by Sarah Beard
Any direction I looked, there was some form of water. We crossed yet another bridge, and a handful of boats moved like shadows across the harbor, yellow lights glowing atop their masts. I wondered if Thomas was out there now, or if I’d find him at his apartment. I realized I didn’t know how commercial fishing worked—if they’d be back at the end of the day, or if they’d be out at sea for a week.
“How long do the fishing boats stay out at sea?” I asked.
“Depends on the vessel. Some are out for a day, others for weeks or months.”
I hoped I would find him at his apartment, or that if he was gone, he would return at the end of the day. I hadn’t thought about what I would do if he was out to sea for weeks. I would have to go back to Juilliard without seeing him and find some other way of getting in touch with him.
As we got closer to Zierikzee, the roads narrowed and the buildings multiplied. The town was brimming with historic character, with flourished, centuries-old facades and decorative ironwork. Pathways of herringbone brick lined the sides of roads and alleyways. The driver maneuvered tightly between walls of shops and apartments, and it was impossible to distinguish one building from the next because of their proximity.
The driver turned a corner, then slowed to a stop. He glanced up at a narrow brick apartment. “This is it,” he said.
I paid and thanked him, then shouldered my bag and got out of the cab. As the cab disappeared down the channel of a street, I climbed the steps to Thomas’s door, my heart pounding in my chest. I drew in a deep breath, and unable to suppress a smile, I knocked on his door.
As I waited for an answer, I slipped my hands in the pockets of my coat. It wasn’t as cold as Woodland Park, but still chilly enough to freeze my anxious breaths.
There was no answer, so I knocked again, a little harder this time. I listened and waited, but there was nothing but silence on the other side of the door. I leaned over the iron railing and cupped my hands over my brow to peer inside. The apartment was dark, but not empty. Before I had a chance to take in more detail, I heard a man’s voice addressing me.
“Mag ik je helpen, kleine meid?”
I whipped around to see an old man sitting on the steps of the apartment next door. He wore pajama bottoms and a wool coat, and, despite the cold, slippers. He took a long drag of his cigarette and stared at me, waiting for me to answer.
“I’m looking for Thomas,” I said. “Do you know Thomas?”
He gave a lazy nod, then summoned me with a wave of his hand. I descended the steps and went to stand in front of him.
“Hebt je papier?”
I shook my head to tell him I didn’t understand, then reached in my bag for my English-Dutch book. He waved his hand to stop me. Then he made a gesture with his hands, like he was writing something.
“Papier,” he repeated.
“Oh,” I said. “Paper.” I searched my bag until I found a small notebook and pen, then handed them to the man.
He took a couple minutes to draw something on the paper, then handed it back to me. It was a map, with street names and arrows leading to a picture of a boat with the word “Lysander” written on it. On the boat was a stick figure with the name “Thomas.”
“How long ago did he leave?” I asked, tapping my wrist.
He glanced at his watch, then with a shrug said, “Een uur geleden.”
I squinted at him as though it would help me interpret his words. He held up one finger. “Een uur.”
“One hour ago?” I asked.
He nodded and said with a thick Dutch accent, “One hour.”
I thanked the man and hurried away, hoping I could catch Thomas before his boat headed out to sea. I pulled out my cell phone and debated whether to call him to let him know I was here. I didn’t want him to know I was here until I was standing right in front of him. But I also didn’t want him to be out at sea for weeks without knowing that I’d come for him. I decided to send him a brief text. I typed in two words.
I’m here.
Everything else could wait until I could talk to him in person. I pocketed my phone and made my way down a narrow street toward the waterfront. According to Thomas’s neighbor, I was an hour behind him. But surely it would take longer than that for his crew to prepare their vessel and push out to sea. Even so, I quickened my steps to a jog.
I followed the arrows on the map and was at the waterfront before I was out of breath. The walkway was flanked by shops on one side and a wide canal on the other, and it was so long I couldn’t see the end of it. I pulled out the map the old man had drawn and stared at it. There was only one boat on the map. He’d made it look so simple. But as I lifted my eyes to the row of countless pleasure boats and fishing trawlers parked along the canal, I realized that finding Thomas’s boat would be far from simple.
Not wanting to waste a second more, I began my search. I scuttled along, reading the names painted on the boats as I passed them. Some didn’t have names, only numbers, and none of them appeared to bear the name “Lysander.” My face must have reflected the anxiety I felt, because people glanced at me curiously as I passed them by. I began searching their faces, looking for Thomas while still searching for his boat. The more I searched, the more distinct his face became in my mind. There was no one like him. No one in this world would be able to take his place.
I passed rows of bicycles and people preparing for the day’s work. I passed boat after boat, but I searched in vain. When I reached the end of the canal and the row of boats, I paused.
I turned in a circle, scanning the pathway I’d just come from. The sun was edging over the skyline, and its golden light lit up the air, softening the outlines of people and buildings, like everything was draped in gossamer.
I sat on a bench in front of a bakery to collect my thoughts. I squinted into the liquid horizon, hoping he would get my message, hoping that by the end of the day I would find myself in his arms. But if he didn’t return today, I would have to go back to my hotel in Rotterdam and wait for his call. I decided I would go back to his apartment to ask his neighbor when Thomas might be back.
Just as I was about to stand and go back the way I came, I felt a buzz in my pocket. With a leap in my chest, I pulled out my phone to read the message. It was from Thomas.
Where?
I grinned widely, thrilled he’d gotten my message.
Here in Zierikzee, I started to write, then paused. There were so many words I wanted to say, but my fingers seemed completely inadequate to convey them. It would have been easier to channel the entire North Sea through my cell phone than to text what I was feeling.
I need to see you, I typed. But the words seemed so insufficient. I raised my eyes and swept the landscape as though it would help me devise the next sentence. There was a vague bustling of fishermen preparing their ships, mending nets, and loading and unloading supplies. But one figure stood out, because he wasn’t moving at all. About fifty yards off, a young man with a heavy coat and dark hair stood at the edge of the water, looking down at something in his hands. The sight of him made my breath catch in my throat.
I squinted through the morning mist to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, and as he turned his head slightly in my direction, I knew I wasn’t.
It was Thomas Ashby.
I didn’t remember rising to my feet, but I found myself standing and moving slowly toward him. My heart pushed against my chest, urging me forward, but my feet insisted on a snail’s pace. He didn’t see me. His attention was still on the object in his hands. He lifted it to his ear, and my phone rang.
I paused and looked down to see Thomas’s number gracing the screen of my phone. I turned it off and dropped it in my pocket. Like I was approaching a bird, I inched my way forward, fearing that if I made the wrong move, he would take to the sky. I heard his voice saying my name into his phone, a sound more beautiful than the swelling violins in The Moldau.
I drew nearer and nearer until I was standing beside him. He glanced down at me with a doubl
e take, then without taking his eyes off me, he lowered his phone and slipped it in his pocket.
“You didn’t go,” I said.
He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then said softly, “You came.” His eyes were brighter than I’d ever seen them, seeming to be illuminated from within.
“I thought you’d gone out to sea.”
“I was . . . until I got your message.”
“Don’t they need you?”
“They’ll survive.” His expression turned curious. “How long have you been here?”
“I flew red-eye to Rotterdam last night, from Colorado Springs.” I paused, letting my eyes soak in the sight of him. His hair was still damp and slightly ruffled from the morning breeze. His hands were tucked in the pockets of his coat. His cheeks were rosy from the cold, and the beginnings of a smile tipped one corner of his mouth. I realized he was waiting for an explanation. I reached into my bag and pulled out his journal. “I found this.”
He took it, his brows knitting slightly. “You came five thousand miles to return it?”
“No. I came five thousand miles to tell you what I want.”
His lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. Instead he kept his gaze on me and waited, his expression brimming with anticipation.
I pulled out his painting and handed it to him. He tucked his journal under his arm and slowly unrolled the painting. When he saw what it was, he bowed his head and a quiver rippled across his chin.
I pointed to the dark haired boy on the porch swing. “That boy there,” I said. “He’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”
His eyes filled with tears, and I dropped my bag and closed the small distance between us. I unzipped his coat and slid my arms around his waist to draw him near. His arms enfolded me, fastening me to him. His body was warm and inviting, like cozying up to a blazing hearth after being out in the cold. I tipped my head up to gaze into his glistening eyes. “I love you, Thomas Ashby.”
He lowered his forehead to mine, and a single tear trickled down his cheek.
“Don’t cry,” I murmured.
“I thought I’d lost you forever.”
“You never lost me,” I said. “I have always been yours, and nothing will ever change that.”
“Even if I—”
I pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Even if anything.”
A smile slowly spread across his mouth and brightened his eyes. “Even if anything,” he echoed solemnly before bringing his lips to meet mine again. Everything I thought I’d lost was in that kiss, reassuring me that the past didn’t matter, because my future was full of him.
Acknowledgments
I want to take a moment to express my sincere gratitude to all those who contributed to the completion and publication of this book. In the early stages of this project, I was fortunate enough to join a wonderful critique group, The Point Writers. Shauna Dansie, Sabine Berlin, Kylee Wilkins, Ami Chopine, Terri Barton, Chris Weston (C.K. Edwards), Darren Eggett, Alyson King, and Garrett Winn, you reined in [some of] my cheesiness, pointed out the things I did well, and weren’t afraid to tell me when I could do better. I have gained vast quantities of knowledge from you and I can say with certainty that this book never would have seen the light of day without your guidance and enthusiasm.
Thanks to the wonderful staff at Cedar Fort who saw potential in my manuscript and helped make it the best it could be. Angie Workman, Melissa Caldwell, Alissa Voss, Kelly Martinez, you made the publication process smooth and painless. Kristen Reeves, for designing a gorgeous cover and enduring my fickleness.
A huge shout-out of thanks goes to my brilliant astrophysicist cousin, Amanda Ford, who patiently answered all my questions about astronomy and gave me feedback on an early version of Porcelain Keys. To Garrett Winn for proofing my Dutch, and Mike and Cindy Kemp for proofing my French.
To the girls of Real Writers Write, who saw me through the publication process, provided encouragement, friendship, and grammar help. Heather Clark, Janelle Youngstrom, Sabine Berlin (again), Juliana Montgomery, Rebecca Scott, Caryn Caldwell, Nikki Trionfo, and Shari Cylinder, you guys took me in like family and made me feel right at home.
To my dad, who taught me about redemption and who shares my love of writing. To my mom, who taught me unconditional love and who shares my love of books. And to my sister and brother, who encouraged and supported me along the way, who never seemed to grow tired of my book-talk. You guys are the best family a girl could ask for.
Many thanks also go to other friends and family for their kindness and support during the writing of this book.
Over the years that I worked on Porcelain Keys, I grew to know and love the characters of Aria and Thomas. As I wrote down their story, I cried their tears and celebrated their triumphs. So even though it feels like acknowledging imaginary friends, I want to thank Aria and Thomas for telling me their story and for pressing me to finish it.
And last but not least, I want to thank my first critique partner and biggest fan, Keith. It has been a long journey, and you have cheered me on from the very beginning. You changed diapers and folded laundry while I slaved over my laptop, and each time I emerged from my office after a writing marathon looking like a writer (synonym: vagrant), you smiled and told me I was lovely. You gave me honest feedback that helped me improve the story and my writing. You have been the one unmovable, dependable thing in all this crazy business of getting published. You picked me up off the floor and said the words I needed to hear when I thought I couldn’t take one more rejection. You came up with a beautiful title for my book, and believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. You were the first to read my finished book, and it says a lot about you that you read it in one sitting, with a flashlight, because the power was out. My heart is yours to keep; you have earned it a thousand times over.
About the Author
SARAH BEARD graduated from the University of Utah with a degree in communications, and she splits her time between writing and freelance editing. She enjoys reading, composing music, and traveling with her family. She lives with her husband and three children in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her website is www.sarahbeard.com.
Contents
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
