The Sea Keeper's Daughters

by Lisa Wingate

  “Good.” Glancing at my watch, I stopped pacing, did a double take. I’d been down here longer than I meant to be. The afternoon was already half gone.

  “So … you haven’t even seen your stepfather yet?” Denise veered back to the original question, once again pointing to the need for a quick and easy answer.

  “Clyde wasn’t anywhere to be found when I showed up. I think he might’ve just come home, though … or maybe it’s one of his sons. I’m downstairs, but I hear activity on the third floor. Either someone’s up there or the place is being robbed.”

  Denise didn’t laugh at the joke. Instead, there was an odd pause, followed by, “Whit, be careful, okay?”

  “I was only kidding. I’m sure it’s Clyde or someone he sent.” I aimed for a casual tone, smoke-screening my mounting dread. The performance wasn’t just for Denise’s benefit. Imagining triumph is the first step in reaching it—a bit of wisdom from a poster we’d hung in the Bella Tazza kitchen to inspire the staff. “Although, considering the state of things upstairs, I’m wondering what kind of mental shape he’s in. The place is like a shrine. My mother’s slippers are still sitting there beside her chair, even.”

  Denise stopped to ring up a customer and accept a few compliments on the meal.

  “Sounds like they were happy,” I said when she came back.

  “That was the manager of the highway crew. They’ll be in all week. Maybe longer. Good news for us. Those guys can put away some food. They decimated the bread baskets. I think Heather filled them at least ten times. I’m not sure we turned a profit.”

  “Dough is cheap.” I thought that’d get a laugh, for sure. Starting out, we’d had one of our biggest arguments over whether or not to put the “endless bread basket” on every table. “Denise, is something wrong? Other than the obvious, I mean.” Even with all we’d been through lately, my cousin was usually in a good mood when she switched into restaurant mode. Our Italian heritage on my mother’s side meant that stuffing people brought joy at a DNA level.

  Denise’s silence was an answer.

  “All right, what’s going on?”

  “Listen …” Her tone was weirdly ominous. “Before you have it out with your stepfather, run downstairs and let someone know you’re up there.”

  “Huh? Why?”

  A sigh hinted that the real truth was coming. “I just … I’m worried about you, Whit. It’s a lot to take in, being back there with all your mom’s things, and you said yourself, you don’t know what sort of mental state your stepfather is in. I need you to … be sure you’re safe. I can’t do this—Bella Tazza—without you.”

  “Denise … what?” Where was this coming from?

  “It’s nothing. I had a dream last night and it kind of freaked me out.”

  “About me?” This wasn’t like Denise at all.

  “Yes … well … sort of. We were out at Gooch Pond—you know where we used to ice-skate? Remember that? And you were just little. Maybe about ten or so. I was babysitting. We were laughing and doing spins and having a good time. Then I was spinning and spinning, and when I stopped, I couldn’t see you. I looked down, and you were all grown up, but you were under the ice, staring up at me.”

  Goose bumps walked over my skin, and I rubbed them away, hugging myself. Had she read my mind? Did she somehow know about my temptation on the shores of Lake Michigan the night before I left town?

  The cold traveled to my bones, as if the water were rushing over me now. “Geez, Denise.” I lifted the tone of the words, making light of it. But it didn’t feel like light. It felt like darkness.

  “Just be careful down there, okay? I went by church this morning and said an extra prayer for you.”

  “Thanks.” I couldn’t come up with anything else. My mother had raised me in church. I’d left it as soon as I left home. The same kids who’d teased and belittled me in private school had made Sunday school a living torment. I’d never had the heart to tell my mother. She’d always thought she was doing me a favor, driving across town so that I could spend Sundays with my classmates, rather than in the working-class community that still gave us sympathetic looks and whispered about my father’s suicide. “I’ll be careful; I promise. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

  Denise paused to engage with another customer, leaving me staring out the window, still strangely chilled.

  Outside the hotel, a spring breeze twirled along the alleyway and pressed through the gaps in the window sashes. Atop the captain’s desk, the corner of Alice’s letter lifted slightly, then rested again. For an instant, I wanted to tell Denise about it, to read the words to her and see what she thought. Then I realized how bizarre that would seem, how impractical given our present situation. I should’ve been focusing on the search for valuables, not taking time to sift through every scrap of paper, looking for more information about a woman who had to be long gone by now.

  Denise was all business when she came back. “Listen, I need to go. The guy from Primero Foods is here with our delivery. Remember what I said, okay? Go downstairs first. Tell somebody you’re up there. And keep your phone with you … in case things spiral out of control.”

  “Denise, the man just got out of the hospital… .”

  “And text me afterward. If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m in the carpool line, picking up Mattie. They’ll write you a ticket in a heartbeat for texting in the school zone.”

  “Give my godbaby a squeeze for me, ’kay? Tell her I’m sorry I’m missing my day to pick her up at school. Tell her we’ll go for ice cream when I get back.”

  We said good-bye and I hung up, tucking the phone in my pocket and pausing to survey the mess strewn from one end of the salon to the other. I hadn’t accomplished much since finding Alice’s letter in the davenport desk. Other than sorting out some books I thought might have value, setting aside a few vases, and gathering the vintage hats, shoes, and gloves into a couple old suitcases, I had little to show for my time.

  Now, things might be about to get significantly more complicated.

  I turned to the sounds upstairs again.

  Squeak, squeak, followed by whack, whack, whack traveling down the hall.

  Leaving the second floor behind, I hurried down to street level, Denise’s warning still in my mind. Tell somebody you’re up there. Who? I hadn’t met anyone other than a few of the shopkeepers. I barely knew them, and in general, they saw me as the enemy.

  “What’s going on upstairs?” Speaking of the enemy, Mark Strahan was standing in the Rip Shack’s side entrance. He was dressed in jeans today, along with a gray long-sleeved Body Glove shirt of the sort that surfers wore. The grim look on his face brought back the tension of our original conversation. “Sounded like the roof was about to fall in.”

  “That was me, actually.” I pictured myself doing the Three Stooges move over the boxes upstairs. “I was cleaning out some things.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Cleaning out?”

  “There’s a lot of clutter in the old hotel rooms. Just junk, mostly.” Why did I feel like such a vulture? I didn’t have to explain myself to Mark, or to anyone else.

  A quick jerk of his head indicated the building above. “He’s back, you know. Mr. Franczyk. I saw him get out of a cab—tried to tell him if he’d hang on a minute, I’d help him up the stairs once the shop was clear of customers. He just waved me off. Guess he made it okay. That can’t be an easy climb in the shape he’s in.”

  An inconvenient sympathy came knocking at the doors of my conscience. I kept them securely bolted. “I’m headed up there to talk to him.”

  A wry, one-sided smirk formed a dimple alongside Mark’s mouth, momentarily drawing my eye. He seemed to realize it, and his gaze tried to catch mine. I looked away instead, as he added, “From what little I know of him, I’m guessing that might be an interesting conversation.”

  “I’m afraid it might.”

  “You’re going to try to talk him into moving out of this building.” Mark was astute about
my motives—disturbingly so.

  “I plan to encourage him to be sensible. He isn’t safe here alone. Obviously.”

  Firmly crossed arms and a stern look made me out for a liar. “You know what’s going to happen to this building if you put it up for sale?” He nodded toward the nearby condos. Constructed with period architectural details, gabled roofs, and hand-cut shingles, they weren’t an eyesore, but they weren’t original Manteo, either. “In this location, with the water view, he’ll do everything he can to get around the six-story height restriction.”

  “He … who?” Now I really was confused.

  Mark gave me a tight-lipped look. “Last year, it was a resort redevelopment over on 64. Three towers, ten stories high each.” He drilled through me with an intensity that quickly bolted me in place.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” That much was the truth. “But no future plans for the building have been made at this point.”

  A muscle in his cheek twitched, pulling the corner of his mouth again. Downward, this time. “Why do I feel like that’s the party line?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “More like a mystery. It’s pretty clear that you’re here for a reason.”

  “Maybe that reason has nothing to do with you or your shop.” But in all likelihood, Mark Strahan and his shop would become casualties of the situation … victims of changing times. There was no way I could take care of the Excelsior long-distance, and even if I could, I didn’t want to. Too many memories remained here, and the fact that I’d just spent hours seeking after more information about Alice only underlined the twisted pull this place held. I needed to let it all go and move on.

  The owner of the Rip Shack and I stood locked, uncomfortably close, in a test of wills. He wanted me to see his point, and the truth was, I did. I just couldn’t allow myself to take on one more problem, especially not one of this magnitude. The building was old, it hadn’t been well kept, repeated hurricanes and nor’easters had flooded it, and in general it was a mess.

  A quick, sardonic sound disturbed the taut silence. “I saw Casey Turner go in your stairway door earlier today.” He closed the gap between us even further. “You want to tell me again that you aren’t making plans?”

  This guy had some nerve, seriously. “I don’t even know who that is. I’ve been on the second floor working since breakfast, and I haven’t seen or heard a soul … not until just a few minutes ago.”

  He backed off a little, fingers drumming on the elastic fabric over a tightly muscled bicep that looked like it came in contact with a weight machine on a regular basis. “You’d be smart to stay away from Casey Turner. The man’s a leech.”

  “Good to know.” If Mark Strahan wanted to win the favor of his eventual new landlord, he was going about it in completely the wrong way. Right now, it was all I could do to stay nice on the outside. Inside, frustration and tension were building up steam and looking for a release point. Let him have it, Whitney. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  A delivery van and trailer wheeled to the curb, temporarily breaking the stalemate. The driver bounced out, shaggy blond hair whipping in the ever-present breeze off the bay.

  “Hey, boss-dude, wha’zup?” He flashed a quick, dazzling smile that I had a feeling charmed the teenage girls at local hangouts.

  “Joel?” I stepped forward, not waiting for introductions. I had a feeling Mark wasn’t planning on any. “Whitney Monroe. You called me in Michigan.”

  “Yeah … it, ummm … seemed like the right thing to do.” A glance flicked toward his boss. Was Mark angry with him for bringing me into the situation? “How’s the old man gettin’ along?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him yet. In fact, I was just headed up there. He came home a little while ago, apparently.”

  Joel’s expression changed from relaxed to concerned. “Need me to go with ya? Kayla’s been worried about the dude.”

  Mark gave an almost imperceptible head shake.

  Denise’s warning about the dream did a spider-crawl up my back, leaving an unsettled feeling. “I think it’s probably better if I go by myself. Thanks, though. After I’ve had a chance to talk to him, I’ll come back down and let you know how he is. I appreciate the phone call the other day. It was a really decent thing to do.” I flashed a look Mark’s way.

  A group of adolescent boys rode by on bicycles and waved, and both Joel and Mark waved back.

  “Hey, run by later,” Joel yelled. “Got some kickin’ freebie videos from the trade show!”

  Mark frowned. “Joel, you know the policy. They don’t get freebies unless they’ve been in school all week. Ask first. You got Colton in trouble with that stuff for the PS3. His mom said he ditched school and flunked a test.” He didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing into the shop.

  “Yeah, yeah … Everyone’s a critic.” Joel offered an impish grin, then did a half turn in the street, fired a finger pistol at one of the boys, and added, “Little turd.”

  He wished me luck with Clyde. I thanked him and then made my way up the stairs. A gust of wind wrenched the alcove door from my hand, and I caught it just in time to stop a thunderous slam against the wall. After the fact, I was almost sorry. Maybe it’d be good if Clyde had advance warning. Had my suitcases in the craft room and my coffee cup in the kitchen been noticed?

  Or was I arriving completely by surprise?

  Dread followed me around the corner onto the balcony, a nervous sweat building under my T-shirt. Across from the wicker sofa, the front door was actually hanging open, the torn screen door squeaking lazily in the breeze—the only sound I could hear as I stood and listened.

  Something white fluttered in the shutter—a business card, tucked between the wood and the brick. Clinging by only one corner, it released its hold with my fingers inches away. I caught it in a full-fisted grab. An instant later, it would’ve been gone, gliding away toward the water.

  On the back of the card, someone had handwritten in an uneven combination of cursive and print, Call when you have a moment. Turning it over, I took in the owner’s photo—clean-cut guy in a blue polo shirt, medium-blond hair neatly cropped, blue eyes, friendly smile.

  The name was familiar, thanks to my conversation downstairs. Casey Turner. CGI International.

  The man Mark was so sure I was already conspiring with—a real estate developer. So he had been here. Mark wasn’t making that up… .

  Three rhythmic thuds echoed out the door, and I stuffed the business card in my pocket like contraband. Moth wings fanned my throat, leaving a dry, dusty, choking feeling as I craned closer, trying to see past the front parlor.

  Nothing.

  Then suddenly, a thump, another, another, coming toward me this time. A tennis ball bounced from the shadows, crossed the parlor, and landed on the porch. A medium-size yellow dog scrambled after it. Spotting me, it skidded to a stop just inside the tattered screen. Wary eyes narrowed, hair bristled, the dog barked.

  I stood there, uncertain and wondering if Clyde had heard. Was he coming to the door? The open air seemed a better place for confrontation. It would be harder inside, where my mother’s gentle, creative spirit still lived among her weavings, her collections of shells, lamps fashioned from bits of driftwood, and sea glass artfully woven with wire to create sun catchers.

  I couldn’t imagine what she’d say if she were here to witness this. Would she be on Clyde’s side or mine? Had she really intended for him to keep the building for years on end? Was that her plan, or had he coerced her as she lay close to death, perhaps delirious from the morphine I had no idea she was taking?

  Maybe, if she was watching from heaven, she’d been waiting for this confrontation. Maybe she’d yearned for me to set things right.

  Did the dead still want things? Or was death simply a letting go of all that is held so tightly in life—an understanding of the temporal and shallow nature of the human matters of possession, greed, desire, justice? I wanted to know. I so bad
ly wanted to be certain that my mother was at peace, but it was hard to have much faith in a God who would take someone like her so young.

  “Clyde?” I moved closer as the dog relaxed to its haunches, still barring the entrance. It—she—was a motley, flea-bitten thing, part yellow Labrador, part … who knew what? Ribs showed through her mud-spattered coat as she sat, legs flopped outward, the feet folding together as if she were adopting a yoga pose.

  So … Clyde owned a dog? Where had the dog been while he was in the hospital? I hadn’t seen any evidence of a pet in the house. No dishes, no toys. My stepfather didn’t take very good care of her. A wound on her front leg had healed and crusted with sand.

  She growled when I opened the screen and stepped around her into the parlor, but then she huddled low, her eyes rolling upward in a weary way that begged me not to challenge her.

  “Clyde?”

  Beyond the entry parlor and the front hallway, a recliner snapped upright in a clap of metal and fabric. Like all sounds here, it echoed, traveling easily in a place of so many hard surfaces. Sneaking around had never been easy in Grandmother Ziltha’s domain.

  “Geddout!” Clyde yelled. A faint shadow shifted the hallway light just past the kitchen. The outline of a head poked in as Clyde leaned from his recliner. “I told you people, I don’t need no welfare services. I’m fine. Now git off my porch!” His voice sounded raspy and weak. A series of coughs followed the words, and then, I thought, a groan.

  “Clyde, it’s Whitney … Patricia’s daughter?” No answer, so I added, “We need to talk.”

  “You geddouta here. Said I’m fine!” There was no change in his tone—no increasing level of threat. No hint of recognition. No measure of surprise.

  “I’m coming in.” I slowed my breathing, squared my shoulders, made myself as large as possible.