by Luanne Rice
“Thanks,” Kate said, but Felicity was already gone.
She opened the front door and was greeted by a blast of cold sea air as she followed Bonnie down the sandy lane. They walked through the dark allée of white pines and crossed the small brook that trickled through the apple orchard. The O'Rourkes' house, unoccupied, sat on the headland jutting out into the Sound. Up ahead, the lighthouse stood, gleaming white against the cold November sky.
Waves crashed, sweeping the rocky shore. Kate tried to breathe deeply, but her chest was constricted. Here she was, back again—so soon, with no more answers than she'd had before. Her sister was still gone; Kate felt haunted by the things her brother and Andrew had said, the question of whether her anger had driven Willa away forever.
Gazing down the coast, she saw several breakwaters reaching out from shore. Which one of them was Point Heron? She shivered, thinking of the girl they had just found. The newspapers had run stories about her, about her lifelong love of boats, of how she had worked at her parents' boatyard every summer vacation.
Walking toward the bluff with Bonnie, Kate thought of Willa, of the wonderful vacations they had taken together. . . .
On many summer breaks, Kate had taken Willa on what they'd called their “Search for Amelia.” Over the years, they had visited many spots of importance in Amelia Earhart's life: Atchison, Kansas, where she'd been born in her grandparents' house; Des Moines, where she'd seen her first airplane at the Iowa State Fair; and their biggest, most ambitious trip, to French Polynesia, where Amelia's plane was believed to have crashed. Andrew had wanted to go too, but Kate had talked him out of it, claiming the mission for the Harris sisters alone.
They had taken a boat across the clear, turquoise water. Mysterious and haunting, the atolls had risen, shimmering under the surface, beds of coral and rock. The water was so clean, they could see a hundred feet down. Fish swimming around the reefs, giant clams; it had seemed possible that they would look down and see Amelia's plane.
“It's so beautiful here,” Willa had said.
“I know,” Kate had said, not wanting her sister to know that her throat hurt too much to talk, that she was thinking of the pilot following her dream to the South Pacific, having her bright life end in this paradise.
The captain of their boat had been a native of French Polynesia. He had taken them on a tour, one spot more magical than the next, until the sun had set and the sky had turned to fire—purple, red, pink, colors Willa had never seen in nature or on a canvas before.
“I have to paint that!” she had exclaimed.
“When you do, will you dedicate it to me?” the captain had asked.
“You'd want a painting of mine?” Willa had asked. She was seventeen, beautiful, barely aware of her effect on men. Kate had watched protectively, amused at Willa's naïveté.
“Of course I do. You must promise,” the captain had said, standing at the wheel, an insouciant grin on his tanned face. “And when the painting is done, send it to me at the marina.”
“If you tell me your name,” Willa had said helpfully. “I will.”
“Hervé Tourneau,” the man had said in a French accent. “Aboard Yacht Chrysalis, eh? It will get to me, don't worry . . .”
Willa had laughed, delighted and flattered; Kate had just leaned against the rail, watching the sun break into bits of flame, twinkling cinders across the South Pacific, a trail of fire leading to an endless horizon, loving her sister, grateful for their togetherness.
Kate gazed across the moors, at the sea grasses blowing in the wind, the apple trees dark against the slate sky, the tall white lighthouse a beacon even in this thin November daylight. She heard the rhythmic wash of the breaking waves.
As she neared the lighthouse, she saw a chain across the road, then two sandy paths, one leading to the right, the other leading to the left. Kate hesitated, not sure which way to go. Bonnie scuffled ahead, low to the ground, the skirts of her coat picking up grass and bits of seaweed blown up from the beach. Calling her over, Kate pulled a bramble from her coat, hugging her close for a moment of comfort.
“Oh, Bonnie,” she said. “Good dog.”
Bonnie licked her face, and Kate noticed that her black fur was covered with white dust. Not quite sand, more like plaster, or chalk. Looking down, Kate noticed that the ground—especially on the path leading right—was covered with it.
Perhaps it was some material used to repair the lighthouse. She glanced up. The edifice was thick and sturdy, white brick and mortar constructed to withstand the strongest gales. Could it be limestone? Knowing that lime wasn't good for dogs, she did her best to brush the powder off.
Then, clipping Bonnie's leash back on, she began to pull her in the opposite direction, away from the lighthouse. As she walked, feeling the cold air sear her lungs, one thing became clear.
She had come north for Thanksgiving.
Here in Silver Bay, she was closest to Willa. Wherever Willa might have gone, Kate felt her presence right here. Walking along the headland, Kate knew exactly why her sister had been drawn here: the crashing waves, the golden grasses, the prim lighthouse. Kate didn't want her sister to be alone.
Teddy would understand. Maggie, too.
She found herself wishing, as she walked east along the rocky promontory, that their father had had siblings. That John could somehow know the incredible, piercing, ineffable bond of having been born of the same parents, of having grown up in the same place.
When she had stopped by his house and spoken to his father, she had gotten the idea that something was wrong. John was home, but he couldn't come to the door. Or maybe he'd decided he shouldn't talk to Kate anymore—he had called her in Washington to give her the news about the girl's death, but he had ethical obligations, and now he had to back away.
The thought of it made her feel colder, made her pull her coat a little tighter as she walked into the wind. She hadn't realized how much she'd been hoping to see him till he hadn't answered the door. Head down to keep the cold from stinging her eyes, she felt the wind pick up. A burst came across the water, and the sound's smooth surface skittered into a flurry of small choppy waves.
In the next moment, Bonnie began to bark. She tugged on her leash hard, yanking Kate's shoulder; Kate looked up, startled, and what she saw made her take in a deep breath. Watching Bonnie race across the field, she began to smile, and the smile grew wider.
On his way to the East Wind Inn, John beeped the psychiatrist and left a message that he would be late getting to the prison. Then he took the lighthouse road and saw two figures walking the path along the bluff. One was tall and one was very short, low to the ground. Kate and Bonnie.
Parking in the sandy turnaround, where in summer and early fall the fishermen parked their trucks to clamber over the dunes and try their luck at bluefish and striped bass, he let Brainer out of the car, and it was all over.
The dogs said it all. Barking madly, running toward each other, tumbling through the tall brown grass. If John could have translated, he would have said, “Joy.”
Strange, but seeing Kate Harris made him feel the same thing. They walked toward each other through the knee-high salt hay, and John felt himself smiling as he hadn't in days or weeks. When they came together, he saw that her cheeks were windburned, her eyes bright and shining. Amazing to him was her smile: She looked as happy to greet him as he was to see her.
“Hi,” she said.
“I found you.”
“Was it hard?”
“Well, I was on my way to the East Wind. Dad said you're staying there again.”
“I am. I had to come up from Washington.”
He nodded. She had to see about the case; he understood. It often happened this way; family members connected to one crime could be retraumatized by another similar in nature.
“Because of Amanda Martin?”
“Yes,” she said. “I bought a local paper and read about her . . . the girl who loved boats.”
“Yes, that's what
they say,” John said, watching her eyes.
“Has there been any other news?” she asked.
He hesitated, peering down the coast. The cold wind stung his eyes. He thought of the case's latest details, his last meeting with Merrill, the glimmer in his client's eyes when he had first looked at Willa's picture. Looking past the lighthouse, he saw the Point Heron breakwater—just a thin black line from here. News of the case . . . it filled his head, but he blinked and pushed it away. He heard his father's parting words and knew they were about Kate: “What are you going to do about it?”
“Yes,” he said, his father's voice echoing in his head.
“Tell me.”
“Brainer's a mess again,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yes. Bad tangles. Lots of burrs and sticks.”
“Time for another bath?” she asked, a slow smile coming to her face, as if she was relieved by the sudden lightness.
“Yep.”
“Funny, so could Bonnie. She's got white stuff all over her paws and skirts . . . looks like lime or plaster dust, and I know that's not good for her. Are they building something up there?”
John glanced down at Bonnie, and then smiled reassuringly. “Oh, were you just up at the lighthouse?”
“Close to it.”
“Then that's nothing to worry about. There's been some repair work up there recently, so it could be plaster dust, but I have a feeling it's something else: ground-up clamshells.”
“Really?”
“Yes. A long time ago, when the lighthouse was manned, the road used to get pretty muddy. The Coast Guard had a whole truckload of stones and shells delivered, dumped on the road, to give their vehicles some traction.”
“Clam shell dust,” Kate said, smiling, thinking of the mountain of oyster shells at her brother's, of all the dust their broken pieces made. Feeling at home. “I should have known.”
“So—our dogs need a bath,” he said.
“The car wash?” Kate asked.
John paused. His heart was racing, and he felt like a teenage boy. This morning, lying on his bed, he had felt depression closing in. Right now, he felt like he could fly. What was happening to him, anyway? Kate smiled up, making the answer very clear, but he didn't feel like analyzing it.
“Our house is right over there,” he said, nodding at the headland, at the white saltbox that he and his family had left unoccupied this last month.
“You have a big bathtub?” she asked. “Because Brainer's a big dog.”
“Yes,” he said. “He is. And we do.”
“Then let's go,” Kate said, whistling for Bonnie.
He felt his cheeks stretch into a wide smile, and then he felt himself take Kate Harris's hand. It was small and cold, and he rubbed it a bit to warm it up. His hand must have been just as cold, because he noticed her doing the same thing.
Hearing the waves and the pounding of his own heart, he held Kate's hand and led her toward his house. When they got to the orchard, he jumped over the stream, turning to offer his hand. Smiling, she shook her head and leapt across on her own. He began walking along, when he realized that she had stopped.
Turning around, he saw her staring at the water. The brook was a thin trickle right now, frozen a bit along the sides.
“You should see it in the spring,” he said. “Then the streambed is really full.”
“The brook runs west,” she said, unable to look away. The dogs stopped to drink from the stream, getting their paws muddy.
John nodded. He had noticed that many years ago, but had forgotten along the way. “I guess it does.”
“A west-running brook is very rare,” she said. “Water always wants to run east, to the sea.”
“We have a rare brook,” he said, surprisingly happy that she would notice.
“I wonder if Willa saw it,” Kate said, staring. “We had one in Chincoteague . . . I loved it more than either of them did, Willa or Matt. When things got too much for me, after our parents died, sometimes I'd slip out of the house and go down to the brook.”
“By yourself?”
Kate nodded. “Just to get away. There was a big rock; I'd climb up on it. From there, I could see the sea, across the dunes. The waves were so powerful, I could hear them crashing on the beach. It sounded so loud . . . but the brook was quiet and peaceful.”
“A different kind of energy,” John said, and suddenly they stopped talking, to listen to the brook. Kate closed her eyes, and he could almost see her back home on her island, listening to the soft music of water playing over the stones. This was where she'd gotten the color of her eyes, he thought. That incredible gray, green, blue: the color of a west-running brook.
“It was my secret hour,” she said quietly.
“Your time alone,” he said.
She nodded, smiling.
“I feel like I'm having one right now,” John said, staring into her beautiful eyes. Kate seemed to feel the connection, took a step closer to him. “A secret hour. This is as peaceful as I've felt in . . . a long time.”
“Me, too,” she said.
John felt suddenly, amazingly, happy. He could have stayed there forever, but he took her hand again, reluctantly leading her away. Their dogs splashed through the water, then tore across the last stretch of field. The white house was right there. . . . They were almost home.
When Maggie got to Gramps's after school, she walked into the front hall and took off her coat. She left the white scarf on, though, because she liked to wear it all the time. It made her feel better somehow, and Maggie needed all the help feeling better she could get. Teddy was going to help her. . . .
“Teddy,” she called out. “You home yet?”
They were going to make place cards for the Thanksgiving table. It was Maggie's idea, because she liked to draw and because she thought everyone needed something to cheer them up. They'd take some of their father's thick stationery, fold it into squares that stood up, and draw pictures of pilgrims, Indians, and turkeys.
Walking through the house, Maggie looked for her brother. She knew it was a little early—he had said he wasn't sure how long practice would be, that she should just be patient and wait till he got home. But she hoped he was here already.
She smelled silver polish. Thanksgiving was just two days away. She felt sadness in her heart, missing her mother and their own house. All the big holidays made her feel this way—as if she had a huge hole in her soul that could never be filled.
Okay, Teddy wasn't there. Maggie felt upset and frustrated. She wanted to start on their project right away. Even more, she wanted to be home. At their house, not Gramps's. She wanted to polish her parents' wedding silver—the big turkey platter, the gravy boat with their initials entwined together in a swirling monogram. She wanted to wash the crystal glasses in water with a few drops of ammonia in it, and then dry them with newspaper—the best way to make them sparkle.
She wanted her own room. She wanted her own things—all her stuffed animals, her books, and her posters. She liked the smell of her house; it was different, somehow, from anywhere else. The salt air came in, bringing with it scents of seaweed, clamshells, and beach grass. Gramps's house was just enough inland that they didn't get it.
Standing in the hall, she suddenly noticed the envelope on the table. It had her name on it. With a surge of excitement, Maggie tore it open and found a note from Kate.
Dear Maggie, (she read)
Thank you for your letter. It meant a lot to me. I'm so glad you like the white scarf. It's almost Thanksgiving . . . one of my favorite holidays! Is it one of yours? I used to tell my sister, when she was your age, that being thankful was the best way to be—all the time, not just in November. We used to make lists of things we were grateful for . . . some of the things I remember were clouds, birds, the sea, books, the ponies, our brother (he made it onto the list most of the time, but not always!), and each other. One of our Thanksgiving traditions was going out onto the dunes, picking dried grasses and flow
ers for a centerpiece. Beach grasses are so beautiful in November; have you ever noticed? Golden, brown, silver . . . something else to be grateful for! Say hi to your family for me.
Best, Kate Harris
Maggie read the note twice. She had been feeling so sad when she'd first walked into the house, then so disappointed about Teddy not being there, but now she felt excited. Kate had given her an idea: She could go out to their house, walk down the path to the dunes, and pick a beautiful arrangement of dried grasses—it would look great on the table, and it might make Maggie feel a little closer to Kate.
She liked Kate so much. Thinking she was going to be their baby-sitter had made Maggie happier than she'd been since her mother died. Kate had seemed so real and fun and practical and a little sad. That was important. Maggie needed a friend who knew how it was to lose someone, what that was like.
Looking at the envelope a second time, Maggie was thrilled to see that it didn't have a stamp. Did that mean Kate was here, in Silver Bay?
She bit her lip. Gramps was downstairs in the basement with Maeve. She could hear their voices coming up the stairs with the smell of silver polish. If she asked him, he might start fixing her an after-school snack, wanting to hear about her school day. He might keep her from leaving . . . Teddy definitely would.
Maggie was grounded.
But maybe—just maybe—“grounded” didn't really apply to what she had in mind. Dad was just being overprotective. Ever since that new lady had been killed, everyone was being cautious. Maggie understood; she felt the same way, and she would never go someplace unfamiliar, NEVER get into a car with a stranger.
He had expressly forbidden her to go to their own house alone. But she wasn't exactly going to the house. She was going to the fields around the house, near the lighthouse . . . the grasses there were perfect.
If she just rode her bike out there, very fast, and filled her basket with dried grasses, she could be back before anyone even noticed she was gone. Teddy wasn't home yet, but he'd be there any minute.
