True Blue (Hubbard's Point)

by Luanne Rice

  Settling in, waiting for the movie to start, Quinn wondered why she felt so uneasy. To the left, Long Island Sound glistened like black diamonds under the twilight sky. Straight ahead, the evening star and the crescent moon hung over the marsh and the path to Little Beach. She hoped the injured osprey was safe in his nest over there.

  “You could catch him on the way back,” Allie suggested.

  “Catch who?”

  “Quinn! You're not fooling me. You know who— Michael.”

  “Yeah, well, why would I want to catch him?”

  “I don't mean catch him like a lobster—I mean call to him. You know? Maybe he'd like to watch the movie.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Just try.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because you've been here a long time, and you know the ways of the beach. You could try welcoming him. As a matter of fact, I'm getting out of here so I don't hold you back.”

  “Do me a favor, and don't leave—”

  Quinn sighed. Allie threw back the top blanket, kissed Quinn's head, and walked away. Now Quinn was stuck waiting by herself, shivering like mad—and not from the sea breeze. Her stomach felt as if it were on a mad elevator ride: up to the top, down to the bottom. She felt like barfing.

  And then, walking back along the tide line—-just as Allie had predicted—came Michael Mayhew. He wore slouchy jeans and a black T-shirt, the bandanna covering his long hair. Quinn's heart picked up the pace— torn between wanting to duck down into her foxhole so he couldn't see her and facing the reality that Allie hadn't been all wrong about her liking him, she was momentarily frozen.

  “Hey!” she heard someone call, and then realized it was her own voice.

  Looking around, he changed direction and walked up to her.

  “Hey,” he said back, towering over her.

  “Did you hear about the osprey?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I was looking for it.”

  “You were?” she asked, surprised and impressed.

  “Yeah, my dad told me about what happened.”

  “He and Rumer saved its life.”

  “I know. He's pretty happy about it.”

  “Yeah?”

  Quinn tried to breathe. She felt almost like passing out, just from making small talk. It felt very strange to be having this kind of back-and-forth conversation with someone—it felt alarmingly normal.

  “Coming to the movie?” she asked next, almost shocking herself to death.

  “The movie?” He frowned, looking around. “That's what this is? They're showing a movie on the beach?”

  “Yep. Run up to your house for a blanket, dig a pit, and watch the show.”

  Michael stood there, feet planted in the sand, staring at the boardwalk as if he'd never seen a projector before. Mr. Phelan was threading the tape through the spools; his wife held a flashlight so he could see better. Darkness was coming fast—the movie would start in a few minutes.

  “Or…” Quinn said.

  Michael looked down into her eyes. What kind of abyss was she getting herself into?

  “Or you could sit here with me,” she finished.

  He didn't reply. He stood very still for a moment, gazing at her more deeply than anyone had ever done before. Quinn felt herself start to blush, but the feeling turned to a glow that warmed her all through. She pulled back the top blanket, and Michael crawled into her sandpit.

  “Welcome to my cave,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said, sitting up too straight for comfort.

  Very gently, with a hand seemingly not her own, Quinn touched the middle of his chest, easing him onto the sandy backrest. She felt the tension start to leave his body, through her fingers, as if they were a magnet pulling it out. He shivered, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Keep this beside you,” she said, handing him two of her lit sticks of punk, the thin trails of smoke taken by the east wind.

  “To ward off evil spirits?” he asked, joking.

  “Yes,” she said with perfect seriousness. “And to welcome the good ones.”

  “Really?” he asked, sticking it into the sand beside him. Now punk surrounded them, the sweet smoke filling the air like incense. Quinn considered his question, “to ward off evil spirits?” and thought—if he only knew. Hubbard's Point was an axis mundi—a place where the worlds met.

  The dead danced here—sometimes, on midsummer nights, she saw her parents holding each other on the rocks, turning around and around to music only they could hear. Rumer's mother had seen unicorns as a child, hiding in the fog as they walked among the cedar trees; when she followed, they led her to the cemetery, where her mother's ghost was standing on the hill with her ancestor and namesake, daughter of the drowned lighthouse keeper's wife, Clarissa Randall.

  “Evil spirits?” he prodded, still in a joking way.

  Quinn took a deep breath. She understood—based on her experience of losing her parents—that where very good existed, evil was never far away. Michael wanted to laugh about something Quinn never made light of.

  “You're not kidding, are you?” he asked.

  “I never kid about the spirits,” she said.

  He nodded; she could see him trying to figure her out.

  “I'm glad you've never lost your parents,” she said. “If you had, you'd understand.”

  Offshore, the lighthouse beam played across the sky.

  “I've lost them,” he said. “I told you on the boat the other day….”

  “I know you think you have,” she said in the softest voice she had ever heard herself use. “But it's different when they die. Believe me, it is.”

  At Aunt Dana's wedding, Quinn had considered the name Michael and thought “stone wall.” Now, looking into his eyes, she thought “lost boy.” The feeling behind the words melted her heart—and she fought it. Allie was coaching her from a distance: Be nice to him, Quinn could almost hear her sister say.

  “You going to lose it on me again?” Michael asked. “I'm waiting for you to start yelling.”

  “Huh. Very funny.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  The night breeze turned cool, and Quinn pulled the blanket up a little higher. She thought of how her parents used to spread this blanket on the beach and sit with their daughters for hours on summer days. Now, years later, it was ratty and moth-eaten.

  “I'm not laughing,” Quinn growled.

  “Not yet,” Michael said. “But the night's young.”

  “If you hate me so much, what are you doing in my pit?”

  “You invited me. And now I want to watch the movie.”

  “Right,” Quinn said. “The movie.”

  To her absolute shock, beneath the blanket's soft surface she felt Michael Mayhew reach for her hand.

  She had never held a boy's hand before. It felt big and strong, and when he squeezed hers, she felt the blood gush from her heart all through her body. It was a first for Quinn, holding hands at the beach movies—or anywhere—and she was so busy registering her amazement over how right it felt, she was bowled over with the shock of a second first: Michael kissed her.

  Quinn saw stars. She felt a primordial rush, like having high tide all through her body. The sensation filled her, then washed away, back and forth like the sea caressing the sand. Michael's mouth covered hers, hot and wet, as if they shared one skin.

  “What's going on?” she whispered.

  “I'm kissing you,” he said. “Would you like me to explain it to you?”

  “You're crazy,” she said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “The movie's starting…”

  “Sometimes people kiss at the movies,” he whispered.

  “Not me,” Quinn said as he slid his arms around her neck and she let him kiss her again.

  HE HAD TOLD her to watch for something.

  He said she would know it when she saw it.

  For twenty-four hours, since they'd saved the osprey Rumer found herself on
high alert. Almost in spite of herself, she found herself watching for him. Every time a car drove by, she would look up. Hearing bicycle wheels on the sandy road, she'd crane her neck. It was crazy, and she told herself to stop doing it.

  At work, she made a report to the state wildlife office, filling out forms about what had happened with the osprey. Every question carried her back to Zeb. He had invaded her mind, and although she fought to banish him, the feeling of his arms around her shoulders was too intense and real to push away.

  “What was it like?” Mathilda asked between patients, ruffling the wildlife forms.

  “It was like trying to operate on a waterspout,” Rumer said. “That bird had more energy than a hundred cats. His talons and beak could have done us in—”

  “I wish I'd been there.”

  “Well, I had an assistant,” Rumer said. “Sort of.”

  “You did?”

  “Zeb, if you can believe it.”

  “Dr. Larkin! You're holding out on me!”

  “It was nothing,” Rumer said. “We happened to be talking together, when the kids came running up to tell us about the osprey. What choice did he have?”

  “Did he do a good job?”

  “Not bad,” Rumer said, picturing Zeb's steady hands, the way he'd held that angry hawk without flinching.

  “Maybe we should promote him to vet-for-a-day,” Mathilda said, referring to the program Rumer had started two years ago, allowing high school kids to work in her office for a day to see what it was like to care for pets.

  “Not a chance,” Rumer said. “But would you mind taking over for me this afternoon? I want to see Blue; Edward and I are going to go riding down by the river.”

  “No problem,” Mathilda said. “But I still think that any guy who subdues an injured sea hawk ought to be welcomed into the family.” Then, as if she'd just realized what she'd said, she bit her lip. “Open mouth, insert foot,” she said.

  “Yes, we tried that already, didn't we?” Rumer asked. “Welcoming Zeb into the family…”

  “We're back to the question of the stripes,” Mathilda said. “Can a tiger change them?”

  “I don't know,” Rumer said. “And even if he can, would I be able to forgive and forget?”

  “Forget, no,” Mathilda said, giving her a hug. “But forgive, maybe.”

  Rumer nodded. She was itching to run out to the car, drive up to the farm, and ride Blue. Edward would be patiently waiting for her, the horses saddled and ready to go. Rumer pictured him there, working in the barn, taking care of his livestock. She wanted her heart to melt at the thought, to distract her from worrying about what Zeb wanted her to watch for—she wanted Edward to save her from the feelings that were welling up inside, making her flush and breathe too hard, just thinking about Zeb.

  Rumer was at work, and Sixtus was out for the day. Zeb stood in the yard, wondering whether his work would show up in the moonlight. He held the spool, slowly unwinding as he reached from one branch to the other, in an oak between their yards, the first tree Rumer had ever climbed. The sound of feet on the stone steps made him look down.

  “Uh-hem,” Winnie said, clearing her throat.

  “Caught me trespassing,” Zeb said.

  “Yes, I did, didn't I? Up a tree in Rumer's yard in the middle of the day… well, you'll have to pay a forfeit.”

  “What's that?”

  “You must talk to me. Right now… put down whatever you're doing and humor an old woman.”

  Zeb laughed, climbing down. As old as Winnie might be, he knew she would go on forever. She held out her hand, and he kissed it first, then held it as they stood in the clearing between Rumer's and his old yard.

  “You're as beautiful as ever,” he said. “And forever young.”

  “Darling, I shan't be singing at the Met again anytime soon. Or even at the Bushnell. Gone are the days of Moshe Paranov and Dr. Nagy, my two beloved friends. They did so much to bring opera to Hartford. Previously, Connecticut was Siberia as far as that went. They hired me, and, oh, it makes me so sad. I'm the last…”

  “But you're still here, Winnie,” Zeb said, moved to see tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. He put his arm around her thin shoulders. “I know it's hard.”

  “You understand, don't you?”

  He nodded. “To have lived a life; to have amazing connections with people you value—cherish—and to have those bonds broken.”

  “Our careers are oddly alike,” Winnie said, drying her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “We both attained a measure of fame for doing work we loved. I've been worried about you, you know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you've come to earth after a decade of flying to the stars.”

  “Yep,” he said, holding her tighter. “I have.”

  “I flew to the stars myself,” she said. “Onstage in New York, Milan, Venice, even Hartford…”

  “Was it hard for you to… alter your career?” Zeb asked, choosing his words carefully.

  “How diplomatic of you,” she laughed. “You mean when my voice could no longer draw audiences and I had to teach instead? Yes, it was hard.”

  Zeb just stared at the sky, seeing bright diamond stars within the daylight blue.

  “Will it be difficult for you to administer a lab?” she asked. “To be the one studying the flights instead of flying?”

  “Yes,” he said, his stomach falling. “It will be.”

  “Perhaps you'll tell one of us,” she said, “what happened to you up there.”

  “Someday,” he said, still seeing constellations up above. “Maybe someday”

  “Life goes on, Zeb. I could choose to be despondent, no longer performing for packed houses, but here I am, on terra firma, here at Hubbard's Point.”

  “Where everyone loves you,” Zeb said.

  “The same is true of you,” she replied.

  “Not everyone…” Zeb said.

  “Ah, Rumer,” Winnie said, nodding. “Our dear Dr. Larkm.”

  “I'm sure she wishes I'd just blast off and go back to where I came from.”

  “You came from Hubbard's Point,” Winnie chuckled.

  “I mean California,” Zeb said. “Where the lab is.”

  “Seems you have work to do right here. The children told me about the osprey you and Rumer saved. Now when I watch them fish in the cove in front of my house, I think of my dear friend Zebulon Mayhew, and his newfound healing touch.”

  “Thanks, Winnie.”

  “And it's obvious,” Winnie said, touching the spool in Zeb's left hand, smiling directly into his eyes, “that your work here is not done.”

  “It's just something stupid,” he said, feeling embarrassed that she'd seen him.

  Winnie shook her head. “No, darling. It isn't. All the great operas tell stories of doomed love. Missed chances, dire illness, broken hearts, betrayals… I have sung them all.”

  “Any advice for me?” Zeb asked.

  “Of course,” Winnie said, her eyes sparkling.

  “I'm listening.”

  “In opera, the greatest loves end in tragedy. At Hubbard's Point, that doesn't have to be so. Your love for Rumer began in Act One, the years of your childhoods. Whatever foolish things you did with Elizabeth, that's Act Two. Over and done with.”

  “And now…”

  “Now, this summer, is Act Three,” Winnie said, touching his hand, then the wooden spool.

  “What do I do?” he asked, really wanting to know, needing the wisdom of this old woman who had loved both him and Rumer for so long. He had told himself that all he wanted was forgiveness, but the other day, holding Rumer after they had released the hawk, he had known it was much more. He waited for Winnie to speak.

  “What you do, dear boy,” Winnie said quietly with perfect seriousness in her green eyes, “is not turn back. Don't let her talk you out of it. And don't be afraid…”

  “Don't be afraid of what?” he asked.

  “Of a grand gesture or two,” she said, tapping
the spool and kissing his cheek. “Now, I have two voice students about to arrive. I must depart…”

  “Thanks, Winnie.”

  When Zeb looked up to see her go, he caught sight of the osprey, wheeling overhead, flying in wide circles. He hovered in the air, borne by the breeze. He made it look so easy—-just floating in the air, lazily flying over the beach and sea. But Zeb knew the bird was hunting, fighting to stay alive, riding through all the dangers hidden by the beautiful day.

  Watching Winnie disappear behind the hedges of her own yard, her bright caftan sweeping behind her, Zeb grabbed the lowest branch and pulled himself back into the tree. The thought of Rumer filled his heart, and with desire and hunger for her growing stronger by the minute, he resumed moving from limb to limb, continuing what he had been doing before Winnie had come.

  By the time Rumer got home from work that night, all she wanted was a swim and a cup of tea. Her head was throbbing. Even riding along the river on Blue with Edward beside her on Liffey, it took all her effort to concentrate on what Edward was saying. She watched every raptor soaring overhead, wondering what kind of recovery the osprey was making, feeling the thrill of holding Zeb after the release.

  Now, pulling up in front of her house, she saw the yellow machinery and the crowd gathered, and put her head down on the steering wheel.

  “Rumer, just look!” Annabelle cried. “Contractors and workers have positively invaded Cresthill Road! It started late this afternoon—panel trucks, dump trucks, vans, and a backhoe all rumbled under the trestle and down to the Point like an army on the move.”

  “It's true,” Winnie said, standing in her flowing white, green, and orange gown, flanked by two of her voice students. “As dramatic as Annabelle is making it sound, it was even worse to see.”

  Hecate sidled through her shady yard like a timid animal afraid of the light to peer around her garage. Annabelle's daughters, dressed in beach things, crossed their arms and shook their heads.

  “Where's my father?” Rumer asked, but she glanced around for Zeb. The workmen were in his old yard, talking to the new owner.