by Luanne Rice
But, Mom, he’d say, pirates always bury their treasure.
Then what will they do when they want a Good Humor?
They’ll ask their mothers to get them one!
He’d thrown his arms around her, streaking her with mud. She hadn’t minded at all. She could say that for sure—getting dirty in the garden was part of the fun. Letting him plant his spare change—it had been so adorable. They’d dig and plant and water, wedge his nickels and dimes and pennies into the soil, and then they’d head down to the beach, dive into the waves, let the salt water wash them clean.
Or was that true? Hadn’t she gotten the tiniest bit impatient with him? Maybe more than a tiny bit? Had she spoken sharply about the value of everything, wanting him to appreciate what he was given? And most of all, to grow up to be different from his absent father? She’d wanted him to know, to really understand, that people worked hard for their wages. She’d wanted him to learn to value what was important—and certainly not just money.
Once when he was a teenager, he’d accused her of turning everything into a lesson. Why can’t things just be? he’d asked. Why does everything have to add up to some big message? Does every story have to have a moral?
“Every story doesn’t have to have a moral,” she said out loud now, pulling up weeds. A seagull perched on the peak of the roof, letting out a raucous cry. She ignored it, focusing on the garden.
If anyone should know about stories not needing morals, it was Sheridan. Her songs, inspired so much by her grandmother’s bright arts—love magic, the opposite of the dark arts—were about moments in time. Today, yesterday, this second, last night: specific moments of love and connection. Aphrodite’s book of spells had been about lightning bolts of love: not about the whys or what-ifs.
Her cottage overlooked the beach and bay; she had her back to the blue water. It was a bright summer day, but she couldn’t wait for nightfall. Days were hard. Her son should be home for the summer, having completed his freshman year of college.
They had loved their summers here at Hubbard’s Point, and her body was still on Charlie-time. She couldn’t help it; mornings, she’d wake up thinking she had to get him up for his summer job as lifeguard. He’d taken his responsibility seriously—keeping his eyes on all the swimmers. He’d especially watched all the little kids, and once an old man had needed reviving, and Charlie had resuscitated him.
Sheridan had known what a huge heart Charlie had, and how much he wanted to help. It was almost as if his father’s inattention—his abandonment—had brought out every bit of kindness and care in Charlie’s being. Sheridan worked overtime to make him feel loved, trying to make up for the fact his father had never been there. She’d poured all her love into her son, so badly wanting him to turn out well adjusted, happy, self-confident, and kind. She knew how kids with absent fathers fought an uphill climb in life; the hole in their hearts where their fathers’ love should have been was almost impossible to fill. She knew that such kids were at risk for bad relationships, for not being able to bond.
But that wasn’t Charlie.
Noontime, on his break from lifeguarding, she would head for the kitchen to make him a sandwich; now, instead, she’d pour herself a drink. Afternoons, she’d think about heading down for a swim, figuring she’d see him sitting on the lifeguard chair, watching out for the swimmers. Or taking a break, racing Nell out to the raft. More drinking, less thinking.
“Hey there.”
Looking over her shoulder, Sheridan saw Stevie Moore coming up the hill, carrying a cloth-covered wicker basket. She wore a paint-streaked smock, which, as voluminous as it was, couldn’t quite cover her pregnant belly.
“What are you doing out on such a hot day?” Sheridan called.
“All I want to do is walk,” Stevie said. “It’s the strangest thing.”
“Maybe that means it’s almost time…”
“I’m not due for another four weeks, but have you ever seen anyone so huge?”
Sheridan tried to smile, moving her trowel and watering can, giving Stevie a hand so she could settle herself onto the herb garden’s low stone wall. Reaching into the wicker basket, Stevie pulled out an old-fashioned jar.
“Beach plum jelly,” she said, handing it to Sheridan. “I’ve been putting up preserves.”
“Thank you,” Sheridan said. Her mind raced, zapping through memories of her own pregnancy, when she’d suddenly gone cooking-crazy. She’d started collecting recipes, when previously she’d hardly ever looked at one. She’d canned all the tomatoes in the vegetable patch; she’d made jam from late summer peaches, blackberries, and beach plums. Touching the cool glass jar made her remember so vividly, she nearly moaned.
“Nell’s been helping me,” Stevie said.
“She’s a great girl,” Sheridan said.
“She…mentioned how much she likes visiting with you.”
“It’s good of her to stop by. She…misses Charlie.”
Stevie nodded. “He was a wonderful boy.”
“Well, you were like an unofficial aunt to him,” Sheridan said. “From the time he was born.”
“Whenever Jack went away, I could always count on Charlie to help me out. Stretching canvases, hanging paintings…all of it. I was so happy when he and Nell started…” Stevie trailed off. “Sheridan, I brought you something else…”
Sheridan watched Stevie’s hand inch into the wicker basket again; she saw the edge of a small canvas. Suddenly she knew what else was in the basket.
“No,” Sheridan said.
Stevie’s hand stopped, but not before Sheridan registered everything about the small, exquisite portrait: Charlie’s blond hair, bright blue eyes, the expression so full of love and humor.
“No,” Sheridan said again.
“I sketched him last summer, before he left,” Stevie said. “I did the painting last month, and I wanted…”
Sheridan closed her eyes and shook her head. Back and forth, back and forth, hard. If she did it long enough, she could make Stevie and the portrait disappear. All the beach kids had used to call Stevie a witch, but they’d been wrong. Stevie’s magic was nothing compared to Aphrodite’s. Sheridan and her sisters came from a lineage of true power. Their grandmother had taught them how to make things happen. And make other things stop.
Right now, shaking her head, saying the word “no” over and over, she was sending Stevie away. She wasn’t ready to see a portrait, in oils, of her only son. Her only child, her boy Charlie. She couldn’t bear seeing him captured on canvas, couldn’t stand the idea of seeing him again, the most alive she’d seen him in months, brought to life by paint and the hand of an old friend…no, Sheridan couldn’t stand that.
“All right, then,” she heard Stevie say. “I’m so sorry, Sheridan…”
“No, no, no, no,” Sheridan kept whispering, her eyes shut so tight she saw little white stars in the purple dark.
No, no, no, no, no…the word sounded so hollow and empty, but somehow beautiful, like the inside of a bell. It soothed her, the way the best incantations did. It gave her power, that single word. The book of spells had an entire chapter on the word “no.”
When she opened her eyes, quite a few minutes later, Stevie was gone—as Sheridan knew she would be. The seagull on the roof’s peak had flown away. Sheridan glanced at the jar of beach plum preserves; her hand closed around it, and she threw it as hard as she could. The glass shattered, and the dark red jelly splashed all over the granite ledge.
The sun had moved in the sky. Afternoon was dragging on, but evening would be here soon enough. With night came peace. Sheridan could pull the shades and block out the stars and moon. She and Charlie shared the same darkness.
Digging in the herb garden, she felt close to him again. He was in the earth now. She pulled off her yellow gloves, got dirt under her fingernails. She dug out weeds, tossed them aside. The herbs’ fragrance rose and surrounded her. She smelled thyme and mint. Charlie had loved to chew on mint leaves. The smell brought
him back to her, and just then her fingers closed around something flat and hard.
She knew before she pulled it out: a penny. The copper was green and thin with age. Holding the coin in her hand, she flew back in time. Ten years, twelve years, fourteen years: back to when Charlie was a four-year-old pirate, burying treasure in the herb garden.
Mom, she wanted to hear him say.
Charlie, I’m here, she said, her voice thin in the salt breeze blowing up from the beach, just in case he was listening.
CHAPTER 2
NELL DITCHED TYLER AND RAN DOWN THE SEAWALL alone. Her best friend, Peggy McCabe, met her at the end of the beach. They tried to schedule the same shifts at Foley’s, and generally succeeded. Peggy sat just below the high-tide line, wearing her yellow bathing suit and a Red Sox cap, staring through binoculars out at the boat anchored near the breakwater. Her nose and shoulders were streaked with zinc oxide. Every inch of her body was covered with freckles, and she jumped up as Nell approached.
“He’s out there,” Peggy said. “On the deck of his boat.”
“I know,” Nell said, squinting out across the sparkling bay. “We said five, and it’s almost five.”
“I can’t believe he even came. Do you think he can help?”
“We’ll see,” Nell said. She checked for the plastic bag she’d tucked into the side of her bathing suit. Then she started walking toward the water’s edge, followed by Peggy. But when they were ankle-deep, Nell stopped her friend. “I have to go alone.”
“I’m not letting you,” Peggy said stubbornly.
“Charlie will be with me,” Nell said.
“Look,” Peggy said. “I know you believe that—and I’m happy to indulge you most of the time, but not now. You’re not swimming out to a stranger’s boat alone. You’re not.”
“Peggy, this is for Charlie. It’s…” Nell hesitated. She had to find a way to word it that Peggy would understand and accept. “It’s the last thing I can do for him…and I have to do it on my own. I know it will be fine. You can watch through the binoculars, okay?”
Peggy, stubborn Irish girl that she was, started to shake her head no, but Nell grabbed her wrist and gave her “the look.” It was dagger-sharp and no-nonsense; Charlie had never argued with it. Her father and Stevie wouldn’t even try. Peggy opened her mouth, but then just shrugged.
“If anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself.”
Nell nodded, kissed her cheek. Wedging the plastic bag into the side of her bikini bottom, she dived into the water. It felt cold and bracing, but couldn’t push away Peggy’s words: If anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself. Nell thought of Charlie and knew how that felt. It was the most terrible feeling in the world. If she had gone to New York that weekend, everything might have been different.
She swam hard, letting the cold water and exertion numb her body. The tide was starting to go out; she rode the current a little, reaching down to check that the plastic bag was still there. She was an expert swimmer; like Charlie, she had grown up loving the water, feeling almost as at home in it as on dry land. She felt him swimming beside her now, could practically feel his leg brushing hers beneath the surface.
But Peggy’s words clung to her; they haunted her, worse than any ghost. If anything happens to you, I’ll never forgive myself…. That’s why Nell was swimming now, why she had made these plans, why she had a plastic bag filled with ten twenty-dollar bills shoved into her bathing suit, why she could barely sleep at night. She couldn’t forgive herself, and the reality hit her just about midway to the big boat.
She hadn’t been with Charlie that late summer day when he’d died; after a season of constant togetherness, of barely letting each other out of their sight, he’d finally pried himself away to start college. One year, he’d said, holding her; we’ll be apart your senior year, but you’ll apply and get in and… The rest was understood: and we’ll be together.
But they weren’t. And that wasn’t him swimming beside her: he was dead, in the ground. All she felt was the tide, the current, the quick brush as she passed a school of minnows. Her arms felt as if they were filled with sand, but she forced herself to keep going.
GAVIN SAT ON THE Squire Toby’s deck, feet propped on the rail, watching the beach. The plan had been to meet at five; it was ten after the hour, and he saw no sign of approaching boats. Someone was swimming; he watched for a minute, admired the stroke, looked toward the shore again. He checked his cell phone in case he’d missed a message—nothing. He thought about checking with his service, but he knew if the client had called to change plans, they’d track him down.
Maybe the whole thing was a hoax. Could it be possible? He’d feel pretty stupid, coming all the way down from Maine, if it was. He’d been dog tired after his last case, divorce among the old guard of Mount Desert Island; old money never died, it just went to the lawyers and shuffled through bank accounts.
Gavin glanced up at the small gray cottage—there was nothing stopping him from walking up the hill to say hi. He’d been up since dawn, had swum in to the beach and taken a run. He’d gone past her house. When he’d gotten right in front, he’d slowed down, thought about running straight up the hill. But his feet had kept moving.
Five-fifteen. Gavin went down below, got a cold Heineken, came back on deck. The sun felt hot on his head, and he took a long drink, draining half the bottle. Killing time, he glanced around for the person he’d seen swimming earlier, but there was no sign. He began to scan the horizon for approaching boats. Gavin didn’t like to be kept waiting. He started to feel annoyed, drank some more.
“Hey. Hello.”
He heard a voice, breathless. Looked around, didn’t see anyone.
“Hello, have you got a swim ladder?”
He looked over the port side, saw a sleek head, huge green eyes peering up at him as she trod water. He gestured toward the mahogany boarding ladder in the stern and watched the young woman swim to it, then pull herself up; he gave a hand, helping her aboard.
“Gavin Dawson?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “But you should have asked my name before you climbed onto a stranger’s boat.”
“I knew it was you,” she said. “It had to be. You described yourself perfectly.”
“Huh,” he said. What had he told her? A grizzled old detective. He’d been being charming and self-effacing. “So. You’re Nell Kilvert?”
“Yes,” she said. She smoothed her long dark hair back, then reached down into the hip of her bikini bottom. She pulled out a Ziploc bag full of money and tried to hand it to him.
“Hang on,” he said. “Let’s not rush things. Let me get you a towel, and you can pick up where you left off on the phone.”
“I’ll take one of those, too,” she said, pointing at the Heineken.
He didn’t even bother replying to that. He went below, pulled a fresh towel out of the locker, got himself another Heineken and her a nice can of root beer. When he returned to the deck, he gestured at the two chairs. She wrapped the towel around her and sat down, accepting the soda without comment.
Gavin stared at her, and he felt his own Hubbard’s Point past coming to meet him.
“You look just like Jack,” he said.
“My dad,” she said, taking a slug of root beer. “Although a lot of people think I look like my mom.”
“Emma,” he said. “I knew her well.”
“You were part of the old crowd,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. “I’ve heard all about you.”
“Is that why you called me?”
She nodded. “Yep.”
“Well, that’s flattering, but I know there are people right here who could help you.”
“I know,” she said. “My best friend Peggy McCabe’s uncle Joe is an FBI guy, and there’s Patrick Murphy, a retired cop, and others, and everyone knows them all, but none of them are right for this.”
“No offense, Nell, but how would you know that? You’re how old?”
&n
bsp; “Eighteen,” she said.
“And you think Joe and Patrick aren’t quite up to the job?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because they follow the rules,” she said.
Gavin stared at her as she gazed off the stern at a patch of rough water. He tracked her gaze. There was nothing visible on the bay’s smooth surface, but he knew a school of something had just passed beneath. When he looked back at Nell, he found her staring at him.
“You don’t,” she said. “Or at least you didn’t when you were a kid here.”
“Guess I still don’t,” he said. “Much.”
“I think that’s why Charlie’s mother liked you so much. And Stevie, too.”
“Stevie?” he asked, just because he wasn’t sure he was ready to discuss Sheridan.
“Stevie Moore,” she said. “She lives with my father. And me.”
“Stevie was a free spirit,” he said.
“She still is,” Nell said. “And so is Charlie’s mom. Her music is amazing. Or it used to be…until Charlie died. Now she doesn’t write or play at all. She hardly does anything. She visits his grave…”
Gavin let that sink in.
Nell closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them. “Honestly, I didn’t really expect you to come. The thing is, I didn’t know where else to turn. No one’s doing anything.” She sat still in the canvas deck chair, staring across the placid water. She was the picture of calm, except for the tears that had begun to stream down her face.
Gavin stared at her. In his work, he faced a lot of emotional people; he was good at hardening his heart against stories of betrayal, lust, and marital intrigue. But watching this girl, her expression impassive, tears leaking from her green eyes, made him have to look away. He went down below, came back with a handful of paper towels.
“What should people be doing?” he asked.
“Investigating more.”
“The papers said he was murdered.”
