by Luanne Rice
“What’s he doing? Why haven’t we seen him lately?”
“I guess he’s busy, honey,” her aunt said, still staring at the same spot.
Quinn exhaled noisily. She had thought she wanted her aunt to start painting, as extra insurance that they weren’t going to move to France. But this wasn’t so great. Aunt Dana had barely left the garage in days. She had set up her easel, arranged her paints and brushes on a table, opened a fresh can of turpentine, gotten messy mixing paints. But although she hadn’t actually started painting yet, she was standing there as if waiting to get struck by a bolt of inspiration, straight from the blue.
When Quinn’s mother had painted, she had done it on the dining room table, and she hadn’t gotten so involved: She could start and stop with no problem, and when Quinn talked to her, she put down her brush and listened.
“Will he come see us soon?” Quinn asked. “He’s supposed to do that job for me… .”
“I’m sure he’ll do it.” Peering at the canvas, Aunt Dana took a step forward. She touched her finger to the canvas, made a gentle line, stood back. Even though she didn’t like being ignored, Quinn’s heart felt a sort of peace, watching her aunt get ready to work. She came around the easel to look.
It was blank. Her aunt’s brush was dry. It was like seeing a pilot in his uniform, ready to fly, waiting for his plane. Or a writer, holding a pen, waiting for ideas. Quinn felt sad, looking at her aunt’s empty canvas, and she put her arms around her.
“Thank you, honey,” Aunt Dana said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s this garage, isn’t it? I wish you had more light. Is your studio in France this dark?”
“No. In Honfleur I have a big window that lets in the north light.”
Quinn put her hands on her hips and walked around the garage. She felt like her father, the way she had seen him march around building sites over the years. “You should have one here,” she said. “We could saw a window right there—that’s north, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” her aunt said. “How do you know that, Miss Aquinnah Jane?”
“I have a good sense of direction,” Quinn said, feeling proud. “That’s all I can say. Mom said it’s from the fact I come from high ground, that I was born seeing everything all around.”
“That’s a wonderful quality to have.”
“She made me promise to protect what I saw. She said I could be steward of the land—especially on the Vineyard.”
And then, by the way her aunt took a deep breath and laid her paintbrush on the old table beside her, Quinn knew she was in for a serious talk.
“Uh-oh,” Quinn said.
“Come outside,” her aunt said. “Into the light.”
Walking out of the garage, they both blinked in the sunshine. It was a hot summer day, and light sparkled off the Sound on both sides of the Point. They leaned against the stone wall, facing the McCrays’ house. Aunt Dana’s chest rose and fell with every breath, and Quinn felt her aunt’s desire to take care of her. Quinn closed her eyes and wished she were a very little, much younger girl.
“What is it?” Quinn asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” Aunt Dana said.
Quinn blocked her ears. “Don’t say it. I know!”
“Quinn …”
“It’s the anniversary. July thirtieth, I know!”
“I was thinking we should do something, honey. To commemorate your parents’ lives.”
“I do that every day,” Quinn said through clenched teeth. She felt the pressure building inside. Aunt Dana meant well, no doubt about that, but if she didn’t stop talking about this, Quinn was going to blow up. They went sailing all the time now—nearly every day. Aunt Dana was going to say they should scatter the ashes in the Sound … she was, Quinn could just tell.
“I mean in a special way. After my father died, we always used to visit his grave on the date of his death. Grandma would pick flowers from the garden. Lily would pick out a poem, and I would paint him a picture. We’d go to the cemetery and read him the poem, leave the flowers and painting beside the stone… .”
“My parents don’t have a stone.”
“I know,” her aunt said quietly. “That’s part of the problem. I’ve been thinking… .”
Quinn shook her head so hard, an elastic flew off one of her braids. “Don’t say it! I don’t want them to have a stone!”
“Quinn, their ashes can’t stay on the mantelpiece forever!”
“Yes they can,” Quinn snarled.
“I’m talking like this to you because you’re the oldest. But it’s not fair to Allie. Remember when she said she wanted to leave white flowers for her mother? I think it’s time to give her a place to do that.”
“No,” Quinn said, refusing to hear. She glared at her aunt, and suddenly, she felt furious about everything. What was her aunt even trying to paint for, when there were so many questions to be answered?
“They loved the sea,” Aunt Dana said. “We could scatter their ashes there, Quinn. Out in the Sound here, or anywhere you want. We could get a stone for them, put it in the herb garden… . You could visit them there, not have to go all the way over to Little Beach.”
“You said you’d help me,” Quinn said, the words flying out. “That night, when I told you what I thought. But you’re not helping, not at all. You’re just trying to get me to forget!”
And she ran off, leaving Aunt Dana with her clothes and hands streaked ten different shades of blue, to run down the path and beach to the only stone, the only place where Quinn ever felt safe anymore. The gifts she left were always gone, as if someone had picked them up, and that had to mean something.
CHAPTER 16
ON THE ACTUAL DATE, THEY DID GO SAILING. THE three of them dragged the Mermaid off the beach and into the water. Dana stood by, watching Quinn rig the boat. She was expert and precise, just like her mother. Allie took charge of the jib, just as she’d been taught. While Dana usually took the helm, today she gave it to Quinn, and they sailed easterly in silence—except for the quiet rush of water against the hull—pointing toward Martha’s Vineyard.
Later, Dana and Allie picked a bouquet of white daisies and put them in a vase on the old oak table. They lit a candle and told each other stories about Lily and Mark. Across the bay, Quinn sat by her rock. She sat there all afternoon, until the sun went down. When it started getting dark out, Allie got tired and started to yawn.
“Can we go upstairs, so you can read to me?” she asked.
“You bet,” Dana said, holding her hand.
Allie crawled under her covers, arm slung around Kimba. His threadbare face gazed up at Dana, and she remembered the day she and Lily had bought him at the toy store. She read from Winnie the Pooh while Allie snuggled against her leg.
“Do you think Mommy knows about the white flowers?” Allie asked, stopping her in the middle of a sentence.
“That we picked them for her?” Dana asked. “Yes, I do.”
“Because she can see down from heaven?”
“Yes,” Dana said slowly and simply.
“Where is heaven?” Allie asked. “Is it in the sky?”
“Some people think that,” Dana said.
“I don’t know where to think of them,” Allie said. “Mommy and Daddy. I wish I did. Quinn thinks they’re in that old can on the mantelpiece, but I don’t. That’s not them, is it?”
“No, it’s not, Allie.”
“Quinn goes to Little Beach and sits on her rock … I don’t have a place to go to like that. And neither do you.”
“I know.”
“I loved them just as much as Quinn,” Allie said. “Just because I don’t go to Little Beach and sit on a rock all day doesn’t mean I didn’t.”
“Allie, they were your parents and you’ll love them forever,” Dana said, giving her a huge hug. “I know that, and so do they. So does your sister.”
“I just hope she does,” Allie said, and she let
Dana hold her for a long time, until she fell asleep and Dana heard a knock at the door.
It was Sam. He stood outside, his hair and glasses glinting in the porch light. Through the screen, Dana could see that he was holding a bouquet of white flowers. Opening the door, she let him in.
“I thought of you all day today,” he said, handing her the bouquet.
“These are beautiful,” she said, smelling the honeysuckle trailing down the side.
“I tried to remember all the flowers in Lily’s wall painting.”
“You did a good job. These were all there,” Dana whispered, her heart aching as she looked at the roses, lilies, freesia, and camellias. “I wish Allie weren’t asleep. I’d love to show her. We picked Lily a bunch of daisies.”
“Where’s Quinn?”
Dana pointed at the window. The sun was down now, but in the darkness they saw Quinn’s flashlight playing across the waves. It beamed from the top of the big rock into the Sound, like a miniature lighthouse showing her parents’ spirits the way. Through the open window a breeze blew, making Dana shiver. Sam stood right beside her, and she felt her breath coming faster and lighter.
“They died a year ago today,” Dana said, her chest aching.
“I know,” he said, brushing her shoulder.
“I don’t know what to think. I look out into the Sound, and I don’t want to believe what Quinn says… .”
“Dana,” Sam interrupted her gently. “I want to talk to you. Okay?”
Dana felt her stomach lurch. She nodded, leading him into the living room. The candle she and Allie had lit still glowed on the table, sending shadows flickering across the glowing wood ceiling. Her shoulder burned where Sam’s fingers had touched her. But she watched him straighten up, and she knew they were going to discuss Quinn’s business.
She saw Sam watching her, a protective, tentative look in his eyes.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, feeling his concern.
“Nothing makes sense,” Sam said quietly. “I called the Sun Center, and they’re nothing but pleased with Mark and the job he did. I talked to the director and the head of expansion. Seems they’ve got plans to add on more rooms.”
“But the money—what’s it from? I took the tackle box upstairs to hide it from the girls, and I counted the money—it’s five thousand dollars.”
“It’s a lot,” Sam said. “My brother said money sometimes changes hands during construction projects, but I haven’t found anything like that yet.”
“I was thinking it’s not enough for a bribe—it must be something else,” she said, not wanting to disagree with him after he’d done so much work.
“I hope you’re right, I really do,” he said.
“What else could it be though?”
“Well, what about the key? Have you figured out what it goes to yet?”
Dana shook her head. “No, but I haven’t really had time to look. I called Fred Connelly, the insurance guy. He gave me rough coordinates for the boat’s former location, but he said she’d shifted so much during last year’s storm, he wasn’t able to find her again.” She handed Sam the insurance report with the finding typed “accidental death,” on one line, “vessel foundered,” on the other.
“We’ll find her,” Sam said, holding her hand as he took the report. “That’s one thing I wanted to tell you—the research vessel’s available on Monday. Is it okay if I tell Quinn?”
“Yes. I want you to,” Dana said, staring at their fingers, his on top of hers, interlacing as they held the horrible document.
“As long as we’re still together on it. I didn’t want to tell her if you’d changed your mind,” he said, now gently sliding his hand away.
“I haven’t,” she whispered, her eyes hot. “It’s all I think about instead of painting.”
“I know.”
“How?” Staring at his hand, she wished he’d take hers again. What did it mean, the fact that she wanted to hold Sam Trevor’s hand so badly that she thought of him when she couldn’t sleep at night?
“I looked through the garage window, and I saw that you’d built the canvas. That’s good, Dana.”
“It’s blank, though. You must have seen that too.”
“You’ll paint soon. I have confidence in you.”
“I’m trying,” she said, her throat aching with old sorrow.
They were standing so close, almost touching. Across the cove, Quinn’s light played across the waves. Dana thought of that last evening Sam had been over, when she’d told him the colors she would use: dark blue, royal purple, and gold. They were almost the same tonight.
“When I was in grad school at Woods Hole,” Sam said, “Joe gave me a small sailboat. He knew I couldn’t be that near the water and not sail—thanks to you.”
Dana couldn’t speak. Sam’s voice was soft and low, and he held her gaze with his gold-green eyes.
“Well, I used to hang around the docks. There was an old guy who used to be a sailor, and he asked me something. What does an old seaman do when he tires of the sea?”
Dana looked up. For some reason, the question chilled her heart, and as if he could read her mind, Sam moved closer. She shivered, thinking of that old seaman, thinking of herself.
“See, he’d lost the feeling of enchantment with life,” Sam said quietly. “He’d tired of feeling the waves beneath his feet, of shipping out and seeing new ports. That was his life, but he couldn’t do it anymore.”
“So what did he do?”
“Became an old drunk on the dock.”
“That’s sad,” Dana said, her eyes filling. If Sam saw, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move at all, just sat very still and waited for her to go on. “I don’t drink,” she said. “And I don’t sit on a dock. But I know how he feels—about the enchantment with life.”
“I know you do,” Sam whispered, taking her hand and making every bone in her body feel liquid.
“I built a canvas,” she said. “I set out the paints you bought me. Mixed them, and everything. I stare at them, wanting to paint, but I can’t.”
“Dana …”
“I can’t paint. I’m wrecked,” she cried, staring out the window to the dark purple water of the Hunting Ground.
Sam moved toward her. He wore a T-shirt, and his muscles glowed in the candle flame. Dana covered her eyes with her hands. She thought of Mark’s boat, wrecked at the bottom of the Sound, hole in the bow or the seacocks open, and she realized she felt the same way. One day she’d been sailing along, loving her life, and the next she had filled with water and sunk to the bottom. She had lost her sister, her lover, and her belief in sharing.
“You’re not wrecked,” Sam said, wrapping her in his arms. “You’re not, Dana. You’re incredible.”
“I don’t feel it.”
Dana leaned into his chest, unable to stop the tears. Her mouth was open against his shirt, and she tasted the salt of his sweat and the sea. His arms were gentle around her shoulders, and his hands stroked her back with the same rhythm of waves hitting the shore. He led her over to a chair; without knowing, he had chosen Lily’s. She looked up through tears, realizing he was holding her hands.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”
“You can’t,” she said.
“I made a promise to you twenty-one years ago. It’s taken all this time for me to be able to keep it.”
“What was it?” she whispered.
“To protect you. To save you the way you saved me.”
“This is different,” Dana said, touching her own heart. It hurt, deep inside, with an ache she had never before imagined. Lily’s death had left her with a broken heart, and Jonathan’s betrayal had torn it apart. “All I did was pull you out of the water.”
“That’s what I’m going to do for you,” Sam said, looking into her eyes. “Pull you out.” There was nothing remotely like Jonathan in Sam’s eyes. No asking, n
o demanding or bargaining or impatience. They were filled with longing, and Dana knew: It was a passion to give, not take.
That was one of the scariest things she could have seen at that moment. She felt so depleted. With two little girls to love and raise, trying to do it on her own, she would have loved to reach out to someone. But how could Sam really help? He was young, and she was afraid he would expect quick results.
What if she trusted him and he turned impatient, like Jonathan? She couldn’t handle someone expecting things of her, making demands, measuring her against a timetable. Not for a long time, if ever. Outside the window, something flashed by. It was a shooting star, sea fire sliding down the tail of a mermaid, Quinn’s flashlight, or one of the fireflies from Firefly Beach: Whatever it was, it gave Dana the will to ask.
“How?” she whispered. “How are you going to pull me out?”
“Like this,” he said, holding out his hand. He clasped hers and pulled her out of her chair. They stood face-to-face, and he stared into her eyes for a long time, as if he didn’t know what to do next.
And then he did. Tenderly, so softly she almost thought she was dreaming, he kissed her lips. She felt a shiver from the top of her head down her spine, and her knees went almost weak. His mouth was hot, and she stood on tiptoe to get closer. The candle sputtered in a burst of wind. Sam drew her even closer, and she realized she was standing on her toes on top of his bare feet, kissing him as if he were doing what he’d promised to do, save her life.
Dana had to grip his forearms, lower her head. This was Sam. Sam Trevor, the little boy she had taught to sail. Her mind was racing, telling her she was crazy, that this was wrong. She was driving straight into another crash.
“What are you thinking?” Sam asked.
“About how young you are.”
“Souls don’t have ages, Dana,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her again. She held on tight, feeling their hearts beat through their Tshirts, electricity making her skin tingle all the way down to her toes.
“Sam, I can’t do this …” she began, stepping back.
