Safe Harbor

by Luanne Rice

  “Hire me?” He almost laughed, but didn’t. “For what?”

  “I want to know what’s down there.”

  “You want a topographical map? Like the kind oceanographers use?”

  Quinn nodded. She thought of sonar bouncing off the bottom, hitting seamounts, guyots, trenches, or whatever the Long Island Sound equivalent might be. She imagined sound waves finding schools of bluefish, whales, and mermaids. She pictured them locating the wreck of her parents’ boat.

  “I could help you with that,” he said.

  “It has to be before we leave,” she said.

  “Leave?”

  “Aunt Dana doesn’t plan on staying. She says she’s not, but I can tell—she’s taking us back to France.”

  “How do you know?”

  Was it her imagination, or did Sam look surprised, even upset?

  “Because she’s not painting. And she’s not sailing. Her and Mom’s old boat is just sitting in the garage. If Aunt Dana were really staying, she’d have launched it by now. When we visit her in France, she’s always sailing. She’s just killing time here until it’s time to go.”

  “I hear you’re a good sailor.”

  “Used to be. Now I hate it.”

  Sam sat quietly, taking that in. His elbows rested on his knees, and his bare feet were sunk deep in wet sand. The incoming tide splashed his—and Quinn’s—ankles, but he hardly seemed to notice.

  “You think she’s really going back, huh?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

  “Can I hire you?”

  “Sure.”

  “How much?”

  “Let me think about it,” he said.

  “Okay, on two conditions.”

  “What’s that?”

  “One, don’t tell my aunt about our deal.”

  “Fine. What’s the other?”

  “Don’t tell anyone but me what you find.”

  “What do you want me to find?”

  “I’m not ready to tell you.”

  “Fair enough. But why’s it such a secret?”

  “That’s for me to know. If it’s not a deal, just tell me.”

  “It’s a deal, Quinn.”

  “And you’ll let me know how much?”

  “Yeah. I will.” They shook hands.

  He stood then, and even though they hadn’t really settled the details like when, where, and how much, Quinn stood, too, and covered the fire with sand. When he turned his back, she quickly buried her diary. Glancing to make sure he wasn’t looking, she left the gift on the rock. Then she ran ahead, to lead him through the dark path on the way back to the main beach.

  Overhead, stars and fireflies lit the trees. Quinn didn’t think it was pretty or anything. She was just noticing. Bats swooped down to circle their heads, and neither she nor Sam even flinched. That was a good sign. He didn’t scare easily.

  Something about the walk made Quinn feel different. Not good, not even quite hopeful, but different. As if life in the not too distant future might change slightly.

  If you’d asked her last year, Quinn would have thought change was the dumbest idea she’d ever heard. Why change what was almost perfect? She had lived in a house full of love. Sailing had been her joy and her dream. Her parents had their secrets, but back then she hadn’t known they had the power to destroy. No, Quinn had been ignorant in her dumb, innocent bliss.

  Now change sounded okay. Not a big upset or transformation, like moving to France, but a small one, like knowing the truth. She was going to hire Sam, and someday soon she would know enough to change a little.

  DANA WAS WAITING by the door when they got home. Quinn ran past, as if nothing had happened. She grabbed her plate from the oven and took it to eat upstairs, in front of her own TV. When Sam came in, Dana gave him a grateful look.

  “You found her. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The coffee was on, so Dana fixed a tray with cups, milk, and sugar and carried it into the living room. Allie was up in her room too. With the windows open, the sound of waves breaking on the beach came up the hill; it should have been restful and lulling, but Dana felt churned up inside.

  She set the tray on a glass table. The seating area was cozy: one sofa flanked by two armchairs. The table was covered with books, magazines, votive candles in low crystal holders, a blue china bowl filled with moonstones, and four flat stones delicately painted with flowers by Lily.

  “Are you sure you don’t have kids of your own?” she asked, sitting at one end of the sofa as he took the adjacent chair.

  “Yes,” he laughed. “Why?”

  “Because you’re so good with them. I’m sorry for not remembering—do you have younger brothers and sisters?”

  “No, I’m the youngest. It’s just me and Joe.”

  “Then how do you do it? Tell me fast, because I have a lot to learn.”

  “I hang out with Clea and her family sometimes. She’s my sister-in-law’s sister, and she has a boy and girl about Quinn’s age.”

  “Clea and Caroline Renwick,” Dana said. “And their sister, Skye. They ran in a different crowd than Lily and me. When there was a party at Firefly Beach, we’d hear the music carrying across the water and sneak out and run down the beach to see.”

  “What did you see?”

  “It was like another world,” Dana said, staring out the window as she remembered. “We felt like two Cinderellas peeking into the ball. People drinking champagne, dancing under the stars, swimming at night …”

  “Another world for me too,” Sam said. “When Joe married Caroline, they invited me inside. I wasn’t sure I belonged at first. Took me a while to figure out they meant it.”

  Dana heard the insecurity in his voice. It lasted only a moment, and then it was gone. But hearing it made her remember how he had looked as a little boy.

  She could see him in his faded shorts, ripped and mended T-shirt, and dirty sneakers, next to the other kids in their yacht club clothes and new Top-Siders. She remembered his cowlick and the frown line between his eyebrows. Looking at him now, tall, slender but muscular, relaxed and leaning on the sofa’s arm, she felt something jump inside.

  “The outside looking in,” Dana said.

  “That’s it. I never knew you and Lily ever felt that way.”

  She nodded. “I think it’s what made me like you so much in the first place.”

  He didn’t reply, and she wasn’t sure, but even sitting in the dark he seemed to be turning red. “You ever feel it now?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” she said quietly, gazing out the window again. “I think a lot of artists do. We don’t quite fit in, and somehow that feeds our creativity. We have to create other worlds to feel right.”

  “Your worlds are underwater,” he said. “Your paintings, I mean. All that blue … so many different shades. You wouldn’t know unless you spent a lot of time on boats.”

  Right now, staring at the night sea, Dana was seeing blue. So dark it was almost black, the water was flecked with starlight and just the hint of a rising moon.

  “Underwater worlds,” Sam continued. “The water column: the sea bottom, groves of seaweed, marine life, always the mermaid.”

  “The what?” Dana asked, her voice trembling.

  “The mermaid.”

  No one spoke. The only sounds were the waves breaking and a far-off boat engine. “How do you know?”

  “Well, I see it,” he said, looking directly into her eyes.

  Again, she felt that strange jump inside. He watched her steadily, his gaze open and knowing, and Dana had to look away.

  “No one else does,” Dana said. Then, correcting herself, “Except one person.”

  “Lily?”

  Dana nodded. “I painted mermaids for her. I always did. But I camouflaged them so no one else could see. I hired a model so I could get it right. But even she didn’t know what I was doing… .” She laughed softly, rem
embering Monique’s profound lack of interest, the way she would just lie there, her mind a million miles away. That was good, Dana thought now. It kept her out of Lily’s and my world.

  “Where’d you find a mermaid model?”

  “She was human. One hundred percent human,” Dana said quietly.

  “Well, you fooled me. The mermaids you paint look like they belong in textbooks of pelagic species. How do you do it, blend them into the scene?”

  “I worked their tails into the kelp, I turned their scales into a school of fish. No one else sees them.”

  “Not even the girls?”

  Dana shook her head.

  “I guess I see them because I was once rescued by them. That’s how it felt that day in Newport. When I came to with my head bleeding, being kept afloat by you and Lily.”

  “Oh, Lily would have loved that. You thought we were mermaids.” Dana smiled, not telling him that she loved it too.

  “Have you painted any of the Sound?”

  “Not since I’ve been back,” she said, her chest tightening. “Home is tricky. I don’t find it easy to paint here.”

  “No?”

  “I always live far away,” she said. “I’m not exactly sure why, but it seems to feed my painting. Where I live is always beautiful but always unfamiliar. Lily used to say I thrive on being off-balance.”

  “Quinn feels off-balance now,” Sam said.

  Dana glanced over, waiting for him to go on. Suddenly, the darkness seemed too much, so she leaned over and lit the candles on the table. His eyes glowed, and his skin looked quite tan. In this light, she could see the muscles in his arms. They looked very strong and well-developed, as if he spent as much time working out as in his lab. She stared at the way his upper arms strained against the short sleeves of his white polo shirt, and she found herself feeling incredibly attracted to him.

  “She does?” Dana asked, blushing as she looked away.

  “Well, she doesn’t sail anymore.”

  “I noticed.”

  “And she wants you to paint.”

  “I know. She said that before you came.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I’ll start soon.” Was it a lie or a promise? A breeze came through the open window, and Dana watched the candle flame flicker. It looked almost as unsettled as she felt. She loved talking to him, hearing the insights he had into her niece.

  “Well, it’s getting late,” he said, setting his coffee cup down on the table. “What time do you want me back here?”

  “Back here?”

  “In the morning. Actually, I can’t make it tomorrow. I have to analyze some data coming in from Bimini, turn it around, and send it to Lunenburg. Friday I have some meetings at Yale. But how about Saturday?”

  “Sam,” Dana began, wondering what she was missing. “What are you talking about?”

  He stood up, stacking his and Dana’s cups on the tray.

  “To get the boat ready,” he said. “So we can launch it.”

  “The boat …”

  “The one in the garage. Quinn told me about it. She might not want to, but you’re going sailing, Dana.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah, you are,” Sam said, and the way he said it made her start to smile back, sent a shiver down the length of her spine that had nothing to do with the breeze coming through the open window.

  CHAPTER 9

  “I NEED SOME MONEY,” QUINN SAID MATTER-OF-factly.

  “For what?” her aunt asked.

  “Things,” Quinn said. Then, taking a deep breath because she knew she had to be patient, and because Aunt Dana wasn’t up on kids and finances, she made sure to speak kindly. “You’re not supposed to ask.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re supposed to trust me.”

  Aunt Dana was sitting outside on the stone terrace, reading her mail, waiting for Grandma to come over for tea. The white market umbrella was up and the pots of geraniums and petunias were in full bloom. Aunt Dana wore a big straw hat and dark glasses, and she looked as if trust for Quinn was the furthest thing from her mind. Staring silently, she let the letter drop to her lap.

  “I know,” Quinn said. “You’re thinking I constantly run off and mouth off. ‘Why should I trust you?’ is what you’re about to say, right?”

  “No. I was about to say ‘How much money do you need?’ ”

  Quinn could barely smile. This was too easy, and now she felt guilty for the move—Aunt Dana was a sitting duck. She was trying so hard, wanting her nieces to accept her. She’d probably give Quinn anything she asked for. Calculating fast, Quinn figured she could get Sam to do the work for fifty clams.

  “Fifty dollars,” she said.

  “Hot dog stand,” Aunt Dana said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ll have to earn it. You could get a paper route, but I’m sure the Point’s already covered. If you have a hot dog stand and charge a dollar fifty each, you’ll have to sell only thirty or so hot dogs. Not counting sodas. I’ll front you the startup costs.”

  “Mom never made me work,” Quinn said, outraged. “She gave me an allowance.”

  “How much of an allowance?”

  “Five bucks a week.”

  Opening her bag, Aunt Dana pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Here. Now you have to earn only forty-five.”

  “Who’s that letter from?” Quinn asked, changing the subject and making it sound like an accusation.

  “Jonathan Hull.”

  “Who’s that?” Quinn asked, staring at the onionskin envelope postmarked Honfleur, France.

  “My old boyfriend,” Aunt Dana said, going back to reading her letter and leaving Quinn with her mouth wide open and the five-dollar bill flapping in the summer wind. Aunt Dana had had many boyfriends over the years, but Quinn had no idea that one of them was still in the picture—she could say “old boyfriend,” but if he was in the past, what was the letter all about? Quinn thought of Rumer Larkin, the lady who lived a few doors down. She was about Aunt Dana’s age, but she was already one of—what were they called?—“Les Dames de la Roche.” The old ladies of the Point who never married, didn’t need men. Her mother had seen a unicorn once. Rumer helped hurt animals, and Quinn had heard her talking to them. They were weird, but in a cool way. If only Quinn could get Aunt Dana to be a Dame de la Roche—and forget about that Jonathan Hull guy back in France. Recovering eventually, she walked through the sliding door into the house.

  The brass box was back on the mantel. Quinn went to stand before it. This was the little altar she visited every day, the exact reason she didn’t want her parents’ ashes being scattered anywhere. They were right here, where Quinn needed them.

  “She has a boyfriend,” she said out loud. “In France. No wonder I feel her wanting to go back there. And she’s making me work to earn the money to hire Sam. It’ll be worth it: I’ll find out everything that happened to you. Whatever it was, I’ll know. And I’ll take care of your debt… .”

  Quietly, she listened. If her parents could talk to her, if she could hear their voices, she believed she knew what they would say: We love you, we love you, we love you so much.

  But if they loved her so much, why had they died?

  SATURDAY MORNING Dana got up early. Knowing Sam would be there by nine, she went down to the garage to clear things out from around the boat. The sky was hazy with locusts humming in the trees, letting her know the day was going to be hot. The girls had ridden their bikes to the post office and then were going to the store to buy supplies for their hot dog stand. Dressed in work clothes, drinking a second cup of coffee, Dana felt more excited than she had expected.

  The old boat looked tired. Its trailer was rusty, one tire flat. The paint was peeling, and the bottom was coated with very old, dried algae. She assembled scrapers, wire brushes, paper masks, and a new can of antifouling bottom paint.

  A bushel of kindling and a paper bag of soda cans stood behind the trailer. Dana cleare
d them away, then moved several rakes and garden tools. She righted a tipped-over flowerpot and moved Mark’s fishing rods to the back wall. Several lures were lightly hooked to a wooden beam. Working them free, she reached for his tackle box to stow them inside.

  The plastic box was padlocked.

  That surprised her. No one locked a tackle box. What could possibly be inside—rusty hooks, worn leaders, lead sinkers? Dana jiggled the small brass lock, moving the hasp. Maybe Mark hadn’t wanted the girls to hurt themselves on fishhooks. Or perhaps he had found a new place to hide valuable documents, like the deed to the house.

  Dana worked the lock a little harder. She tugged hard, examined the padlock. This was interesting. Her curiosity building, she held the box before her eyes as if it were a Christmas present. She shook it. Still, the lock didn’t give. Bemused and knowing she’d get to it later, Dana set the box down and stuck the lures back where she’d found them.

  Soon afterward, Sam pulled up out front. He wore his painting clothes: an old T-shirt and shorts stained with that distinctive chalky, royal blue paint used on boat bottoms.

  “Looks like you’ve done this before,” she said.

  “I paint my boat every year,” he said. “It’s a ritual of spring.”

  Dana offered him coffee, but he said he’d stopped for some on the way. They got right to work. They wore white masks even for scraping off the accumulated barnacles and algae. The bottom paint was the most toxic stuff there was and would prevent future growth. Glancing over at him, around the edges of his mask, Dana noticed that he had sleep wrinkles on one side of his face.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” she asked.

  When Sam looked over, she couldn’t miss the delight in his eyes peering over the mask. It sparked a shock of emotion in her, and she smiled at him. “Yes, thanks for asking. Did you?”

  “I did,” she said. “Something about that old house just lulls me to sleep. It’s like being in a rocking cradle.”

  “Because it’s your childhood home?”

  “I guess so,” she said, vigorously scraping. “All those happy memories.”