Skin Deep

by Marissa Doyle

  She hardly needed to ask. Kathy was gaping at the square of piecework in her hands as if it had hypnotized her. Garland leaned sideways in her chair and regarded it as well.

  “Urgh. Now that I look at it in here, I don’t much care for the fabric I used for the islands on the horizon. Sorry, Kathy, I guess I’m a little rusty yet. Or maybe a lot rusty.” Garland held her hand out for the quilt top and noticed that the restaurant had gone almost totally silent. She glanced up and saw that all eyes in the room were on her quilt. Several women had even left their seats to get a better look at it.

  “Garland, it’s perfect,” Kathy finally whispered. “It’s the view from your house. I can see it…jeez, look—you used a piece of blue fabric that had a green streak in it, right where that green buoy is off your beach.”

  “Did you make that?” asked a tall woman, coming to stand behind Kathy. Four or five others joined her, and then it was as if the entire dining room, wait staff included, was clustering around their table and straining to get a look at her quilt top.

  “Yes, she did.” Kathy seemed to snap out of her spell. She rose, then climbed on her chair and held the quilt top up, slowly turning. More murmurs arose as she made a slow circle.

  “Kathy, get down from there before you fall.” Garland was sure that her face was crimson.

  “This is Garland Durrell, ladies, and she’s just moved down Cape from the Boston area. Her quilts will be in my gallery later in the spring and summer after she gets settled in. I hope you’ll all come and see them,” Kathy called out in ringing tones. Her face, permanently tanned from her years in exotic locales, was pink with excitement. “Captain Hayes Gallery, across Main Street—but you all know that.”

  “When will that quilt be there?” called a voice from somewhere to Garland’s left.

  Kathy looked down at Garland and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her. Garland tried to answer, but her voice had been snatched away by shock.

  “Soon,” Kathy replied. “Give the poor woman a chance to finish unpacking. She hasn’t even been here a week, after all. Come on, Garland, stand up and say hello.” She gestured with her head.

  Garland would have preferred to dive under the table. But Kathy wouldn’t be gainsaid. She glared at Garland while still managing to smile sweetly at everyone else, so Garland reluctantly climbed up on her chair and gave the room a tentative smile.

  “Oh, I know you,” said another voice. “You’re down on Eldredge Point, aren’t you? I see you in the summer at the library.”

  Murmurs of agreement rose around her.

  “Garland has been an active supporter of the Mattaquason Historical Society and the Friends of the Library for several years,” Kathy affirmed. “She’s just getting through an unpleasant divorce and is making a new life for herself here. I hope you’ll all welcome her and join us for her first one-woman quilt show in August.”

  Garland nearly fell off her chair. What was Kathy doing, telling everyone about her divorce? And what quilt show in August? “Kath!” she muttered urgently.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll all want to get back to your lunches before they get cold. Thank you for welcoming my friend, and if you stop in at the gallery next week you might see the completed quilt.” She shot a look at Garland, who nodded meekly.

  The crowd of ladies resumed their seats, a few stopping to greet Garland as if they were old acquaintances. She recognized several volunteers from the library and the Historical Society, and even remembered a name or two. Kathy beamed at her like a proud parent till everyone had sat down again.

  “That was terrific! I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried.” She was nearly dancing in her chair with glee as she rolled the quilt top back up. “That was practically the entire female half of the population that matters in this town. Two of them were selectmen’s wives, and one is a selectman. You’ve just gotten the Mattaquason equivalent of a two-page spread in the New York Times for your work.”

  Garland accepted her quilt top back with a glare. “What did you do that for? I felt like I was on display up there.”

  “Deal with it. If you want your quilts to sell, you’ve got to be visible. But mostly I expect your quilts will sell themselves. Oh, wait till I call Sonya Feinberg in New York. Or better yet, those two friends of hers who came in and told me they wanted the next Garland Durrell quilt, no matter what color or design. Ooh, I can just taste that winter home on Antigua. Or maybe St. Croix—it’s less crowded, I hear—”

  “Hey—earth to Kathy. What quilt show in August? What black hole did you pull that idea out of?” Garland wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or throttle her friend.

  “What do you think? A show in the gallery in August is perfect—it’s peak tourist season. All the really filthy rich ones come in August. You’ll get maximum visibility.”

  “Oh, sure. There’s just the teensy little fact that I haven’t even finished one quilt yet.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with grandma. August is years away. You’ll have plenty of time to make—let’s say, a dozen quilts? Eighteen would be better, of course. I’ll schedule it for the end of August, rather than the beginning. Will that help?”

  “No problem. I’ll just give up sleeping till then.”

  Kathy snorted. “You can sleep when you’re dead. Look how quickly this top went together. And if you’ve gotten yourself a quilt machine, that’ll make them go even faster. I know you like to hand-quilt, but you can save that for next winter when you’ve got more time. Just make some more wall-sized beauties like this one, and we’ll be golden. Literally.”

  “Kathy—”

  “Oh, look, here’s our lunch. Hey, Sandy, did the chef actually cook this or just stare at it really hard?” she asked as the waitress set her blue-cheese-and-bacon burger down on the table. “I like my burgers rare, not just stunned and left to die of blood loss like the one he served me last week.”

  “Well, it’s not trying to crawl off your plate and escape, Ms. Hayes.” Sandy grinned and put Garland’s smoked turkey Reuben in front of her. “Boy, Mrs. Durrell, that quilt you made is gorgeous. You can, like, really feel the waves in the water. I can’t wait for your show.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  Across from her Kathy sang the chorus from “Kokomo” under her breath as she sprinkled salt and vinegar on her fries. Now that she was in a better mood, maybe it was time to find out if Howe had been lying. “So, uh, Kathy. What’s this I hear about a missing fisherman?”

  Kathy stopped singing and put down the bottle of vinegar. “Who told you about that?”

  “Captain Howe, when I called yesterday. What happened? Did he—”

  Kathy glanced around her at the other tables. “Look, let’s not talk about that right now. The guy’s wife is beside herself, and most everyone in this room knows her. It’s not…it’s not something to discuss in public.”

  “What do they think happened to him? He was clamming, right? What about his tools? Are they gone too? Do they think he ran away with another woman or something?”

  “Drop it, Garland.”

  The rest of their lunch was quiet.

  * * *

  Garland was grateful that her dinner with Rob on Friday was less public than her lunch with Kathy. But only slightly less. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on them as the hostess ushered her and Rob to a fishnet-shrouded alcove in Jason’s, one of the few upscale restaurants in Mattaquason that stayed open in the off-season. Most of the groups at the tables they passed called out greetings to Rob. Garland herself recognized one woman who had been in the Captain’s Bridge yesterday. She returned her greeting, then watched from the corner of her eye as the woman turned to her companions and began to relate something in a low-pitched but animated voice.

  “Small town life,” Rob commented. Garland looked up and saw that he too was watching the woman. “They didn’t warn us about this in med school. I never thought I’d find myself a local celebrity just because I’m the new doc i
n town.” His tone was wondering and slightly sheepish.

  He really thought everyone idolized him just because he was a doctor. Garland smiled inwardly. Being extremely personable, civic-minded, good-looking, and unmarried had nothing to do with it, of course.

  “At least there aren’t any paparazzi shoving cameras in our faces,” she said aloud.

  “Thank God for that.” He smiled and nodded as a waiter brought a free-standing ice bucket with a bottle of champagne and two flutes to the table. “I hope I didn’t mistakenly assume you liked champagne.”

  “I don’t think you’re capable of making mistakes, Rob Mowbray.” She caught a glimpse of the label on the bottle. “Oh, my. So what’s the occasion?”

  The pop! of the cork once more focused the eyes of the entire dining room on them. Rob ignored them and leaned forward, lifting his flute to hers. “Oh, I don’t know. Just because. Because I like champagne. Because I like you.”

  For a fleeting second, tears started to her eyes. Just because. She had spent the last fourteen years of her life with a man who viewed everything in life as items on a balance sheet to be totted up as credits and debits. And now she sat across from another man who’d ordered a bottle of hundred-and-fifty-dollar champagne “just because.”

  “I like you, too,” she whispered, and touched her glass to his.

  He smiled a slow, sweet smile. “I’d hoped you say that.”

  A soft wind seemed to blow through the room. Without looking up, Garland was able to guess what it was: the whispers of the other diners, watching them.

  “Don’t look now, but I think I saw a camera,” she said, hoping her tone was light.

  He glanced around the room. There was an abrupt clatter of cutlery as everyone suddenly remembered the plates of rapidly cooling food in front of them. “You were joking, right?” he asked, smiling uncertainly.

  She sat back and took a sip of champagne. “Mostly. Do you think Alasdair and Conn will be okay?”

  Rob’s smile faded. “They’re fine. Don’t worry about them.”

  Their waiter arrived then to take their orders. Garland was glad for the interruption. Why was she brooding about Alasdair, when Rob was here plying her with Veuve Clicquot Reserve and telling her he liked her a lot? Then again, being part of the evening’s entertainment for everyone else in the restaurant wasn’t helping matters. She felt stiff and uncomfortable suddenly.

  Rob cleared his throat. “Speaking of Alasdair, I got hold of the guy I know at the Mattaquason Mariner and told him about you. His name is Jim Barnes, and he’s one of the staff writers. One of two.” He smiled wryly.

  “You told him about me?” Garland had a flashback of Kathy making her stand on her chair at the Captain’s Bridge.

  “You and finding Alasdair and Conn on the beach. Jim was shocked that he hadn’t heard about it. Anyway, he said of course he wanted the story and that he’s free tomorrow morning if that’s all right with you. I’m kind of surprised that they haven’t been sniffing around already—something like this should be big news in off-season Mattaquason. Hell, the middle school spelling bee was on the front page last week.” He shook his head. “The only thing is, I’ve got office hours on alternate Saturdays till twelve-thirty. Do you mind if I’m not there when Barnes comes?”

  Here was a chance to recapture the evening’s earlier mood. “Of course I’ll mind,” she said. “But I’ll let you make it up to me.”

  Rob’s grin flashed as he refilled their flutes. “I’ll have to see about that.”

  * * *

  Alasdair had not been happy when Garland said that she was going somewhere with the healer and would be leaving him and Conn alone that evening. Even though she promised she’d lock everything and showed him how to press a button on the “phone” that would make it so that he could talk to her on the tiny one she carried with her, he was still uneasy. He turned every light in the bedroom on, even her special sunshine lights and the tiny lights on her sewing and quilting machines. He thought about taking the coverings off the lamps but wasn’t sure if that would annoy her when she returned.

  Conn was not happy either; he’d clung to Garland while the healer checked his wounds and could hardly be convinced to let her go. Alasdair tried yet again to talk to him after she left, to ask what he was feeling and why he was so drawn to her. And as he had every other time, Conn only stared at him in silence. The boy had rarely spoken even before the attack—hiding from Mahtahdou, he’d learned silence early. It was no life for a small child and Alasdair had known that. Several times in the last few seasons he had come close to sending Conn out to foster among the selkies scattered across the waters north of here, but had never had the courage to do so. And his cowardice had nearly killed his son.

  Was that why Conn clung to Garland? Because he knew she could protect him when his own father could not? And wasn’t he doing the same thing, hiding behind this human who had no idea of what power she wielded?

  He shifted in his bed, straining to look out the narrow gap between the coverings on the window. With all the lights in the room on it was hard to see anything in the darkness outside, and the various hums and rumbles that a human house made drowned any sounds as well. He glanced over at Conn and saw that he slept, clinging to the stuffed figure with large ears Garland had sewn for him from some soft brown cloth. Good.

  He put aside the covering on his bed and set his feet on the floor. They throbbed and shot needles of pain up his calves as they always did when he’d tried to walk this week, but he knew about living with pain. Carefully, so that he did not stumble and fall and wake Conn, he shuffled over to the window where Garland had placed a chair and knelt stiffly on it, then peered around the edge of the curtain, cupping his hand to block out the light. He might not be in any shape to defend himself or his son, but he could at least keep vigil until Garland returned.

  Outside, a fog had begun to roll in off the water. Alasdair stared at it suspiciously; it was early in the season for fog though the day had been warm. It crept in long tendrils up from the beach, feeling its way along the ground, and he stiffened. Though there was not much wind tonight, what little there was blew off the land, toward the sea. Nevertheless the fog progressed steadily against it, creeping crab-like toward the houses along the shore. As it swirled it seemed to shimmer with a faint, sickly-green phosphorescence.

  The back of Alasdair’s neck prickled as if the cold mist had touched it.

  He squinted into the darkness and saw the mist pause, then race up the beach toward the house nearest Garland’s. For a moment the house was obscured, and he heard a strange tinkling, crashing noise come from it. The sound happened several times more, then stopped.

  Alasdair turned away from the window and tottered over to Garland’s work table, where the cloth picture she’d made waited to be completed with more stitching. He snatched it up and moved as quickly as his feet would let him to Conn’s bed. He draped it over him, then staggered back to the window and peered outside again.

  There was nothing to see. Fog swirled over the clear material of the window, casting a faint greenish glow. It seemed to be probing it, as if trying to get inside, and he realized what the sound he’d heard from the other house had been. The fog had smashed the windows, and he could guess why.

  It was looking for something.

  He clutched Garland’s robe tighter at his throat and watched in horrified fascination as the fog thickened into an opaque mass and pressed against the window. The frame creaked in protest, but the glass did not break. He heard a flurry of sounds from around the house and knew that the fog assailed the other windows and doors, but no crashes followed. For some reason, the fog could not penetrate Garland’s house.

  It drew back a little and hovered outside the window. Was it thinking about what to do? Did it even think? Could it harm him and Conn if it managed to break the window? Or was it just a scout, searching blindly and reporting back to its master when it found something suspicious…like a house that it could n
ot enter?

  The fog thickened and assaulted the windows again. Alasdair was sure he could see the glass deforming under its pressure, but it held firm. Were they of better quality than the glass in other houses or was something else keeping it out? He couldn’t be sure, but he could guess. This was the dwelling of a magic wielder. Nothing could enter it without her permission.

  He smiled grimly and settled himself more comfortably in the chair to watch the fog curl uncertainly around the house. It had to be something of Mahtahdou’s who was master of the insubstantial and ghostly, of images and shadows. Let it search all night if it wanted. It would never find him. And when Garland came home—

  He sat up quickly, ignoring the pain in his sides. Lir’s breath! Garland was out somewhere in this. It could not touch her house, but to be out there in the very thick of it, surrounded by Mahtahdou’s foul air…

  He looked at Conn, still sleeping peacefully under Garland’s cloth picture. Then, step by painful step, he left the room and inched his way down the stairs to the front door. Garland had saved him. The least he could do was try to help her.

  * * *

  To Garland’s relief, the rest of their dinner went smoothly. Since they showed no signs of doing anything more titillating than talking a great deal, the other diners finally seemed to forget they were there. Garland kept her concern for Alasdair under control though she very nearly called him from her cell phone in the ladies’ room. The food was delicious, far better now than in summer when the chefs were more rushed. Likewise, the noise level was more tolerable and the service friendlier and more relaxed.

  “I can begin to see why the year-round population has such a love-hate relationship with the summer people,” Garland commented as they walked back to Rob’s car. It was a warm evening for March. She lifted her head and took a deep breath of the soft, moist air. A faint mist swirled in the glare of the parking lot’s lights.