by Luanne Rice
Dana didn’t reply. She thought of Mark’s locked tackle box in the garage and shivered. Why hadn’t she gone back and opened it before now? What was she so afraid of learning about her sister’s life?
“She’s keeping vigil on that rock,” Dana said. “She’d do it all night if I let her.”
“Maybe you should let her,” Sam said.
Dana looked over at him. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you someday,” Sam said.
“You know about keeping vigil?” Dana asked.
“For my father,” Sam said.
Dana wanted to ask him why, but just then she noticed that Quinn’s flashlight had begun to bob through the woods, across the rocks on her way home. Sam had seen it too, and he turned back to Dana.
“We’re together on this?” he asked.
The word “together” was too strong. It made Dana think of being part of a couple, or a team. She shook her head, but Sam pressed on.
“You’ll let me take her out to the site?”
Dana hesitated, but she nodded yes.
“I’m coming back tomorrow.”
“To go out there?” Dana gestured at the window.
“No, not yet. I can’t use the boat till the marine biology summer session’s done with it.”
“Then why?”
“Dana, what do you think?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Stop it, Sam,” she said, her heart beginning to pound.
“You know, don’t you? How I feel—”
She shook her head hard, pushing him away. She felt a sob press against her throat. “Stop talking like that. I’m trying to fill a role here. It’s hard enough. My own life’s turned inside out—”
“I know, Dana. I want to help.”
“Help Quinn, then. Not me.”
“What did I do to hurt you?” he asked, his forehead lined with emotion and worry.
“Nothing!”
“Someone did, then. Tell me, Dana. I’d take it away if I could.”
“You don’t know how,” she said, shocked by the bitterness in her own voice. She had heard the saying Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but she had never before been the woman scorned.
“What happened, Dana?” he asked softly.
She pictured Monique’s pretty face pressed into the pillow to avoid seeing Dana. In the same memory frame, she saw Jonathan trying to scramble off the daybed, his naked body taut and straining to grab the blanket to pull around himself. Dana cringed, remembering how they had looked: like two kids trying to hide after being caught by their parents.
Had Dana unconsciously been trying to buy a little sister? Paying Monique to model—as a mermaid, no less!—keeping her around while she tried to paint, explored the landscape of Monet and Boudin, listened to her talk about her family, the humid green fields and beaches of a homeland she’d barely known. Two expatriate women, one older and one younger, far away from the people they loved.
In the end, Dana had been hurt by the two young people she had taken under her wing.
“Whatever it is,” Sam said when he saw Dana wasn’t going to speak, “I can tell you don’t trust me. I wish you did, but you don’t.”
Dana stared across the cove at Quinn’s light, moving closer and closer. Sam stood right beside her, his breath warm on her cheek. He held Quinn’s money, bunched up in his fist. Handing it to Dana, their fingers brushed and she looked into his eyes.
She blinked. His gaze was steady, unwavering. His eyes were bright green, and they glowed like boreal fire. She stared at him, ignoring the feeling in her hand where his fingers had touched her, and with the strings of Mozart filling the room, she made her heart as hard as possible.
“You’re trying to help Quinn,” she said. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“That’s what you think,” Sam said under his breath, turning to walk away as Quinn’s light came across the big beach.
IT BOTHERED QUINN that Sam hadn’t stuck around to say good-bye. She also hated the idea of Aunt Dana going to New York next month, even for a day. Anything that disturbed the pattern reminded her of change, of things drifting away, of people going out for a few hours and disappearing forever. She thought of their neighbor, Rumer Larkin. How she looked after the wild things of the Point: the birds and rabbits. Quinn wanted to be like that, but with the sea. Keeping track of the sea …
Lying in bed, she wished she had her diary with her. She had written a good, long entry about the hot dog stand, earning the money to pay Sam, today’s sail that had taken them close to the Hunting Ground. Sailing was in Quinn’s blood … she had a mission, and she was actually making some headway.
Stars shined through the window. Allie snored from across the hall, slobbering all over Kimba in her sleep. The stairway creaked, and Quinn’s heart panged. That was the exact sound her mother used to make coming up to kiss them good night.
The door opened, and Aunt Dana walked in. She sat on the edge of Quinn’s bed, and they stared at each other in the dark.
“Aquinnah Jane,” Aunt Dana whispered.
“Aquinnah means ‘high ground,’ ” Quinn whispered back. “I’m named for high ground.”
“The most beautiful part of the island,” Aunt Dana said.
“When can we go there?” Quinn asked.
“Someday.”
“It’s always someday,” Quinn said. “Mommy used to say the same thing. Why can’t it ever be Saturday, or tomorrow, or even now?”
“Someday’s better. It’s always in the future, and it’s always possible.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“Tell me something, Quinn. My high-ground girl …”
“What?” Quinn asked, laughing to hear her aunt being so playful.
“Why do you want to go diving?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, the question a punch in the stomach.
“You have to assume I know everything. I’m your aunt.”
“He told you?” she asked, bypassing her aunt’s joking tone.
“I overheard you. And I saw you pay him.”
Quinn balled up her fists and tried to slide under the covers. She was so close: The answers were as close as that. Sam would dive down, tell her what he saw, and Quinn would know.
“I’m not mad at you,” Aunt Dana said.
“But you’re mad at Sam?”
“Maybe so. That’s between me and him though, not for you to worry about. I just wish you’d come to me first.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Quinn whispered, her blood pumping like a freight train.
“Try me.”
“They did it on purpose,” Quinn tried to say. She didn’t think the words had made it out, but they must have, because Aunt Dana flinched.
“How can you say that? Quinn, in a million years Lily wouldn’t have wanted to leave you and Allie. I know that. I’m her sister… .”
“I’m her daughter,” Quinn gasped.
Outside, the waves hit the beach. Usually, they lulled Quinn to sleep, but tonight they sounded like hammer strikes. She hated the sound of the water just then, but at the same time she wished she were sailing over it.
“Tell me why you—how you think they could have done something like that.”
“Because the nightmare came true,” Quinn said, clutching her hands. “Because I heard my mom tell my dad he’d thrown it all away.”
“Thrown what away, Quinn?”
“Their life. That’s what she said: their life.”
“You heard your mother say those words?”
Quinn closed her eyes, her face hot and wet with tears. She had been in this very bed, and she had heard the words through these very walls. She could hear her mother’s voice now, over the waves Quinn hated so much tonight, crying to her father the night before they died.
“Quinn? You heard Lily say those words?”
“Yes.”
“What did she mean?” Aunt Dana asked into the darkne
ss.
“I don’t know,” Quinn moaned. The night felt like a wind tunnel: long and dark and roaring with endless sound. Quinn wanted to disappear, but her aunt wrapped her in her arms and tried to pull her back.
“We’ll find out, okay, Quinn? I have to know too. We’re in it together,” Aunt Dana said, huddled with her niece.
CHAPTER 13
DANA WAS NEVER SURE WHAT TO MAKE OF coincidences. Sometimes she took a practical view, such as when two people had the same thought or decided to do the same thing at the same time, thinking it unlikely but possible. Other times, she thought the stars had to be in line. That morning, nearly a week after their last meeting, when Sam just happened to drive up Cresthill Road the very minute Dana was setting out on her mission, she wasn’t sure.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, going around to the driver’s side of his van. He leaned on the wheel, nicely dressed, grinning into her eyes in a way that made her shiver. She tried to look away, but she couldn’t.
“Came to help,” he said. “I told you I was going to.”
“Even though you think I don’t trust you,” she said, still trying to look away. His shirtsleeves were rolled back. His bare forearms looked very sexy, holding on to the steering wheel.
“Even so …”
“Why today?”
“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin. “That’s a good question. Couldn’t yesterday—I had a meeting with two scientists from Scotland. And the day before, forget it—had to cover for the staff oceanographer who runs the harbor study. The two days before that, I wanted to give you a break. You seemed a little tired of me, to put it mildly.”
“I was,” she said.
“So, my instincts were good.”
“Then why are you here now?” she asked.
“Something told me to get in my van and drive here as fast as I could. That you need my help.”
“I don’t, Sam.”
“I don’t believe you, Dana. Where are the girls?”
“Crabbing.”
“Kids after my own heart.” He grinned. “Have you taken them sailing again?”
“Every day. But it’s more like they’re taking me. Quinn fights me for the tiller, and she’s a total natural.”
“Quinn and a boat, watch out. She’ll be soloing in that round-the-world race before you know it.”
Dana held in a laugh because he was so right. Meanwhile, she was quite distracted by his smile, the friendly look in his eyes, and the incredibly defined muscles in his forearms.
“Where are you going?”
“What makes you think I’m going somewhere?”
“You’re holding your car keys, heading for your car. You’ve got a plan.”
“I’m not a detective,” Dana said. “I’m supposed to be an artist—I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Then let me help you.” The bantering tone was gone from his voice, the playfulness had left his eyes. His expression was solemn but strong as he watched her now. “Come on,” he said. “Get in, I’ll drive.”
Her stomach lurched as she thought of the plan she had set out for herself. She wanted to send him on his way, do her work in secret. Even more, she didn’t want to admit to herself how glad she was to see him. He would never learn because she would never admit that she had wondered where he’d been. Nearly seven days had gone by without a Sam sighting. Consoling Quinn, Dana had felt slightly abandoned herself.
But she refused to let on. When Sam reached across the seat to open the passenger door, Dana stood up taller and walked around the van.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said. “But I made a promise to Quinn.”
“That’s good.”
“I’ve put it off for almost a week. I keep thinking we’ll sort it out ourselves. I pick up a pencil and try to draw, and nothing comes out. She lives on that rock. She’s blocked and I’m blocked, so …”
“So you decided to do something about it. Just tell me where we’re going, and I’ll get you there,” Sam said. “Whatever you’re holding against me will keep till much later.”
Feeling bad for her anger the last time she saw him, Dana gave him directions, and ten minutes later they were driving down the shady street past the Congregational Church and the Black Hall Gallery.
Mark’s office had been located on the second floor of an old Victorian in the center of Black Hall. Pale yellow with white trim, built in the 1800s, it seemed an unusual spot for a real estate developer. Although he had owned this house, it had been sold after the deaths.
“Pretty place,” Sam said, looking through the van window.
“Leave it to Lily,” Dana said. “She chose the location. I’ve never been inside Mark’s office, but I remembered the house as soon as she wrote me about it. Miss Alice’s store used to be on the first floor—Lily and I would buy penny candy, and one summer I got her a silver locket.”
“Maybe that’s why her husband bought the house for his office,” Sam said. “Because it meant something to Lily.”
“I think that’s true.” Then, turning to Sam, “That’s right, you met him once.”
“I did, at the theater in New Haven. He loved his wife—that was pretty obvious,” Sam said. Sitting behind the wheel of his van, he stared at the house. Everything about it said Lily. The delicate color, white gingerbread, the graceful details, the ivy growing up the chimney, the border of orange and yellow daylilies. The first floor was now occupied by an interior design firm and retail shop.
Dana gazed at the front door, shivering as she remembered the look in Quinn’s eyes the other night. Her niece believed something terrible had happened, had been having nightmares about it.
Staring at the front steps, she remembered herself and Lily as children. They had loved Miss Alice’s shop. It had smelled of licorice and ginger, and its glass cases held treasures beyond their wildest dreams: moonstone earrings, silver necklaces, enameled pillboxes, velvet pincushions. By saving their allowances, they managed to buy certain things of their own. The memory was piercing and true, as if the ten-year-old Lily might come running up the walk, and Dana had to look away.
“You say you’re not a detective, but here we are,” Sam said.
“I have no idea what we’re looking for.”
“So, we’ll just look.”
“We’ll know it when we see it,” Dana said.
“That’s the spirit. You’d make a good oceanographer—sifting through tons of data in search of that one thing that’ll tell the story.”
Dana barely heard. She wanted to get this over with. She had asked Marnie if the girls could spend the morning crabbing on her rocks, and she had said yes. Glancing out the window, she couldn’t stop remembering Lily as a little girl. Being here was too painful; Monique and Jon couldn’t even compare. Dana would leave for France tomorrow if she could.
“Okay,” Dana said after a few minutes.
“Are you ready to go inside?”
Dana nodded. They got out of the van, and for the first time since she was twelve, she climbed the wide steps. When she opened the front door, she missed the bell that used to ring there, and instead of Miss Alice’s magical clutter, the design shop was filled with sleek sofas and low ebony tables.
“May I help you?” a young saleswoman asked.
“I’m looking for information about Grayson, Inc.—the real estate office that used to be upstairs.”
“Oh, Mark,” she said, making a sad face. “Didn’t you hear what happened to him?”
Just then, a woman appeared from an inside doorway. Slender, with silver-blond hair, she wore a smart black knit suit with pearls at her throat. “I’m Patricia Wentworth. You’re Mark’s sister-in-law, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m Dana Underhill,” Dana said, shaking her hand, surprised that she would know. “This is Sam Trevor.”
“I recognize you from your exhibit—I was there, buying a painting for a client. She’s very happy with it.”
“I’m glad to hear
that,” Dana said.
Patricia stood very still, her hands folded. The air-conditioned shop was cool; she looked completely unaffected by the summer heat. Not a blond hair was out of place. Her pearls matched the pallor of her skin tone. If Dana had wanted her house decorated, she would hire this woman for her personal taste alone. On the other hand, she found herself wondering what she was doing here and, at the same time, wishing she had worn something more presentable than khaki shorts and an old green shirt.
“Is there something I can help you with?” Patricia asked.
“We wanted to see where Mark worked,” Sam said.
“His office is vacant,” Patricia said. “I’ve been using it to store wallpaper and fabric books. But if you’d like to see it …”
“We would,” Dana said.
Nodding, Patricia got the keys. Dana followed her up the long flight of stairs, watched as she unlocked the door. Light came through the fanlight over the front door and reflected in the crystal doorknobs. Inside the office, sample books were piled on the floor and one old bench. Furniture had been moved out; the ghostly impressions of chair and table feet made round prints in the dust.
Glancing around, Dana saw nothing at all of her brother-in-law, no left-behind desk or box or paper that might give Quinn the reassurance she was after. The walls were painted creamy yellow, the pine floors were scuffed with use. Four tall windows running the length of the house overlooked the maple trees lining Main Street. Dana saw no evidence that anyone from her family had ever occupied this empty room.
And then she did.
Above each window, in brushstrokes as delicate as anything found in nature, Lily had painted flowers. Tendrils of English ivy climbed the walls, mingling with white flowers of every kind: freesias, daisies, orange blossoms, lilies, roses, camellias, peonies, honeysuckle, and white violets.
“What’s that?” Sam asked, following Dana’s gaze.
“Lily did those,” Patricia said.
“I know,” Dana said. She walked closer to the windows, her heart beating harder. Lily’s painting style was so distinctive: the way her brush formed each leaf, every petal, the way it traced the stems and vines.
