by Luanne Rice
“You saw him,” Rumer said. “Dad's getting old; what if something happens to him?”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said evenly. “It seems to me as if you've found someone to take your mind off Dad.”
Rumer sat silently, the red spots getting brighter. Elizabeth couldn't help noticing that her hair was completely natural: She was letting the silver melt in with the light brown. Elizabeth couldn't think of one close friend—in California, New York, Europe—close to her age who was just letting her hair color alone. The irony was, instead of making Rumer look older, the silver gave her the look of a wise child.
“Zeb?” Rumer asked, her blue eyes full of motion and passion.
“That'd be my ex-husband,” Elizabeth said. “Yes. Zeb.”
“I've been waiting for this.”
Elizabeth laughed, her heart in her throat. Controlling her younger sister had always been one of the things she did best. A well-timed look: a frown, a go-ahead smile, and a stop-right-there shake of the head. Disapproval in the voice, encouragement in the hug… all had been effective over the years. But right now the sisters were staring each other down, and Rumer was winning.
“Waiting for what?” Elizabeth asked.
“For you to ask me about Zeb,” Rumer said. “That's why you're here, isn't it?”
“I'm not allowed to come back to my own home? Without it being about Zeb?”
“You never have before,” Rumer said, ignoring the last question.
“Well, seeing Dad made me nostalgic for family and home. It's my son's birthday, he's here, and I decided to surprise you all.”
Rumer drew in a deep breath, as if pulling herself together. Then, reaching forward, she grasped Elizabeth's hands in hers. To Elizabeth's surprise, her heart was racing and her mouth was dry with emotion and apprehension.
“I'm glad you did,” Rumer said. “No matter what has ever been between us, I love you. And I'm glad to see you.”
Elizabeth laughed—she was exquisitely trained, and in her stage and film work she often had to react to comments she didn't really find funny. She found herself doing that now, using technique to communicate with her sister just to avoid the true, painful feelings that were coming up inside.
“Really?” she asked. “Because, when I walked up the hill and saw you kissing Zeb, I would have thought the opposite.”
“You're divorced, Elizabeth. I'm not worried about that anymore,” Rumer said softly, squeezing her hand before letting it go.
Then, going into the kitchen to make them some tea, Rumer left Elizabeth alone in their family living room. Elizabeth stared straight at the spot where their mother always put the Christmas tree and—out of nowhere—tears came to her eyes.
Gazing out the window, she looked at the beach. Many families were down there now, with their blankets and brightly striped umbrellas. Memories were flowing fast now, of her and Rumer and their parents there on a Sunday, trying to build the biggest sand castle ever; of her father buying them Good Humors; of watching Rumer and Zeb—twelve years old—go crabbing and feeling left out; of the swans on their island in the boat basin.
Wiping her eyes, she focused on the boats in the boat basin. They looked bigger than she remembered, and then she realized that the bridges leading out the creek to the Sound had been raised—to accommodate the larger sizes. More money, gaudier tastes: That explained the grossness next door as well as the bigger boats. She thought of that saying she'd seen emblazoned on the bumpers of yacht transporters—The only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys.
Staring at the boats, she did a double take.
There, lying athwartships a really hideous old lobster boat, was her son. She would know him anywhere: his long, lanky build, his golden brown hair, his California tan, his trademark red bandanna.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“He's always there,” Rumer said, coming in with a small silver tray holding mismatched blue and white china cups and a sugar bowl and milk pitcher covered with cabbage roses.
“On that disgusting boat?”
“Well, more like with the girl who owns it.”
“Who's that?”
“Quinn Grayson.”
“Lily's daughter?”
“Yes.”
“She has to be pretty messed up, losing her parents like that…”
“Zee—don't stir up trouble,” Rumer said softly. “She's a wonderful girl. I think she's been awfully good for Michael too. He's doing very well in summer school, talking about college; they're down there doing homework together right now. See the book?”
Picking up the binoculars, Elizabeth stared at the two teenagers. Yes, there was a book open on the seat between them, but all she could really see were their fingers interlaced, their mouths moving incessantly as if there were endless things to say to each other.
“What's he doing?” she asked.
“Elizabeth, they're in love,” Rumer said, laughing— Elizabeth thought—quite wickedly.
Elizabeth felt a black veil come across her spirit. She didn't need to hear this from her sister the same day she'd seen her kissing Zeb. Filled with rage, she turned on Rumer and stared her down.
“You don't have children of your own,” she said.
“No….”
“Michael's just your nephew—not your son. We went through this already when I was in rehab. You tried to take him over then, just the way you did right after he was born.”
“I've always loved Michael,” Rumer said simply.
“One thing you've never gotten right, Rumer,” she said, “is boundaries. They probably don't matter as much with horses, but with people, you really have to pay attention. He's my son.”
“I've never thought otherwise.”
“And Zeb married me.”
“I never forget that,” Rumer said solemnly, her gaze steady and dignified.
“Good,” Elizabeth said, feeling a shockingly primal hatred for her sister, wanting to rub the dignity right out of her face. She felt like the wicked stepmother, like an evil fairy, and she knew she would do anything in her power to tear Rumer and Zeb apart. And to take what was hers. Michael.
“Think about it. I'm going down there to see my son.”
“Mom—what are you doing here?” Michael asked, shocked to look up from where he and Quinn were sitting in her lobster boat in her slip at the boat basin.
“My God,” his mother said, holding out her hand. She was in her Queen of England mode. Imperious, royal, larger than life. “When did you grow six inches?”
Michael stood to take her hand and lean forward to kiss her. At first he thought she wanted to come aboard, but when he realized she was trying to pull him onto the seawall, he slid his hand free and went back to Quinn.
Quinn looked frozen, the way she got when something unexpected happened. She'd scrunch her neck down like a turtle trying to hide in its shell, and she'd give a severe frown as if trying to scare the person away. Right now her frown was wavering, trying to become a smile, wanting to make a good impression on Michael's mother.
“Well,” his mother said, flashing Quinn her megawatt movie-star smile. Not a good sign, and Michael's stomach fell—his mother had an ax to grind here, and Michael was starting to guess what it was. “Now, you look familiar. Whose daughter are you?”
“Lily Underhill Grayson's,” Quinn said. “I'm Quinn.”
“Oh, my heavens. Aren't you all grown-up!”
“Thank you,” Quinn said. Michael slid his arm around her protectively—she was relaxing, thinking his mother meant well, but something was coming. Michael wanted to be happy to see his mother—he had missed her this summer—but she had a strange, angry energy going, and right now he wanted her to disappear.
“I'm sorry about what happened to your parents,” his mother said, her voice laden with sorrow. Quinn accepted the statement with awesome dignity; she bowed her head, and then faced out toward the Hunting Ground, where her parents’ boat sank ten years before.
>
“Thank you,” Quinn said again.
“Too much tragedy.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Mom?” Michael asked, wanting to move her along. He knew her so well; she was building to a big dramatic statement. Maybe she'd let rip some embarrassing story about Michael's childhood.
“What's that you're studying?” she asked, craning her neck.
“Shakespeare,” Quinn replied.
“Romeo and Juliet,” Michael supplied.
“Oh, my God. I was Juliet the summer your father and I started dating,” she said. “Get him to tell you about it—it's just about the most romantic story you can imagine.”
“I've heard it,” Michael said.
“What was it?” Quinn asked.
“I'll tell,” his mother said. “I was appearing at the Lark Theater. Your father had come to see me with Aunt Rumer, but she left early… to take the train back here.”
“To Hubbard's Point?”
“Of course,” his mother said to Quinn. “Romances flourish here, that's for sure,” his mother said, smiling tenderly, and for a minute Michael thought it was all going to be okay. “Something in the air, in the water, the breeze…”
“Winnie says it's an aphrodisiac,” Quinn said.
“I'm not sure Winnie should be saying that to children….”
“We're not—” Michael began, but his mother silenced him with a smile.
“Anyway, your father had brought me roses…”
“With Aunt Rumer,” Michael said. “They'd bought them together, right? Before she left to go home on the train?”
“Oh, maybe. But anyway, on my way to the theater, I'd been wearing my lighthouse pin—the one my mother had made for me. It was my good luck piece; we're very superstitious in the theater, Quinn, and I never went onstage without touching it three times. That night on my way to the theater, I lost it. I had to skip my ritual. And I was very upset.”
“I can imagine,” Quinn whispered. “I'd die if I lost a pin my mother gave me.”
“Well. After the show, it was a lovely warm night… the crowds were strolling the Village streets, listening to music, on their way to restaurants… and as Zeb and I were walking along Great Jones Street—and I swear, I didn't even remember walking along that way earlier—” His mother gave a radiant smile, looking straight into Michael's eyes. “Go ahead, Michael,” she said. “Tell your friend what happened.”
“My dad found the pin,” he said quietly.
“Really?” Quinn asked, eyes sparkling.
“Yes,” his mother said, nodding at the sky. “Zeb just happened to look down, and there in the gutter along with you-can-only-imagine-what was my lighthouse pin.”
“That your mother had made for you,” Quinn breathed.
“So you see,” his mother said. “Romeo and Juliet has special significance for our family.”
“I like it too,” Quinn said, her voice full of awe.
“Where are you staying?” Michael asked, staring at her. People walking past had noticed her, pretending not to. It happened all the time, and he could see his mother eating it up.
“I was thinking, maybe I'd stay with you and your father.”
Michael's stomach dropped. Was she kidding? What about his father and Aunt Rumer? He had seen them walking down the street last night, holding hands. And the other morning, when he was walking Quinn over to Aunt Rumer's for their ride to school, he could have sworn he saw his father coming down the stairs, tucking his shirt into his pants.
“Uh…” he began.
“Why, Michael? Don't you want me there?” she asked.
How could he tell her that he liked things the way they were right now? His father was a different man: funny, nicer, more relaxed than he'd ever been. He and Michael ate dinner together, and Michael didn't even mind. In fact, one night when his father had gone over to Aunt Rumer's for clam chowder, Michael had missed their time together.
“Never mind,” his mother said briskly. “I can tell from the look on your face that you don't.”
“It's not that, Mom”
“A girl knows when she's not wanted, right, Quinn?”
Quinn was back to frowning, frozen, not understanding the weird dynamics of life in the Mayhew family
“How sweet that you've found each other again,” his mother said after a few moments, gazing thoughtfully into the marsh.
“ ‘Again?’ “ Quinn asked.
“Mom?”
“Darling, you played together when you were children. Now, Amanda never knew him at that age. They were all grown-up…”
“Hey,” Michael said, shaking his head to stop her.
“Amanda?” Quinn asked, frowning, looking at Michael for answers.
“Michael's friend,” Elizabeth said. For some reason, calling her his friend instead of girlfriend just made things worse. Quinn looked stunned, then devastated as her shoulders began to cave in on her chest.
“What do you mean, all grown-up?”
“Well, there are childhood friends and grown-up friends,” Elizabeth said.
“You knew Dad when you were kids,” Michael shot out. “And you married him.”
His mother laughed. “Actually he and your aunt were the childhood friends—I kind of watched them from afar, till the time was right. A little like you and Amanda. She's heartsick this summer, I hear.”
“Why?” Quinn asked. “What happened?”
Michael wanted to grab the starter cord, pull as hard as he could, drive the boat far away and leave his mother talking to herself. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his hands were cold and clammy. He knew Quinn wasn't his mother's kind of girl, and he knew that the story had more to do with that than anything else. “Mom, don't,” he said quietly.
“She misses Michael,” Elizabeth said. “She can barely get through the summer without him. Her father's a dear friend of mine; he asked if Amanda could come east to visit, and I said I didn't see why not.”
“I didn't know you were seeing someone else,” Quinn whispered, reaching for Michael's face, going pure white.
“No, Quinn,” Michael said, leaning forward. “Only you.”
“Are you sure?” Quinn begged, grabbing for his hand.
Michael held her, his heart pounding out of his chest, his mother standing right there, staring at them. Why would she try to do this? Just because she'd screwed things up with his father, she thought everything about Hubbard's Point was bad. Soothing Quinn, feeling her shake in his arms, Michael suddenly felt the truth about love come flooding in.
It wasn't about what you wanted, or what you thought should happen, or what everyone else judged was best: Love was about what was. It was bigger than anything Michael had ever imagined. It had nothing to do with Amanda's beauty or his mother's friendship with her father or the Tightness of their being together.
Love was much different than any of that. Michael had learned this summer that the real truth was often different from the stories told about it. Watching his father with Aunt Rumer, he had seen him happier than he ever had before—and that totally contradicted the things his mother used to tell him. And Michael knew, because holding Quinn, he was also holding his own true love in his arms right then, at that moment, and he never wanted to let her go.
As he looked up at his mother, he could see that she knew she'd made a mistake. She had thought Michael was playing around—that this was puppy love or something, that it didn't matter. Her eyes had a dawning look of upset in them, as if she wanted to reach out and pull her words back from the air.
“Michael?” she asked, staring at him, but Michael closed his eyes—not to shut her out but to let Quinn in.
“Quinn,” he whispered into her wild auburn hair. “Don't cry. Don't be afraid. I love you…”
But Quinn tore away, scrambled up onto the seawall and ran. And Michael ran right after the girl he loved, leaving his mother standing speechless and alone.
After Elizabeth went down to see Michael, Rume
r met Zeb behind the privet hedge. She felt as if they were a pair of illicit lovers stealing a few minutes together. They kissed with mad abandon, and they couldn't keep out of each other's arms. No one could see them from the street or beach.
“Why is she here?” Zeb asked when they stopped for a minute.
“For Michael's birthday.”
“No, that's what she says. There's another reason.”
“How do you know?”
“You know it too, Rumer. She heard about us— maybe your father told her, or a friend mentioned it. Or even Michael.”
“How could she know about us?” she asked, stroking the side of his face. It was lean and angular, cleanly shaven, and felt wonderful to her hand. “We didn't even know about us.”
“The rest of the Point did,” Zeb said. “Your father, Winnie…”
“Mattie,” Rumer said, agreeing.
“I'm worried,” Zeb said, his gaze direct and hardedged . “About what Elizabeth being here will mean to us.”
“I want to say it won't matter,” Rumer said. “But obviously it will. It feels very complicated. She's my sister, and I want to love her. I want to have a relationship like Marnie has with her sisters; like Dana had with Lily and Quinn has with Allie. I want us to be the kind of sisters I always thought we were, the kind our mother wanted us to be. That's what I've always wanted my entire life. And it's how we were as children… but not now.”
“Don't let Elizabeth change what's between us. It's ours, Rumer. Ours alone—don't let her have anything to do with it.”
Rumer pulled back to look Zeb in the eyes. They were blue and clear, the same eyes she'd known her whole life.
“I won't,” she said fiercely.
CRASHING THROUGH THE narrow path at the end of the beach, Michael could hear Quinn up ahead. He ran up the crooked rise into the woods where Fish Hill, the old hunting lodge, once stood. Here the trail grew narrow and dark, encroached upon by bushes and vines growing in from the sides. Past the offshoot path leading to the Indian Grave, straight on to where the woods stopped and Little Beach began.
Michael knew where she was going; Quinn had showed him once, a few weeks earlier, the spot where she had buried her diary long ago, the summer after her parents were lost. Slowing down, he looked around.
