Jenna fidgeted with the camera strap that suddenly felt like it was biting into the skin of her neck. “Calling me a photographer is probably a stretch.”
“You are. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. The whole point of Halcyon is to reconnect, right? Dive back in. Like I said, you’re in the right place, like it or not. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a minute . . .” She grinned, then greeted someone else approaching the porch.
“Hundreds apply for each session.” Must have been some mighty big strings Max had pulled to get Jenna in. She already felt way out of her league.
Quiet conversation and laughter floated all around her on the porch where a handful of lamps lit the space in a comforting glow. Palm branches pressed against the outside of the screened walls. A ceiling fan whirled above, disrupting cigarette smoke rings and rustling pages of open sketchbooks. A handful of artists had scattered around the room, some seated on deep couches, some on the floor leaning against the porch rails.
Artists all had a certain look, Jenna had always thought. It didn’t matter if they were painters, photographers, writers, whatever. It was something “other”—a little different, a little off-kilter, often out of step with the world around them. She’d had that look at one time, but she figured it’d been swallowed up by life and spit out in some vague, bland form.
She’d just settled on a metal glider when Casey walked to the center of the porch and cleared her throat, halting the hushed talk.
“I hate to break up the camaraderie, but I wanted to go over a few things before everyone goes their separate ways. I’m Casey Malone, one of the mentors here this summer. My drug of choice—that is, my art of choice—is the physical arts: yoga, Pilates, Barre.” She put one hand up around her mouth. “And for my own personal plug—I do yoga three times a day—a five-thirty sunrise session, eleven o’clock before lunch, and a six o’clock evening session. Anyone is welcome to join me, but I won’t be offended if no one does. End of plug.” Everyone laughed and she took a small bow.
“Now, your other mentors are Lane Michaels, oil and acrylic painting. Denise Trimm, creative writing. Yannick Bello, charcoal and pencil drawing.” As she said each name, the mentors raised their hands and smiled. “And our last mentor is Gregory Galloway.” She looked around, eyebrows raised. “It seems our resident photographer is missing. Big surprise.” Nervous laughter rose in the room. “If he shows up, I’ll just let him introduce himself.” Casey was smiling, but the undercurrent of annoyance wasn’t buried deep.
“You may have already figured this out as you’ve been chatting, but all of you are here for varying lengths of time, something that sets this retreat apart from others like it. Halcyon exists for eight weeks every summer. Some of you are here for just a couple of weeks and a few of you are staying the entire two months as a sabbatical. Regardless of the length of your own personal retreat, I know I speak for all the mentors when I say we’re excited to have you here.
“Unlike most of your real lives, there’s not much of a schedule at Halcyon. You’re free to do your thing however and whenever you want. The preserve is magnificent and you may find all the inspiration you need right here. However, we’re only a few miles from the coast, so if you need more, don’t be afraid to venture out.
“We do encourage you to come here to the porch every evening at seven. It’s where we discuss our work, what we did or didn’t accomplish during the day, or any problems we’re having. It’s a workshop atmosphere where everyone is respectful and encouraging. We’re here to support and offer constructive feedback, and most people find this is the most helpful part of the retreat.”
Then she asked everyone to tell their names and what they hoped to get out of the week. Jenna always hated icebreakers like this. They reminded her of the week in college when she lost her mind and thought she might actually want to join a sorority. Five grueling days of prim parties, saccharine conversation, and ridiculous icebreakers where one by one, girls explained through tears how their future happiness depended on having a certain arrangement of Greek letters tied to their name. All except for Jenna, of course. After the second day, she called her mom and told her she’d have to accept having just one daughter follow her footsteps into sorority life. And it wasn’t going to be her.
There were no tears in this group, but even still, everyone had a good answer. Most of them had a specific goal for their time at Halcyon—work on a novel, learn how to use a new medium, finish an MFA thesis. As each of the other artists spoke, Jenna thought about Addie and Walsh and what they thought of her. What they’d think of her when they were teenagers, then grown women. How she’d measure up. She thought of how sometimes she wished she’d made different decisions, decisions that had taken her to other places, other lives.
“Jenna?” Casey prompted.
Jenna looked up. It was her turn. She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but then she noticed a man standing at the top of the stairs, just on the other side of the screened door. He hadn’t been there a moment ago, and judging by the rest of the faces turned in her direction, she was the only one who saw him.
“Anything?” Casey asked.
“Yeah, I, uh . . .” She glanced back at the door where he still stood. His gaze sliced through her protective layers like a scalpel and made her forget everything. “I’m not sure why I’m here,” she finally said.
While a few people in the room smiled, some looked at her with scrunched eyebrows, concern crossing their faces.
“We appreciate the honesty,” Casey said. “And I have to say, figuring out why you’re at Halcyon might be the whole point to your time here.” She turned to the rest of the group. “I want each of you to remember, not everyone gets a chance like this. You’re the lucky ones, so soak up all you can. The time goes fast.”
As she spoke, the man pulled open the screened door and climbed the last step onto the porch. Wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket despite the heat, he looked as out of place as Jenna felt. At the top of the steps, he crossed his arms and leaned against the porch railing.
“Gregory Galloway, everyone,” Casey said.
He nodded, arms still crossed. The dull roar outside from cicadas and tree frogs seemed even louder for how quiet the porch was. A single sheet of paper blew off a table and coasted to the floor. No one moved to pick it up.
“So we just wrapped up introductions.” Casey spoke into the awkward silence. “Sorry we didn’t wait for you, but I’m sure you can catch up with folks later on and get to know everyone.”
He nodded again. “I heard what I needed to.”
“Care to add anything?”
He took a deep breath. “Actually, I do have one more thing. I didn’t hear anyone talk about why we call this place Halcyon. If you don’t mind . . .”
Casey held out her hands. “Be my guest.” She stepped out of the center of the group and sat on the floor.
Gregory stayed where he was, leaning against the rail with ease. “The name halcyon comes from the ancient Greeks. It was their name for a small, brightly colored bird called a kingfisher. Legend tells us that these birds built floating nests on the sea. There on the water, their nests tossed around by winds and waves, the females realized they needed calmer waters for their eggs to have any hope of hatching.”
His words were slow and deliberate, as if to make sure everything soaked in. Jenna was lulled by his voice, his presence. The glow from the lamps caught the strong edge of his jawline, making him appear chiseled out of something hard. But his eyes were bright as he looked around the room. Even though she knew the story from her father, she hung on every word.
“So these tiny birds”—he held his thumb and forefinger up a few inches apart—“they charmed the god of the winds, who allowed a period of temporary calm while the babies in the eggs grew and developed. This physical peace and calm, which we now call halcyon, surrounded the nests until the eggs hatched and the babies flew away, able to live and thrive on their own.
>
“Here at Halcyon, our gift to you is this calm—separation from your life and its chaos and responsibilities—so you can grow and develop as an artist. Your gift to the world is who you become while you’re here.”
He paused a moment, looked around at the faces peering at him, then crossed the room and pulled open the door into the darkened dining hall.
“That’s it, folks,” Casey said. “You’re on your own. Breakfast is at seven in the morning.”
The artists stood and stretched, resuming conversations from earlier and collecting their belongings. Along with their mentors, they all left the porch, several smiling in Jenna’s direction as they passed, but most absorbed in conversation about the work they’d begin tomorrow. Already she felt herself removed from the group, set apart. But she wasn’t concerned. She kind of liked it that way.
Alone on the porch, she pushed back with her foot, sending the glider into gentle movement. The cry of a bird, the sound foreign and strange, echoed above the other nighttime noises. She twisted the pipe-cleaner bracelet around her wrist again in soothing circles, the fuzz tickling the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled.
She’d called Betsy earlier before coming to the dining hall. With no reception on her cell, she’d placed a long-distance call on the landline in her cabin.
“They’re having a blast,” Betsy said when Jenna asked about the girls, partly expecting Betsy to tell her to get in the car and drive back to Elinore. “They spent the day exploring every corner of the house and yard. Maybe tomorrow we can get them into the barn.”
“Are you sure y’all are going to be okay?” She hated to think that she’d shoved her kids off on her sister just so she could be alone with her camera. “Maybe if I—”
“Jenna,” Betsy broke in. “We’re fine. Really. Try to enjoy yourself.”
Before they got off the phone, Jenna gave Betsy the address of the retreat and the official phone number. There was a front desk with a landline in the main studio. Surely someone would be around to answer the phone in case of an emergency.
She dug her hand into the pocket of her rain jacket and pulled out her cell to check the time. Eight thirty. With any luck Betsy would already have the girls in bed. Jenna could check in quickly to make sure the evening had gone well. She didn’t want to call so much that Betsy would think Jenna didn’t trust her, but she was dying to hear whether the girls missed her, whether they’d been scared going to sleep. If Betsy had remembered Addie’s stuffed elephant.
But when she swiped her thumb across the screen and scrolled to find Betsy’s name, she noticed her phone still wasn’t getting any service. She held it up a little higher in the air—the very thing she always made fun of other people for doing—keeping an eye on the screen to see when things kicked back into gear. Nothing.
“Great,” she muttered.
Behind her, the door from the dining hall creaked, humidity making it stick as someone on the other side tried to open it. When it finally released, Gregory walked through the doorway, a small bowl of something dark in his hand, and pulled the door closed behind him. He didn’t see her.
“Hey,” she said.
He turned, his fork halfway to his mouth. “I thought everyone was gone,” he said, his face hard.
“I was just trying to make a phone call.”
“Don’t bother. This metal roof is like a force field. Nothing gets through.” He pointed to the ceiling with his fork.
Jenna glanced up. “Is it any better outside?”
He shook his head as he took a bite. “Service is terrible everywhere around here. You can try, but we usually have to drive outside the preserve if we need to make any important calls. For some reason, texts seem to work better. Sometimes.”
Jenna watched as he took another bite.
“It’s chocolate bread pudding. The good stuff comes out late.” He raised his fork in a small wave and headed for the porch door. She smelled cigarette smoke and rich chocolate as he passed her. She surprised herself by speaking, not wanting him to walk out into the night just yet, leaving her alone.
“You left out part of your story earlier.”
“Oh yeah?” He stopped with his hand on the door. “What’d I miss?”
“Alkyon,” she said, her voice surer than she felt. “The widow who threw herself into the sea when she found out her husband had died in a shipwreck.”
He paused a beat before speaking. “Where’d you learn that?”
“The gods turned her into a kingfisher and renamed the bird after her. Somewhere along the line Alkyon was changed to Halcyon.”
He watched her for a moment in silence, making her stomach churn. He was older than her—midforties maybe—with bits of gray sprinkled into his dark hair. With a scruffy beard, tan skin, and crow’s-feet, he looked like someone who’d lived a good life outside, in sunshine and warm breezes.
“Do you always tell that story to the new people?” she asked.
“Yep. And you’re the first to correct me. Or to have any prior knowledge about the legend.”
Jenna shrugged. “Just thought you might want to know the rest of the story.” Rain began to fall, the drops hitting the metal porch roof like pebbles. He pulled his gaze away from her and peered out into the damp night.
She stood and tugged on her raincoat.
“You going out in this?” he asked.
“It’s just water. It won’t hurt anything.”
He grinned. It was so fast, she’d have missed it if she hadn’t been looking. The quick smile cracked the hard edges of his face, softening it and deepening the creases at the edges of his eyes. Then it was gone. He pushed the screened door and held it open. “After you.”
At the door, she zipped her raincoat up over her camera and started down the steps. At the bottom she inhaled deeply. The scent of rain mixed with salty air, Spanish moss, and sandy dirt was almost intoxicating.
“Petrichor,” Gregory said behind her. The rain hitting his jacket made a soft pat-pat-pat.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the name of what you’re smelling. That scent when rain first starts to fall. It’s Greek. The smell of the fluid that flows in the veins of Greek gods.”
“You sure do know a lot about Greek mythology.” Jenna pulled her hood closer around her face.
“I like figuring people out. Even better if they’re not around to tell me I’m wrong.” He kept his gaze on her, making her shuffle her feet and readjust her camera strap.
“So I guess you’re my mentor.”
“It would appear so.”
“I’m not so hard to figure out. Not much to analyze.”
He cocked his head. “We’ll see.” He regarded her a moment longer, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know where you’re going?” He tipped his head to the dark expanse in front of her.
She looked toward the general direction of the cabins. At least she thought it was the right direction. She was turned around now that everything was inky dark except for the porch above. Everyone else had disappeared. “No idea.”
He took a few steps and stood next to her. “The cabins are down there.” He pointed through the trees to a faint glow. “Follow this path, two hundred yards that way. And watch out for deer. They like to come out when it rains.” He turned and headed up the path away from the porch in the opposite direction. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks,” Jenna called.
He didn’t answer.
She started down the sandy trail. The rain was still light, making a chorus of drips and drops on the branches around her. She reached up and pushed her hood back, letting the warm rain hit her face and hair, and followed the glow through the trees.
eleven
Betsy
Betsy was in the kitchen cleaning up from the girls’ dinner when Ty came in that evening, a little earlier than usual. The girls were upstairs in the empty room playing with My Little Ponys. He kicked his boots off
on the porch, then crossed the kitchen to kiss her cheek. “How’d the afternoon go?” He reached into the fridge for the pitcher of tea.
“Good, I think.” She wiped the last of the spaghetti sauce from the table. “They explored the house, I took them to see the hens, then Anna Beth brought by some toys, thank goodness. They brought a couple things with them, but I don’t have much here for them to play with.”
“They don’t need much, right? We live on a farm. There’s plenty for them to do outside.”
“I guess so. That’s what I’m hoping anyway.”
Ty drained his glass and nodded. “They’ll be fine. The hens and cows should keep them occupied. Just make sure to keep them out of the way during milkings. Don’t want anyone to be trampled.” He set his glass in the kitchen sink. “I need a shower.”
“I’ll walk up with you. I closed the other doors upstairs, but Walsh seems to be pretty industrious. I found her standing on the counter in the bathroom earlier, eating toothpaste.”
Ty laughed and rubbed his hand over his face. “This is going to be interesting.”
Upstairs, he poked his head in the girls’ room. Addie was still busy with the ponies, making them “talk” to each other. Something about a parade and wearing crowns and high heels. Walsh was lying across both pillows at the top of the bed, already fast asleep, her dark hair covering half her face.
“The little one’s wiped out,” Ty whispered. He backed away from the door and headed for their bedroom.
“You don’t want to say good night to Addie?” Betsy whispered.
He shook his head. “I’ll catch her tomorrow.” He crossed into their room and closed the door behind him.
Part of her wanted to follow him in there, protected behind the closed door, but she turned back to the girls. “Let’s get you kiddos ready for bed.”
“Can I sleep with the ponies?” Addie asked quietly.
“Sure. We can tuck them in right next to you and Walsh.”
“Are we both sleeping in this?” She gestured to the double bed.
Betsy nodded. “Is that okay? I don’t have two beds for you.”
Hurricane Season Page 9
