The Memory of Water

by Karen White

  “Does Diana remember?”

  She shrugged. “Only that she saw our mother go down. One minute she was there, and the next—gone.”

  I stepped closer, intrigued by the way Marnie so carefully avoided meeting my eyes. “So your mother drowned and the boat was lost, but you and your sister survived.”

  She nodded, her eyes focused on my top button.

  “Yet, ever since, you and your sister have been at odds with each other. Usually, survivors tend to stick together.”

  “Usually. But there’s nothing about us Maitlands that can be called ‘usual,’” she said, placing the stack of papers she held in her hand in the middle of my desk. “I’d better go get changed so we can leave.”

  I watched her in her sensible flat-soled shoes as she walked to the exit, trying to picture this woman as a twelve-year-old girl fighting a storm in a twenty-four-foot boat and found that I couldn’t. Unless I looked into her eyes and saw the woman who hid behind them.

  “I don’t want to be here,” she said, facing the door with her hand on the handle. “I never wanted to come back.”

  Quietly, she opened the door, then shut it behind her, leaving me to wonder if what Diana had once told me about ghosts was true, and if Marnie had realized it, too.

  Diana

  My grandfather looked up in surprise as I sat in the rocking chair beside his wheelchair on the great wraparound porch that hugged the front of the house like old, knobbly arms. We watched in silence as Marnie and Quinn made their way down the path that led to the marsh and the dock.

  “They’re going to the marina. Quinn’s taking Marnie to examine the damage to the Highfalutin.”

  Grandpa nodded and tapped his yellow-stained fingers against the closed cover of his Bible. I turned my attention back to Quinn and Marnie, watching as he put a hand in the small of her back as they walked and she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. I swallowed thickly, my throat suddenly dry, and all I could think of was the old family curse and how apt it was that my prodigal sister should find solace in the arms of my ex-husband.

  I must have made some kind of a sound, because I found my grandfather looking at me, his eyes blue and clear and seemingly reading every thought in my head. I’d hated him for it when I was a teenager and living under the same roof with a preacher had been contrary to my wilder inclinations. But after I became a mother, I found it reassuring that someone else could see what was going on inside my head and know enough to hold me back from the edge when I got too close. Except for the last time, when I was already halfway over before he even knew I had leaped.

  “I found those papers in your desk.”

  His expression never changed.

  “So you’ve known all along.” I wasn’t really surprised. Having raised my mother by himself, he’d had a lot of practice with intuition long before I came to live with him. “You can’t be angry with me, though, can you? You’ve been hiding your own secret all these years.”

  He kept his gaze focused out toward the ocean as if he weren’t listening, but he’d always been a man who heard every word, even those you wished he hadn’t.

  “I’m not angry now, if that means anything to you. I, of all people, understand why we sometimes have to do something that we don’t want to but that we believe is the right thing.”

  He took a deep breath and moved his hands to his Bible.

  “I don’t want Marnie to know.” He looked at me with those eyes, and I wanted to break down and weep and confess everything. I looked down, ashamed, not able to look him in the face. “Not ever. Because if she knows the truth, then I have nothing left.”

  Finally, I looked up, and when I saw the tears in his eyes, my shame burned brighter inside me and my whole body ached with it. He had opened his Bible and was holding it up to me, his shaking hand indicating a highlighted passage. With my own shaking fingers, I took the book and read the passage to myself.

  The pride of thine heart hath deceived thee, thou that dwellest in the clefts of the rock, whose habitation is high; that saith in his heart, Who shall bring me down to the ground? / Though thou exalt thyself as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the stars, thence will I bring thee down, saith the LORD.

  My self-righteous anger pushed through, past the shame and sorrow, and I slapped the weathered book closed, dumping it ungraciously in the old man’s lap. I turned on him with fury. “You don’t know everything. You weren’t on that boat with Marnie and Mama. I was. I know things that would break your heart in so many pieces, you and your precious Bible would never be able to put them all back together. You’d be as dead inside as I am. And so would Marnie. So let me keep this piece of poison to myself. And you’d better pray to that God of yours that Marnie never finds out the truth.”

  I stood suddenly, my rocking chair slamming hard against the face of the house. I ran all the way up to my studio, and then to the window to see if I could catch another glimpse of Quinn and Marnie. But all I saw was the vastness of the marsh where it melted into the ocean, and I settled down to count all the secrets it could hold.

  CHAPTER 13

  Take any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down to water.

  —HENRY MELVILLE

  Marnie

  I didn’t say much on the journey into town, and neither did Quinn. He seemed to know instinctively that I needed this time alone in my thoughts. It might have been in deference to what I had told him about the accident, which only added to my guilt. I had told him more than I’d ever told anyone, including all the shrinks I’ve seen. But I hadn’t told him everything. I have found that there are some things you hold close to your heart and hide from the world. Because if you don’t, then you risk the world seeing you as you really are. And that’s a very scary thing indeed.

  We tied up the jon boat not far from where I’d parked my car when I’d come to the Village with Gil. I still recognized several faces but held back a greeting when I saw that no recognition registered on their faces when they spotted me.

  We walked past the post office and the art store, where, thankfully, my sister’s painting was no longer sitting out front. As we crossed the street to head in the direction of the Marina, Quinn took my arm. “You’re dragging,” he said with a smile.

  I nodded without reciprocating his smile and increased my pace as eager now to get this over with as I was reluctant to move forward. I stayed back as Quinn went to speak with a man with a name on his shirt and carrying a clipboard; then I followed him as they headed back toward the large wooden shed used for temporary storage behind the marina. With heavy dread I watched as the man unlocked the large wood doors. He slipped off the padlock and walked away with a wave in our direction. I faced Quinn, who stood with his hand on one of the door handles.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  He pulled the doors open one at a time, allowing the sun to slice light into the blackened interior. I felt the blast of warm air on my face, and I felt for a moment as if I knew what it would be like to open a coffin that had been buried for years.

  Quinn stepped inside, and a few moments later, I saw the interior dimly outlined by inadequate overhead fixtures before he reappeared at the door. “Are you coming in?”

  I nodded, smelling mold and old varnish; then I walked forward, my eyes transfixed on the back corner, where a thirty-foot sailboat sat on jack stands, its keel resting on a thick railway tie. Its mast was gone, taking away its imposing height and making it appear less intimidating. I stepped forward again, noting how scratched and dull the hull was, and the corrosion around the small windows. The metal deck railing had dulled to a matte silver and the visible wood trim was cracked and peeling, the wood splintered and dry like an old woman whose power over the ocean had dispersed beneath the waves.

  As I got closer I could read the faded name on the stern and read it out loud. “The Highfalutin,” I said.

  “Yep. That’s her. And this is what a boat looks l
ike after it’s been capsized, dragged to shore, then stored for several months.” He shrugged. “I didn’t even want to look at her at first, much less refurbish her. It even took me a while to convince myself to turn in the insurance claims.”

  “I understand,” I said, and I knew that he, of all people, would know that I did. But there was something thrumming under my temples, racing through my blood and tingling in my fingertips.

  “What are you smiling at?” Quinn asked.

  I looked at him, startled to realize that he had moved to stand right next to me. And startled to realize that I really was smiling.

  “It’s…different. I expected it to be the same. The same Highfalutin.” I swallowed. “My mother’s boat, the one I used to race in the club races, was a J/24. Not a big boat—only about a three-thousand-pound displacement, but it was fast. They don’t make them anymore, but they made about eleven thousand of them.”

  He still had that smile on his face, and I felt like an idiot, talking like a sailboat dictionary, until I realized that he again understood my need to talk about boats in a wood-and-fiberglass way, rather than in a head-and-heart way.

  “I’ve seen quite a few J/24’s. It’s a pretty fast boat.”

  I nodded, but my eyes were on the tapered hull, which was designed to slice through wind and glide through water. “What kind of a boat is she?” I asked, bolder now. I walked forward and placed my palm on the stern beneath the name, feeling the memory of water.

  “She’s a Tartan 30. Quite a bit bigger than your J/24. I think she’s got about a nine-thousand-pound displacement or so. I liked it because not only is she fast, but there’s standing headroom and full-length berths that make cruising on her for a few days pretty comfortable.” He smiled at me and I couldn’t help but smile back. “And,” he said, walking toward the broken rudder, “she’s got a fully enclosed head.”

  “Wow,” I said, my eyes diverted to the rudder, which was partially ripped away from the hull. “That’s a neat little feature to have in a boat.” My voice sounded less than enthusiastic as I stared at the wounded boat, wondering at the fury of the storm that would have snapped the mast and rendered the rudder useless, but left two survivors.

  “Hello? Is anybody in here?”

  We both turned at the sound of the voice calling us from outside the doors.

  Quinn called out, “We’re inside—come on in.”

  I squinted into the bright sunshine, trying to make out the outline of the person moving toward us, the voice vaguely familiar.

  Quinn stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “I see you got my message. Glad you could get down here to meet with me.”

  Recognition hit me at the same moment Trey Bonner turned to face me. He stared at me for a few long moments before his eyes widened.

  “Marnie Maitland? Is that really you?” His gaze took in my flat-soled shoes and long walking shorts as well as my tightly held bun and plaid blouse, and in an instant, I wished that I had listened to Quinn and put on something else.

  “Hello, Trey. It’s been a while.” I held out my hand as I’d seen Quinn do, but Trey quickly swept me up in a bear hug, and instead of being annoyed, I felt a little bit of coming home. The warm, solid feel of him and the reassuring faint odor of shrimp had brought me home almost more than anything else since my return.

  He released me and held me at arm’s length. “You look different,” he said. “But good,” he added hastily. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair up. I always remember you wearing it down so it would blow in the wind, and your grandpa was always after you to tie it back or cut it off.”

  I blushed a little. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “There’s a lot I remember,” he said, making me blush even harder.

  He looked pretty much the same—maybe leaner and more muscled, but still the same jet-black hair and dark brown eyes, set off by perpetual sun-bronzed skin. He wore a clean T-shirt and jeans and could easily have been mistaken for someone at least a decade younger. My hand drifted to the neck of my blouse, where I unbuttoned one more button.

  “You look good, too, Trey. Do you own your own shrimp boat now?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. My life sort of took a different turn. I’m a part investor in my brother’s boat, but it’s basically his. I help out during the high season sometimes, but most of the time you can find me in my shop.”

  He stopped, as if he were embarrassed, and I remembered the old Trey as someone who held the important things close to his heart. He’d never been one to brag, instead being more intent on proving himself in actions rather than words.

  “What kind of a shop, Trey?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Oh, I make things out of wood to sell and my mom works the store. But my real passion”—he lifted his eyebrows and turned toward the Highfalutin—“is fixing boats. I’ve been doing it for a while now and have established a bit of a reputation.”

  “Really? That’s great. Are most of your customers local?”

  “Nope. I’ve got people as far away as California calling me now and business is growing. It’s going so well that I’m thinking about hiring an assistant. Maybe getting a bigger place, too.”

  I smiled up at him. “Sounds like you’re really doing well.”

  “Yep. Hard to believe, huh?” He looked up at the ceiling, and I knew he was recalling the wild nights of two teenagers with restless hearts and a need to escape from the lives they’d been given. “What about you?”

  I could almost feel Quinn smirking behind me. “I live in Arizona now and teach art to special-needs children.”

  “You’re an art teacher?”

  I could tell he was trying to keep the grin off his face.

  “Yes. I enjoy it very much.”

  “In Arizona. Isn’t that pretty much the desert? Guess your plans for sailing in the America’s Cup have to wait for now.”

  I looked down at my sensible shoes. “Come on, Trey. You know I stopped wanting to do that when my mama died.”

  He touched me gently on the arm. “Yeah, I know. Just thought maybe you’d changed your mind. I still remember…” He stopped, looking at me as if he were still seeing the girl I used to be.

  “What?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear his answer.

  “Well, you once told me that sailing was like tricking the wind to move your boat. That it was magic that way. Kinda stayed with me, ya know?”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “I suppose it would.”

  Quinn stepped forward and I welcomed his interruption. Indicating the Highfalutin he said, “Well, this is the boat. Why don’t you come over here and take a look and let me know what you think?”

  Quinn let Trey move ahead and then surprised me by putting his arm around my shoulders. We watched as Trey rubbed his hand across the fiberglass of the hull and then used a nearby ladder to hoist himself onto the deck.

  “Looks like this boat’s been through a lot, Doc.” He walked around the deck, chewing on his bottom lip and mumbling to himself. “Lots of sanding and painting, and I think your teak toe rail is either going to have to be completely replaced, or if you want to save some money, you can restore it by hand—but it’s a bear of a job.” He gave it a gentle kick with the toe of his sneaker. “Let me check out what’s belowdecks.”

  We listened as his feet clattered down the stairs, where he disappeared for about twenty minutes. When he reappeared, he said, “Well, the good news is that the bones of the boat are solid.” He wiped his hands on a rag he’d pulled from his back pocket. “Looks like we’re going to need some new wiring, a bunch of wood repair and new paint, and the stanchions for the lifelines need rebedding. Plus all the wires that hold up the mast need to be resealed where they attach to the deck. And that’s just the stuff I can see right off the bat. I’ll give you a more formal estimate and specifics later this week after I’ve had a chance to do some more investigating and put everything on my computer.” He smiled at Quinn. “Plus you might wa
nt to think about adding some fun stuff, like an autopilot. And maybe adding an inmast furling mainsail, too. Might as well do it all now while it’s up in jack stands, you know?”

  He climbed out of the boat and came to stand next to us, sticking the rag back into his pocket. “As soon as you’re ready to get started, I’ll bring my trailer over and bring her over to my place. After your go-ahead, I can get started this week.”

  “That’s great,” Quinn said, looking at me. “Only thing is, I was hoping to get my son involved. He needs…he needs to get comfortable being around boats again. His doctor and I both thought that having him assist with restoring the Highfalutin would help.”

  “No problem. I could get the main structural stuff done first, and then when we’re ready to start stripping, waxing, and polishing, I’d be more than happy to accept his help—especially with that toe rail. And anybody else who wants to help would be welcome, too,” he added, looking pointedly at me. “It gets kinda lonely when it’s just you and the wax, you know?”

  “I could help,” I said, realizing that my participation was inevitable. “I don’t think Gil would come unless I was there with him. Assuming I’m still here. I’d like to be back home by Christmas.”

  “Oh, come on, Marnie. You gotta at least stay until the Blessing of the Fleet in May. And besides, you are home.”

  “This isn’t my home anymore, Trey,” I said, looking at him and suddenly remembering the taste of warm nights and cocoa butter. “I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job, and they’ll be looking for me to come back, if not by fall, then at least by the second semester.” I glanced toward the open doors, feeling suddenly as if I were suffocating. “I’m going to step outside while you two finish up your business. It was great seeing you again, Trey.”

  He winked. “I hope I’ll be seeing a whole lot more of you, Marnie. Oh, and tell Diana that I said hey.”