d jump.

  TIMING

  The aroma of something spicy meets me at the front door of the keeper’s cottage.

  “Sweetie, how’d it go?” Dad turns from the stove—the source of the savory smell. He’s got a spoon in his hand, and now he takes a taste from it.

  It can’t be easy for him to maintain such a neutral attitude. He must’ve been trying to contain his worry all day.

  “Good, Dad, um—fine.” The white lie weaves itself. “I’ll tell you about it in a minute, I have to phone Mary really quick.”

  “Your timing’s perfect, as usual.” One of our running jokes is that some people—me—come into the kitchen in time to eat but never in time to cook. “I’m making gumbo.”

  “Yum. Be right back.” In the living room, I find the cordless under a pile of papers.

  From the kitchen Dad says, “Logan rang. Said he wanted to drop by tonight, say hi. I told him
to come on over.” Dad peeks around the corner, wondering if he’s gone too far, but I nod, not surprised that Logan wants to come by. He’d been totally freaked this afternoon—his pallid, panic-stricken face and trembling hands had said as much—but not only about me. Just like I’d been pulled under, it was a good bet that he’d gone under too, in a way. My “mishap” had probably served to trigger his worst memories.

  In the middle of dialing, I stop for a second. I’d left Seal Cove with Bo; that can’t have made Logan too happy either.

  “Arion!” Mary picks up on the first ring. “How are you?”

  “Fine. The hottest bath ever fixed me right up. But, um, we need to talk.”

  “Yeah, we do. Did you do that on purpose today, or what?”

  “I’m not really sure.”

  “Okaaay . . . well . . . you had me worried for a sec, I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Couldn’t tell if that was your idea of a good time, or if you were freaking out because of the test. Not the test itself, but, you know, the fact that you had to deal with . . . the water.”

  I cup the phone, wishing I had my cell and could go outside, but forget that. The Hook is basically a dead zone. “Mary, you were watching, right? When I went into the water?”

  “I was,” she says slowly. “It was weird. It seemed like you were doing fine, but then . . .”

  “Then what?” My fingers grip the phone.

  “You got a strange look on your face and held your hands over your ears. Then all of a sudden you swung one leg over the side of the boat, then the other, and you were gone. You honestly don’t remember? I would have grabbed you, but I couldn’t quite believe what you were doing.” Her voice holds a question.

  “I was hot,” I say quickly. “I just wanted to get off the boat.” I’m glad Mary isn’t next to me, can’t see my face. Why don’t I remember?

  “You made a serious splash before you went under. Then you popped up, went under, thrashed around for a minute. You kicked up a total froth. It was impossible to see if you were having fun, or what. At least ten people were ready to jump in, though, just so you know.”

  Thrashed around for a minute. Because someone was holding me down.

  “Ari? You still there?”

  I swallow hard. “Yes.”

  “Logan was on the beach. He started running toward the water.”

  “Logan.” I say his name dully, thinking of the fear I must have caused him.

  “But even before he got his feet wet, Bo had you—one of the Summers kids is usually there on rules-and-regs day—and he hauled you out of the water before anyone could say boo.”

  “I remember. He carried me out. So . . . he wouldn’t have pulled me under. Right?”

  “Nooo . . . I mean, why would he? Seriously, what makes you ask that?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . nothing. I don’t know why I said that. Brain’s a little waterlogged, I guess.” I scramble to change the direction of the conversation, but I still want answers. “Did you guys think I was drowning or something?”

  “No, not at all.” Mary laughs. “It wasn’t like that.” More quietly she says, “I think Logan was the only one who was really worried, and I was kind of concerned, because I knew how stressed you were. But everyone else just thought you were acting wacky. “'There’s always one or two,’” Mary says, imitating Mr. Kraig’s boisterous voice flawlessly. “‘Always someone who thinks that just ’cause we’re at the beach, just ’cause we’re on the boats, it’s summertime.’”

  I try to laugh, but my mind is back at Seal Cove analyzing the afternoon like a slide in Mr. Kraig’s lab. No one knows that somebody pulled me under.

  “Mary, what do you mean, one of the Summers kids is usually at rules-and-regs day? And what about Bo? You said you know him.”

  “I know him to say hi to, that’s about it. And yeah, usually one of the Summers kids is at the test—maybe to check up on OZI’s investment? I mean, those boats aren’t cheap. I heard Bo’s big brother was there a couple of years ago. He’s a little spooky.”

  I still have a million questions about Bo, about his family, but a clink, clinking comes from the kitchen now; Dad putting out plates, my job. The conversation hasn’t been so quick after all.

  “Hey, I’ve got to go. I was just hot today, you know? Didn’t mean to worry you. The sun was brutal. Do we live in Maine or Florida? Seriously, what does ‘Down East’ mean, anyway?”

  “Good one. But yeah, you didn’t eat or drink anything at lunch, plus today was superhot. You may have even had heatstroke. Still, next time you want to go swimming? Wait for me. Not that I would have gone in today, but”—she gives a little snicker—“Logan would probably go with you anytime. Or maybe”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“you’d prefer swimming with Bo.”

  Ha. That would be at least an hour-long conversation.

  Dad appears in the doorway. I hold one finger up, and he turns back to the kitchen.

  “I’m sure you’re going to find me a boyfriend, Mary, but not tonight. Dad cooked up one of his famous southern seafood recipes, so I’ve got to go eat.”

  “Wait! I need details, about your ride home.” Mary’s voice is heavy with innuendo.

  “You’ve been hanging out with Logan too long, you know that? But okay. Details. Bo drove me home. He dropped me off. The end.” Unfortunately.

  “Really? He seemed pret-ty attentive at Seal Cove . . .”

  “Trust me, he’s not interested.”

  Or he would have kissed me.

  TABLE TALK

  “So it went well today. Good to hear,” Dad says as we sit down to eat. “Maybe you’ll come out on one of the boats soon. There are some real beauties down at the marina.”

  Glad my mouth is crammed with spicy gumbo, I nod. I do not want to talk boats.

  “Sounds like you and Mary have really hit it off.”

  Another mouthful. Another nod.

  Looking down at his plate like he’s more interested in his food than my friends, he asks, “How about Logan? You two becoming buddies?” Ah, the money shot.

  “Yes, Dad, we’re becoming friends.” I spear a piece of crabmeat. Dad knows my privacy policy. And obviously, as I saw last night, he knows Logan. Although I’m pretty sure he’s never witnessed Logan’s ravening grins and sidelong glances.

  “Logan’s folks took a real shine to you. ’Course, I don’t blame them.”

  “Dad, come on, they don’t even know me.”

  “Yes, they do. You all met here at the cottage, remember?”

  One night when I came down to get my laundry Logan’s parents were in the living room with Dad. The three of them were on the couch, talking in hushed tones. They were facing the empty fireplace, their backs to me. They didn’t notice when I slipped into the house.

  “One of the worst things about losing Nick is what it’s done to Logan.” Mrs. Delaine’s words carried into the kitchen.

  “She’s right,” Mr. Delaine agreed. “Logan was always a joker, a happy kid. Not so much anymore. Nick, well, he had a temper on him. He wasn’t so easy to handle.”

  “Liam!”

  “It’s true, Anita. I miss him as much as you do, but Nick had an edge to him.”

  “And I’ve sensed that same anger coming from Logan—ever since Nick died. But I don’t know what to do for him. I miss Logan’s laughter—” She started to cry.

  Then I sneezed, and Dad told me to come into the living room where he introduced me.

  “I do remember,” I say to Dad now. “We talked for, like, two seconds.”

  “It was longer than that, Ari.”

  He was right. It had been longer. And I’d given Mrs. Delaine a hug. She’d seemed so full of . . . hurt. She didn’t hide it behind a smile and two fists, the way Logan did.

  “Dessert?” Dad holds up a strainer full of fresh blueberries.

  “Thanks. And your gumbo was awesome. When are you going to open a restaurant?”

  “Soon as you learn to cook.” He spoons
berries into two bowls.

  And it hits me. “Dad, I have a great idea.”

  “What is it, Water Dog?” he asks warily.

  “Well, since you have a cooking compulsion . . . can we have a few people for dinner?”

  “You want to have people for dinner? That doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

  “Ha-ha. You know what I mean. Not people for dinner, invite a few people over for dinner. Like Professor Summers and his family. You can make your paella.”

  “Oh, can I?” His eyes twinkle. “Glad I have your permission. Love you, sweetie.”

  “I love you too. So what do you think?”

  “Well, I think it’s true, I think you might love me a little, but I’m guessing that you’re thinking about someone else right now.” Uh-oh. The teasing. I’m such an easy target, no wonder Logan won’t let up. “The Summers family, you say? Or one particular Summers?”

  I laugh but won’t give him the satisfaction of telling him he’s right.

  “So . . . no go for Logan?”

  “Dad!”

  “Okay. Giving up. It’s just—Logan’s a good kid. And, you’re probably better off trying to see Bo on your own. Don’t know when Professor Summers will be back in town, but I’ve already invited him over, twice. Wanted to thank him for making the restoration possible.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.” I take my dishes to the sink. My face is probably matchy-matchy with the bright bits of lobster shell littering the counter.

  “Sorry, sweetie. The word is, they rarely accept an invitation. My guess? Professor Summers is a busy man, so he doesn’t socialize much. His dad was the same way, kept to himself. How about some more berries?”

  “No, thanks.” I’m not hiding my disappointment very well, and finally Dad is kind enough to leave me alone with it. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV.

  Bo may be on the fast track to becoming my personal lifeguard, but apparently that doesn’t include getting to know him.

  Outside the kitchen window the waves hit the breakwater with a shush . . . and Venus is bright against the darkening sky. It would be beautiful up on the deck. Fine. Bo, who?

  “I’m going up,” I holler, heading out the door.