Lucas settled in against his leg, nearly sitting on his foot, looking up, and Noah allowed himself a moment’s distraction. He had rescued the dog from euthanization three years before, and hadn’t once regretted it. Lucas was a retriever, and a handsome guy at that. His coat was red, with white markings on his nose, his bib, and the tips of his feet. He had a feathered tail that wagged constantly. And freckles. And gentle eyes. And undying love. How could he not save a dog like that, even if it had meant arguments with his father ever since?
No place for that dog on this boat, Hutch had argued. Dog like that has to run. Why’d you think no one else wanted him? Dog like that’ll exhaust you. You watch. You’ll see.
What Noah had seen was that Lucas could run himself ragged around the island, but was good as gold on the boat. Not that Hutch ever admitted that.
Noah stroked the dog’s head and scratched his ears, but his father’s voice filled his mind. Straightening, he held the boat steady at twenty knots and kept his eyes peeled. As soon as his radar picked up the bleeps of other boats near the site, though, he turned off. He couldn’t go there. Just couldn’t. The best he could do was circle the perimeter and wait for word on the radio. He didn’t remind himself that the search had gone on for seven hours the night before, that the nature of the debris picked up then did not bode well, or that even before turning in for the night, the Coast Guard had begun talking about recovery rather than rescue. He didn’t remind himself of any of those things because they only made him feel heartsick and empty—empty and helpless—helpless and angry— angry and confused. And there he stayed at the end of the list, with anger and confusion foremost in his thoughts.
He was a lobsterman. Lobstermen knew that they couldn’t control the wind or the waves any more than they could control where lobsters chose to crawl on the ocean floor or what bait they decided to take. But there were certain givens, and Noah loved those. He loved the freshness of the morning air, loved heading out with a boat full of bait and a belly full of breakfast. He loved pulling up a trap that held a breeder loaded with eggs, loved notching her tail and setting her gently back in the sea. He loved knowing that she would drop many thousands of lobster larvae and that in six or seven years he would pull up some of those very same lobsters, now big enough for keeping. He loved knowing that he had some control, however small, over the preservation of the species.
He had no control over people like Artie Jones, though. He had no understanding of people like Artie Jones, and his anger grew as he approached the site of the crash. Artie Jones was a hotshot. Infinitely worse than rogue lobstermen planting lime-grape-lime buoys where they shouldn’t be, Artie bombed around in The Beast, polluting the air with its roar, adding its wake to the rock of the sea. That said, he wasn’t suicidal. He might be an irresponsible, arrogant cad, but he wasn’t a maniac.
So why in the hell had he done what he’d done?
The one person who might have given them a clue wasn’t saying a word about what had happened—not to the fishermen who had pulled her from the sea, nor to the other searchers, the police chief, the doctor, or, with the rising sun now, the families gathering again on the dock, waiting for word. She wasn’t talking to friends or to her boss, and certainly not to her mother or grandmother. She wasn’t talking, period. For all intents and purposes, the accident had stolen her voice and rendered her mute.
Chapter 2
Zoe Ballard lived in a farmhouse that had been built by an original Crane with the stones he had taken from his field when he cleared it for his sheep to graze. In recent years, she had updated the electrical and plumbing systems, but where insulation was concerned, the stone was wonderfully effective: the house needed nothing more than a wood-stove in winter and open windows in summer. Zoe had lived through three hurricanes in the house, and though she had lost tiles from the roof, the wind had barely penetrated the walls.
Julia had always found the farmhouse comfortably warm both in temperature and atmosphere. The furniture was large and cushiony, the colors leaning toward earth tones, with accents of yellow and red. Woven throws were everywhere, along with an assortment of spinning wheels and baskets filled with new-spun yarn, because that was what Zoe did—raise Angora rabbits, pluck their fur, spin it and dye it. She supported herself by selling prime pluck to weavers, spun yarn to knitters, and rabbits themselves to off-island buyers.
Julia was in one of two guest rooms in the house. It had a big double bed topped with a huge comforter of goose down, and before slipping under it in the wee hours of the morning, she had taken a long, hot bath. Though her bandaged arm stayed out of the water, the rest of her was submerged, so, technically, she was warm. But a chill remained; all it took was a burst of memory to start her shivering again.
She slept poorly, waking every little while to one of those bursts. It helped when she left a lamp on; then she didn’t have quite the disorientation she suffered waking in utter dark. Once dawn came, she felt better. Even then, though, she didn’t sleep for more than half an hour at a stretch. Well beyond the sting of her arm, her whole body had started to ache. The reminder of what had happened was therefore instant each time she awoke. Trying to ignore it, she looked at her watch, turned over, pulled the comforter up to her ears, and lay wide-eyed until exhaustion finally claimed her again.
Shortly after seven, the phone rang. Though it was distant and quickly answered, she awoke with the first ring and lay staring at the pine beams above, wondering who was calling, what they were saying, whether Zoe would be coming to get her. She didn’t move, didn’t want to be reminded of the stiffness that had come from her time in the sea or of the tension that still gripped her.
She waited long enough to assume that the caller wasn’t Monte, before dozing off again. She awoke again soon after, though, when another call came. Another followed that. And still Zoe didn’t come for her. Slipping out of bed, she wrapped herself in the chenille robe that was draped on a spinning wheel in the corner and, moving gingerly, went down the hall to the kitchen.
The sight of Zoe was a comfort. Totally unadorned, she wore a sweater and jeans and, at fifty-two, was more fit than many women half her age. Standing barefoot in a kitchen filled with light wood, aged ceramic, and an assortment of art created by her friends, she was the real thing.
She was at an open window, looking out over the meadow. Fog moved gently through the trees, dissipating even as Julia watched.
“No, I will not wake her up,” Zoe was saying into the phone. “She doesn’t need that.” Glancing behind her, she saw Julia but didn’t miss a beat. “No, Alex. She’s been through a trauma. Any idiot would know that. Does she need to spell it out for the press? Hey, I hafta go. See you later?” She ended the call and raised her brows. “Do you mind?”
“No. No. I don’t want to talk with the press.” Julia could barely deal on her own with what had happened, much less discuss it with someone else—and for public consumption? She didn’t think so. “How did they know to call here?”
“Alex Brier is local. He saw you on the dock last night and knew you were mine, but others will be coming around. I asked him to ward them off. How’d you sleep?”
Julia answered her with a telling look.
Reaching out, Zoe tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear in much the way Julia’s mother had done when Julia had been very, very young. It was a gesture of affection of the kind that Janet had neither the time nor inclination to show now.
“Did the phone wake you?”
“The phone, my mind, daylight.” Julia wrapped her arms around Zoe and hugged her before dropping into one of the chairs that circled the table. “Sorry. My legs feel strange.” She spread her hands over the table, which, like the chairs, was made of oak. She had paid a fortune back home in New York for a set with a distressed finish similar to the kind these had—the only difference being that the marks here were from love and use.
“Achy?” Zoe asked, reaching for the teakettle. “How’s the arm?”
&nb
sp; “Sore.”
“Do you want something for it?”
“No. Who were the other calls?”
Zoe busied herself filling the kettle with water. “A couple of friends here, just askin’ about you.”
She was a tad too casual for Julia’s mood. “There’s word on the search, isn’t there?”
“Not much.”
“Zoe.”
Zoe lit the gas under the teakettle. When she turned, her expression was grave. “They’ve found bodies.”
Julia put her fingertips to her forehead and pressed hard. Dropping her hand, she looked at Zoe again. “Any survivors yet?”
“No. But they haven’t given up hope.”
“Oh, Zoe,” Julia chided quietly, because they both knew that if searchers had reached the point of recovering bodies, they would have already spotted survivors. The day was clear. Sunlight spilled across the kitchen floor, warming the wood under Julia’s bare feet. “That’s what’s drawing the media, isn’t it?”
Zoe looked tormented. “Yes. We think there may be nine people gone.”
“Nine? I hadn’t thought so many.”
“Eight from the Amelia Celeste, plus Artie Jones. We’re still pretty much going on who was supposed to show up here and hasn’t.” Her eyes saddened. “One of them is the fellow who helps me in the barn. His name is Todd Slokum. He’s twenty-three, five-ten or so, dark-haired, a little awkward. Do you remember seeing someone like that?”
Julia searched her memory, trying to separate out individuals from the cluster in the stern of the Amelia Celeste, but the group was as amorphous in the light of day as it had been the night before. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. There was a cabin between me and the people in the stern. Do you know for sure that Todd was on the ferry?”
“No. I know that he was on the mainland yesterday. He’s usually here by seven. It’s almost eight now.”
“Have you called him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone. The guy’s kind of a lost soul. He’s been with me for three years now, because he just doesn’t know what else to do or where to go, and he’s one of the best workers I’ve had. Once I show him what to do, he’s compulsive about doing it right. He loves the rabbits. That’s why he always comes to work so early. He loves it when he first walks in and they start butting against their cages to get his attention. They’re his friends. He doesn’t seem able to make others.”
Julia held out a hand, which Zoe came and took. “I’m so sorry.”
“So is it worse,” Zoe asked, eyes haunted, “when someone who is all alone dies, or when someone dies and leaves family and friends? I don’t know.”
One of the things Julia had always loved about Zoe was her honesty. Given what Julia had been through herself the night before, another person might have tried to shield her from grim talk. But Zoe was right out there; what you saw was what you got. Unfortunately, that kind of forthrightness—and independence—hadn’t sat well with her family, which was why, from early adulthood, Zoe had been branded a rebel and distanced from the rest. The ill will remained. Julia’s mother, Janet, hadn’t even spoken more than a sentence or two to Julia since she had said she was visiting Zoe. The occasional drop-in with Molly along was one thing; two weeks alone with Zoe was something else entirely.
Feeling a swell of love, Julia rose and wrapped her arms around her aunt. The answering hug said Zoe needed it as much as she did this time.
Finally, Zoe set her back, searched her face, and smiled. “What do you do with the years, Julia? The world ages, and you look every bit as beautiful at forty as you did at twenty.”
“Look who’s talking,” Julia replied. “I live and breathe makeup, moisturizer, and sunscreen, and here you are, going with the bare basics and still looking younger than me.” It was an argument they’d had before. “I love your hair.” In the light of day now, she could see that its natural chestnut color was shot with bits of blonde.
Zoe seemed pleased, if self-conscious. “I did it for you. I didn’t want to look like your island hick of an aunt. I knew you’d arrive looking gorgeous.” She paused, then added, “Gorgeous, but tired.” And the gravity returned. “Physically, is there anything hurting you other than the legs and the arm?”
Julia actually felt like she had been hit by a truck. But she wasn’t about to complain. “I’m alive. How can I gripe about aches and pains?” With that reminder, her stomach turned over. “Does anyone know why the purple boat plowed into us?”
“Not yet. They just recovered Artie’s body. The medical examiner will do an autopsy.”
“Do you think he was drunk?”
“Don’t know.”
“How many others have they found?”
“Three. The captain of the Amelia Celeste, my friend Evan Walsh, and Grady Bartz, who is a dockman for the local lobster buyer.”
Julia put her head to Zoe’s shoulder, but brought it back up quickly. “Noah Prine’s father?”
“Not yet.”
“Noah and I were the only ones in the bow. Everyone in the stern died, except for that girl.”
“Kimmie.”
“Yes.”
The phone rang. Julia looked at it with dread. Zoe picked it up, seeming as unsettled as Julia by the prospect of who might be on the other end of the line.
“Yes?” Seconds later, she let out a breath and rolled her eyes. “I know you have an investigation to do, John, but can’t it wait?” She paused. “Later, then. Give her a chance to rest. Then she’ll be more help.” Zoe politely ended the call and turned in apology to Julia. “You will have to talk with him at some point. First, though, you need to call Monte.”
Julia’s hopes rose. “He called?”
Eyes knowing, Zoe shook her head.
“Ah.” Hope died. “Well, of course, I guess he wouldn’t,” Julia rationalized in an attempt to ease her disappointment. “He doesn’t know about the accident, and we left it that I’d call him. So you’re right. That’s what I should do.”
“What he should do,” Zoe suggested softly, “is call you because he’s concerned that you haven’t called him.”
Julia forced a smile. “Well, he hasn’t. So I’d better do it.” She held out her hand. When Zoe passed her the phone, she carried it out to the porch, punching in her home number as she went. The screen door shut behind her with a trio of echoing claps. Settling into a rocker, she put the phone to her ear.
He picked up after the third ring, sounding groggy. “Yeah.”
Julia was immediately concerned. “Monte. Hi. Were you sleeping?” He should have been ready to head off to work.
“It was a late night,” he said in a way that suggested he was stretching. The stretch ended. “Since you weren’t here, I figured I’d stay at the office. A group of us went out to dinner, then I worked afterward. I don’t know—maybe I’m getting something—the flu or a cold. I’m bushed. I think I’ll stay in bed awhile longer.”
“You should,” Julia said, because Monte suggesting that he sleep in, rather than race to the office to monitor the stock market in Japan, was totally out of character. “Are you running a fever?”
“No. I’m just tired. What’s up?”
Julia’s eyes found the meadow. Fog drifted around the upper leaves of the oaks; splotches of yellow hinted at buttercups in the grass; nearby sheep grazed quietly with only the occasional baaaa. Soothed, she was able to tell Monte about the accident without crying.
By the time she was done, he seemed fully awake. “You sound okay.”
“I’m alive. Others aren’t, and we don’t even know the extent of it yet.”
“You lost everything? Clothes, books… everything? Maybe they’ll be able to recover some of it. I’ll call about the credit cards this morning, and they’ll send replacements. They may need to invalidate our account number and give us new cards, though, because if divers don’t find your bag, and two or three months from now some fisherman finds it, he could charge up a bundle.”
“I’m not
worried—”
“How much did you cash?”
“A thousand.”
“That much? Why that much?”
“That was what you told me to cash. You were going to do it for me, remember? Then you didn’t have time.” He hadn’t had time to drop his tuxedo at the dry cleaner, pick up razor blades, or buy a book for a hospitalized client, either—all of which he had asked her to do yesterday morning at breakfast, after she had begged him for days to let her do things in advance, so that she could be on the road by nine. If she had done that, she wouldn’t have missed the car ferry.
“And your camera equipment,” he trotted on like a horse with blinders, “there was a fortune’s worth of equipment in that bag—all the gifts I’ve given you in the last three years. You were signed up for a course with that photographer Himmel.”
“Hammel,” she corrected quietly. She looked up when Zoe joined her with mugs of tea for them both.
“That’s why you went up there in the first place,” Monte went on, “to take his course, but even if it’s recovered, the Nikon is ruined.” His voice grew resigned. “We should have insured that equipment. You make a judgment call about these things. You weigh their value against the cost of insurance. Oh, boy, did I call it wrong.”
“Monte,” Julia cried in dismay, “they think nine people are dead!”
“Well, thank God, you’re not! And thank God you missed the car ferry. If we’d lost the car, too, it’d be bad.”
Quietly, factually, Julia said, “If I’d made the car ferry, I wouldn’t have been in the accident at all.”
“The car is insured. Isn’t it always the case? It’s actually too bad. If the car had gone down, we could have gotten a new one.”
Julia stared at Zoe, who sat on the porch rail leaning back against a post. Yelling and screaming wasn’t Julia’s style, but she was hard-pressed not to react that way now, her frustration with Monte was so great. Molly had felt the tragedy of the accident. Monte didn’t get it at all.
The Summer I Dared: A Novel Page 4
