Soul of the Sea

by Jasmine Denton

  There must have been hundreds of them, individual roses and bouquets of lilies, white peonies and assorted wildflowers, wreaths made of lilac, a heart-shaped chaplet of pink daisies.

  Charity would have loved them.

  The simple thought brought a lump to her throat, made the vision of the flowers cloud with tears. She wanted to stay, but unable to bear it any longer, Mykaela stood up, shoving past the other girls and ignoring small, surprised gasps from the crowd. Fleeing the church, she gulped a breath of fresh air. A strangled sob escaped her throat, the sad sound echoing in the quiet parking lot.

  Clasping a hand over her mouth, she struggled to hold back sobs that wanted to rip through her chest.

  The edge of the parking lot gave way to a field, and she could imagine running through the grass and disappearing into the woods just beyond.

  Then she saw him—the boy from the water. He stood far away, in the shade where the forest met the edge of the meadow. The pine trees formed an arch around him, their shadows a solid black against his pale skin.

  At this distance, she didn’t know, for certain, how she recognized him. Without being close enough to see the details of his face, she knew if he spoke his Irish voice would sooth her, and his eyes, as blue as the sky, would peer right through her lies.

  So many mysteries about this boy haunted her. Why’d he leave, who was he and how’d he’d get her to the beach when the cliff was too far away to swim to shore? Most of all, why didn’t he even try to save Charity? Starting toward him, her mind swirled with unanswered questions and stifled anger.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder, and she gasped and whirled around. Seeing it was only Brad, she wanted to slap him for scaring her. Confusion and pity consumed the anger at the tired weight around his eyes, at the blue marks just beneath them that looked branded into his skin. Why did he look like he’d been crying? He’d been Jared’s friend for years, and she couldn’t ever remember seeing Brad express sadness.

  She pressed a hand against her chest and sighed. “Now’s not a good time, Brad.”

  He stuffed his hand into the pocket of his blazer. His voice scratched through the air like a knife. “At least we have time.”

  Charity doesn’t. The unspoken words hung between them. Tears threatened to burst through her composure, but she bit her lip until the urge to cry faded. She glanced behind her. The boy still stood in front of the trees, their shadows forming an army behind him.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Brad looked behind him at the church. “I know I came off a little strong the other day. It’s just… I need to know what happened.”

  “I told you.” She almost believed it herself. “We left at eleven-thirty.”

  “You mean twelve-thirty.” Brad’s gaze locked on hers as a hint of triumph flashed across his face. She’d screwed up—and now he was determined to find out why.

  “That’s right. I meant—”

  “Mykaela, I saw you go into the woods with her. The second time.”

  A gust of bitter cold air swept through the parking lot, chilling her to the bone. It ruffled the skirt of her dress and whipped the flaps of his blazer east.

  “I was with her when you called. I told her it was dangerous to go into those woods when it was dark, but she wouldn’t listen, so I followed her.” He took a step toward her, his voice sounding hoarse and strained. “I saw her stop by your house at around five-thirty, I saw you climb out your window, and I watched you both go into the woods.”

  Suddenly, his behavior made sense. The emotion she’d seen in Brad’s eyes wasn’t anger, but passionate grief. “You loved her.” The way Brad’s jaw stiffened in silent acknowledgment, the way the realization of his slip-up dawned on him, told her it was true. “You loved Charity. That’s why you’re acting like this.”

  Stepping back, he did a half-turn to keep from facing her. He laughed and scoffed, trying too hard to convince her the idea was ridiculous, and only reaffirming what she suspected. “How long were you two together? Why didn’t she tell me about you?”

  A crack of thunder rang out just as he spun around and grabbed her wrist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This conversation never happened. Got it? You’re crazy. And that’s what I’ll say if you breathe a word of this to anybody else.”

  Mykaela gasped, her body stiffening at the sudden violent grip of his hand. Of course she wouldn’t say anything! Why did Brad resort to threats? The winds howled like a wolf and streaks of lightning danced around the darkened sky in jagged bolts.

  “Nobody’s going to believe you. You can’t prove a thing.” His words oozed with bitterness and disdain to cover up panic. Then she realized that even if he knew she’d been with Charity, he could never say anything without telling on himself, too. She knew his secret and could use it against him. She held the power.

  The door behind them swung open and he released her. She stumbled backward, but managed to catch herself.

  Rachel and Susan stood at the top of the steps, their faces creased in concern. Susan’s gaze traveled from Brad to Mykaela. “Are you okay? You just ran off.”

  “I...I just couldn’t,” she stammered. “It’s too hard.”

  Brad raked a hand through his hair, then shook his head and turned to walk away. Susan and Rachel jogged down the steps to Mykaela’s side. “What were you two talking about?” Susan asked, but Rachel overshadowed the question when she said, “Are you okay? You’re shaking.” Rachel wrapped an arm around Mykaela’s shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” she said, but it was just another lie. Brad’s growing resentment terrified her, and what he knew threatened to blow holes in her story.

  “Are you sure?” Susan asked.

  “No, really.” She swallowed hard and tried to put on a convincing face. “I just…I can’t go back in there. I just want to go home.”

  “Okay, we’ll drive you,” Susan said. She turned to Rachel. “Will you go tell Blanche?”

  “Of course.” Rachel went back inside the church, while Susan guided Mykaela over to her Jeep.

  As they drove, the clouds slowly disappeared from the sky. By the time they arrived at the Seaside Inn, all traces of the storm vanished.

  Mykaela opened the kitchen door and led them inside.

  “If I know Blanche…” Susan walked over to the kitchen counter. “…and I do.” She turned from the counter, holding a cake Blanche had baked. It was a double-layer, birthday-style cake—the kind with ribbons of sinfully sweet frosting and little colored flowers for an extra boost of sugar.

  She waved the cake in front of the other two. “I say we all need a little pick-me-up, don’t you?”

  “Definitely.” Mykaela retrieved some plates from the cabinet while Susan sliced the cake.

  They sat down after Susan put generous slices on each plate. Scooping up a big bite with her fork, Susan propped her elbows on the table. “You know, Charity would have smacked that pianist. She would have told her to play something with words.”

  “And did you hear everyone talk about how pretty she was?” Rachel crinkled her nose. “Charity was beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but how rude is it to talk about something like that at a funeral?”

  Was.

  Just like that, in the breath it took to say those three letters, Mykaela’s peaceful moment was shattered. She struggled to swallow the cake, but the frosting worked against her. She wanted to gag, to hurl—to cry again.

  “What about you, Mykaela?” Susan asked. “What did you hate most about the funeral?”

  She needed to pick just one thing? She lowered her gaze to the plate, and stared at the little pink flower of frosting in front of her.

  “That she wasn’t there.”

  ***

  Ears ringing from the haunting song, Mykaela sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding. She struggled to kick the clinging covers away, but they stuck tight from the humidity and sweat.

  She crawled out of bed and looked around the room to make sure no watery hands reached ou
t to grab her. Trying to shake off the nightmare, the flashback of what happened with Charity, she realized she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

  How was it possible? How did the water literally grab them?

  Needing fresh air, she opened the bedroom door and stepped into the dark hallway. She heard Jared’s shower running and her mother moving around in the kitchen and went the other direction, toward the attic.

  She came to the end of the long corridor. Opening the door, she climbed the seven narrow steps into the attic. Boxes and trunks filled the attic with a long family history. They lined every wall, some stacked neat and tidy, others tossed in haste. Over the long years, dust covered the untouched boxes.

  She didn’t bother to turn on the light; instead, guided herself with memory. The floor would groan three times before reaching her destination. Directly above the third noisy floorboard hung the string to the pull-down steps. Four steps that led to the entrance.

  The wide widow’s walkwas aged with time and storm and overlooked the entire beach. Mykaela and Charity were forbidden to come up here when they were children. As with anything, banning them made them want to do it more. They were thirteen years old before they were finally allowed to climb to the roof of the house. It was still Mykaela’s favorite spot.

  The air was still, but the ocean roared like a fierce animal.

  Resting a hand on the balustrade, she gazed out at the turbulent water. The house, she adored. The ocean, she hated. With the exception of the accident with Charity, she hadn’t set foot in those waters for ten years—since it claimed her father’s life.

  As much as she loathed the water, feared and dreaded it, she couldn’t deny its beauty. Waves collided against the shore with a ruthless wrath, demanding attention, obedience, in a way she admired.

  How could something so vicious look so inviting? How could it call to her the way it did, with its chorus of soft, whispering voices that made her long to dive in for a swim?

  Something caught her eye as she turned. A dark, shadowy lump lay sprawled across the shoreline.

  Chapter Three

  Strange Driftwood

  The body lay sprawled, face down in the wet, matted sand. Giant waves lapped in on him, crashed against his waist and crawled to his shoulders. From where Mykaela stopped on the low-sitting, wraparound deck of the Seaside Inn, the water didn’t seem to stir the man.

  She jogged across the beach and slowed to peer into the lifting darkness. The body squirmed, shifted. She darted to him and dropped to her knees at his side.

  She rolled him over, and he groaned. He was about nineteen or twenty, and his skin felt slippery and cold to the touch. Beads of sand gathered on his forehead and mingled with the ash blond hair clinging around the sharp lines of his face.

  The guy who’d rescued her, then disappeared. The only person who knew for certain she was with Charity when she died.

  The water eased back into the ocean, exposing a crimson stain splotched on the left side of his dingy white T-shirt. She gasped in surprise, and her hands sprang back to keep from touching him.

  Panicking, she pressed her fingers against his throat to find a pulse. She couldn’t find it, even though she’d just heard him groan. For a second, she thought he might be dead. Then, his eyes fluttered open, the bright green-blue of them burning like stars buried deep in the sky. His lips moved in a low murmur, overshadowed by the growl of the ocean.

  “What?” She leaned closer to him, straining to hear what he tried to say.

  He clenched his teeth together and clutched his side, struggling to sit up.

  “Let me see,” Mykaela said, as she raised the hem of his shirt. Blood clotted around the edges of what looked like a knife wound, long and thin, deep and oozing thick, red fluid. “I’m going to go call a doctor.”

  He snatched her arm when she attempted to stand, his grip bringing a sudden chill to her bones. Peering deep into her eyes, he pleaded, “No doctors.” His voice was hoarse and desperate and stained with a faded Irish accent.

  She scanned the empty beach and looked closely at his bloody lesion before searching his eyes again. The pain in them resonated stronger than any fear of her own.

  “Please?”

  Glancing up, she noticed Jared running toward her.

  “What’s going on?” He skidded to a stop in front of her and looked down at the man. “What happened?”

  He squinted against the rising sun. “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember how you got hurt?”

  He shook his head. “Where am I?”

  “Harmony Harbor,” Mykaela said, but he didn’t seem to recognize it, so she added, “South Carolina.”

  He coughed, sitting up. “I need to go.” He tried to stand, but lost his balance. Jared stretched his arms out, catching the boy as he was about to fall.

  “Hey, buddy, maybe you should rest a little, first.” He looked up at Mykaela, and she could see the caution, the fear in his eyes. “My family runs the Inn. There’s a guy there—he’ll know what to do.” Jared glanced at her. “Mykaela, go inside and tell Mom what’s going on.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” he said.

  Rolling her eyes at him, she turned around and ran across the beach. She jogged up the front steps of the porch, then through the double glass doors of the Inn’s front entrance, not slowing down. Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen, she found her mother and Bobby, the groundskeeper.

  “Another body washed up on the shore.” She bent over, one hand resting on the counter for balance, the other pressing against her chest as she tried to breathe.

  Blanche dropped the spatula she’d been holding, and Bobby’s hand hit his coffee cup when he reached for it. The mug toppled over, pouring black liquid all over the table.

  “This one’s alive.”

  “Another girl?” Bobby asked, standing up from the kitchen table.

  “No,” she said. “A boy.”

  Her mother turned with a look of confusion on her face. Before she could ask any questions, Jared and the boy walked into the kitchen.

  He leaned most of his weight on Jared’s shoulders, clutching his side where the bloodstains marked his shirt, but he wasn’t doubled over in pain like Mykaela expected.

  “This is Dylan,” Jared said. He nodded to Bobby. “Why don’t we take him downstairs and let him wash up?”

  Bobby led the two boys down the stairs to the right, leaving Mykaela and her mother alone. Mykaela used a rag to sop up the spilled coffee, while Blanche returned to the stove.

  “He says he doesn’t remember anything.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She wiped her hands on her apron and handed Mykaela an oversized basket filled with biscuits. “That’s the last one for the guests’ dining room. Hurry up and don’t forget the—”

  “Jelly.” Mykaela swooped up the little wooden basket filled with packages of jams and preserves. “Do I ever forget the jelly?”

  Using her back, she pushed open the swinging door. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall. Thick, red curtains dusted the pine floors, installed when the house was built in 1805.

  In the dining room, she went through her chores in a mechanical, almost dreamlike state. She placed the two baskets on the oak table built by her great-grandfather. Platters of bacon, sausage and eggs sat strategically scattered in the center of the table, beneath the crystal chandelier bought by her grandmother at an antique sale.

  She couldn’t get Dylan off her mind. Would he tell Jared and Bobby he’d rescued her from drowning? Would they find out she’d lied?

  She tried not to worry, as she made sure the coffee bar was stocked with flavored creamers and milk. She flipped on the coffee pot, and it chugged and steamed before pouring out its fragrant brew.

  She disappeared out the kitchen door just as the guests meandered down from their rooms for the early bird breakfast.

  When Mykaela returned to the kitchen, Blanche already swamped the
table with food for Mykaela, Bobby and Jared’s breakfast.

  “Dylan’s going to join us for breakfast,” Blanche said. “Turns out he’s just fine. Barely a scratch.”

  “Just a scratch?” Mykaela repeated, thinking of the bloody gash she’d seen on Dylan’s side. Maybe, after it was cleaned, the cut was smaller than it looked.

  When Jared and Bobby brought Dylan back upstairs to the kitchen, he wouldn’t look at her. Dylan kept his gaze on the floor, on Blanche, or anywhere but Mykaela. His face was pale, almost sallow, but he moved like he didn’t feel pain from his wound any more.

  Did Dylan already tell them he’d rescued her? Did he ruin her entire cover story?

  “Dylan, do you drink juice or coffee?” Blanche asked as she poured a steaming cup of coffee for herself.

  He smiled as he sat down in a chair. “Just water, please.”

  Blanche nodded and poured Dylan a glass of water from the faucet, then dropped a few cubes of ice in it.

  Jared and Bobby settled in at the table and ate, but Blanche slowly sat down, keeping her gaze on Dylan. “Mykaela tells me you don’t remember what happened.”

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t at first, but now I do.”

  “What do you know?” Bobby asked.

  Mykaela ate in silence, occasionally sneaking a peek at Dylan, while her mother and Bobby watched him with wise eyes.

  “I was headed to town to find work for the summer, and I crashed into some rocks. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  “I see.” Blanche sat back in her chair and took a sip from her cup. “Do you have a home, Dylan?”

  He nodded, keeping his gaze on his plate as he used his fork to push his food around.

  She narrowed her eyes in a look Mykaela knew well, the one that said Blanche spotted a lie. “Are you sure?”