“Did I not tell you it is dangerous?” he said, exasperated. “Do not go out into that bay, Alice. Ever!”
I pushed the paddleboat out, but Henry grabbed the stern and pulled back on it, with amazing strength.
“Okay, okay!” I said and relented. “I won’t go out.” Frustrated, I walked back up the jetty with Henry behind me. “I hope you’re satisfied,” I said over my shoulder. “Fifty dollars down the toilet!”
“You have a stubborn streak, do you not?” Henry said, striding up the pier after me.
“So my dad says,” I replied, “but it’s my life, and I’ll do what I want with it.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I told you, I’m trying to get over my fear of the water. I figured I’d take some lessons, ease into it myself. If no one else wants to help me, I’ve gotta help myself. What’s it to you anyway?”
Henry pulled my arm to stop me from walking. Then he paused and squared his hands on his hips, looking out over the bay, thinking as though weighing a decision. “You are that determined to go into the water?”
I nodded. “Yes. If I will ever cure my aquaphobia, I have to get back out there. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear every time you’re on a boat or near a swimming pool? It’s horrible living here, surrounded by all this water.”
Henry looked straight in my eyes, his blue irises glinting in the sun. “Fine,” he said. “Then come with me.”
I curiously followed him down the shoreline, still wearing my life vest. We left the Lovers Point marina behind and walked half a mile down the beach, past some old sycamore trees to another jetty with a couple of boats docked. Henry stopped at a small sailboat at the end. It was about twenty feet long, with a huge main sail the color of sky-blue. On the side of the boat the words Evening Tide were scrawled in dark blue; this is the same vessel I saw the night of the party.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, ushering me onto the boat.
“Is this yours?” I asked, marveling at the old boat I’d been so eager to find.
“If you are so determined to go in the water, someone has to teach you; I would rather it be me.”
I smiled, still terrified of going in the water, but being with Henry calmed me down somehow, so I climbed aboard.
“Sit up there, near the front,” Henry instructed.
I did as I was told and took my position near the bow, on one of the wooden crossbeams. Henry untied the boat from its dock. Then he expertly steered the boat out of the harbor and into the bay.
From my position, cross-legged near the bow, I watched him hoist the sail. His face solemn with the breeze blowing through his hair. His blue eyes narrowed as he faced the wind, looking out to sea—his handsome, chiseled features exposed to the salty elements. I enjoyed the scent of the breeze as it caressed my own hair, and for a moment, I was at peace.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m okay. I mean, I’m not seasick, and I don’t sense a panic attack coming on or anything,” I answered truthfully. Being with Henry gave me a sense of safety, just like when he’d pulled me out of that watery tomb.
The wind huffed, and the sail billowed; we soon found ourselves gliding out of the bay. I saw a distant Connor outside his surf shop and waved. The town of Pacific Grove left far behind, its quaint houses and rooftops but a distant memory, as we headed out into the expanse.
I leaned back and settled into the nook of the boat. The sea breeze ruffled my hair and the white waves danced like graceful ballerinas around us—I was having the time of my life!
A confident sailor, Henry’s whole body took on an imposing stance as he steered the boat. I felt at his mercy but that was all right with me.
“Where did you learn to sail?” I asked.
“Oh, I’ve been sailing for a long, long time,” Henry said cryptically as he pulled the main sails with the rope, “ever since I was a kid.”
“In San Francisco Bay?”
“Yes,” he said, his strong chin jutting out to sea. “My Pa taught me how to sail before I could run. We took fishing trips around the bay when he was not working. We would sneak out of the house early, before Ma got up. Often, we stayed out all day, just the two of us, fishing in the bay.”
“Sounds nice,” I said, finding something adorable about the old-fashioned way he spoke of his parents, especially calling them “Pa” and “Ma.” It reminded me of the times I’d spent with my own dad. We’d had some quality times together, but over the past few months, those had been overshadowed by my mother’s death.
“How are you feeling now—seasick?” Henry’s voice full of concern, “Not afraid are you?”
“No, I’m fine,” I said and meant it. No signs of the terrible nausea or the overwhelming fear that usually assaulted me when on the water. “For some reason, I feel very calm when I’m with you.”
Henry nodded and seemed pleased, but he kept his eyes out to sea, on the distant horizon.
I looked furtively around, wondering if I would catch another glimpse of the mysterious island.
“What are you searching for?”
“Er…just keeping my eyes out for dolphins,” I said nonchalantly, “or whales. It’s almost their migration season,” I said, having learned from my father that we sailed directly into the path that grays would take when moving on to warmer waters.
I raised my right hand theatrically over my eyes, trying to shield the glare of the sun as I made a point of spying imaginary dolphins. I started to wonder about the island. Had I really seen it or was it just a hallucination?
Henry squinted at some far-off horizon, and a frown appeared. “A storm is coming in. I should take you back.”
“A storm? Connor said it would be calm today.” I looked out to sea, but saw only a blue sky and endless horizon.
“Connor was wrong. I see trouble brewing,” my young captain said sternly.
“But I don’t see anything,” I replied, lifting my hand over my eyes and straining to catch a glimpse of any thunderclouds that might herald a storm.
“It is coming; believe me,” said Henry. “When you have been on the water as long as I have, you can tell the signs.” He pointed to the sky at a couple seabirds flying rapidly toward the shore. “Storm petrels. They always fly inland just before bad weather. We are heading back.”
He turned the boat around, disappointment crept in. I actually wanted to stay out in the bay a little longer. Scanning the horizon, I looked for any approaching storm. I saw nothing, but I recalled how quickly the fog crept in while kayaking with the group. I knew the sea to be a moody monster since experiencing one mood-swing firsthand.
Henry steered the boat back toward the marina, expertly pulling the sail and taking advantage of the winds. Ultimately, the strong winds proved him right, and I was glad he’d known enough to steer us back to shore. By the time we reached land and docked at the marina, a strong gale moved through, one that rivaled the windiest day in Chicago.
“Thanks,” I said, eyes shining with happiness. “I never thought I could feel at home on the water.” I found it quite the paradox to say those two words in the same sentence, “home” and “water.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
His politeness tickled me and how unlike other boys I knew at Monterey High. There was something strange about Henry and his manners plus the precise diction—certainly not modern.
“Can we go out again?” I asked hopefully.
He hesitated then slowly nodded. “Sure. Why not? Same time next week?” he asked.
I nodded, elated.
“Yes, and thank you. You’ve helped me more than you can ever know.”
Chapter Six: Ghost Stories
I smiled broadly, deep in thought as I walked up my road to the house. It had been a beautiful, memorable morning. I noticed the white chrysanthemums that grew on the lawns; they looked so lovely as their petals caught the glorious sun. Something about being with Henry made everything seem so much brighter.
“Mrs. Prescott?” I asked hesitantly, wondering how long the old woman had been sitting there. “Uh…what are you doing here?”
She stared at me with furious eyes. “I told you to stay away from the bay, but you did not heed my warnings.”
“Excuse me?”
“You didn’t listen to me, and now you have brought great trouble for all of us.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. This old lady is really beginning to scare me.
“The bay has taken him, just like it took my Johnny.”
“Taken who?” I asked, confused by her words. I assumed the Johnny she had referred to was her son, the one Christian had told me had drowned.
“That boy from the bay, the one you’ve chosen to keep company with…He is not one of us.”
Not one of us? What’s that supposed to mean? And how does she know anything about Henry?
“Mrs. Prescott, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this,” I said, walking past her.
The old woman sprang up from the rocking chair with surprising strength and agility for someone her age. Instantly, she stood just inches away from me, eyes unwavering and trancelike—so close I could feel her breath on my face.
“You can see it in his eyes. He has been taken by the bay.”
“Whose eyes?” I asked, doing my best not to tremble.
“The boy who rescued you. You may think he is like the other boys, but he is not. He has been taken, just like my Johnny.”
“What do you mean by taken?” I asked again, my voice wavering. She really did her best to scare me, and I began to wonder if she was certifiable. I heard sometimes the grief of losing a child can make someone go mad, and the self-proclaimed ghostbuster was definitely well on her way if not there already.
“There’s an evil menace floating over the water, an ancient curse. It is not safe. You are not safe.”
Ancient curse? Menacing evil? Christian also told me that Mrs. Prescott claimed to be the town ghostbuster, but I couldn’t fathom someone believing in such nonsense.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to brush past her.
Instantly, Mrs. Prescott grabbed me by the arm and started to shake me, her nails digging into my sleeve like tiny sharp knives. She wouldn’t let go, her fingers clamped around my arms like deadly vises.
“What are you doing?” I exclaimed, wrestling with the old woman. Finally, I managed to shake her off without hurting her.
She looked at me, long and hard. “I have warned you twice.” Then, without another word, she disappeared quickly down the garden path and hurried down the street.
I ran inside and slammed the door shut, trembling violently. She might have been just a crazy old woman who’d lost her son, but I had no idea why she had to involve me. She doesn’t know anything about Henry.
The house was empty, and silent other than the tick-tock of the clock in the hall. Dad and Sophie went to morning Mass and had obviously gone somewhere else afterward. I was glad, though, because I wanted to be on my own, and I didn’t want to have to face either of them in my frightened state. Tears began to well, and I wanted to bawl my eyes out.
I went into the kitchen and sat down. Pull yourself together, Alice, I urged myself. Once my knees stopped trembling and my eyes dried a bit, I noticed Dad’s note pinned to the refrigerator. I plucked it off and read it out loud: “Gone to the aquarium for a long lunch. Calamari is on the menu. Call my cell if you want to join us. See you later. Love, Dad.”
I crumpled up the note in my hand and immediately decided I preferred to stay home alone to think—especially about Henry.
The realization came to me that I didn’t know much about Henry either. He told me he came from San Francisco and he’d grown up on North Beach. He’d gotten a job on one of the fishing boats that trawled Monterey at sixteen. A first-class sailor, completely familiar with the waters along the coastline. He could predict the turn of the winds and tides, but even more uncannily, he seemed to understand what I was feeling. I knew nothing else about him.
The longer I pondered Mrs. Prescott’s strange words, the more troubled I became. In my attempt to answer the many questions swirling through my head, I needed to seek solitude and some fresh air, so I took a stroll to Magnolia Bakery on Lighthouse Avenue.
“Hi, Alice,” said Candy, the pretty blond waitress. “This is becoming your regular haunt. The usual? Skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Comin’ right up,” she said with a smile.
I watched her pour the coffee into the polystyrene cup. Sitting on the marble shelf in front—carrot cake. It reminded me of the conversation I had with Henry.
“You know, your cakes are so good. How long has the baker been here?” I asked, leaning on the counter.
“Who, George? Honey, George has been here longer than you and I have been alive, for over twenty years.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure as the day is long.”
“What about the last baker?”
“I don’t know too much about him. I just heard that he dropped dead in the kitchen a long time ago, a heart attack on the job. That’s dedication for ya.”
I frowned. Henry told me the last baker’s carrot cake was better, but—he wouldn’t know that if the last baker passed away two decades earlier. It made no sense, he’s too young. . .hmm. Maybe he got it mixed up with some other bakery.
“That’s strange. Remember when I came in here the other day, when I ordered the coffee and latte?”
“Sure, hon’.”
“Well, the guy with me said something about the former baker dying.”
“You were with a guy? I thought you were on your own.”
“No, I wasn’t alone. We sat in a corner, under the sycamore tree. I ordered two drinks and carrot cake, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember you coming in, sweetie, I just didn’t see your fella.” She then smiled, offered me my fresh latte, and went on to wait on the next customer behind me in line.
I walked out to the yard and sat in the same spot, under the boughs of the tree, where I’d had coffee with Henry. Mrs. Prescott’s words still rang in my mind as I sipped the latte.
As I sat there, the image of a particular person kept floating into my mind. From the first time I met him, he had been kind and understanding so I felt I could trust him. With excited urgency, I stood up to leave, half my latte sat untouched on the table.
Since it was a Sunday afternoon, I figured he might be home instead of out enjoying the sunshine. In the distance I saw Our Lady of the Cross church gleaming like a great white whale in the sunlight.
The minister’s house was a Victorian white clapboard, sheltered by a canopy of pine trees. It stood just up the hill from Lighthouse Avenue, just a few blocks from my house on Forest. A nice, roomy house, similar to the other houses in the neighborhood.
I skirted around the side, to the main door, and knocked on the pane of stained glass, hoping that someone would be in.
A shadow appeared through the glass, and Christian opened the door wearing his brown Sunday-morning suit, the same one he’d worn to Mass when I’d seen him. His face broke into a smile when he saw me. “Alice! What a surprise!”
“I need to talk to you. I’m not interrupting, am I?”
“No. We just finished lunch. You look worried. What’s wrong?”
“Mrs. Prescott thinks the bay is haunted,” I blurted out, hoping I didn’t sound stupid.
“Okay. Well, uh. . .I think you’d better come in,” he said, gesturing me inside.
It was strange walking into a preacher’s house after months of shunning God and the Church. Even though I was sti
ll a little angry with Him for letting my mother die, I tentatively entered hoping I would find some forgiveness there—if not some answers.
As is the case for most homes in Pacific Grove, the furniture looked antiquated and Victorian. An imposing grandfather clock stood in the hallway, with black-and-white family portraits adorning the walls. I looked them over, noting the baby pictures of Christian. He was really cute as a kid, with large eyes and a mop of hair, but no hint of the wonky nose. Portraits of his mom and dad hung beside his.
I followed Christian into the living room, and he shut the door behind us. All of a sudden I felt rather foolish being there, but it was too late to make a convenient exit.
“Now, tell me what happened,” he said, sitting down next to me on the lace-covered couch. “Would you like something to drink? I have some great herbal tea.”
I shook my head and started to tell him about the strange encounter with Mrs. Prescott. I skipped the part about going sailing with Henry or ever meeting Henry. “She was waiting for me when I returned home this afternoon. It was like she was possessed or something. She had the craziest look in her eyes.”
“Where were you before that?” he asked curiously.
I didn’t like his interrogation tactics, so I hesitated before answering. “Out in the bay with…a friend. See, I had this notion that I might be able to cure my aquaphobia by taking some sailing lessons, facing my fears head-on, but Mrs. Prescott keeps telling me to stay away from the water. She had the strangest look on her face today.”
“I see,” Christian replied, studying me intently.
My eyes wavered, and I wondered if he believed me. “You don’t seem entirely surprised by Mrs. Prescott’s superstitions,” I offered, trying to steer the conversation away from my sailing trip with Henry.
Christian paused then said, “I don’t believe they are just superstitions.”
“What? Don’t tell me you are buying into them, too,” I said, incredulous. Christian was a bright boy, well read and intelligent—and ran the local book club. Granted, his father was a minister, but that didn’t prevent Christian from being an independent, free thinker. At least I’d had that impression from the beginning—now I began to wonder.
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