Dark Water: A Siren Novel

by Tricia Rayburn

  “Your waitress will be right with you.”

  “Thanks.” She took the menu and I turned away. “What’s your name?”

  I stopped. Turned back.

  “The place isn’t exactly crawling with employees. And I’m not a demanding customer, but I might come across that way if I call out, ‘hey, you!’ to get your attention.”

  She seemed friendly enough, but I still debated whether to dodge the question. It wasn’t one most customers usually asked.

  “Vanessa,” I finally said.

  She held out one hand. “Natalie. Thank you again for being so accommodating.”

  “You’re welcome.” I shook her hand. It was warm, firm.

  She focused on the television perched on a shelf near the ceiling. I headed for the kitchen to find someone to wait on her. Because she was right. The place wasn’t understaffed, considering the lack of customers, but service was definitely sporadic since it wasn’t required on a regular basis.

  “You need me.” Louis stood on the back steps, leaning against the door to keep it open and smoking a cigarette. “Please say you need me to do something.”

  “I do,” I said. “But for only one customer.”

  “That’s plenty.” He flicked the cigarette to the stone steps and put it out with the toe of his shoe. “You, my dear friend, are a lifesaver.”

  I was about to ask where our waitress was when footsteps ran down the staircase leading to the break area. Carla, the young waitress, flew past me in a blur of black and white and burst through the swinging door.

  “I better keep an eye on her,” I said. “Since Paige is busy with Betty and Oliver.”

  Louis was already firing up the stove and didn’t seem to hear me. The only other staff members on duty, a busboy and sous-chef, flipped through magazines on the other side of the room. No one was paying attention, but I still felt a little weird standing to one side of the swinging door and peering through the small square window.

  The exchange lasted seconds. Carla greeted Natalie. Natalie asked about a few menu items and Carla stammered through answers before writing down the order. Carla started for the kitchen again, then seemed to think better of it and headed behind the bar, where she poured two glasses, one of water and the other of iced tea, and presented both to Natalie.

  I kept watching, even after our single customer was alone again. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see—Natalie looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to her?

  She didn’t, of course. She simply sat at the bar, drinking water and flipping channels.

  I was being paranoid. I knew that, even if I wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe it was because, with her supershort blonde hair, brown eyes, and long, tanned legs, she looked like the kind of girl most guys would be drawn to like magnets to metal—or men to sirens. Maybe it was because my head had throbbed—just once, and only slightly—when she’d walked through the door. The frequent, excruciating headaches I’d felt around Zara had always lasted much longer, but Betty had said that was because Zara was newly transformed and unable to control the signals her body naturally sent to other sirens. Maybe the reaction was less intense around more experienced sirens.

  Or maybe it was because this was how it was going to be from now on. Because of everything that had happened, I was going to be instantly suspicious of any new, pretty girl I met, no matter how nice she was or how hard I tried to talk myself out of it.

  I’d have to get over this soon. College was going to be challenging enough; I doubted I’d get through it without the support of a single new girlfriend.

  “Heads-up, hostess with the mostest.”

  I spun around just as Louis chucked two paper bags in my direction.

  “The Carmichael-mobile’s en route.” He nodded at the window over the sinks. “I was so bored, I made them an hour ago so the fries are probably cold. But hungry men will eat anything, right?”

  “So I hear.” I clutched the bags to my chest, where I’d caught them. I could feel my heart beating through the sandwiches. “Be right back.”

  I gave Natalie a quick smile as I entered the dining room and passed the bar. She barely looked away from the TV. Then I practically ran the remaining distance to the lobby … where Caleb was waiting.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.” I tried to hide my disappointment as I held out the bags. “Here you go. The usual, on the house.”

  “Everything—”

  “Okay,” I finished, guessing I hadn’t succeeded. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

  And it was. I was just hoping, even more than I’d realized, that after taking care of me at the lake house the other day, Simon might want to pick up their lunches. But Caleb didn’t need to know that.

  “Glad to hear it.” He nodded once, held up the bags. “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Have a nice night.”

  He left. I returned to the hostess stand, opened the newspaper, and stared at the words without reading them. Between the buzzing saws and my wandering mind, I didn’t realize someone had come in until he stood right before me and spoke.

  “Did Louis accidentally put the fries in the freezer instead of the oven?”

  “Sorry, I—”

  I stopped. Everything stopped. My voice. The saws. Time. My heart.

  “Simon.” I didn’t feel my lips move, but somehow I said his name. “I didn’t … I thought … are you …?”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t a frown, either.

  “You have a beard.”

  This was the first safe thing that came to mind. I started to cringe as soon as I said it … but stopped when he laughed.

  “Yeah.” He rubbed one palm against the light brown scruff lining his jaw. “I guess I kind of do. Must be the fishermen’s influence.”

  “They’re not big groomers?”

  “They can do amazing things with a knife and trout, but not so much a razor and their own skin.”

  I offered a small smile and struggled to think of something to say. Something besides I miss you. I love you. I’d give anything, anything at all, for just one chance to make things right again.

  For better or worse, he spoke first.

  “Caleb’s worried about you.”

  Our eyes met. He looked down.

  “He is?” I asked.

  “He said you’ve seemed … on edge. Tense. A little tired.”

  Caleb had gotten all that from a few brief exchanges? Thanks to this job, I’d now seen him several times, but our conversations never lasted longer than thirty seconds or ventured beyond polite pleasantries. And what about my spontaneous snooze by the lake? I could understand how that might be worrisome—for Simon, who’d found me. Not for Caleb, who hadn’t.

  “He knows that it’s probably hard to be back here,” Simon continued, his eyes still lowered to his sneakers, “especially this time of year, and with your parents selling the lake house. That’d stress anyone out.”

  I watched him cross his arms over his abdomen, step from one foot to the other.

  “But he wondered …” Simon’s head lifted. His eyes found mine and stayed there. “Is it anything else?”

  Yes. I miss you. I love you. I’d give anything—

  “I’m the ringmaster. Mistress. Whatever.” Paige led Betty and Oliver into the lobby. “Vanessa will tell you.”

  I looked from them to Simon, whom they hadn’t noticed and who no longer looked at me, and back to them.

  “Tell you what?” I asked.

  “That although parts of the restaurant might seem like they belong under a big top, I’m totally in charge. Everything’s under control.”

  “But we’d only discussed painting the exterior,” Betty said. “Not the interior. And you didn’t mention anything about a new porch or light fixtures or doors.”

  “All of which are unnecessary,” Oliver added. “The old ones worked perfectly fine.”

  Paige turned to me. Waited for
me to back her up.

  “I’m sorry.” I stepped out from behind the hostess stand. “I’d love to chat, I just need one minute to …”

  Finish helping Simon with his lunch order. That’s what I was going to say.

  If Simon hadn’t left.

  CHAPTER 6

  “HOLY BOB VILA,” PAIGE SAID.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Bob Vila. The old home-improvement guy. I’ve been watching clips of his show on YouTube to make sure my workers stay on track.”

  We were in her car, approaching my driveway. I followed her gaze through the windshield to the man standing before the opened iron gate, hammer in one hand, wrench in the other.

  “He looks like my dad?”

  “A little. But that’s not what made me think of him.” She slowed to a stop as Dad squatted next to a shiny red toolbox. “It seems Father Sands could use some tips from a professional handyman.”

  She was right. Dad stared at the toolbox’s contents like they were exotic fish in an aquarium.

  “What’s he trying to do?” Paige asked.

  “No idea.” I unbuckled my seat belt. “Do you want to come in? Maybe stay for dinner?”

  “I’d love to but I’m kind of beat.” She rested her head against the seat and gave me a small, tired smile. “Plus, I need whatever energy I have left to convince Grandma B that change really can—and will—be good. Rain check?”

  “Anytime.” I got out and waved as she drove around the cul-de-sac.

  “Vanessa!” Dad called out. “Thank goodness. I could use a second opinion.”

  I joined him by the toolbox. He held up a long black rod with a small silver knob on one end.

  “What do you think this does?”

  “Conducts a symphony?”

  He chuckled. “It does resemble an orchestra baton. That and a magic wand, which would be quite useful right now.”

  I squatted next to him. “Classical music is much more your speed. And what do you need magic for anyway?”

  Sighing, he rolled back on his heels and then sat on the pavement. He pointed the black wand at the gate.

  “The mermaids? You want to bring them to life?” I sat next to him. “Hate to break it to you, Big Poppa, but that magic’s already been made.”

  He looked at me sideways, without moving his head. I shrugged.

  “Quite the contrary,” he said. “I want to take them down.”

  I started to ask why but stopped. Because why wouldn’t he want to remove such a reminder? As far as I knew, mermaids and sirens weren’t one and the same, the main differences being sirens’ lack of tails and their propensity toward killing … but in popular culture, they were similar enough to be interchangeable.

  “Your mother cringes every time we near this gate. It’s reflexive—I don’t think she even realizes she does it. But I do.”

  “Did she ask you to take it down?”

  “Of course not. If she stopped to think of herself for even a second, she’d hire a professional to do the job. We all know I’m no Mr. Fix It.” He shook his head. “But she hasn’t thought of herself in a very long time. Which is why it’s up to me.”

  This was a lovely sentiment, but it made me sad. Dad loved Mom. They’d been married twenty years, and he adored her more every day. And she loved him, too, which was why she’d forgiven his transgression and taken me into their family of three when the time came. For seventeen years, she’d cared for me like I was her biological daughter, even though I must’ve been a constant reminder of what Dad had done. Still, she’d lived with it. She’d accepted it.

  The past year, however, had tested her in ways no wife and mother ever should be. She’d lost Justine, her one biological daughter. She’d almost lost me. All because of a group of women who, up until last summer, we’d only read about in books. A group in which I was now an involuntary member.

  That my parents were still together after these new, previously unimaginable realizations was a testament to their love for each other. But that didn’t mean it was easy. Even knowing that his involvement with Charlotte Bleu wasn’t completely his fault, Dad’s guilt hadn’t gone away. It never would. And I knew he’d try to make it up to Mom every single day for the rest of his life.

  “What did you say to her?” I asked a few silent moments later.

  “When?”

  I paused. “When you apologized.”

  He was quiet as he considered this. I was intentionally vague because I knew he’d said he was sorry more than once, and that he’d automatically think back to the time that had been the hardest for him. When that was didn’t matter; I wasn’t asking to find out at which point he’d felt worst. I just wanted to know what he’d said that helped them get through it.

  “I guess … I said what you say. I told her I was sorry and that I never meant to hurt her. I told her that if only I could do it over, I’d do everything differently. I told her I’d completely understand if she never wanted to see me again.”

  “And that worked?” My voice was hopeful.

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’d have left if I hadn’t said one other thing.” He looked at me. “Before I tell you what that was, you should know that I told her what happened before saying one word about you. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere as soon as she knew you were in my life. But I had to give her the choice. I owed her at least that much.”

  Now I knew which apology had been hardest, and this made sense. After all, he’d only recently learned the real reasons he couldn’t resist the temptation that occurred nearly two decades earlier.

  I nodded. “Understood.”

  He returned his gaze to the gate. When he spoke again, his voice was steady but soft. “I told her I’d die without her. And that wasn’t a line. I believed it then, and I believe it now.” His arm bumped lightly against mine. “Not your old man’s proudest moment. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Except it was true. That’s why it worked.”

  “It was true, but that’s not why Jacqueline stayed. She was too strong and proud to let something like her unfaithful husband’s well-deserved end change her mind.”

  “So then what did?”

  “The other thing that she knew to be true.”

  I waited. For a split second, his eyes welled; he brushed them with the back of his hand.

  “Which was that for some strange, inexplicable reason, she … couldn’t live without me.”

  Now my eyes watered. I was thinking of my parents and all they’d been through, but I was also thinking of Simon.

  If I said I’d die without him, would he say the same about me?

  I leaned over, rested my head on Dad’s shoulder. His arm trembled as he moved it around my back. We sat like that, in the middle of the driveway, not speaking, until his breathing slowed and my chest stopped burning.

  “You know what we need?” I said.

  “A glass of red wine?”

  I jumped to my feet. “A blowtorch.”

  He sat up, peered into the toolbox. “Can we make one appear with the magic wand?”

  “The hardware store should have them. I’ll make a quick trip.”

  “That’s okay.” He climbed to his feet. “It’s getting late. Your mother’s already started dinner. It can wait until tomorrow.”

  “And risk her cringing at these ridiculous mermaids who-knows-how-many times between now and then? I don’t think so.” I nodded to the toolbox. “Want help with that before I go?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll pack it up and leave it by the gate for now. It’ll make a good doorstop until your return.”

  I gave him a quick hug, then jogged down the driveway. I ran inside to say hello to Mom, grab the car keys and some water, and explain that I was running to town to pick up some ice cream for dessert. She’d find out the real reason soon enough and would probably argue and assure me it wasn’t necessary if I told her now.

  The sun was starting to set as I drove toward Main Stree
t, casting the old cottages and newer colonials in a warm orange glow. It was a stark contrast to last summer, when every house, regardless of its paint color, looked gray, morning, noon, and night. The town had barely had enough time to dry off before the next thunderstorm and downpour struck, soaking and darkening it once again.

  This was the kind of night for which people came to Winter Harbor. Even when the sun disappeared behind the horizon, the air would be comfortable, but not cold. It’d be ideal for having a long, leisurely dinner, listening to a local band or two, and simply strolling through town with friends and family.

  Given how quiet Betty’s had been all day, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found only a dozen or so cars lining Main Street ten minutes later, but I still was. I found a parking spot right in front of the hardware store and hurried inside.

  “That’s a big toy for a little girl.”

  I was in an aisle in the back of the store, trying to decide between two torch models that looked exactly alike. When the guy approached me, I put one back and turned away from him.

  “What’d I say?” he called after me. He was tall and wore stained cargo pants, a ripped field jacket, boots, and a knit cap. I didn’t linger long enough to get a good look at his face, but I guessed he was in his mid-twenties. Given his attire, he probably worked on one of the commercial fishing boats that docked at the marina.

  He’s just a boy, I told myself as I headed for the register. Flirting with someone he thinks is a normal girl. Maybe so. But that didn’t stop my hands from shaking as I took cash from my wallet. It had been almost a year, and I still wasn’t used to the attention.

  “S’mores?”

  “Excuse me?” The question was so unexpected, I couldn’t help but respond.

  A second guy in faded overalls, a thick cable-knit sweater, and a Winter Harbor High baseball hat stood behind me. He nodded to the counter, where the (female) cashier tried to find a price on the blowtorch.

  “Looks like you’re getting ready for a little chocolate-marsh-mallow action. Tourists dig that kind of stuff … though they usually dig it with sticks and bonfires, not butane-fueled flamethrowers.”

  He grinned. I did my best to return the expression before turning back to the counter.