“Ryan Donnelly was dealing Ecstasy. He came up here a lot last summer, hosting big parties in The Stable,” Georgie said. “At first no one thought twice about younger kids being over there. Ryan has a lot of younger cousins, so of course they’d invite their friends. Some rumors went around about drugs, but it was hard to separate the wheat from the chaff. People weren’t sure what was up.”
Skye’s heart sank.
Ben knew what was up last summer, she thought. She felt a rush of shame as she remembered how Ben stiffened when she first mentioned Ryan’s name to Ben in February, and how she’d assumed it was due to snobbery.
“What happened this summer?” Skye asked, her dread giving way to humiliation.
“He was back and forth again this July. He just gave the drugs away at first, then he started selling them. That’s what they do, get kids hooked, turn them into customers,” Georgie said knowingly, even in this story able to find fodder for her fascination with the world’s underbelly. “One night, Steven wound up in the ER, paranoid and hallucinating. He told the police what happened, that he’d gotten Ecstasy from Ryan. Ryan had hightailed it back to D.C. by then. The detective in Phippsburg figured he’d be back later in the summer, so he bided his time. They caught him in town the other night and arrested him for possession.”
Sunday night, Skye realized with a groan. That was why Ryan acted so strange when she ran into him at the grocery store the next day. She cringed, remembering the fight she’d picked with Ben that afternoon. She had been upset about seeing him sailing with Charlotte, but she let him believe it was about Ryan. No wonder he hadn’t explained. He was probably just keeping his brother’s confidence.
“His grandfather bailed him out and his dad got him a fancy lawyer,” Georgie continued. “They might not like him much, but the Donnellys take care of their own.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t hear about this,” Skye said, her voice a little thin.
“They kept it quiet,” Gran said. “They wanted to protect Steven and make sure Ryan didn’t realize they were onto him. Tenley Barrows told Georgie and me, though, so I think they’re speaking about it more openly. Don’t mention it to anyone, though.”
“I won’t,” Skye replied glumly as the self-recrimination came, fast and furious. She had been as blind in her positive opinion of Ryan as she had been in assuming Ben’s prejudice against him.
After the sing-along, when Gran mentioned that Ben’s family was having some issues with Steven, Skye had fully assumed it was something frivolous. No “real” problem could touch a Haven Point family. Had she been willing to give it a nanosecond of thought, she would have recognized what a ludicrous notion this was, and how deeply unfair.
Given the radio silence, she was pretty sure she had blown any chance of rekindling the spark between her and Ben, if such a chance even existed, but she still owed him an apology. And an explanation.
Outside, the sky had taken on a sickly greenish tint.
“I think it’s getting bad out there,” Skye said. Gran and Georgie looked out the window.
“You’re right,” Gran said. “We should probably have dinner now.”
They made sandwiches and heated soup on the gas stovetop. By the time they returned to the living room, it had grown even darker. Skye tried to read a magazine, but she couldn’t focus. Gran seemed equally distracted, frequently looking out the window. Only Georgie was blasé, blithely continuing her knitting.
Until that point, little except duration had distinguished this storm from any other. But as the wind grew stronger, it began to find its way through the cracks in the house. The rain slashed against the windows, almost horizontal.
“I lost my cell connection,” Skye said. “Last time I saw a forecast, though, it predicted the storm would pass to the west of us pretty soon.”
A few minutes later, they heard an odd sound. Georgie laid down her knitting, and they sat still and listened. At first a loud whisper, it grew until it sounded more like race car engines. Before long, it was louder still, as if a train were rumbling by. The wind blowing through the attic created another sound: a low, eerie moan, almost human.
Skye knew the eye was near. Soon it was so loud, had they tried to speak they would not have heard each other. Papers flew off a table near the door, though it was hard to know where the wind had come from to carry them. A bang from upstairs announced some unsecured object had blown from a perch in the attic. They sat paralyzed, fascinated, looking at each other and around the room, listening.
A half hour later, it grew quiet again. Skye went to the window. The clouds still covered the moon, though not as thickly. She could even make out the outline of the cliff, and the line between the dark gray sky and darker ocean below.
“That’s not the end of it. This is just the eye passing over,” Georgie said.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, the wind kicked up again. Skye returned to the sofa and pulled a blanket over her legs as if it were armor. Their words were again drowned out by the sound, even louder this time, like a scream. They heard more thuds and bumps from the attic, and a huge cracking sound from outside. The rain was so heavy, it sounded like a stream coming off the roofs, overtopping the gutters and pouring down the windows.
Suddenly, from the front hall came an enormous crash as the wind blew the front door open and burst in like an angry intruder. Rain poured into the house. A lamp from the hall table fell and shattered.
Skye fought the wind and made her way to the door. Using her shoulder, she somehow managed to close it and turn the rarely used dead bolt. The wind howled and moaned, as if furious to have been cast out.
Her heart raced. She felt a rush of adrenaline, a primal energy. She began to laugh, a wild sort of laughter that nearly circled back to tears. Gran and Georgie, eyes wide, joined her near the door, seemingly propelled by the same strange energy. Gran also began to laugh.
Unable to hear one another over the wind, they proceeded to do what women do when confronted with anxiety and a great mess: they cleaned. They moved about as if it were a matter of great urgency, stacking papers and sweeping particles of lamps and vases that had crashed to the floor, mopping the water in the hall, working in silent cooperation while the storm continued to rage.
And then, as if some heavenly being flipped a switch, it was over. The rain stopped. Soon, the only sound from outside was the odd gust of wind, racing to catch up with the storm. Cleaning finished, noise abated, they returned to the sofas.
“I can’t imagine what sort of mess this left behind outside,” Gran said. She picked up a tidal chart from a side table and studied it. “Timing-wise, it could have been worse, but not a lot worse.”
“That was a gully-washer.” Georgie shook her head.
As Georgie and Gran began to speculate about the condition of their gardens and gravel drives, Skye felt a strange, unpleasant sensation take hold. She looked down at her hands and saw they were trembling. Tears stung her eyes.
“I think I’ll head upstairs,” Skye said. “I’m really tired.”
Was tired the word? Spent.
Gran looked at her with a slight, worried frown.
“I’ll come with you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
MAREN
Maren followed her granddaughter up the stairs to her room. Her heart ached as she watched Skye stumble onto her bed.
“You don’t seem quite yourself,” Maren said.
“I’m not.” Skye covered her face with her forearm.
Maren sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked Skye’s arm. Eventually, Skye began to cry.
“Maybe I should have waited until after the storm to finish this saga. That was a little melodramatic, wasn’t it?” Maren smiled.
Skye managed a laugh through her snuffling. Maren got a tissue from the dresser, while Skye climbed under the covers.
Maren returned to her spot at the edge of the bed and considered how best to help her granddaughter. She had not yet told Skye what had be
en going on with Annie during that last year, and she did not want to overwhelm her. But she wondered if she might be ready—if not for revelations, then for recollections.
From somewhere in the recesses of her mind came a poem her mother had loved. She could not recall the title or the author. Only the last two lines had lived on in her memory.
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since and lost awhile
Would it help Skye to remember what she had “loved long since and lost awhile”?
“Skye, I think your mother struggled at times with recognizing how many things can be true at once,” Maren said finally. “She could be a little black-and-white.”
“You think?” Skye replied, with a faint smile.
“We all struggle with that, though. Human beings are pattern seekers. We use our stories to try to make sense of the world. You know your mother suffered, and that you suffered as a result. And now you finally know a bit more about why. But I think it’s important to remember that’s not her whole story.”
Skye did not say anything, but when she turned to face Maren and pulled the covers up to her chin, Maren saw acquiescence in her eyes.
“We worried, Pop and I, about your mother with a newborn baby,” she began. “But we were so wrong. She was made for it.”
Annie had adored the infant stage; she reveled in little things like Skye’s lips, which she said looked like tiny cowboy hats. When Skye colored on the dining room wall, her mother mounted a frame around the scribble, two feet above the baseboard, and placed a gallery label next to it. “Orange Study by Skye Demarest.” When Skye grew attached to a worm she had found and wanted to bring it to school, Annie had simply shrugged. “That’s fine.” She sent Skye off with the worm in one pocket and a note to the teacher in the other. “Skye has befriended a worm. His name is Bernie. He’s in her pocket. Just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
As Maren relayed these tales, she watched Skye’s face soften and realized her instinct had been correct. Her granddaughter had probably never heard this version of her childhood. The narrative constructed from her memories was of an enduringly skewed dynamic, with Skye forced into the role of caretaker. It wasn’t wrong—just incomplete.
Skye’s eyes grew wet, but she was smiling gently. So, Maren pressed on, determined to remind Skye that, despite her demons and many imperfections, her mother had loved her fiercely.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
SKYE
In her dream, Skye and her mom were at home, sitting next to each other on the living room sofa, laughing at something. Skye tried to turn to look at her, but she felt like her head was stuck to the back of the sofa, as if by centrifugal force, like on an amusement park ride.
Though frustrated by her inability to see her mother’s face, Skye reveled in the sound of her laugh. When some distant noise tried to drag her from her slumber, she was reluctant to awaken. She finally swam from her dream, and realized she was not with her mother, but on Haven Point, and that someone was banging on the front door.
The lights were still out, so she grabbed the lantern and headed to the landing, just as Gran and Georgie emerged from their rooms.
“Who on earth is it?” Georgie said. “It can’t be Cappy.”
They went downstairs, and Skye opened the door to find Ben with a great bundle in his arms and an anxious look on his face. It took her a moment to realize the bundle was his grandmother, long legs hanging over his left arm, head dangling from his right. She held the lantern closer and saw Harriet was unconscious, blood pouring prodigiously from a wound on her head. Ben was muddy and soaked, hair going in every direction. He struggled under the burden.
“Oh God, Ben! What happened? Come in!” She opened the door wide.
“I didn’t know where else to go. The causeway is flooded,” he said between labored breaths.
“Take her upstairs,” Gran said. “The green room, next to the master. I’ll get my first-aid kit.” Gran was still a nurse, if not certified, and everyone on Haven Point knew it. She was able to treat a wound as well as any doctor might.
Skye led Ben to the green bedroom and fetched clean towels from the linen closet. Ben laid his grandmother on her side and put a towel under her head. Her pajama pants were soaked and clung to her thin legs.
It was hard to see exactly where the blood was coming from, but from what Skye could tell, the wound was near the crown of her head. Her stiff brown hair, usually so well styled, was snarled and rust-colored from blood, her quilted robe bloodstained.
Gran returned with reading glasses, the first-aid kit, and matches. Georgie followed close behind with more clean towels and bottles of water.
“The house flooded,” Ben said. “It’s a mess down on the beach. She went downstairs to get something and fell.”
He looked down at his grandmother, his face a little gray.
“She’s bleeding everywhere,” he added unnecessarily.
“It’s all right, Ben. Head cuts bleed a lot,” Gran said. She moved the lantern to the bedside table, found the source of blood, and gently began to clean the area with an antiseptic wipe. Skye was relieved when Harriet groaned, her first real sign of life.
“She’ll be all right,” Gran said after a moment. “It’s too deep for a butterfly bandage, though, so I’ll have to stitch it. Who knows when we’ll be able to get her across the causeway?”
Skye and Ben watched as Gran sterilized the needle.
“Where did this happen?” Georgie asked.
“In the living room,” Ben replied. “It was crazy. The storm passed, and I thought we had gotten through it, but then we heard this terrible sound. Like a wave, as if we were right on top of the surf. We looked downstairs, and all we could see was water, a foot at least. A storm surge, I guess. We had moved most of the rugs and furniture to the second floor, but she was worried about some table. She slogged through the water and fell. I don’t know what she hit her head on.” He winced at the memory.
“Okay. You and Skye go downstairs and you can dry off. Georgie will stay with me. Do you need clothes? I’m sure we can find something.”
“It’s okay. I have stuff in my car. I parked it on the hill before the storm hit.”
Skye had to smile at this. Ben always used his car for auxiliary storage. He probably had everything from bathing suits to formal wear stashed in the trunk.
After he got his things, Skye showed him to the downstairs bathroom, where he could clean up and change. By the time they went back upstairs, Harriet had come to, and Gran was stitching her wound. Harriet’s eyes were shut, her jaw clenched against the pain.
Skye felt a little weak just watching. Ben looked no better. Gran looked up at them briefly and smiled.
“Go on, you two. Georgie and I have this well in hand. Your grandmother was able to answer a few questions. She’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Ben said, obviously relieved. “Let us know if you need anything.”
“Good thing neither of those two tried to make a living in medicine,” Georgie muttered as they left the room. Ben and Skye exchanged a brief smile.
Skye led him to the living room, turned on battery-operated lanterns, and lit a large candle in a hurricane vase.
“Can I get you a beer? The refrigerator’s probably still cold.”
“Sure, thanks,” Ben said.
When Skye returned, she handed Ben his beer, then sat down on the sofa and gestured to him to join her. He sat at the other end, an empty cushion between them. He took a swig of his beer, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.
“I’m glad you came here,” Skye said. “Gran will take care of her.”
“I know. Thank you. I had no idea what to do. What a disaster.” He shook his head, eyes still closed.
“Why didn’t you all leave?”
“She wouldn’t. I had to pretend I wanted to stay, too. She would have sent me packing if she knew I was here to keep an eye on her.”
“She’s st
ubborn, I guess.”
“That’s an understatement.” He managed a little smile at this, but it faded quickly. “It was horrible. She was totally out. At first, I wasn’t sure she was alive. I dried her off as best I could and carried her down the lane. The water was above my knees. Thank God my car was on the hill.”
“It sounds horrifying.”
“There are so many trees down and branches in the road, I had to drive over some people’s yards to get here. If you hadn’t been around, I was going to try the Grahams’.”
At least he came here before Georgie’s, Skye thought. She would hate to think she’d become such a pariah that he would only come to Fourwinds as a last resort.
As they sat quietly, Skye’s mind kept returning to what she had learned earlier about Ryan Donnelly, how badly she had misread Ben’s motives. He looked so tired, and she knew it was selfish under the circumstances, but the need to relieve her guilt pressed on her.
“Ben, I owe you a huge apology. I know it’s not the right time, but I learned about Ryan tonight, about the drugs and everything. I’m ashamed of myself, of the assumptions I made. I just want to tell you how sorry I am.”
He hesitated a moment, eyes still closed.
“It’s okay,” he said finally. He turned to look at her, his head still resting on the back of the sofa. “I couldn’t tell you, so what else were you supposed to think?”
“Don’t be magnanimous. It’ll just make me feel worse,” Skye said, shaking her head. “I’ve just always had this idea that everyone here lived such easy, perfect lives. It’s so absurd.”
“I can understand that. People here are pretty buttoned up.”
“You’re still being magnanimous,” Skye scolded.
“Sorry,” Ben said, feigning contrition. “Nasty habit.”
“Another thing I should tell you, Ben. The other day in the kitchen when we had that argument about Ryan? I was actually upset about something else.”
Skye saw the question in his eyes. It felt like climbing out on a thin limb, but she knew she had to stop being so fearful. Even if his response stung, he had more than earned the whole truth.
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