The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners

by Luanne Rice

  “I’m with you,” Lyra said. “We’re going together.”

  Nineteen

  The flight took eight hours. Every minute felt tense, as if the plane would never land. Lucy’s grandmother had tried to make her fly first-class, but she’d traded in her ticket to sit with Travis in coach. They ate sandwiches Travis’s mother had made them, watched the movie, slept. Well, Lucy had. Travis was used to having a little sister lean against him on long trips. To him, Lucy was as much his little sister as Pell’s, and she slept most of the way with her head on his shoulder.

  They arrived in Italy, Travis’s first time in Europe. He knew it sounded lame, but he barely noticed anything: not the architecture, the cars, the landscape, the cathedrals. He could only think about getting to Pell.

  The storms that had buffeted their landing had passed, and the day sparkled bright and sunny. At the bustling dock in Sorrento, they were met by an old fisherman, Nicolas. Travis felt instantly at home—he was just like Joaquim, a Portuguese fishing captain he knew from Newport. Tan, lined face, great friendly smile with a gold front tooth.

  “Lucy Davis?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”

  “And Travis Shaw?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  The grin became larger. “Come aboard, I am your traghetto. Your water taxi.”

  “I got my mother’s message,” Lucy said. “Thank you for coming to get us. She said something happened, she’d see us later … but I thought my sister might have come.”

  Nicolas’s smile dimmed. “There was an accident,” he said. “Max’s grandson was injured, went to ospedale. They are there with him.”

  “Oh, no,” Lucy said. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “Yes, but he will recover.”

  They climbed aboard, set off across the deep blue water. Travis barely noticed the boat’s fishing rigs, barrels, nets. Approaching Capri, he hardly saw the green, mountainous beauty. His mind was racing.

  He hadn’t spoken to Pell since before he’d decided to come. He’d checked his messages since landing, and she hadn’t returned any of his calls. At least they knew where she was. But was Travis going to walk into an Italian hospital and find out she was in love with someone else?

  Nicolas drove them to the marina on Capri. The wharf area bustled; shops and restaurants backed up to a steep, soaring mountainside. Travis took it in, and in spite of the dramatic landscape, felt a connection to Newport: two worlds here, the fishing boats and the yachts. When Nicolas pulled up to the dock, Travis jumped out, caught and cleated the lines.

  “You are a good boatman,” the old man said.

  “Thank you,” Travis said.

  “You work?” Nicolas asked.

  “On a fishing boat,” Travis said.

  “Excellent,” Nicolas said. “Work is good. Especially on the water.”

  Travis nodded. They were alike, Travis and this old man, and looking around the glamorous port, Travis felt the same division he sometimes felt in Newport—between his family and the rich people, between the Shaws and the Nicholsons and Davises. What if Pell had changed, had decided she wanted to be with people more like her?

  He lifted their bags, and Nicolas led them down the dock, across the wharf, and under a large arch to the funicular office. Nicolas got them tickets; Travis tried to pay him back with the euros he’d converted at the airport, but the old man refused. Standing in the crowd, Travis wanted to leave everyone behind, just sprint to wherever Pell was.

  Five minutes later, the funicular arrived, and they climbed aboard a red car, between a train and cable car, attached to a track running up the steep mountain behind the marina. Out the window were wide views of the bay they’d just crossed. Travis didn’t care. He stared out but didn’t see, couldn’t smile. He sat beside Lucy; she couldn’t comfort him because she didn’t know what was going on either.

  “Don’t think what you’re thinking,” Lucy said.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  “Because I’m jet-lagged out of my mind, and my thoughts are going crazy. I figure yours are too.”

  “A little,” he said, forcing a small smile, so she wouldn’t worry.

  They crossed the Piazza Umberto, saw the sign for Ospedale. Travis glanced at Lucy to make sure she was okay with Nicolas. She nodded, and he started to run. He tore through the crowd, still carrying his and Lucy’s bags. Weaving and dodging as if he were flying down the football field, he’d never run this fast before.

  He found the hospital building, didn’t slow down. Through the front doors, straight to the front desk, where he was all ready to start butchering the name Rafaele Gardiner, to try to find the room. But he didn’t have to.

  “Travis.”

  Her voice. Pell. He turned, and she was there, waiting.

  Eyes so blue, filled with pain. She was going to tell him right now, it was over, she’d come to her senses. He was just a scholarship kid, a teacher’s son; she could do so much better. He walked over to her, afraid to speak. She reached out, her hands shaking.

  “Pell,” he said.

  “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Nicolas said he’d bring you to the hospital.”

  “I called,” he said. “But you didn’t answer.”

  “I know,” she said. “I got your messages.”

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, stay strong.

  “Because I couldn’t take hearing your voice until you were here, until you were really here. Oh, Travis,” she said, falling into his arms and starting to cry.

  Lucy was in heaven.

  Italy was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, the buildings ancient and graceful, the accents pure music. She had enjoyed the funicular ride, had her guidebook open and was following along, even as Travis’s panic grew by the mile.

  In spite of her momentary jet-lag-induced qualm, she’d wanted to tell him not to worry, he hadn’t known Pell as long as she had. Pell stayed true; she didn’t stray or wander, just remained steadily on the path. That had been so Lucy’s entire life, and she doubted one trip to Italy could change something so deep at the core.

  Lucy had missed her sister so much, and once Nicolas’s boat pulled in to the dock on Capri, she smelled the wild herbs and saw the crowds of people passing along the waterfront, and knew she was about to be reunited with Pell. She wouldn’t even let herself think about the other amazing thing that was about to happen. It seemed too impossible and wonderful to believe.

  She and Nicolas walked slowly across the cobblestones, watching Travis tear into the hospital, and through the window they saw him and Pell embracing. They were still in love, of course they were.

  “Amore,” Lucy said, trying out her Italian on Nicolas.

  He beamed, then stopped still, right there in the square surrounded by charming ancient cafés, umbrellas, church tower, and stone arches. At first she thought maybe she’d botched the pronunciation so badly, or possibly it was considered laughable to say “love,” or … And then the wonderful, impossible thing she hadn’t let herself think about happened.

  “Mom!” Lucy said.

  The hospital door opened, and she came forward. Tall, with flowing dark hair with a white streak in front, looking exactly like Pell but a bit older, Lucy’s mother stood there. They stared at each other for the longest minute ever measured on earth.

  The seconds ticked and took Lucy all the way back to her birth, to her mother’s arms in the hospital, to their very first meeting. And they swept her through her first four years, the happiness of their beloved time. The dreaded 2:01 a.m. had started losing its power during that phone call when her mother had talked her to sleep. Love wasn’t a time of day or night.

  “Lucy,” her mother said, opening her arms.

  And Lucy ran; no, she flew. All the way across the remaining space between them, Nicolas smiling and all the people watching, and Lucy didn’t care. It was a dream, a waking dream. She thr
ew herself into her mother’s arms, and the two of them were back together, they were back together, it already felt as if they had never been apart.

  Rafe’s condition had stabilized during the night. Max stepped away from his grandson’s bedside long enough to go downstairs to the hospital lobby, gaze through the window to witness the reunion: Pell and her young man, Lyra and Lucy. Seeing Lyra with both her daughters did something to his heart so powerful he had to lean against the door.

  “Are you all right, sir?” a woman asked, entering the hospital with a bouquet of flowers.

  “Yes, thank you. Quite,” he said, smiling at her. He resumed watching the gathering.

  Max’s chest felt so full, as if it might burst open. His heart was healthy, but proving inadequate to contain so much emotion—joy and sorrow. Lyra had been by his side, with Rafe, ever since bringing him into the emergency room last night. She’d held Max’s hand, but not in their old, familiar, friendly-neighbors way. In a way that told him they were each other’s family. He wanted to tell her that she was even more: she had somehow, along the way, become his life.

  Max stood just inside the hospital door, watching. He saw Pell and Lucy hug, then Pell introduce the young man to Lyra; Max hung back for the moment, not wanting to intrude. He knew what this meant to her—the moment she’d most needed and feared for ten years: reuniting with her daughters. What if they’d rejected her? Deep down, that had always been in Lyra’s mind. But watching the two girls circle their mother, Max knew she needn’t have worried.

  Across the cobblestone square, Nicolas stood like a sentry. Arms folded, watching the same scene from a different angle. Max watched as John Harriman approached Nicolas, received the report from him. John, old gossip that he was, watched Lyra, her daughters, and the young man with avid interest. But even the sight of John touched Max; what good friends he had. Max had called Nicolas, told him about Rafe’s fall, asked him to pick up Lucy and Travis in Sorrento.

  Nicolas had told John, and they had both come directly to the hospital. They’d stayed in the waiting room with Max and Lyra for a few hours last night. Rafe’s head wound was deep, he had a concussion, and had suffered a seizure. After midnight, concern arose about brain swelling. A surgeon had been consulted.

  Although surgery had been avoided, Rafe was to stay another night under observation. Max had called David in New York, told him the situation. The dark end to the day, the deep sorrow, was his son’s reaction.

  “He’s using drugs again,” David said.

  “No,” Max said. “It was raining, he slipped on the stairs.”

  “Dad, you can’t believe him.”

  Once when Rafe had started using drugs again, David had confronted him and Rafe had denied it. David told Max the rehab counselor had said, “How can you tell an addict is lying? His lips are moving.”

  “I was there, David,” Max said. “I saw what happened. It was dark, he was standing on that steep section of the hill by Lyra’s house. The truth is, he fell trying to protect me—to block me from going down.”

  “Dad, you saw what he wanted you to. You’re believing what he says, not what he does. Ask yourself, what was he doing there? Who stands on those stairs in the rain, at night?”

  “Rafe had just walked Lyra’s daughter home. I think he was concerned about her.”

  “He’s concerned about one person—himself.”

  “You haven’t seen him recently,” Max said. “I’ve tried to tell you, things have changed. He’s staying away from trouble, he’s a good worker, he’s been a caring friend to Pell. I’m very impressed with him, the changes he’s making. If you came and saw him, you would be too.”

  Silence as David took that in. Max could almost hear his skepticism, his grave disappointment.

  “Dad,” David said, “you’re too good to him. Mother is dead because Rafe thought it was a better idea to take some pills and get high than stay with her for—what? How long were you gone that afternoon? Thirty minutes? An hour? How can you forgive him for that?”

  “Because I love him,” Max said. “He made a terrible mistake, and he has to live with it. And because your mother would want me to.”

  “I have to go now, Dad,” David said.

  “David, do you have a message for me to give Rafe?”

  “Goodbye, Dad.”

  Max held that inside now, his son’s goodbye. David was a good person, brilliant in his way. Max and Christina had sent him to Eton, then Cambridge. He had tried his best with Rafe after Violetta’s death, but Max had watched with dismay as he’d spent most of his energy rising high in the Bank of Kensington instead of tending to his grief-stricken boy.

  “Max!”

  Lyra had spotted him through the window, was calling him onto the square. He smiled, pushing his own private disappointment in David down, and stepped outside into bright sunshine. Lyra linked her arm through his.

  “Max, I’d like you to meet my daughter Lucy,” Lyra said. “And Pell’s boyfriend, Travis Shaw.”

  “How do you do?” Max said. He shook Travis’s hand, but Lucy spontaneously stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Pell’s told me so much about you,” Lucy said.

  Pell nodded, but didn’t speak. Max gazed at her; in so short a time, he’d come to love her. She was Lyra’s daughter, but wonderful in her own right. She’d shown up at the hospital last night, right after Lyra called. Max had watched her checking her voicemail, staring into space, wide-eyed with some kind of private torment. She was present for her mother, Max, and Rafe—but her heart and mind were elsewhere. Now he realized where: with Travis.

  Max saw the way they leaned into each other. There was silent, unspoken support flowing from one to the other. Pell’s eyes looked stricken, as if she was carrying a secret weight. He knew that it had something to do with why Rafe had been on the steps last night.

  “Did you have a good trip over?” Max asked Travis. “Nicolas met you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Travis said. “Thank you.”

  “I would have gone to get you myself,” Max said.

  “But your grandson’s been injured,” Travis said. “How is he?”

  “Improving,” Max said. “You’re kind to ask.” He watched as Pell looked down at her feet, and Travis put his arm around her.

  “I hope he’s better soon,” Travis said.

  “Thank you,” Max said, knowing that all would be well between him and Pell. Travis’s great heart shone out.

  Max felt Lyra take his hand. Whether for support or from sheer joy, he didn’t know. Glancing down at her, he saw a completely different woman. Her eyes sparkled, and she beamed up at him. “My daughters are here!” she said.

  “Nothing could be more wonderful,” Max said.

  John took that moment to pull Nicolas across the tree-lined plaza to get a closer look at the Davis family reunion. Lyra happily introduced him to Lucy and Travis, and Nicolas made a kind remark about Travis being a fisherman. There was plenty to interest John, but Max couldn’t help note his old friend seemed most fascinated by Lyra’s and Max’s clasped hands. John’s eyes glinted with delight. Max really couldn’t begrudge him. Except for Rafe’s condition—and David—Max felt fairly delighted himself.

  Twenty

  Travis and I were together again. But things had changed. I had left Newport as one person, but now I was another. Life adds up. It also subtracts. Love is cumulative. Doubt is corrosive. Nothing is set in stone. Illusions in a family, in life, can cause terrible damage. I’d set my father on a pedestal. Seeing him knocked off nearly caused me to destroy everything.

  How can I explain how hard it was, waiting for Travis to arrive? I’d heard his messages, the growing concern in his voice. In my room at my mother’s, I lay on my bed, hand on my stomach, wondering how I could have kissed Rafe, nearly thrown myself into something I’d never come back from. Travis was my only one. Rafe had been a stand-in. And what a way to treat a person—Rafe, I mean. As if he didn’t m
atter on his own.

  When my mother called from the hospital, I nearly fell apart. Because I cared about Rafe—my feelings for him, although confused, were real. By the time I got to the hospital, he’d taken a turn for the worse. He’d had a seizure, lost consciousness. There was swelling in his brain; a doctor came to talk to Max about surgery to relieve the pressure.

  My mother paced the floor. While Max consulted with the surgeon and then, I gather, called Rafe’s father in New York, my mother was inconsolable. She and I hadn’t really talked since my return home from the boathouse. We hadn’t cleared the air, and I was still angry with my father, and shocked and horrified at the idea that she had really thought about killing us that night at the bridge. But I was also taken by the fact she wasn’t apologizing to me, trying to explain, to smooth things over. All of her attention was on Max and Rafe.

  “I thought he was okay,” she said. “I really did, I was sure of it….”

  “The doctors are with him,” I said. I’d been with my father through many surgeries. I’d seen him have seizures. I felt I knew about head trauma.

  “He could have died, there on the hill,” my mother said. “But he didn’t. He made it here….”

  “And he’ll get through this,” I said. I felt cold and, as I’ve mentioned, a little superior in my hospital and bedside experience.

  “Max won’t be able to take it,” my mother said, suddenly falling apart, starting to cry. “If he loses Rafe. Please don’t let it happen, please, please….”

  My mother was praying. I stood up from the chair where I’d been sitting. I watched her bow her head, sob into her hands.

  “Mom,” I said.

  “Pell,” she said, almost as if seeing me for the first time. “Is it me? Do I bring such terrible things to people I love?”