Shining Sea Read online

  The water darkens, turning a deeper shade of black. I’m dead.

  No. Drowning. But not drowned. Not yet. I kick. The weight of the water, the weight of my body—it’s too much. Clothes. Boots. Dragging me down. Lilah, is this how it was for you?

  Now I hear my mother’s voice competing with the rushing sound of the water.

  An angel.

  At the sound of her voice, I close my eyes. No longer propelled by the force of the impact, I sink slowly, the sadness crushing me in a way the water can’t—from the inside.

  But Mom’s voice, it comes again. Arion, look up—look up!

  Even now, sure that I’m on the brink of death, I don’t believe that’s what I’m seeing, don’t believe that those are an angel’s wings, carving great circles in the sky so far above the water.

  Haunting melodies swirl around me, as if the sea itself has a voice . . .

  Then all at once a song so stunning fills me, I no longer care that I’m drowning.

  The song soars inside me like a meteor, bathes me in a shower of shooting stars. A fluid counterpoint to my devastating sadness, the music escalates in beauty until it replaces the sadness.

  My lungs are begging for air, but it doesn’t matter, not anymore, not while the song courses through my veins.

  Then, I feel the presence.

  With a huge effort against what feels like an intense desire for sleep, I open my eyes.

  His hair washes around his face, late-afternoon sunlight mingling with dark seawater.

  Bo Summers pulls me up, up, up—from the subaqueous depths, until we break through the surface of the sea. I claw at the air, gulp it.

  I don’t know how he does it, how he holds me afloat in the rough water as I cough and struggle. I’m dizzy and disoriented—oh right, I’m dead. Trying to move my head, I can’t lift it. Further proof.

  He brings his hand to the base of my skull, his spread fingers forming a support, turning me toward him. As I focus on his face, the breath I’ve just caught nearly leaves me. His pupils are ringed with flames, two suns, surrounded by green—no, blue—a shifting combination of the two. The colors move, like the ocean.

  Even with me in his arms, he swims effortlessly, hauling me through the breakers. I assume he’s taking me to land, but his eyes—I’d let him take me anywhere.

  My inner clock is broken, the concept of time nonexistent. The cliff, the fall, the sea; suddenly I’m lying on the sand, peering through wet lashes, studying him as he leans over me.

  “Arion, are you all right?” His voice is a whisper of concern, his voice—is music. Only a handful of words, entwining with the wind and waves, but my ears catch them, toss them to my swaying senses. Music. How is it possible?

  Gazing into his eyes, oceans of color shot through with sunlight, it’s like I’m at the top of the cliff again, beginning to fall, and this time I want to, want to sink into the strange sea of him.

  Still, after another moment of staring into those eyes, something—some instinct—takes over, and I try to look away. I can’t.

  The droplets on his lashes catch the light. Water drips from his skin onto mine—

  A strong pulling sensation washes over me—a spasm almost. I gasp in surprise.

  At the sound of my sharp breath, Bo’s dark-gold brows draw down. His hands, on either side of my face, press against me urgently as the fire in his oceanic eyes flares.

  “Why, you’re holding your breath,” he mutters. He gives a short laugh and stands. He looks down at me for a moment, then turns, taking several steps away from me.

  My clothes heavy with salt water, I struggle to sit up, wanting so badly to follow him. But I have no strength.

  I know, though, what will give it to me. His voice.

  Will he say my name again? How does he even know it? How did he catch me in his arms?

  Supported on my elbows, half lying on the sand, I begin to grow cold, unsure. Had that been his voice? The goosebumps that cover me now, are they from the sound of it? Or from the chill sinking into my bones? His voice is a song so familiar, I know it by heart. At the same time, it’s new, and so different from anything I’ve ever heard. I have to hear it again.

  As I noisily release the breath I have indeed been holding, he spins around and springs toward me—almost animal-like—then stops, still several feet away, in a low crouch.

  “How do you know my name?” I manage to sputter, trying once more to sit up.

  He watches me for a moment with his sea eyes. Then he says, “You’re the girl who lives in the lighthouse. And apparently”—his lips twitch—“you don’t have the best sense of direction.”

  His voice. Honeyed sound.

  My own voice scrapes out through chattering teeth. “H-how? How did you—” But I’m shaking uncontrollably and the words break apart.

  Bo stands, reaches for my hands—and the bizarre pulling sensation streams through me, growing stronger as he helps me to my feet. He must feel it too; abruptly he steps back, his arms dropping to his sides. Then he snatches something up from the sand.

  “Here,” he says. “Put this on.”

  He’s wearing the black surf trunks and must be cold too, but it seems weird that he has a coat here on the beach. Now I notice more clothing scattered on the sand.

  He watches as I wrestle with the heavy cotton bomber jacket, seemingly unwilling to help as I struggle to stick wet arms into soft sleeves. Then, as if realizing I can’t accomplish this task without his assistance, he does help. I stop shivering as he moves closer. Carefully, he does up the zipper. An easy feeling comes over me. Without actually deciding to—

  I lean against him.

  He goes absolutely still, his fingers at the top of the zipper, his knuckles grazing my throat.

  “Say something,” I whisper. “Please.”

  For a moment he just stares down at me, stares especially, it seems, at my mouth. Then he backs away—one step, two.

  “Wait—” My chattering teeth start up like a motor. “I—I want to know how you caught me. In your arms.”

  “I didn’t ‘catch’ you. I dragged you. Out of a tide pool. Over there.” He’s speaking in clipped tones now, but still his hushed voice fascinates me, the way it resonates in his chest, the way it’s somehow like warm spring air moving through thigh-high grasses in some wild, deserted place . . . He gestures to the water’s edge. I take a quick look—then swing my gaze back to his face. His eyes hold mine, the swirling blue green, the glint of gold, hypnotic.

  I’m about to tell him not to be ridiculous, that there aren’t any tide pools where he’s just pointed—

  When my head nods forward.

  “We have to get you home,” he says.

  But I’ve never felt more at home than in the moment he was speaking. “Please—” I begin.

  All at once I stagger, nearly falling, my eyes closing. I want to take a nap in the worst way.

  He scoops me up in his arms. I start to protest—but my head drops against his shoulder.

  The skin of his neck smells of the ocean, of sunbaked pine needles, of something delicious I can’t name. All at once I want more than sleep, I want—

  But I don’t know what I want, because the music . . . the music . . .

  Mysterious melodies delicately entwine with barely there harmonies to create a web of dreamy sound. The music slips inside of me. His murmured words make no sense yet speak to every cell in my body. Pleasure washes over me, the coldness of the beach seeping away.

  A question filters down through the music. “Arion, can you bring your thumb and your little finger together? Can you touch your thumb to your pinkie?”

  What? “Sleep now,” I say thickly. Then, words slurring, I try to explain where I live.

  “I know where you live,” sings the beautiful voice.

  A sensation of weightlessness . . . of strong arms enfolding me, legs somehow twined around mine . . . a dream of wind in my hair . . .

  Behind closed eyes I sense shadows cro
ssing my face then receding, again, and again. Darkness. Then light. Dark. Light.

  His words come as if from a distance now, tumbling over me. “Cold skin. Cotton clothes. Inadequate. This is Maine. You’re unprepared. Outdoor activity. Life. Save. Emergency. Why? The cliff. Why?”

  He sings my name. My breath comes slower. We move faster. This boy who isn’t a boy, I want to see him—

  I can’t open my eyes.

  FALSE FRONT

  My bed. I’m in it. How? A thousand sharp needles prick the underside of my skin. Blankets falling away, head pounding, I sit up. Start to swing my legs over the side of the bed—

  Then suddenly stop.

  Voices. Voices just loud enough to echo slightly off the bricks of the tower out in the hall.

  “Bo, you should go.” A voice like Bo’s only different. Deeper. But just as musical.

  “No, you should go. You’re the one who can’t handle—”

  “Save it—this isn’t about me. So she’s what’s got you revved, yeah? A girl who’s—”

  “Like you said, this isn’t about you. It doesn’t concern you, J.”

  “Oh, but it does. And if you were thinking straight, you’d be concerned too—”

  “I don’t have to be. I’m not you, Jordan.”

  “Obviously. Check it out—you’re shaking. Good thing I got here when I did.”

  “Not a good thing. I don’t follow you everywhere, what the hell, J?”

  There’s a long silence. I realize I’m holding my breath.

  Then the voice that isn’t Bo’s, the low voice that makes me want to lie back down for some reason, to close my eyes, and surrender to sleep, says, “Will she remember?”

  “No. Not most of it, not—no. Maybe. I don’t know!” Bo is clearly angry, but his voice is still beautiful. A storm at sea. “I’ve never done—this.”

  “Oh, I’m well aware of that.” The speaker pairs this comment with a derisive snort of laughter. “But you did—”

  “Yes! I already told you. It was instinctive. Like being on autopilot.”

  “That—is why I’m worried. You need to be in control.”

  “I am in control.”

  “Yeah, now maybe. What about the father?”

  “What about him? It helped that she was basically in the beginning stage of hypothermia, if I hadn’t had her up against me— Hold on. Doesn’t that count as control? And what about now? She’s behind that door, alive. I’m standing in this hallway, with you. In control.”

  “Bo, don’t you get it? If you’d fucked up this close to home—”

  I don’t hear what comes next. I’m too busy examining my pants—I’m wearing yoga pants.

  Earlier, I wasn’t.

  I had jeans on earlier. I know I did. I was wearing jeans when—

  When I fell from the cliff.

  I let out a small involuntary sound.

  The speaker breaks off. My head snaps up. I stare at the door. A long moment passes.

  Now all I hear is a soft ringing in my ears. They’ve gone. Bo, and whoever was out in the hall with him. Their conversation made no sense, but the questions racing through my mind are just as incomprehensible.

  Had I really fallen? Had Bo actually caught me? And these pants—who dressed me?

  Whoever it was, they must have undressed me first.

  Frantically, I look around. Wet clothes hang from the top of the bathroom door, from the doorknob. An empty glass and a bowl with a spoon sit on the bedside table. I jump up—

  Bad idea. Head swimming, I cautiously sit back down on the edge of the bed. My feet are stuffed into wooly socks, and I’m wearing three shirts. No underwear. No bra.

  There’s a knock on the door. I slip back under the covers.

  “Arion?” The door opens— Dad eases into the room. When he sees that I’m awake his shoulders seem to straighten. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

  “Fine.” And I am, as long as I don’t move. Ignoring the mug in Dad’s hand—not that he’ll let me do that for long—I make another attempt to get out of bed.

  “Whoa, just a minute, young lady, you’re not going anywhere, not until you drink this.”

  My head throbs, but I manage to roll my eyes. He can command a crew, but with his family, Dad’s usually a complete pushover. Love for him surges through me, and something catches in my throat as I imagine my body spinning through space. How much does he know?

  He hands me the hot mug and I lean back. “So, um, how did . . . I’m a little tired.” I look up at him hopefully.

  His face pales as he concludes that I have no idea what happened—which is mostly true.

  “Bo Summers showed up at the house, carrying you. You were soaking wet. He said the two of you had been horsing around, that you’d fallen into one of the tide pools.”

  “How long have I been asleep?” I ask casually, wanting to erase the worry on his face.

  He tries to make his voice equally casual. “About a day and a half.”

  “A day and a half? I have to get down to school!” I have two tests today, but more importantly, I need to find out about Bo Summers. Mary must know—

  “Ari.” Dad watches me carefully. “It’s Sunday.”

  “Oh.” I relax against the pillows—then tense. I’d lost both Friday and Saturday night? Not like I had big plans, but—scary. Taking a sip of the broth, I try to calm down, try to hide just how freaked out I am. “Dad, this chicken broth is, like, gourmet. Did you put in lemons?”

  “Glad you like it. And yes, it’s got lemons. But don’t think I’ll give you the recipe.”

  “Way to go with the reverse psychology. Did you learn that from Mom?” He laughs, and I’m relieved, wanting things to get back to normal. But suddenly images assail me: churning water, oceanic eyes, immense white wings. Not the normal I’m looking for.

  “Dad? Did you say a day and a half?” He nods, his smile vanishing. I force one of my own. “Who’s the stylist?” Like a game show hostess I sweep one hand down the length of my body.

  “Oh, ah—I picked out your clothes.” He rearranges the empty dishes on the bedside table.

  “Nice choices,” I say, waiting for the rest.

  “The doctor was the one who actually dressed you.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Old Doc Watson. Local guy.”

  I duck my head. Dad knows how much I hate hospitals. He hates them too. We’d spent entirely too much time at UCSF Medical Center with Lilah. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “And don’t worry. He kept things private. Used your top sheet here, kept you covered up. He said you were in the early stages of hypothermia, and Bo said that made sense, that you’d gotten cold, too cold. You had all the symptoms, you were talking some strange talk.”

  “Can you touch your thumb to your pinkie?” Now I remember where I’d heard those words before: scuba diving lessons. I was thirteen, then fourteen . . . I’d loved those classes. Lilah’s accident had changed my feelings, but the memories remain. Scuba safety. If you can’t touch your thumb to your little finger, you’re on the way to hypothermia. I shudder.

  “This far north, the water can be deceptive,” Dad says. “Cool one day, frigid the next.”

  Deceptive. Right. Instinctively I keep quiet about the fact that I hadn’t seen any tidal pools, let alone fallen into one.

  “Bo seems to know everything there is to know about hypothermia,” Dad says. “Impressive. Although I don’t know why he wasn’t worried about his own body temperature, kid only had on a bathing suit.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I offered to lend him some clothes, get him a towel. His only concern was for you. I got busy making soup and forgot all about the fact that he was wearing next to nothing. Guess his brother brought him something dry.”

  “His brother?”

  “His older brother stopped by. Twice. Very concerned about you. And Bo. Never met him before. He was here when Doc said you’d be okay. He seemed as relieved as I was. I’ve met their dad, of course. Nic
e guy. Smart as hell.”

  So the other person in the hall had been Bo’s brother. That doesn’t help me understand their weird conversation any better. But does it really matter? People die from hypothermia. I shove the thought away. I’m fine. Only frustrated at not being able to remember the doctor, or how I got home. Bo, I remember. And the—the wings. They aren’t something I’ll forget, ever.

  “I’ve never seen Bo at school, do you know if he goes to Blaine?” A chill runs through me despite the hot mug in my hand. What kind of person can do what he did?

  “Professor Summers homeschools his kids. Although I’m not sure how that works out. He travels a lot. His wife passed on soon after the birth of their youngest boy . . . I don’t know the details.”

  “Oh. That’s sad.”

  “It is.”

  “Do the Summers use the cove next door? I think I saw Bo surfing over there.”

  For just a second Dad’s face looks like it did the night he’d come home after seeing what was left of the Lucky. Then his expression clears and he says, “They live there.”

  “They live there? You mean they live in the park too? But—that cove looks so wild.”

  “Like I said, the professor travels quite a bit. Sometimes he takes his family with him, but yes, that’s their home. And it is wild. In fact, I don’t want you going over there.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Dad picks up the dishes and gazes out the south-facing window. “Summers Cove. That’s what folks have always called that stretch of land. Summers have owned it forever. But it doesn’t really belong to the family anymore. The government is taking over this end of the peninsula in the name of your favorite project, Rock Hook National Seashore.” I make a face.

  “The state of Maine wants to make the national seashore part of Pine Park, over on the mainland. I’m not sure how that’ll fly; the Summers used to own that land as well. I believe the adjoining land still belongs to them, so they may still have some say. They’ve got a lease now at the Cove, which means they can live there as long as they want. Looks like they’re going to stay, though I don’t know why they’d want to, after—” He breaks off abruptly.

  “After what?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. Look, next summer their land will open to the public, just like this place. But for you”—Dad comes close to scowling—“Summers Cove is closed.”