Amy and Nick reached the group and she introduced them one by one as she explained what each one did. Revvy was the leader and specialist in sea turtles and their endangered eggs.
Nick greeted each one as if they were old friends—pumping their hands, offering words of encouragement. They glanced sideways at her and she imagined she saw a newfound respect in their eyes; Nick changed her in their perception and, as before, changed her in her own.
It shouldn’t be this way—that another person could change her image of who and what she was and could do; but it was always that way with Nick.
Nick introduced them all to Reese, the owner of Eco-Tours who had finagled permission for a ride out to the island—never letting the owners know it was the OWP that would be going.
Reese pulled on the bill of a baseball cap over blond curls. He looked younger than Jack, although Amy knew he wasn’t. Nick had told her all about him-—a corporate dropout from Atlanta who couldn’t stand one more day of traffic, cell phones and beepers. When he’d arrived home to find his wife waiting for him at the front door with her suitcases packed—she’d decided she was in love with their marriage counselor—he’d taken one bag of his stuff and never looked back.
The mismatched group climbed into the boat—proof that a cause can bring largely different individuals together.
The boat sliced through the waves, and reverence for the Sound brought silence. Norah and Brenton leaned over the bow and allowed the water to splash them. Revvy, on the backseat, lifted his face to the late-afternoon sun. Reese stood at the bow and steered the boat with one hand while singing to himself.
Amy’s body trembled and she blamed the humming motor of the boat; she wished she could be as still and immersed as the rest of the group. She sat next to Nick on a vinyl bench at the back of the boat—he flung his arm atop the seat behind her and she resisted leaning into it and closing her eyes as physical memory became stronger than present reality.
The sea spread before them in a blue stretch of peace, separating in V-shaped waves from the bow of the boat, allowing them to pass through the water. Amy sat straight, her hands in her lap, her satchel at her feet
Nick pulled at the ends of her hair. “Whatcha thinkin’?”
“What a beautiful evening this is. We’re lucky. The last time we came it was overcast, choppy. I got a little seasick. A representative of the Eldrin clan escorted us. They only gave us one hour to view the island. We thought we wouldn’t be able to get back here unless we broke the law—trespassed. I know they were ready to do it.” She waved at the disjointed group. “But jail time did not seem in my best interest.”
“I’d like to take the credit, but it was all Reese.”
“Well, Reese or you—or both. Thank you, Nick.”
“You know, the owners can’t find out about this—Reese could lose his job.”
“No problem. I’ve already told all of these guys to keep it quiet.” The boat slowed and Amy stood.
Oystertip Island grew until the curved pale beach appeared before them as a welcome mat. The oyster beds clumped together like mounds of broken china—sharp and beautiful in their clinging mass. The briny smell of marsh, earth and unseen marine life mixed with the wind. A wood stork glided over the treetops and disappeared into the thick of the marsh’s cordgrass. Revvy pointed, but no one spoke.
To the left the beach faded into jagged lines of clumped grass which then merged with the maritime forest at the center of the island. Reese pulled the boat close to shore and threw out the anchor.
Amy looked at Nick. “How are we supposed to get to shore?”
“Walk.”
“On water?”
He laughed. She shivered at the sound.
“No, you can touch bottom here. You might get a little wet, but you can walk in.”
“Great.” Amy looked down at her jeans while Norah, Brenton and Revvy took off their shoes, threw their gear over their backs, then jumped in and began to wade to shore. The water hit the bottom of their knees, and they waved at her and Nick to come on.
Nick reached down and flipped off his boat shoes, then threw Amy’s satchel over his back. He hoisted himself over the side of the boat and looked up at her. “Come on, I’ll carry you on my back.”
“Really?”
For one moment she imagined herself riding on his back, her legs around him; then she jumped in the water. Jeans wet below the knee were nothing compared to the danger of wrapping her legs around Nick Lowry.
Norah, Revvy and Brenton stood onshore waiting for them. Brenton paced the beach, running his toes through the sand while he pulled out his notebooks.
They agreed to scatter and gather specimens and pictures, search different areas for the one thing that might save the island. Nick and Amy walked toward the interior where the house stood like a layer cake with whipped-cream icing left out in the rain.
Norah followed Brenton, while Revvy took off for the oyster-encrusted tip of the island, where he hoped to find a significant loggerhead nesting area.
Nick followed Amy as she kicked her way along the crushed-shell path toward the home. “We can’t get in, but I can show you the house,” she said.
“Hmm.” Nick picked up a fallen leaf, held it up to the sun. “I think this leaf is from a wild orchid—only a few left in the state.”
“Oh.”
He smiled. “Keep telling me about the house—I’m listening.”
I’m listening. Such sweet words.
“The house was built in the early 1700s by the Eldrin family, who were slave merchants and indigo farmers. It was their ‘country life’ house—used for holidays, parties, hunting. It is one of the few extant mansions in the Palladian style. Most Colonial-style homes were burned in Savannah’s fire of 1796.” She sighed. “I’m boring you.”
“Absolutely not. Go on.”
“I can’t really explain what it is to destroy a house like this. Architecture is like a picture or a journal of lost time. You can’t just tear homes down because they’re inconvenient.”
“I know, Amy.”
While she talked, he gathered specimens and placed them in plastic bags, labeling each one. He lifted plants to the sun, rubbed them between his fingers, studied them with a concentration he’d once shown toward her. She had once seen the promise of this man, but she’d been deprived of the full blossoming. She had once listened to him talk of doing exactly this; she’d seen him learn, and now she experienced the fruition of his dream. In the subtle island sun, in the dense maritime forest thick with endangered barrier-island creatures and memories of their own past, she watched him.
He turned to her and touched her arm. “Look at us.”
“What?”
His smile was full and warm. The shadow of a palmetto branch licked the side of his face like smudged charcoal and she tightened her fist to stop herself from touching him.
“We’re doing what we always said we would,” he answered. “Working together.”
She swayed as the wind murmured through the palmetto tree, moving the shadow across his face. She reached for his arm and he pulled her to him and held her. His body was a fortress of strength, stronger than she remembered, yet diminished in what it meant to her. There were other arms now, other strength.
She pushed him away. “Don’t, Nick. This can’t be about . . . that. It’s about the island and the—”
“I know, the house. But something we said then—something we said we’d do—it didn’t go away because, look, here we are doing it.”
“Weird coincidence.”
“No such thing as coincidences. There are so many things I need to tell you, things you don’t know.”
“Not now.”
She turned away and walked up the weed-clogged path. Nature’s cacophony blended with his words and confused her. She didn’t know what to believe, why he was here, why she was here. She’d been con
tent to watch him pick up the plants, laugh with the others, his hair riding the wind. But there was more, and she felt it as cumbersome as any incoming storm system.
She pulled the camera from her satchel, then snapped pictures of the house. Nick came to her side and they climbed the stairs to the rotting front porch.
He pushed at a sagging board over a window. “Amy, it wouldn’t be that hard to get in.”
“If they found out we went in the house, they would press charges. I want to save this house, but I do not want to lose my job and force my family to bail me out of the Chatham County jail.”
“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” He threw back his head and laughed. “But I don’t think they’d know. You could get in and out through a window.”
“Oh, they’d know. They would definitely know. They’re watching us like hawks, trying to find any excuse to get us off their—”
“Asses.”
“I was going to say ‘backs.’ ”
“I’m sure you were.”
He laughed and tousled her hair, rested his hand on her cheek.
Revvy rounded the corner to the house. “Found another dead loggerhead.” He shook his head.
Nick jerked his hand away from Amy’s face. “Show us.”
They followed Revvy to the thin stretch of east-side beach that faced the sea. Waves beat upon the sand with the hypnotic voice of the incoming tide. White foam coated the end of each wave, coming to rest on the sand as a reminder—a wispy memory of what just reached the shore, then retreated. Just like Nick, she told herself. Let this wave pass.
Nick followed Revvy to what Amy thought was a large rock, but it was a barnacle-encrusted turtle shell, large enough to be a tabletop.
Nick bent down and picked up the turtle’s head, pulled it back to expose its craw. Revvy pulled a hunting knife from his back pocket and sliced open the gullet. Sand, gray shrimp and a long piece of string fell to the sand. Amy turned her head and attempted not to gag in front of these two naturalists, who considered this study as routine as building a sand castle.
Revvy and Nick flipped the great turtle over.
“I don’t see any signs of disease,” Revvy said. “It’s hard to tell without a full autopsy—but nothing obvious.”
“Probably got caught in a shrimper’s net,” Nick said.
Revvy groaned. “When will the shrimpers ever believe us?”
Nick and Revvy dragged the turtle carcass to the sea and let it catch a wave to its original home. Amy wanted to help, but she only watched this man, this man who used his hands to study nature and marine life as easily as he tousled her hair and touched her cheek. She knew the danger in thinking about him like this, but like an echoing refrain from a sad song one can’t help but listen to, she watched and felt him.
As the turtle shell bobbed like a floating rock, then sank to the unseen ocean floor, she asked, “Aren’t they on the endangered list? Something that could get the island a Heritage Trust?”
“No. Loggerheads cover the ACE basin,” Revvy said. “We would have to find a substantial nesting area, but I haven’t so far.” He squatted down in the sand, traced a shape of the island, looked up at Nick. “They want to build the house here.” He drew an X as on a treasure map. “But the area is so dense with live oak, palmetto, yaupon holly and shrubbery that we can’t get back in there unless we have some real equipment and a lot more time. I understand your buddy can’t leave us here too long without jeopardizing his career and all that, but I don’t think we can prove anything yet.”
Nick glanced off to the horizon where the sun hung, bloated. “We have maybe an hour or more before dark.”
“Find whatever you can and meet back at the main beach at sunset.” Revvy stood.
Nick rinsed his hands in the ocean, also stood. “No problem. We’ll meet you there.”
As Revvy rounded the corner to the maritime forest, Nick looked at Amy. “Come on, follow me while I get a few more samples.” He began to walk away, then turned around. “If you’re done with your pictures.”
“Not much more I can get without going inside.”
“Then let’s go. We can talk while we walk.”
But they didn’t; silence surrounded them like an old companion, and neither of them wanted to interrupt it. Bird calls, crunching shells and crackling leaves were the only sounds they heard. They followed a path to a dense area of live oak where branches and roots had so blended with each other that she couldn’t tell which branch belonged to which tree.
She touched a mangled limb. “Is this what the rain forest looked like—felt like? So thick?”
It was as close as she’d come to asking where he was in Costa Rica, why he’d stayed. It was closer than she meant to venture into that obscure land of questions.
“Yes and no. It’s completely different, but has the same dense life. You know, I wasn’t in the forest the entire time.”
“Oh?”
“Do you want to hear this?”
She looked up to the thick drape of moss, to the camouflaged island. Yes, now she wanted to hear it. She sat down on a fallen live oak trunk and curled her knees up to her chest.
“Okay, Nick. Tell me.”
“Where did you think I went? What did you think happened to me?” He sat next to her.
“I didn’t know. I went to meet your plane, just like we planned. I stood outside the door and watched every single person walk out. I had a flight attendant double-check the plane. I made her look up the manifest—did you know you were still listed?” She pushed her fingers against her closed eyes. “No. This doesn’t matter. You said you had something to tell me.”
“What did you do after that? After I wasn’t on the plane? Run and marry Phil?”
“That’s not fair, Nick. Not fair at all. You don’t want to hear what I did after that. If you wanted to hear, or know, you would have called—or come back. If you wanted to know what I did after you didn’t come out of that door, you should have tried to find out then . . . not now.” The anger rose, still braided with the old want, and she desperately wished they would separate themselves so she could be purely angry.
He laid his hand on top of her knee. “I couldn’t find out. I was—”
“What? A little preoccupied with Eliza . . . with the rain forest, with maybe a little tequila and—”
“In jail.”
His words were a string attached to her lungs: he pulled the air from her chest. She bent toward him. “What?” she thought she said, but wasn’t sure if she actually spoke aloud—the world adjusting to a new rotation after the assumption that it had spun the other way.
“What for? What happened? Why—why didn’t you tell me? Call me?”
The ancient oaks were larger, the birds louder, the bark rougher, the heat heavier.
“Do you want to hear the story?”
Her answer was a hinge on a doorframe that opened the way to what came before and after his explanation, yet she had no choice. Her phone call to him a week ago had been the decision, the rest a river of knowing she couldn’t stop.
“Yes.” The word felt familiar, rich wine on her tongue.
He grasped her face in his hands, pulled her toward him. He moaned and ran his finger down her cheek, across her bottom lip. She closed her eyes and saw a dolphin fin streaking across the crevice of memory that he had opened with his touch.
A pool of yearning settled in the bottom of her stomach.
Torn pieces of sunlight whispered through aged moss, landed on the shattered log. The sea pounded on an unseen shore just steps beyond the dense forest. Each crest and retreat of the waves matched her heartbeat—a beat she once believed was sure and steady, a heart cleansed of Nick. But he resided in the unseen—the syncopated space between each beat; the secret she didn’t hear, but knew existed.
She rested her head atop her knees and waited. She was now ready to hea
r what he had to say. Or she believed she was ready.
“All this time—all of it—I’ve been thinking of what to say to you. So many things to say to you.” He touched her mouth.
Her hands fluttered in the air, butterflies with nowhere to land.
He continued. “And now here you are, and I can’t find any of those words.” He closed his eyes. “Here you are, and all I want to do is touch that space . . .” He opened his eyes and gazed at her neck—heat flared with the memory of his touch.
Her fingers landed gently on the hollow between her collarbones. His hand reached to cover hers.
“There. The place your silver cross used to lie, move every time you breathed.”
“I lost it,” Amy whispered.
“Lost what?” He gripped her hand.
“That cross . . . you.”
He moaned, bowed his head in what Amy thought might be prayer, or defeat.
Tenderness welled up. She touched his leg and felt his muscles, taut. “I can’t stand for you to look so . . .”
“Sad?”
“No, I was going to say ‘defeated.’ ”
“That, too,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
“Bound together at the edges, sewn firmly down the center,” Nick whispered close to her ear.
Now it was her turn to moan, a soft sound he’d dreamed of, used for comfort all these years. He was pleased he’d remembered it correctly, the exact pitch, tone and yearning.
She pulled away from him; he was sorry he’d spoken. She touched his chin, the scar he knew was there although he couldn’t feel it.
Losing the Moon Page 12
