Will surveyed the diner, but he didn’t see Gretchen anywhere. A punk-nerd waitress with rag doll hair and a gray uniform was joking with a table of old ladies. The short-order cook—Angel, a Bella’s fixture from the beginning of Will’s memory—was at his place behind the stove. Will could see him through the food-delivery window. Wondering if the punk girl could be Asia, he picked up a newspaper that someone had left on the seat. He scanned the front page, then the back page. The front page of the local news section, with its obituaries and police blotter. He found a short mention of the body Angus had told Will about at the beginning of the week, but nothing about a dark-haired girl. Will conjured her in his mind and was surprised at just how clearly he could see her green sea-glass eyes, her pale skin, her high cheekbones. The way her black hair streamed behind her like ribbons as she waded into the sea.
The whole scene had an air of unreality to it. No girl could be that beautiful. No one would wade into a violent ocean during a storm. It was like one of those nightmares that seem so real they leave you gasping with relief when you wake up and find yourself surrounded by your own walls, sleeping in your own bed.
“What would you like?”
Will looked up, and his heart froze. It didn’t just stop, it felt cold and fragile, as if a single tap could break it. It’s her.
Luminous green eyes were trained on his face, and her black hair was tied in a knot at the back of her neck. She was wearing the standard dreary waitress uniform and had a pencil tucked behind her ear, but still, she seemed too beautiful to be real.
“Are you all right?” she asked in a voice that fogged his mind. Will knew that he had to say something, but he couldn’t find words. “A Coke,” he choked out finally.
She wrote that down. When she looked up again, her head tilted slightly. Does she recognize me, too?
The waitress glanced down at the table, and her expression changed. “Where did you get this?” she asked. Her voice was careful, her eyes guarded.
Will looked down at his hands, which were still holding the wooden flute. His mind felt like a scrambled radio signal—he couldn’t make sense of words. He didn’t know what to tell her. “It may have belonged to my dead brother”? “A cop gave it to me as a memento”? Finally his eyes landed on her name tag.
“Asia Marin,” Will said aloud.
Asia cocked her head again, as if she suspected that Will was pulling an elaborate joke—one she didn’t like much. “Do I know you?”
Will wasn’t sure how to answer that. Don’t you? he wanted to ask. I nearly ran you over, then tried to stop your suicide in the sea, remember?
“No,” Will said at last. “I, uh—the man in the antiques store next door sent me. He said that you’d sold him a flute like this one.”
Asia slipped into the seat across from Will’s. She took the flute from him with delicate fingers and studied the instrument. “Very similar, yes,” she admitted.
She was sitting so close that Will could practically feel her breath. He was stunned at how silken her voice was. It was something to wrap yourself in. “I’m no expert.…” She looked at him, her eyes wary.
“This isn’t Antiques Roadshow,” Will told her. “Just—anything you can tell me. This flute’s a complete mystery.” He pretended to lean closer to have a look at the flute, but really, he just wanted to be closer to this gorgeous girl.
“Well … technically, this isn’t a flute. When it has holes like this, it’s called a recorder.” A slender finger indicated the rough-hewn holes. “I think this is probably European. And it’s old—as old as the one I had, maybe older. It could be four or five hundred years old. I think it’s pretty hard to date these things.”
“How did you get yours?” Will asked.
“It was a gift.”
“So why did you sell it?”
“I had no further use for it.” Asia’s eyes narrowed, as if Will had stepped to the edge of dangerous waters. “Are you asking about my flute or yours?”
“Sorry. Mine. What kind of wood is it?” Will asked.
Asia’s eyes met his. “Not wood,” she told him. “Bone.”
A tiny shiver went through him, as if the temperature in the diner had dropped ten degrees.
“Asia!” Angel bellowed from the kitchen. “Am I paying you to sit on your butt all day?”
“Oh, are we getting paid?” called out the nerd-punk waitress. Her old-lady customers cackled gleefully.
“I’d better go get your Coke,” Asia said. She placed the flute gently atop its cloth bag and stood up. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Will just nodded, still partially dazed. Her beauty and her mellifluous voice had left him so dazzled that he’d completely forgotten to ask Asia where her flute had come from. He hadn’t managed to ask her why—or even if—she’d walked into the sea. I’ll ask her when she comes back, Will thought. But when his Coke arrived, it was the nerd-punk waitress who delivered it.
“Is Asia on break?” Will asked.
The waitress just gave him a look, as if she was used to guys asking about Asia. “Yeah,” she said, half wary, half bored.
Will drank his Coke, then looked at his watch. He had to get to the farm stand; it was time for his shift. He couldn’t wait for Asia forever.
Now that he’d found her, he’d just have to find her again later. At least she’s real.
That thought should have been more comforting than it was.
“Hey, toots, that old lady in the corner is snapping in your general direction.” Lisette’s arms were piled with lunch platters for table four, so she pursed her goth-painted lips in the direction of one of Gretchen’s booths. Lisette was in her mid-twenties, but she talked like someone from the 1960s. She wore horn-rimmed glasses over brown eyes rimmed in dark blue eye shadow. Her hair was an extremely unlikely shade of red reminiscent of Raggedy Ann, and today she had it spouting like a small fountain from the top of her head. She’d worked at Bella’s for three years and had her pet regulars, like the guys from the security company at table four. “I’ve seen that old witch in here before. You’d better get over there before she turns you into a frog, sweets.”
“Lisette, am I paying you to chat with Gretchen?” Angel O’Rourke—Bella’s short-order cook and manager—scowled, twitching his orange moustache into a frown. Gretchen liked to think of him as the Irish-Dominican version of Oscar the Grouch.
“Oh, go flip something, Angel,” Lisette shot back before taking off toward her table.
Gretchen slapped her sketch pad closed and looked over at the woman in the corner. She was heavyset, with hair that was a wild mess of gray frosted with three different shades of blond. Her face was like a wrinkled sheet spread over a fluffy featherbed, and her frowning lips were outlined in bright pink. Snap, snap, snap. Once she realized that she had Gretchen’s attention, the woman held up her coffee mug and tapped it with a hot-pink nail.
Gretchen hurried over.
“This coffee is cold.” The woman set it down primly on the paper placemat that sat on the gold-flecked Formica table.
Gretchen took the mug—surprisingly warm—from the woman’s hands.
“And it tastes old. You might want to brew up a fresh batch.” The woman looked down at the newspaper that was spread open across her table.
“This batch was brewed five minutes before I served it to you,” Gretchen protested.
Frosty the Hairstyle shot her a withering look. “Then you’d better get a new brand, because that stuff tastes like battery acid.”
Gretchen felt a flame of anger rise in her chest. She was just about to snap at the customer when she felt a cool hand, like a gentle splash of water, at her elbow.
“Everything okay here?” asked a silken voice. Asia’s steady gaze landed on the woman, who seemed to retreat a little, like a turtle into its shell. “Hello, Mrs. Cuthbert,” Asia purred. “How are you feeling today?”
There was something about Asia’s stillness that gave Gretchen a sense of vertigo, as if
she were staring up at Asia from a great distance. And yet the other waitress wasn’t particularly tall. She was just very still. With her long dark hair pinned back in a bun and her fine features, she looked like a Greek statue.
“My knee is still bothering me,” Mrs. Cuthbert admitted. Her expression turned into a sulky pout. “I was up all night with it.”
Asia leaned over and whispered something into Mrs. Cuthbert’s ear—or maybe she didn’t. Gretchen didn’t see Asia’s lips move. But the old woman smiled slightly.
“Thank you, dear.” She glanced at Gretchen, but the claws had retracted from her eyes.
Wordlessly Asia took the mug and steered Gretchen—still tense from the expectation of a fight—away from the table.
When Gretchen looked back over her shoulder, she saw that Mrs. Cuthbert was gazing out the window. She was smiling faintly, her head swaying back and forth slightly, as if she were bending with a breeze that no one else could feel.
Asia headed behind the counter.
“Are you going to toss that coffee? There’s nothing wrong with it,” Gretchen told her. “I just brewed it. And it’s still hot.” Bella’s was known for its coffee—delicious and always brewed to be melt-your-lips-off strong.
Asia nodded, smiling softly. “Yes, I know.”
“Then—?”
“I’m just going to stand here, count to sixty, and then bring her the same mug all over again. She’ll be happy with it this time.” Gretchen looked doubtful, but Asia gave her a confident smile and touched her on the arm. “You’ll see.”
Gretchen watched as Asia made her way to Mrs. Cuthbert’s table. The old woman turned away from the window to pick up the mug. She took a sip, then smiled up at Asia.
“Is Asia charming the cobras again?” Lisette asked as she reached behind the counter for a yellow squeeze bottle of mustard.
“It looks like it,” Gretchen admitted.
“That girl could charm the cute right out of a Cabbage Patch Kid.” Lisette rolled her eyes as she held the mustard aloft. “All right, keep your pants on,” she called to one of the guys at table four, who had just hollered that his burger was getting cold.
The bell behind Gretchen rang. “Table seven, order up,” Angel called.
Gretchen stifled a groan. Seven was Mrs. Cuthbert’s table. Gretchen half expected her to put up a fight about the quality of the sandwich, but Mrs. Cuthbert’s mood had clearly shifted. “Thank you, dear,” she said pleasantly as Gretchen set the platter on the table.
Surprised, Gretchen mumbled an awkward “you’re welcome” and retreated. Since Bella’s was half empty—it was three forty-five—Gretchen wiped down the countertops. Then she filled the paper napkin dispensers. Then she sorted cutlery. And when all of that was done, she went back to her sketch. She wanted to capture the interlocking spiderweb of wrinkles on Ms. Cuthbert’s neck. The way they danced as she ate was fascinating.…
“Beautiful.”
Gretchen started again. “I need to get a bell to put around your neck,” she told Asia, who was peering over her shoulder at the sketch.
Asia smiled. Her fingers traced the drawing lightly, the touch too delicate to smudge the work. She reached for the sketchbook, then hesitated. “May I?” She flipped through several sketches, studying each a moment, then moving on. Most people looked through her book with limited attention, like they were flipping though a magazine. But Asia really seemed to be studying each drawing. She came to a portrait and stopped. “I know this person, I think.”
“No.”
Asia’s eyebrows lifted, and Gretchen felt like a fool. She knew her voice had come out harsher than she’d intended. “It’s just—this is a picture of someone.…” She couldn’t say it. A thousand emotions threatened to overwhelm her—rage, pain, love, fear.
“Someone …” Asia studied her face. “Gone.”
Gretchen nodded.
Asia let the words hang in the air. After a moment, Gretchen could almost feel them floating away. She inhaled.
Asia looked down at the sketch—at Tim’s grinning face. Gretchen studied the portrait of Tim, with the almost-too-long nose, the straight teeth, the shaggy hair. She’d drawn it at the beginning of last summer, before he’d had a chance to buzz his locks. Before he vanished.
“I do know him,” Asia said. Her voice was low, almost a murmur, like the babble of a brook running over rocks. Her finger traced the edge of the paper. “There was someone who looked like this, who came into the restaurant. But with a scar.” She traced a line from her temple to her cheekbone. “Here.”
“That’s Will.” Asia met Will? Gretchen shifted uncomfortably. “He’s—” There were many things that Gretchen could have said here, but she chose, “This picture is of his brother.”
Asia nodded. She didn’t ask any of the usual questions: What happened? How did he die? Was he sick? Were they close? How did you know them? She just sat with Gretchen. Normally Gretchen hated those questions. But, somehow, having them just sit there unasked was worse. Almost involuntarily: “It was an accident. Tim drowned last year.”
“You were there.” It wasn’t a question.
“No.” Gretchen’s voice wavered. “Will was, though.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody knows.”
Asia tilted her head, looking at Gretchen carefully.
“Will can’t remember. And the body was never found.”
Asia took a moment to digest this piece of information. “Sorrow,” she said.
It was such a strange thing to say. Sorrow. Yes, that was what she felt, in many different ways. Overwhelming sorrow.
With deliberate slowness, Asia turned to the next drawing.
“Do you like art?” Gretchen asked suddenly.
“Doesn’t everyone like art?” Asia asked.
“Not really.” Gretchen shrugged. “That is, a lot of people aren’t very interested in it. People our age, especially.” This was one of the reasons that she found it so hard to talk to the girls in her prep school in New York City. None of them was interested in the things she was interested in. Frankly, most of them didn’t seem interested in anything.
Asia seemed to absorb Gretchen’s comment for a moment. “True. I suppose not everyone likes all art. But everyone likes some kind of art—dance, music, movies …”
“I guess I meant visual art.”
Asia smiled, and Gretchen studied her face. She is charming, that’s for sure, Gretchen thought. It was more than just the fact that she had taken care of Gretchen’s angry customer. There was something in her voice, in her fluid manner, that made people feel relaxed around her. For some reason, Gretchen felt as if she knew Asia. Yet there was something a little reserved about her. Gretchen felt a coldness radiating off her, like vapor from dry ice.
“Were you thinking of some particular visual art?” Asia asked.
“There’s an exhibit at the Miller,” Gretchen said. The Miller Gallery was the tiny local gallery that often showed surprisingly excellent work. It featured local artists, which—out here—meant world-renowned artists. The list of luminaries who had started their careers there was bright enough to light the eastern seaboard. “ ‘Gifts of the Sea,’ it’s called. It’s terrific. I went there the other day. You should check it out.”
“Perhaps I will,” Asia said. She passed by Gretchen on her way to take a plate from Angel, and her physical presence gave Gretchen a shiver.
There’s definitely something cold about her, Gretchen decided. Cold as the bottom of the sea.
Chapter Five
From the Walfang Gazette
Local Boy Breaks Into First Church
A local boy is accused of breaking into First Church on Dune Avenue yesterday. “I don’t know how he got in,” said the church administrator, Marion Wheeler. “But he didn’t harm anything. I just came running when I heard the music.” According to witnesses, Kirk Worstler, 15, climbed into the balcony to play the church organ. “I didn’t even know he could play the
organ,” said Adelaide Worstler, Kirk’s older sister. “But he seemed to know what he was doing. I had to drag him out of there.”
“Don’t eat the merchandise,” Will told Gretchen as she popped a blackberry into her mouth. Will shoved his finger into a pod and let the heavy beans fall into the aluminum bowl with a gentle ping-ping-ping. Shelled beans meant more money, just like washed mesclun greens versus straight from the field. Prep work is for peons, like me.
“I’m buying this,” Gretchen insisted as she took another blackberry from the stained paper crate. She grinned impishly. The dark juice had stained the edges of her teeth purple. A breeze ruffled her wild dandelion hair, and for a moment Will could see the six-year-old Gretchen again.
“When was the last time you bought anything from this stand?” Will demanded.
“It’s not my fault that your father never lets us pay.” She picked up a large box of golden cherry tomatoes and placed it in a shallow cardboard tray next to the blackberries. “These are like candy,” she said as she popped one into her mouth.
“They’re my favorites.” The golden tomatoes grew fat and sweet, as if they’d soaked up the flavor of the sun. The heavy rain had caused a few to split, their sweetness calling the fruit flies to come feast. Will knew that they would have to sell them fast.
Gretchen leaned down and patted Guernsey, Will’s old black Lab, who was curled up in her usual spot beneath the wood table that held the cash register, fresh honey supplied by a local apiary, and stick candy. Guernsey lifted her dark eyes and sniffed Gretchen’s hand, then tucked her head back onto her foreleg and went back to drowsing.
“Sweet old thing,” Gretchen said.
Guernsey didn’t deny it.
Gravel crunched as a beat-up Ford rolled into the lot. It was late afternoon, and folks had been trickling in all day. Usually the farm stand was busy early—the caffeinated type A personalities liked to shop for freshly baked scones and fruit at seven in the morning. It would stay quiet until four-thirty, when the cocktail crowd started to appear, looking for something to serve alongside their artisanal cheeses and imported crackers, and gourmet cooks would frown over arugula and thump cantaloupes.
Siren's Storm Page 5
