by Luanne Rice
“You ought to think about your daughter,” Madeleine said finally, very softly, as they drove through the Georgia countryside, east of Atlanta—so Emma could show Madeleine where Richard Kearsage had come from.
“How dare you say that? She's all I think of!”
“It doesn't sound that way.”
“You think you care about her more than I do? She's my daughter!” Emma had said, her right hand flying through the air—striking Madeleine's cheek as she drove, shocking her more than she could ever recall—till that moment—being shocked.
So, when Jack had stood by Madeleine's bedside, and she, weeping, had told him the whole truth of what had happened, she had expected him to thank her. To see how she had stood up for him and Nell—at the risk of angering Emma, of losing Emma's friendship.
But he hadn't seen it that way. To Madeleine's shock, he had seemed to blame her for what Emma had done. Or maybe it was just the shock and shame of having his sister know. He was wild with grief over losing his wife. If he believed what Maddie was telling him, he'd be forced to see her in a whole new way.
Sitting in her Providence home, Madeleine stared at the phone and wished it would ring again. She had heard of estrangements in other people's families. They had always seemed so unnecessary, so petty. She, secretly, had always believed that the family members involved had to be awfully unreasonable or selfish, to keep such feuds going. She had assumed that they were always, or mostly, about money—the inheritance or the family home. The siblings must not have been very close in the first place. They probably just wrote each other off with no great sense of loss—just moving on with their lives.
How very little she had known.
The greatest shock she'd had to face was that it only took one person to bring about an estrangement. Just one person had to decide to close the door, to stop talking; just one person had to determine that life was easier without the other. The other had nothing to say about it. Or, at least, no opportunity to say it . . .
The minutes ticked on, and Madeleine had to face that the phone wasn't going to ring again that night. She leaned her head toward the window and saw the big moon—just past full—shining in the sky. Her eyes filled with tears, to think of how beautiful it must look, on the bay at Hubbard's Point.
She thought of the view from Stevie's house; somehow she knew that her old friend had prompted Jack's phone calls. She wasn't sure how or why, she couldn't imagine what Stevie had said, but she felt that somehow her fellow beach girl was touching her brother's heart, putting in a good word for her.
Gazing up at the moon, she imagined its light forming a path all the way from Providence to Hubbard's Point. The girl in the moon . . . Maddie saw the face and prayed she could reunite her with her brother . . . Nell. Stevie.
A cheer burst out in the other room—the Red Sox must have scored, she thought as Chris called her in to watch the replay. She wiped her eyes, took one last look at the moon. It was glowing white in the dark blue sky; it looked like something Stevie would paint.
If only Stevie could paint a picture and bring them all back together, she thought with a catch in her throat; if only it could be that simple. Her throat burned, but instead of going to the kitchen for some wine, she sipped her Diet Coke. Day four without a drink . . . she thought of the words Stevie had used to describe her first husband: lost in the bottle. They had stayed with her.
Calling to Chris that she'd be there in a moment, she paged through her address book. Finding the number, she dialed it.
The answering machine picked up, so she left a message.
“Stevie, it's Madeleine. I just wanted to thank you. That's all . . . just, thank you. Give them my love, okay? You know who I mean. Talk to you soon.”
Hanging up, she felt better. And then she went in to sit on the arm of her husband's chair, and give thanks for what she had under her own roof.
MADELEINE'S MESSAGE had meant so much to Stevie, somehow giving her permission to open her heart more. She felt the closeness of her fellow beach girl, urging her along. She got up really early the next morning, made coffee, and took it in a thermos to Jack's house. Nell was still asleep.
The birds were busy, singing in the trees. She and Jack sat outside, side by side on a picnic bench. He leaned against her side, pouring the coffee. The feeling sent pins and needles through her skin.
“This was so nice of you to do,” he said.
“I just . . .” she began. “I can't stop thinking—you're leaving so soon.”
“I know. I don't want to rush it, by thinking about it. But you're right.”
“What will you do about someone for Nell to see over there? Can Dr. Galford recommend another doctor?”
“He's looking into it,” Jack said. “The strange thing is, she's been sleeping fine lately.”
“Since going back to Dr. Galford?”
“I think,” Jack said quietly, “since spending more time with you.”
Stevie leaned over, pressed her face into his neck. She couldn't believe he had said that. She wanted to believe it was true.
“Would you mind if I took Nell swimming early tomorrow?” she asked. “I have to turn a painting in today, and I'm meeting my aunt tonight.”
“I know she'd love that,” Jack said, touching the back of Stevie's hand, in spite of the fact that the sun was all the way up and that Nell could very well be awake, looking out the window. . . .
Stevie waited for Nell by the tide line early the next day, before recreation class began. She had the beach to herself—the rest of Hubbard's Point was just waking up. The air was fresh and clean, the sky brilliant, cloudless. The Sound was blue glass, and the only sounds came from seagulls wheeling and crying, and from a lone fishing boat putting out to sea.
Nell came running down in a red bathing suit, flying off the boardwalk with a towel fluttering behind like Supergirl's cape. She did a broad jump, landing with a grin in the sand at Stevie's feet.
“My dad told me you wanted to meet me! I've never seen you on the beach before,” Nell said.
“I'm making a rare daylight appearance,” Stevie said. “Don't let the other kids know, or my reputation as a witch will be ruined.”
Nell laughed. “I like your bathing suit,” she said.
“Thank you,” Stevie said, smiling. Her suit was one in a long line of black tank suits—sleek, no frills. “I like yours, too.”
The tide was out, and they walked barefoot along the dry seaweed left behind by last night's high tide. Their feet made soft impressions in the hard sand, up above the waves' reach. Sunlight warmed their heads and shoulders, but the day was too early for any real heat. They picked up moonstones, jingle shells, and sea glass, holding their treasures in cupped hands.
“Tell me how the beach girls started,” Nell said.
“Well, it began right here,” Stevie said. “Your mother and I. When we were young, even younger than you.”
“How did you meet?”
“Our mothers were friends. . . .”
“Like Bay and Tara?”
“Yes,” Stevie said. “Just like that. Our mothers loved summer, and the beach, and when they had daughters at the same time, they couldn't wait to introduce us.”
Nell smiled, seeming happy with that thought. “And what did you do together?” she asked.
“When we were really little, like one or two, our mothers would dig holes in the sand, right here where we're walking. They'd build little seawalls of sand to protect us from the biggest waves, and let the holes fill with water, and make us our own private wading pools.”
“She did that with me,” Nell said wistfully. “I remember her holding me in the waves.”
“She must have loved you so much,” Stevie said.
“Yes, she did,” Nell said. As they walked along, Stevie felt the tug of the waves and tide, and her heart felt the endless connection of having strolled these sands with this child's mother.
When they got to the end of the beach, they dropped t
heir towels and ran into the water. Stevie dove right in and swam underwater for a few yards. Looking over, she saw Nell swimming beside her, bubbles escaping from a wide grin.
They came up for air, laughing and gasping.
“How far can you swim?” Nell asked.
“To France!” Stevie said.
“Really—how far? To the raft? Or the big rock?”
“The big rock,” Stevie said.
“Let's go then!”
“It's over your head,” Stevie said. “I think we'd better wait for your father to take you.”
“He trusts you!” Nell said. “Come on! I've done it with Peggy and her mom. I'll race you.”
They set off, across the cove, diagonally from the end of the beach. Stevie took care to go slow, but she was amazed by Nell's strength as a swimmer. She had a steady, even stroke, a graceful scissor kick that barely broke the surface. The beach itself was still quiet but coming to life, with just a few people sitting on the boardwalk, gazing out. Stevie loved these early morning hours, when she had the place to herself. But it was even better to share it with Nell.
They swam fifty yards, to the big rock—rounded like a whale's back, a little higher in front, sloping down to the tail in back. Climbing out, they scrambled over seaweed and barnacles to rest on the sun-warmed surface. Colonies of blue-black mussels glistened in the sun.
Crouching, Stevie and Nell watched as a ribbon of minnows wove past, followed by a swift school of snapper blues. The birds came, seagulls and terns, circling and crying overhead, then dive-bombing the school.
Nell squealed with excitement. Stevie loved that she wasn't afraid, that her curiosity kept her from ducking from the birds, or being afraid of the blues. They watched the fish zigzag, flashing silver, then dive and disappear.
“That was so cool!” Nell said.
“The food chain in action.”
“What's the food chain?”
“Well, the minnows are eaten by the snapper blues, who are eaten by bigger blues . . .”
“Who are eaten by blues as big as this rock, with seagulls chasing them all!”
Stevie laughed, thinking of a book she could write about it. “You are something, Nell Kilvert,” she said. “I might have to keep you around, just to give me great ideas. I'd never run out of books if I had you nearby.”
“Really?” she asked, beaming.
“Really.”
They sat there for a few minutes, till their bathing suits dried in the sun. Stevie glanced at Nell's feet. They were the exact same shape as Emma's—slender, with a high arch. Raising her gaze to Nell's face, she saw Jack's eyes, his straight nose, his high cheekbones. The observation made her swoon slightly. How amazing it must be, to have a child who had your feet, and looked just like the man you loved.
Her thoughts turned to Madeleine's message, how she had asked Stevie to give “them” her love. She didn't want to upset Nell by stirring up emotions about her aunt. So, sitting there on the rock, she stared at Nell's feet as hard as she could, filling her gaze with Madeleine's love, hoping Nell could somehow feel it.
“Ready to go back in?” Nell asked.
“If you are.”
Nell shook her head. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked directly into Stevie's. “I never want to leave,” she said.
“The sun feels so good, doesn't it?” Stevie said.
Nell shrugged and said, “Hmm.” She probably thought Stevie had missed the point, although she hadn't.
Stevie knew that Nell had been talking about Hubbard's Point, this summer in general. She never wanted to leave the beach . . . Stevie remembered that feeling so well.
They eased into the water, pushing off from a submerged shelf, and began to swim back to shore. The bay glittered ahead of them, as if it were covered with diamonds and silver. When they got to shore, Stevie looked along the beach where they had walked.
She saw their footprints, two by two, still in the sand. But the tide was coming in, and the first silky waves were starting to erase them.
The sand was firm and smooth, but as each wave licked over the surface, tiny holes appeared, bubbling with froth. Nell knelt down, staring at them.
“What are they?” she asked.
“Clams,” Stevie said.
“Can we dig them?”
“Not here,” Stevie said. “The sand's too hard, and people will be coming down to spread their blankets any time now. But I know a place . . .”
“Will you take us? Me and my dad?”
“I could do that,” Stevie said slowly. “If he wanted to.”
“He will,” Nell said.
“Okay, then,” Stevie said. “How about late this afternoon? I think the tide will be right. If your father is free . . . and if he's not, maybe you and I can go alone.”
“He'll be free,” Nell said confidently. “He'll want to come. He likes you.”
“He does?” Stevie asked, blushing.
Nell nodded and gave a devilish smile.
They gave each other a hug, and then Nell ran off to meet Peggy for recreation class. Stevie started back along the beach. As she walked the tide line, she kept her eyes on the last of hers and Nell's footprints. The waves covered them a little more each time. Every day came with a little loss, Stevie thought. But right now it didn't matter so much—because this afternoon they were all going clamming.
Chapter 18
THEY TROOPED DOWN THE ROAD, LOOKING like adventurers on an expedition, carrying clam rakes and a bucket with holes punched in the bottom and sides; Stevie rolled an inflated black inner tube, and Nell danced ahead, thrilled by the whole thing. Stevie had told them to wear old sneakers, and they had, but Jack noted that hers really took the prize.
“When you said ‘old sneakers,' you weren't messing around,” he said, looking down at her feet. She wore an ancient pair of red Converse high-tops, with the tops cut down to a fraying edge. The rubber soles were separating from the canvas, and they squeaked as she walked.
“Be careful, don't insult my clam shoes,” she said. “I've spent years breaking these in.”
“You'd never know,” he said.
“So,” she said. “Tell me what you found at the castle.”
Jack had spent the morning going over every inch of the building—measuring, testing, surveying. “It's in a pretty bad state,” he said. “And I'm glad your aunt spoke to you when she did. Another couple of bad winters, and I think the ceilings and floors would be beyond repair. As it is . . .”
“Is it fixable?”
“With substantial work. It won't be cheap, Stevie. Your aunt was working when I first got there, and then Henry and Doreen showed up, so I never got the chance to really ask her about her plans. Does she have the money to do this?”
“Uncle Van loved to live,” Stevie said. “So much so, that I think he left her with more bills than funds. She's incredibly respected as an artist, though, and does very well.”
“It would take a few good sales to earn enough to fund the trust and start to repair the castle,” Jack said. “I'm doing what I can, to come up with some ideas, but the foundation she creates will really need to hire an architect and builder, someone who specializes in stonework, to do most of it.”
“Dad—you specialize in stonework. Bridges, bridges, bridges made of stone,” Nell said, skipping backward.
“I know, Nell, but—”
“He wants to do it,” Nell said. “He really does. He wouldn't be going over there on his vacation if he didn't. And you should see the stone bridges he built in Maine! And the one in South Carolina, on the island where the wild ponies live!”
“He's done so much for us already,” Stevie said. “I know my aunt is very thankful.”
Jack just smiled, glad she was so pleased. He knew what Nell was doing: angling for him to stay here to work on the castle project. It was tempting, too. He had felt excited by the massive challenge, the idea of restoring such a magical place. But he held back from saying any more; Nell was a
lready in serious denial about them leaving. After he'd brought up Scotland the other night, she had blocked her ears to any further conversation. As far as she was concerned, they were never leaving Hubbard's Point. For this afternoon, Jack was happy to pretend right along with her.
They walked east, along the shady, winding roads that led to a nearly hidden beach near the train tracks. Jack vaguely remembered coming here when he was a teenager—it was far from the main beach, a good place to build a fire and drink beer and feel the trains roar by.
Stevie had timed the tide perfectly: it was all the way out. The tidal flats gleamed like varnished mahogany in the late daylight. Stevie began to walk out; Nell ran to catch up to her, and Jack followed. Their sneakers slapped on the wet sand.
Jack was just fine, walking behind. He couldn't take his eyes off Stevie. Her hair was cut straight across, revealing the nape of her neck. She wore cutoff jeans and a paint-smeared black T-shirt that said TALKING HEADS. The sleeves were cut very short, showing the tops of her shoulders, which looked strong and delicate at the same time.
The flats gave way to shallow water. They waded in, which made the going a little slower. Stevie now set the inner tube down, letting it float. She tied a rope to it, letting Nell pull it along.
Jack had spent the morning with Stevie's aunt. She had told him about Stevie's childhood, how she had lost her mother at such a young age.
“Were they close?” Jack had asked.
“Yes, very. Stevie was almost destroyed by the news. She . . . literally pulled her hair out. Johnny, my brother, went into her room and found great hanks of hair on the pillow, in her fists; he had to pry them out. That night she went color-blind. It was a bizarre, traumatic reaction. . . . She'd always been an artist, from a tiny child, and it was as if her psyche had just decided that life was over, and deprived itself of color.”
“How long did it last?” Jack asked with shock.
“Six months. Johnny took her to neurologists, who were completely stumped. They'd never seen it before. They recommended therapy, even hospitalization. Johnny found a good doctor for her, but he kept her home, of course. Susan was a miracle worker . . . she helped Stevie to recover. A mixture of art and talking therapy . . .”
