Not What You Seem

by Lena Maye

  “What do you mean? I practically saved her life.” I gesture to the water that almost claimed her. “I’m a damn hero.”

  “You mean that part where you almost scared her off the dock and then manhandled her? Right before she hurried off like she couldn’t get away fast enough?” Dev slaps me on the back, giving me one of his wide smiles. Everything about the guy is wide—from his shoulders to his stance. “I’m sure you left an impression. Next time you can set a line across the walk. Get her to trip and fall in.”

  “That would be one way to get her attention.” She smelled sweet too. Like sugared candies or caramels. Maybe strawberries? And she had a brush of white across her cheek. Flour?

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Not everyone can be a man-god.” He swaggers—bravado so thick it pools on the dock. Even though we’ve been friends for ten years, I’m never sure where his bravado ends and cocky-assholery begins. I’m guessing it’s about 50% bravado and 50% cocky-assholery.

  “Maybe she’s not looking for a man-god,” I say. Probably a touch too hopefully.

  He shakes his head. “Every woman wants a man-god. And you can’t ignore these beasts.” He flexes an arm and puffs out his chest.

  Okay, maybe 75% cocky-assholery.

  Although, according to quite a few women, he might have something to be cocky about. He’s got this aw-shucks smile that must drip with honey. Add in his height and the fact that he’s studying to be a veterinarian who rescues cute little puppies, and he’s never had a problem picking up random women at the supermarket.

  Although, half of the reason for that attention comes plodding down the walkway from the boat in the form of a black Labrador. Matty sways to the side with his uneven gait and stops halfway down the ramp. He looks at us with those big, brown, droopy eyes.

  Some asshole—real asshole this time, not Dev-asshole—left him at a vet clinic Dev was interning at two years ago. Tied to a bench in the middle of the night. No water or food. Dev took Matty until an owner who could deal with his hip dysplasia could be located. He says he’s still looking, but two years later, I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that he would give Matty up. Or that I would let him.

  Matty makes it down the ramp and leans on Dev’s leg, big doggie-brown eyes staring up at him.

  “What am I doing here anyway?” Dev says, half to the dog and half to me as he leans down to give him a head scratch. “I’ve got exams next week, man.”

  He isn’t like me—a full-time, never-going-to-live-on-land sailor. Although his love of it was instilled by his mother, a Maine woman who captained Yale’s women’s sailing team the year they took nationals. But Dev’s followed more in his father’s path, driven to complete some hefty degree. His father came over from India at eighteen years old—one of those Ivy League imports with both family money and brains—who now owns a tech firm over in Augusta.

  I nod toward the masts. “I need to get her ready and take her out before the season starts.” Other than the journey here, I haven’t sailed her in years. Don’t get me wrong—I can sail anything. A plank of wood with a Kleenex attached. But hauling around tourists makes me want to triple-check every batten and life preserver. It’s not exactly something I’m looking forward to. The sound of the wind against the sails isn’t as calming when there are tourists to look after.

  My father used to have the same nerves. He’d have me out there with a flashlight and a magnifying glass, looking for hairline fractures in the stays. But if I missed something… Well, my father was never someone you wanted to disappoint. A fact both my brother and I suddenly learned when we were about nine years old and we started finding empty liquor bottles hidden in the corners of the galley. And a lesson that kept repeating until we were finally old enough to fight back. We both left at seventeen. Neither one of us with more of a plan than getting the fuck away.

  Then the asshole got sick. And now I’m here—staring at the masts with a sense of foreboding like an old-time sailor staring at somber clouds. There is no part of me that gives a shit about that man. I’m here for a different reason.

  I hear that reason the loudest when it’s quiet. A soft creak of her wood, and the lap of water against her hull. But when I look up, all I see is the fucking rigging.

  Dev’s going to be pissed when I tell him why he’s here. And that I can’t pay his agreed-upon salary for the first part of summer.

  “Her rigging needs to be replaced.” I point toward the top of the mast, where cracked spreaders and worn sheaves hide.

  He straightens. “You’re not serious.”

  “It’s gotta be done.”

  His mouth drops open a little. “You don’t have the lines.”

  “Lines are in the ticket hut.” Which was where I hid them so Dev wouldn’t run as soon as he saw them sitting on deck.

  “That’s a lot of fucking work.” He scratches Matty absently, staring up at the rigging. He’s never liked the mechanical side of sailing—not like I do—spending time lost in the minutiae of canvas and nylon. “Where the fuck is your brother? Isn’t Sebastian supposed to be here?”

  I shrug. “He had some sort of climbing trip planned. He’ll be here.”

  Mostly because I don’t have another choice. Sebastian is as unpredictable as always, but he assured me he’d show up for the summer. Although, when I told him I’d be doing the tourist runs, there was a long stretch of silence on the phone. A really long stretch of silence. One more conversation I’m not looking forward to.

  I could attempt to change her rigging myself, but on a boat this size, it’s nearly impossible. And would end with her being out of commission for a few days. I don’t want that. A miracle might happen, and someone will charter her before the season starts.

  Dev sighs. “It’ll require beer. Lots and lots of beer.”

  That I’d already planned for. “It’s in the cooler.”

  “Fuck. Then I want double pay for this week too.” But he starts walking towards the ticket huts, tugging lightly on Matty’s leash. The dog careens to the side—dangerously close to the edge of the ramp. But he pulls himself toward the middle, and we amble up to the huts that line the shore. The one designated for the Heroine is a pale blue with rotting wood along the bottom edge. The door doesn’t latch. More shit to get done in the next month. I have no idea how my father handled all this on his own. Especially since he was always drunk an hour after dusk.

  Matty pauses halfway up the walkway. Despite the limp, he always has a big doggie smile. Although I wonder how much that grin covers. Even dogs give smiles that cover the truth.

  “He’s getting worse.” My voice is low, heavy with words I don’t want to say.

  Dev holds the leash patiently. “I’ve got him on a few homeopathic remedies.”

  My eyebrows go up at this. “You? Homeopathic?”

  “Some of them are working, and that’s all I fucking care about.” He steps aside as Matty starts up the walkway again, his brown eyes eager on the planks before him. “The acupuncture is doing him good. But it’s not cheap. That reminds me, I need to get an advance on my pay. I’m getting low on cash. You know, end of semester.”

  I stroll along next to him, trying to keep my shoulders loose. I was hoping to have this conversation after the rigging and the lots and lots of beer. I could go into how much the lines cost. Or how I need three gallons of paint for the ticket hut. Or how half the fishing rods needed new reels. How my father’s monthly bill at the assisted living facility is ridiculous. How far the man let things slide over the last few years as his dementia deepened.

  But none of that matters because if Matty needs acupuncture to feel better, then we’ve got to do it. And Dev deserves what I promised him. Even if the promise will be late.

  I let out a long sigh. “Pay advance will have to wait.”

  We cross the line from dock to cement and then stop at the door of the ticket hut. I breathe out a second sigh, this one of relief, to see the lines through the square window. There’s not a
lot of activity around the harbor this time of year, but I was still worried they might have walked off in the middle of the night. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened. If anything goes wrong. One lesson in sailing is that, at some point, something goes wrong.

  “What does ‘wait’ mean?” Dev stops behind me.

  I unlock the door and step into the small room to grab a bucket of fasteners. “I’ll give you all the profits from the first charters, I promise. Everything, man.”

  Dev’s glare slips into something more needling. “You don’t have the cash.”

  I shake my head. “Spent the last on the beer. Which probably wasn’t the best decision.” Although it was the only decision if I wanted Dev’s help with the rigging.

  Matty thumps his tail against the cement, and Dev turns to look out toward the rest of the slips. “Where’s the Neverland?” he asks after a minute.

  Fuck, this is what happens when I keep secrets from Dev. I rub my neck. “I sold her.” I have to bite it out—today is made up of shit I don’t want to say. One thing after the other. I stare down at the Heroine, her masts tipped with red at the top. She’s gotta be worth it, right?

  She’s stunning. A boat I would stop and stare at for hours if I happened across her. She brings a damn smile to my face every time I see her. She’s the whole reason I’m here.

  But now I’m starting to wonder if it’s the same type of smile Matty has—the one that hides the truth.

  3

  Ella

  I sit on the lopsided plastic chair where I sit most afternoons—still covered in flour and frosting, but now there’s something else—confusion. Did he recognize me? The way he held on to my wrist. He wouldn’t have done that if he knew who I was.

  And there’s something deeper too. Far beyond confusion. Fear. Fear that winds as thick as it did when I was a child.

  I was beginning to feel safe. Secure in this little town that knows my history but was finally starting to look past it. Sure that the memories weren’t going to come back to strangle me. To drag me back to things forgotten and pushed aside.

  He can’t be here. Not the son. Not the father. And not that boat sitting in the dock.

  They just can’t be here.

  An illusion. They have to be an illusion. Like ants in olive bread or the way his fingers felt around my wrist. Something made up and far away that can’t touch me.

  I smooth a finger over the black screen of my phone. I’d spent the last hour searching for things I shouldn’t be searching for. Charles Archer wasn’t that hard to find. His wife, Rosemary Archer, died twelve years ago. Some kind of cancer, and she had a funeral in Upper Bay. Which is only an hour’s drive north of here. This whole time, Charles Archer has been less than an hour away.

  The sons were harder to find. Dean and Sebastian. Sebastian attends a college in Colorado. Which would mean the one in the harbor is Dean. It was almost impossible to find anything about him—as if he was born and ceased to exist until he blinked into existence in front of me. Even though I know that can’t be true, it almost feels like it.

  I bounce my phone and hum a lullaby, as soft as the breeze that slips through the little shared backyard. It plays with the long trails of the willow tree that takes up half the yard. It cuts against the broken swing set that will never see a child again. A fat tabby cat named Millie wanders across from my neighbor’s square of cement. I tuck my phone in my lap and reach down so she can rub against my fingers. I glance toward the boats rocking in their slips far below. And the one at the end of the harbor—silent and dark from here. Edged in red that’s highlighted by the falling sun.

  What is his life like? Is he haunted in the same way I am? Tied down by the things that happened so long ago?

  It would be so easy to keep watching him. Maybe walk halfway down to the harbor…

  “Millie!” Eveline calls from her sliding door, and she pops her head out.

  “She’s out here.” The cat keeps rubbing against my fingers.

  Eveline steps out and, when she sees us, sighs at the cat. She’s always decked out in one of those bright floral dresses. Today, green and bright orange that makes me feel like I should squint when I look at her.

  “Oh, hello, dear.” She clips across the yard—always moving in those quick, short steps. “Home from the bakery already?”

  I stand and brush flour off my jeans, and the cat gives me a lazy look before strolling toward her owner.

  “Yes.” I smile, wondering why Eveline’s still walking toward me. Then it clicks. “Oh, I was supposed to bring you a tray of croissants, wasn’t I? You have guests coming this afternoon.”

  She bends down to pick up the cat. “Did you forget? I suppose it’s not that big of a deal.” But her bottom lip pushes out a little. Knowing Eveline, it is a very big deal.

  “I’ll run back and get them for you—”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s really not a problem, Eveline. I baked them this morning. They’ll just go to waste otherwise.” I’m already crossing toward the gate and through it before I hear her answer. Although, it doesn’t matter what that answer is. I’m still going back to fetch them. A goal. Something I can do that doesn’t involve staring down my past.

  I set my feet toward the bakery, ignoring the harbor below. I must walk faster than usual because it takes me ten minutes instead of the usual fifteen. When I push open the door, I find Laura sitting at one of the tables, writing in a notebook. She looks up and smiles when I come in, and I pause on my way to help Benny—who’s got a line at the counter. A walker is set up next to her and a huge glass of lemonade before her with a little sprig of something tucked in it. Thyme or another herb that she no doubt brought from home. But I’m a little taken back by how frail and tired she looks.

  I cross to her, and she holds out a hand toward me, which I squeeze and then let fall.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She gives me an easy wave. “Go help your father.”

  I nod, duck behind the counter, and ring up Mr. Fullerton from the Idea Center and Ms. Jengry, the local seamstress. It feels good—purposeful. Like I didn’t just get sideswiped by a sailboat and ocean-blue eyes.

  When the line dies down, I step into the back and retrieve a box for Eveline’s croissants. Benny follows a minute later.

  “What’s Laura doing here?” I speak softly, so she can’t hear us. I set the buttery croissants in a long box, careful not to squish them. Artistry is important. Pastries should look as good as they taste.

  “Renee got called in for a shift, and Laura wouldn’t hear of her not taking it.” He glances toward the front. I can’t see Laura, but she must be doing fine since he turns back to me. Renee and Benny do the trading-work-shifts game—trying to make sure that one of them is around when Laura’s feeling poorly. I guess I do it too, since it’s the reason I open the bakery in the morning and Benny comes in the afternoons.

  “You should have called me.” I move to the second box. “I would have been more than happy to come in. In fact, here I am. Why don’t you take the afternoon off?”

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” Benny says. “You were here early for Eveline and…” He gestures toward the tidy rows of croissants.

  I look up at him, shaking my head. “Honestly, I’d rather be here, Benny.”

  He nods, glancing toward the front again. “Did you see the Heroine?” he asks with uncharacteristic directness.

  “It’s pretty hard to miss.” I close the second box, but the cardboard edge gets caught. I fidget with it, my fingers trembling and making it harder.

  Especially because Benny keeps looking at me like he expects me to say something else.

  I finally get the lid closed. “How many people know about Charles?”

  “You mean what Mira did to him?” Benny keeps his voice low.

  I tense at my mother’s name. “You’ve told me not to tell Renee.” Which hasn’t been hard since it’s never
been something I’m eager to talk about. Besides, Charles was somewhere else—far away where I didn’t have to think about him. “Does Laura know?”

  Benny crosses his arms over his apron. “Laura doesn’t need to be bothered with stuff like this,” he whispers. “I don’t know how many people know. Not many. He didn’t live in Portage when… everything happened. It’s not like your mother was forthcoming. And everything that came out at her trial was bad enough.”

  “Yes, it was.” I pick up the box. Bad enough that it hit all the news stations. Meaning that most everyone in Portage knows what she did—just not how far it went.

  “I’m not even really sure how you know, Ella.” He tilts his head, looking down at the boxes.

  “Because I was there,” I say quietly. “She didn’t keep us away from it.”

  Benny’s arms release, and his fingers rattle against the table. He nods, but he doesn’t look at me.

  I swallow and clutch the box. “Do you think his sons know?”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He finally looks up at me. “Some things are really hard to tell your children. Why do you think I don’t want Renee to know?”

  I stack the boxes and reach around Benny to get a long, yellow ribbon. One of the staples of Laura’s Bakery. Every box that goes out is tied up in a yellow ribbon. I wrap the boxes and push them toward him.

  “Can you drop this off at Eveline’s? I’ll stay until close.” I glance at the clock next to the oven. Close is only a few hours from now. The bakery doesn’t stay open much past lunch, and those last hours are usually mostly cleaning anyway.

  Benny slips his apron over the top of his head. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. But, um, you know what the Heroine being back means, right? For the Harborwalk Festival?”

  I put on the easy-smile. The festival’s been my focus over the past year. An annual event to hopefully bring more tourists into Portage. The last few years, the season has been more and more sparse, to the point where the bakery actually lost money last year. So I’ve been talking to all the business owners and trying to get together a festival for this summer. Hopefully to change things.