by Sophie Moss
A lump formed in Annie’s throat as they stepped into Taylor’s old classroom. Comfortable couches and armchairs had replaced the rows of desks. A colorful woven rug stretched across the linoleum floor. Blankets and beanbags were piled up in the corner beside a shelf overflowing with books. The walls were covered in student artwork. A Christmas tree twinkled in the far corner, decorated with white lights, sparkly ornaments, and seventeen paper angels—one for each of the students who’d been killed.
“We wanted to honor their memory,” Sally said quietly, “but at the same time we wanted to create a place where we could come together—parents, children, teachers. A safe place where we could say anything, and there would always be someone to talk to.”
Speechless, Annie could only nod. There were a few other parents in the room, along with a handful of students. The counselor—the same woman who had been with them from the beginning, and who they still spoke with once a week on the phone—rose from the couch where she’d been talking to one of the parents and came over to give Annie and Taylor a hug.
“This is…” Annie swallowed, trying to force the lump back down her throat. “It’s…”
“I know.” The counselor sent her an understanding smile and led her to the sofa as Taylor and Riley went to play with the other kids.
Throughout the next hour, Annie spoke with several of the parents. Two of the mothers who she’d been friends with before promised to make the trip to Heron Island as soon as the weather got warmer. By the time Taylor and Riley came back over, it was almost time to head to the airport.
Will had arrived back in San Diego a few days ago from his last overseas mission. He’d been gone for six weeks and Annie had been a nervous wreck the entire time, but he’d found out the day before that he’d gotten the position on the base in Virginia Beach. He’d be re-stationed in January.
Somehow, on top of everything, he’d managed to finagle a few days off for Christmas.
His plane would land at BWI in less than an hour.
Annie picked a piece of glitter out of Taylor’s hair. “Are you ready to go?”
“Almost,” Taylor said softly, her fingers curling around the handle of her broom. With Riley beside her, she turned and walked to the closet—the one where she’d hid from the shooter three months before.
Annie pushed slowly to her feet. Surely, this wasn’t necessary. They had done what they came here to do. They didn’t need to face down every demon on the first visit. “Taylor…”
The counselor stood, putting her hand on Annie’s shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Taylor reached for the door. Silver Christmas bells hung from the knob, and they jingled as she opened it. She paused, for only a moment, before placing the broom inside and closing the door.
She turned and sent Annie a small smile. “I’m ready to go now.”
On Christmas Eve, two days later, Annie and Taylor pulled up at the inn. Will had been strangely mysterious about his plans for the evening, but he’d told them to head down to the dock as soon as they arrived. The sun had set over an hour ago and it was a cold, clear night. A full moon cast a soft glow over the lawn as they stepped out of the car.
The inn was one of the only homes on the island that wasn’t lit up with twinkle lights and draped in pine-scented garlands, but it brought Annie comfort to know that this was the last Christmas it would sit empty. This time next year, the rooms would be filled with veterans and their families.
Colin had already acquired a handful of investors, and Will had hired Jimmy Faulkner and his crew to start working on the renovations in a couple of weeks. Annie was looking forward to making sure Jimmy stayed on task and off his favorite barstool at Rusty’s.
A faint buzzing from inside her jacket pocket had her fishing out her cell phone.
“Who is it?” Taylor asked.
Annie smiled, handing the phone to her daughter. “It’s your grandmother.”
Taylor answered the phone and Annie bent down, adjusting the red velvet bow on Riley’s collar. Maria Hadley called every day now at five o’clock to talk to them. A few weeks ago, in a last ditch effort to save himself, Blake had told his parents about their grandchild, fabricating a story about how Annie had tricked him all those years ago to keep Taylor from him.
His announcement hadn’t been received quite the way he’d expected.
Maria and Lance Hadley had flown up to the island the following day. They had introduced themselves to Annie and asked her to please tell them the truth, which she did. When they’d found out what Blake had done, Lance had apologized over a dozen times on behalf of his son and Maria had cried.
Lance and Maria Hadley were nothing like the snobs Blake had made them out to be. They were kind and compassionate and generous, and it hadn’t taken long for Annie to agree to let them meet Taylor. They’d stayed on the island for three days to get to know their granddaughter, and before they’d left, they’d already made plans to come back a few days after Christmas to visit again.
The last any of them had heard about Blake, he was floating around some tourist town in Mexico—jobless, friendless, and still in debt.
He wouldn’t bother Annie or Taylor ever again.
Taylor finished the call and handed the phone back to Annie. “She said, Merry Christmas.”
Annie smiled, slipping the phone back in her pocket. She had no doubt they would both talk to Maria again tomorrow, at five o’clock, on the dot. “Come on,” she said, taking Taylor’s hand and leading her around the side of the house. “We better hurry. Della will never let us hear the end of it if we’re late for dinner.”
Ducking under the knobby branches of the hackberry tree, they both stopped short when they saw the dock.
“Mom,” Taylor whispered. “Look.”
Annie gazed at the lights wrapped around the pilings and strung along the edges of the pier. Will’s grandfather’s sailboat twinkled from the highest point of the mast to the tip of the bow. Strings of white lights gleamed like sparkly ropes along the sides of the hull to the stern, and a huge Christmas tree blazed at the end of the dock.
Taylor let go of her hand, running across the lawn with Riley on her heels. Annie followed, making her way slowly down to the water as moonlight streamed through the bare branches of the tulip poplars. Will met them at the edge of the dock, helping them into the boat.
He smiled as Riley curled up beside Taylor, sniffing at the two presents on the seat. “Go ahead.” He nodded for Taylor to open the present with her name on it. “You first.”
Taylor tore into the paper, her eyes lighting up when she saw the purple fishing rod. “You remembered!”
“Of course, I remembered,” Will said. “I told you I’d get you your own rod the night we went out on Ryan’s boat. As soon as the weather warms up, we can start catching perch off the dock.”
Taylor held the rod up. “I’m going to catch the biggest fish at next years’ Rockfish Tournament.”
Will laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
Taylor looked back at the other present. “Who’s that one for?”
Will sat back, wrapping his arms around Annie. “It’s for your mother.”
Taylor handed Annie the present.
Annie took it, feeling suddenly nervous. Her fingers fumbled with the tape as she unwrapped it, lifting the lid of the small velvet box.
Inside was a gold ring, with three diamonds sparkling on an antique band.
“It was my grandmother’s,” Will said softly.
Annie looked up at him, her heart in her throat, as he took the ring out of the box and slipped it on her finger.
“She would have wanted you to have it,” he said.
Annie looked down at the ring, then back up at him.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Annie.” He held out his hand for Taylor. “With both of you.”
Riley barked, wagging her tail.
Will smiled. “And Riley.”
Taylor climbed onto the seat beside t
hem, tugging on Annie’s sleeve. “Say yes, mom.”
“Yes,” Annie whispered.
Will’s lips found hers and she closed her eyes. A cool breeze blew in from the Bay, and the soft tinkling of copper chimes drifted into the air. It was the same sound she’d heard over a dozen times since the first night she’d met Will.
She opened her eyes and spotted the tiny wind chime looped around a ring on the mast. The strings were twisted and tangled, the flattened pennies clinking together as the boat rocked back and forth.
She sat up slowly, reaching for it.
There was no way she could have heard this chime from the café. Will’s property was at least a mile outside of town. But this was definitely the one she’d been hearing.
Untangling the strings until each gleaming red-orange piece dangled on its own, she looked back at Will. “Where did this come from?”
“I’m not sure,” Will said. “I think it was one of the first ones my sister made. It’s been there forever.”
Forever, Annie thought, letting her hand fall away from the chime. Maybe Will’s sister had been trying to tell them something. Threading their fingers together, she laid her head on his shoulder and smiled up at Taylor.
She could handle forever.
The End
Thank you to my mom and dad for your unwavering support and encouragement. Thank you to all the men and women who have served in our military. I am so grateful for your sacrifice and for everything you do to keep this country safe. Thank you to my first readers—Martha Paley Francescato, Juliette Sobanet, Rachel Kall, Audra Trosper, Christine Fitzner-LeBlanc, and Joy Ross Davis—for taking the time to read early drafts and provide valuable feedback. Lastly, thank you to my amazing design team, Blue Harvest Creative, for transforming the cover and layout of this story into a work of art.
Sophie Moss currently lives in San Diego, California, where she's working on her next novel. When she’s not writing, she’s walking the beach, testing out a new dessert recipe, or fiddling in her garden. Sophie loves to hear from readers. Email her at [email protected] or visit her website sophiemossauthor.com to sign up for her newsletter.
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Read on for a special preview of the award-winning novel
The Selkie Spell.
Ian Quigley crept toward the woman on the beach. He’d seen her from the cliffs, bathed in the moonlight of Midsummer’s Eve, shedding her seal-skin and tucking it under a rock. He’d heard tales of the creatures, selkies—seals who could take the shape of a woman on land—but he’d never seen one. He’d heard accounts of their beauty, of their ability to bewitch grown men, but he’d never felt their spell.
Ian’s heart beat faster as he made his way closer, for he knew that the most sensible fisherman, at a mere sighting, would abandon his curragh in the roughest of seas to get a better look. The most faithful of men would desert their wives to follow a selkie into the sea, gulping the salty waves into their lungs, forgetting they could not breathe underwater as they reached for the woman’s long black hair with the tips of their fingers in their last sane breath. Others would lose their ability to speak or to eat, their need for the woman driving them mad as they wandered the beaches, waiting for her to return, their fingers rubbed raw as they dug in the sand, searching, always searching for her pelt.
For the man who captures the pelt of a selkie claims mastery over her.
Ian lowered himself from the cliff path, onto the sand. He crept toward the rock, where her seal-skin lay hidden. But at the sound of her low, throaty voice, he froze. The first notes of the siren’s song twisted into the night.
Ian fisted his hands to his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight it, but her voice threaded into his mind and he turned, gazing at the glorious face tilted up to the star-studded sky.
The hair that rained down her back was the color of crow feathers. Her skin, as pale as the sand at her feet, seemed to glow. The pelt lay forgotten as Ian started on shaky legs toward the selkie.
Toward the voice of the woman of the sea.
He tried to fight the force that pulled him to her, the hands that seemed to push him from behind. But the song seduced his soul, intoxicated his mind, and the words in his head only moments ago—follow her, capture her, claim her—vanished and there was only that woman.
That voice.
He was almost to her. A few more steps and he’d be able to reach her, to touch her. To claim her for his own. His selkie. His seal woman. His own. Ian’s hands shook. He reached for her.
A gull cawed, swooped low over the ocean, and the selkie stopped singing. Released from the trance, Ian stumbled backwards and fought off the ropes that were trapping him, tugging him to her as his feet dug into the sand.
He scrambled for the rock, tearing at the tangles of seaweed, fumbling for the seal-skin. And when his fingers found it, his palms wrapping around the oily pelt as he pulled it to his chest, he sank to his knees, gulping for air.
In the village, dogs began to howl. In their beds, women woke, gasping, clutching at their throats, unable to breathe. Children dreamed of drowning, calling out for their mothers in their sleep. And on the beach, in the moonlight, the selkie turned and saw what Ian held.
An anguished cry cut through the night.
Ian lifted his eyes to the woman’s and a slow smile spread across his lips. Mine, he thought, as he pulled himself to his feet. You are mine. You belong to me. He held out his hand. “Come to me.”
She went to him. But her dark eyes were void of passion, void of life as she stared at the bundle crushed to his chest. Her pelt, her freedom, her link to the sea; he had stolen it. He had shackled her to him.
And with every breath, every step closer to the man, she hated him.
When he reached out, threading his fingers into her hair, she closed her eyes and listened for the ocean. For the heart, for the beat of the only world she had ever known.
But there was only silence.
And him.
Tara Moore crossed the thin wooden plank leading to the ferry. She spied the nets in the back, the wide wooden coolers and yellow rain slickers draped over the crates.
The captain eyed her curiously. “What do you think you’re going to find on Seal Island this time of year?”
“Peace,” Tara answered. “Quiet.”
“You’ll get plenty of that,” the captain assured her, locking the gate behind her. “But are you sure you’re not wanting to go to Inishmore, or one of the larger islands? Not many tourists on the island in April.”
“I try to stay away from the touristy places.”
“A single woman, traveling alone?” He took in her thin frame and threadbare sweater, the raven locks framing a pretty face with wide-set green eyes. “Isn’t it safer to keep on the well-trodden paths?”
Tara glanced down at her ring finger, the faint imprint of her wedding band slowly fading. “I’m not afraid.”
“Suit yourself.” The captain shrugged and turned the key.
The engine gasped and sputtered to life. She smelled gasoline. Saw smoke. The dark waters churned as the ferry pulled away from the dock, cutting a slow path toward the island.
“Ever been to Ireland before?” the captain called out from behind the wheel.
Tara shook her head.
“What do you think so far?”
“It’s wet.”
“That it is.” He chuckled, steering out into the fog. “But it wouldn’t be so green if it weren’t so wet.” They rode in silence, until the mainland behind them disappeared and the only sound was the hum of the motor and the sea lapping against the hull of the ferry. “Course some would say it’s because we’re all descended from the selkies and we need the wet air to breathe.�
��
“Selkies?”
“Aye.” The captain nodded toward a shadow shifting beneath the dark waters.
Tara watched a shiny creature pop its head up and swim alongside the boat. She spotted another one, moving underneath the surface. Sleek and black it moved like a fish under the water.
“Seals,” the captain explained.
Walking to the front of the boat, Tara rested her hands on the railing. The wind whipped her dark hair into her eyes as she gazed down at the animals swimming beside them.
“You’ve heard of the legend, I imagine?” the captain called.
Tara turned, shaking her head.
“Ah, it’s a tale for the tourists.” The captain’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “But you’re not looking for that, are you?”
Tara’s eyes scanned the water, widening when more seals slid up to the surface, slicing through the ocean beside the ferry. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how it ends.”
The captain settled back, his leathery hand resting on the top of the wheel. “Now, that I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Cause we don’t know yet.”
Tara’s eyes met his across the deck. “How can you not know the ending? All legends have endings.”
“Not this one.” The captain nodded toward the bow of the boat.
She turned, sucking in a breath as the island erupted out of the water in a slash of slick limestone and weathered quartz. Fingers of fog dripped from the soaring cliffs. Seagulls dove in and out of the jagged crevasses, their solemn cries echoing over the harbor.
“Are those…?” Tara squinted through the mists at a sliver of sand covered in seals. “Selkies?”
