Carousel Seas (16 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SATURDAY, JULY 8

LOW TIDE 3:13
P.M.
EDT

SUNSET 8:25
P.M.

Ethrane was on smoothie duty at the Mango when I stopped by. I knew it was Ethrane because the land told me so. What I saw was a slender woman who stood a little above the Maine average height, brown-skinned, and long-fingered. She’d kept the dreads, but changed the color from green to brown. She turned her head to look at me—and, I thought, to show off the broad, handsome face, in which a pair of subtly angled swamp-green eyes glittered with amusement. She smiled, showing teeth that were neither too white, nor too sharp. The right eyetooth was slightly out of line with its fellows; the effect was adorable.

“Looking good,” I told her, and she laughed, deep and rich.

“Felsic said you were curious.”

“Worse than a cat,” I admitted. “I appreciate the effort, but there’s no need to spend extra energy just for me.”

“I disagree,” she said slowly. “We’d gotten lax, some of us, and depended too much on mundane folks’ willful blindness. That’s powerful magic, but it’s best to depend on yourself, and not leave important things to chance.”

“Hadn’t thought about it in precisely those terms,” I said. “But I agree—depending on someone else is never a good idea.”

Ethrane’s charmingly crooked smile flashed.

“That wasn’t what I said,” she murmured.

I heard footsteps behind me.

Ethrane heard them, too. The green eyes lifted over my shoulder.

“Customers.”

“Customers come first,” I said. “Peggy in back?”

“To you, yes.”

I slipped into the booth; as I opened the door to the office, I heard Ethrane sing out, “Welcome to The Last Mango, best smoothies in Archers Beach! Today’s special is blueberry-banana.”

Peggy was sitting at the beat-up metal desk, her attention split between the laptop and the top page of a three-inch stack of tally pages.

I scuffed my sneaker against the concrete floor, so I wouldn’t startle her. She turned her head and grinned.

“Archer! What’s the news?”

“Well,” I said, coming ’round to sit in the rickety wooden visitor’s chair, “the fresh news is that there’s a meeting of Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, near enough, at the Garden Cafe. We’ll be talking about two ideas for keeping the park, and, I’m reasonably sure, how to form a limited liability corporation. Want to come? The coffee’s pretty good.”

Peggy leaned back in her chair and shook her head.

“I try to stay away from places where I’m going to be seen as Public Enemy Number One.”

I frowned. “Why would anybody think that?”

She laughed. “You’re cute when you’re stupid. Think a minute, Kate. Arbitrary and Cruel has sold the midway and is going to be selling the land out from under the amusement park, thereby causing a lot of annoyance, not to mention real pain and hardship, too. Who in this room is employed by Arbitrary and Cruel?”

I looked at her, opened my mouth, found I didn’t have anything much to say, and closed it again.

“Didn’t think of that,” I admitted, because of course Peggy still had a job; she was one of the company’s fixers. They’d just send her on to the next thing that needed fixing.

“I can see that you hadn’t. It’s a good thing you’ve got me around to think of stuff for you.”

“That’s true,” I said, around a sudden lump in my throat. I
hadn’t
thought things through, not at all. I mean, I
knew
that Peggy was employed as a fixer by Fun Country Corporate, and I
knew
the Season was exactly twelve weeks long.

I just hadn’t connected the dots.

In eight weeks, Peggy would be gone—off to her next assignment.

And I’d never see her again.

“Kate? You okay?”

I took a hard breath and gave her my best smile.

“I’m fine. Just took a look ahead, which anybody’ll tell you is a stupid idea.”

She eyed me. “Anything in particular you’re going to do about it?”

“Practice living in the moment. Which reminds me of my
other
reason for coming around. I am blessed with a day off, and I’m going to spend part of it in the grocery store. Anything you need?”

“Anything I
don’t
need?” She shook her head. “Thanks, Kate, but I can’t ask you to do my shopping for me.”

“You didn’t,” I pointed out. “I offered.”

“So you did.” Peggy smiled slightly, reached to the right of the computer and pulled a sheet of paper toward her. “It’s on your head, then, foolish, foolish woman.”

She began to write.

She had no cause to fault this small, sweet sea for its use of her, prior to her exchange with the Borgan. Indeed, its gentle generosity had been one of the first aspects of these waters that she had loved. From the first, this sea had granted her sustenance.

Now, at the Borgan’s command . . .

She paused, considering—and at last restructuring—that thought.

The Borgan no more commanded the sea than the sea ruled the Borgan. Rather, they were equals, each complementing the other.

The sea had accepted her from the first, as guest of the goblins. And while the goblins’ magic would have hidden her, somewhat, from the Borgan, much as they hid themselves, he must still have been aware of her presence in his waters. Knowing this, he had not sought her out, but left her to the sea.

Because the sea liked her
.

His own stated preference was that she should return to Cheobaug, and in keeping with that, he had made no attempt to bind her, or to weave her into the life and the balance of the sea. He had, however, allowed the sea’s partiality to guide him, and was, perhaps, more generous than he might otherwise have been.

He granted his support, welcoming her fully as a guest in his waters—and see now what a feast lay before her!

Before, the waters had fed her;
now
they nourished her, and her strength increased with every wave. She lay back, and took what good things the sea brought to her; growing stronger, and making her plans.

It was six o’clock by the time I got back from making my rounds. I’d gone a little overboard on cat things, scoring several fleece throws on final clearance. I could put one on the couch, so she could be nearby when I did my mapwork and answered my infrequent emails. If she had a taste for that kind of thing. And I could put another one at the foot of the bed, which would be welcoming—more welcoming, so I hoped, than my pillow.

I’d also gotten a scratching post and a couple of toys with feathers and bells, and a life-sized mouse that squeaked and flashed blue electronic eyes whenever it was struck.

Hopefully, one or two of these offerings would find approval with . . .

Going upstairs to the front door, I sighed.

Gotta give the cat a call name, Kate. You can’t just keep calling her “she.”

I juggled the grocery bag in one arm, got my key in the lock with the other, shoved the door open, stepped inside . . .

. . . and stopped dead.

Borgan and the cat were sitting on the couch—correction: Borgan was sitting on the couch, reading a book. The cat was sitting on Borgan. They both looked up and smiled rather sleepily at me.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I said.

“Just getting to know each other,” Borgan said. “Any more of those in the car?”

“More than I want to think about.”

I dumped the first bag on the kitchen table. Borgan put his book down, scooped the cat from his lap to the couch and stood.

“Mind some help?” he asked.

“Hell, no.”

* * *

The groceries had been stowed; I had shaken out and folded one of the fluffy fleece blankets into quarters, and placed it in the left corner of the sofa. This particular fluffy blanket featured white elephants in a field of blue—it looked like they were floating, not very comfortably, in a midafternoon sky.

“I think I know why this one didn’t sell,” I said, turning to look at Borgan.

He was leaning against the mantlepiece, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with amusement, and maybe a touch of resignation.

“Problem?”

“Probably not. Why didn’t that one sell, then?”

“The elephants are definitely disquieting. In fact, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb if I say that they look downright drunk. Who wants to snuggle up with a bunch of inebriated flying elephants on a cold winter’s night? And it’s definitely not the kind of thing you want to put in the baby’s crib.”

“Never had much to do with elephants.”

“Me neither—and I’m here to tell you that blanket isn’t making me eager to seek them out.”

“So you’re hoping the cat won’t care?”

“The cat is, of course, far more cosmopolitan and suave than either of us. I’m certain she’s dealt with situations far more awkward than flying drunken elephants with grace and aplomb.”

“I’m guessing you’re right. She doesn’t startle easy, from my experience.”

I eyed him.

“Have you been mistreating my cat?” I asked, mock-stern.

He grinned, and shook his head.

“When I come in, she’d been sleeping in front of the French door. Opened her eyes as calm as you please, got up, stretched and gave me a couple long strops on the ankles. When I sat down to read, she jumped up to take part.”

“That’s respectful. I did tell her that you were welcome here.”

“So you did, and she’s got a wicked good memory.” He lifted an eyebrow and used his chin to point at me—no,
past
me.

I looked over my shoulder. The cat was kneading the fluffy blanket; I could hear her purr from where I stood. I looked back to Borgan and gave him a grin and a thumb’s up.

“Phase one of Project Make the Cat Comfy is a success.”

“Looks that way. Got a name for her, yet?”

“Not yet; I need to get to know her a little better.”

He nodded. “While she’s whipping the elephants into shape, we could have a glass of wine, if you’d like, and adjourn to the summer parlor so you can tell me why you’re here.”

“Shouldn’t I be here?” he asked.

I moved to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“You’re welcome here,” I said, which was true. “It gave me a bit of a start to find you when I came in, but after I got over it, I—was pleased. Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank,” he said, and I heard a clink as he got the wineglasses out of the cabinet.

I worked the cork, and poured us each a glass of wine. The cat was still kneading, eyes slitted in pleasure, when we crossed the room to the summer parlor. I left the doors open, and settled onto the deck next to Borgan.

“I should get the chairs out here, but it never occurs to me until I’m already sitting down.”

“No sense getting up now,” he said comfortably. “’Specially not for a chair.”

“I agree. So, why did you decide to exercise your welcome this afternoon?”

He gave me a sideways glance, black eyes glinting.

“As it happens, I have something I want to talk over with you, and I’d rather have it said on land.”

I put my wineglass down, and stared at him.

“Something you don’t want the sea to hear?”

That was . . . disquieting.

Correction: It was frightening.